The flaming sun poured down into the bowl of the valley and baked its contents. He moved from the track to the shade of a cottonwood and lay down. His racing thoughts grew more vague, for the hot sun had made him sleepy. Presently his eyes closed drowsily. They flickered open and slowly shut a second time. He began to breathe deeply and regularly.
The sun passed the zenith and began to slide down toward the western hills. Still Tug slept.
He dreamed. The colonel was talking to him. “Over the top, Hollister, at three o’clock. Ten minutes now.” He shook himself out of sleep. It was time to get busy.
Slowly he came back blinking to a world of sunshine. Two men stood over him, both armed.
“Must be one of ’em,” the shorter of the two said.
“Sure thing. See his outfit. All rags. We’ll collect him an’ take him back to the ranch.”
They were cowboys or farmhands, Tug was not sure which. He knew at once, however, that their intentions were not friendly.
“What do you want?” he asked.
“You,” the short, stocky one answered curtly. He wore a big broad-rimmed hat that was both ancient and dusty.
“Interesting. You a sheriff? Got a warrant for me?”