there tomorrow but no one seems to know whether the Germans or French are holding it.

From where we are it looks as though there was a Fourth of July celebration going on. As far as we can see there are flashes of fire and the continual roar of guns. Six men a minute! Think of that! Again I am asking myself, what for?

All this waste of time, energy and human life! Could not the same have been expended in helping the world along? Think of the institutions for education which could have been built and the needs of the poor exterminated by these vast sums spent in the destruction of life and property!

Will we gain anything by it?

Will the people of the world be better because of all this suffering? Will it help them in any way, Germany included?

When the time for settlement comes will it be for those who have risked their lives, those who have gone through days and nights of horror, or will it be a settlement of those who remained in the rear out of danger and who will have the power at any future time to again plunge the world into a misery of which they themselves know nothing?

Will the greed of the victorious nations rise up in arms against one another? We shall see.

Our first mail has just been received. What a treat to get seven letters from America away out here in this bloody part of the world and know that I am still a part of civilization!

Loads of supplies and soldiers pass us. The troops are going up to the lines and have to go into the trenches under cover of darkness. They do not seem so very happy. Before I left the States I remember of being told how joyous the men were to be of service and how they went up to the front laughing and singing. I was told they came back in the same way no matter how many times they had been on the front before. I was fooled. They do not. These men have all the suffering and sadness of Christ in their eyes. They are tired and worn with the never ending months of fight

ing. They have been lowered to the existence of wolves.

No, war is not a glorious thing with them.

We are on the front. The first line trenches are only a few yards away. This abri (dugout) is the first aid station for wounded. Our quarters are back a mile in the forest. It is raining and the mud is sticky and hard to get through. B and myself were given an order to come up here after a priest and his aide. There is a heavy bombardment going on and we will have to wait until it is over somewhat before they will let us go on.

I can hear the men in the room next to us moaning and groaning. There is a section working here so we will not have to go on duty for a day or so, not until we are acquainted with the roads and surroundings.

The interior of this dugout is quite large. I have noticed four large rooms besides this small one, belonging to the priest.

Along the walls of the rooms are bunks. The wounded are all placed in the large center space which was perhaps the original cellar of the Chateau. Nothing is left of the building but the foundation and that has been blown away in parts.

I went into the other room and found it rapidly filling up with wounded. There were a few Germans among those brought in. They had been placed along the sides away from the French. I had to be very careful in stepping about not to trample on one of them.

These men were lying side by side after their vain endeavor to kill each other with the implements which civilization has given them. Their energies have been spent and now they are reduced to dependency on other men whor they do not know.

Is it not tragic? Or rather let me ask you, does it not seem very silly?

Yesterday the section was taken over the territory in which we are to serve. It is a hot bed of machine guns and

munition pits. We had a very narrow escape in one part of the forest. As we turned into a road leading to our quarters several tons of dirt went up into the air just ahead of us. The hole was so large we had to return by a different road which kept the men in the region an hour longer. They took it very well although everyone was a bit hysterical when talking about it later.

camions,

The roads were full of (trucks) munition wagons, guns of all descriptions and pack mules.

We are becoming accustomed to things. There is a scarcity of water. We have a light wine to drink which is called "penard" and it is a poor substitute. The war bread on the front is even worse than that in Paris. It is green and soggy. Our meals are all of one kind, meat stew. I do not know where the meat comes from and I hope no one will tell me.

One of the cars ran into a shell hole last night and caused a great deal of trouble. The mechanics had to go up and help with it. One of them pulled on the lights instead of the self-starter. In a few seconds the Germans were sending over some souvenirs. The car was blown to pieces. They were lucky to get away with their lives.

B

and myself are in the dugout at Mwaiting for a bombardment to let up. We are on our way to the communication trench of HillIt is

a lively section of the front and "Fritz" keeps us busy. The roads seem almost impassable at times. I don't see how we get along as well as we do. It rains all the day and night. The mud is kneedeep and wheel-deep in most places.

We have not had a chance to remove our clothes since arriving in this sector and will not be able to do so until we get back to our quarters.

