She got up quickly and walked toward the house. The man on the porch, she saw presently, had a rope around his waist the other end of which was fastened to the saddle of Dusty’s mount. An eyeflash later she recognized him.
“You!” she cried.
The tramp called Tug rose. He did not lift his hat, for he no longer had one. But his bow and sardonic smile gave an effect of ironic politeness.
“The bad penny back again,” he said.
“What have they been doing to you?” she asked breathlessly.
He had been a disreputable enough specimen when she had last seen him. The swollen and discolored face, the gaping shoes, the ragged coat; all of these he had carried then. But there were scratches like skin burns down one side of the jaw and on his hands that had come since. His coat was in shreds. From head to foot dust covered every available inch.
“Your men have been having a little sport. Why not? The boss had his first and they had to follow his example. They’re good obedient boys,” he scoffed bitterly.
“What do you mean? What did they do?” she demanded sharply.
He shrugged his shoulders and she turned imperiously to the man on horseback. “Burt, you tell me.”
The lank cowboy showed embarrassment. “Why, Dusty he—he kinda dragged him when the fellow lagged. Jus’ for a ways.”