For some unknown reason our gasoline is very poor. It is endangering the machines and the lives of the men. We had to stop in the forest with a load of

39

wounded and remove them into an abri. The machine would not pull the load through the mud.

Someone is evidently making money out of this diluted or low grade stuff. Much depends on our having a superquality. There can be men and supplies enough to conquer the world but if the transportation facilities break down we are lost.

I wonder if these men, who are in the rear, ever think of such things. Do they stop to reason that if they do not furnish the army with the best material possible in everything there might be a collapse at any time and the enemy would then make short work of their possessions? As a protection to themselves I should think they would carefully see to it that the men on the front were supplied with the best, so that they might stem the tide and save the interests of those in the rear.

Above all, do they ever stop to think of the life of the men? Six men a minute! Can you imagine what a man goes through when he is out there in the mud and the rain with the raw end of a leg stuck in the dirt and blood running from his mouth after the gas has caught him?

My God! Can't they have warm shoes and clothing and enough to eat? Can't they have the medical supplies which are needed to alleviate their suffering? Can't they have the necessary means of transportation so that their lives may be saved in rushing them back to the hospitals?

What do you owe these men, you who are in the rear?

The Germans have been flying over this part of the front a great deal today. They come over in droves and we have had a half dozen air battles this afternoon. Only one enemy plane was brought down and he fell behind his own lines.

The French are becoming active and soon there will be a "battle royal." The eremy will not be so lively in an hour or

So.

There are many captive balloons in this section of the sector.

We have had to take cover again. An old house in which we were quartered had the roof blown off of it just before we sat down to eat. There were only about fourteen of the men here and luckily no one was hurt. They were all outside of the building. The food is brought to us from the other side of the road where the kitchen is located underground.

We live the life of rats. In this dugout is a table with a candle on it and three chairs. The men are sitting around the light eating mess. I don't think anyone is very hungry although they were all fussing at the cook for not having the stew hot when we came in. If he had, we would be without food for the stuff would have gone with the roof.

The cook is a Frenchman and does not seem to care sometimes whether the men eat or not. I understand he was taken out of jail in Paris and sent out with this section. Some evenings he gets very drunk and tells us what he did at the Battle of the Marne. He has never been nearer the front than this post. San Francisco was once his home, so the story goes, and he has cooked for the American Army on the border. I suppose he is attached to us because he speaks English.

The bombarding let up a bit and I went up to see what was left of the place. When I came out of the dugout I saw the parts of two men only a few steps from the road. They were evidently rushing for this abri, when killed. There was only a blotch of blood and dangling arms and limbs. Their faces had been honeycombed by the shrapnel.

When we go up to the communication trench from here we have to pass along a road in full view of the German line for two miles. The road runs along the side of a hill and overlooks the valley and territory held by the enemy on the other side. We pass one at a time. If a group went up together they would probably fire on them. A section of Fords were destroyed on this road a few weeks before we arrived. There are many unexploded shells on it and we have to drive around them. Often they are covered with mud or water. It is necessary to drive very carefully for they might be "alive."

Many Germans have come over to our lines today. One group brought the mail of another which came over yesterday. They look worn and tired but I cannot see that there is an alarming amount of old or young among them such as we were told in the States. Some grumble about everything and others say they have been well taken care of and provided for and that there is no danger of a German collapse. One cannot judge by what these prisoners say.

We have just heard of the Italian victory on one part of their front. The Frenchmen have put some papers into the basket of a toy balloon telling about the Italian offensive. These balloons carry the news over the lines to the Germans. When they see them in the air they shoot down the balloons. This is often done when the wind is in the right direction.

(To be continued.)

COTTY dropped into the ditch,

Surged by the advancing trot of

horses. He was fleeing from justice. The sheriff was on his track. Traveling since the black morning of yesterday, he was yet hopeful of escape. The wind bit through his thin garments as the sun disappeared behind the timbered hills in the west. Listening, he peered through the alder leaves, his body tense almost to breathlessness.

Two men reined their jaded horses close to his retreat, and, dismounting, prepared to tighten the saddles. The burly, thick-set man was evidently the sheriff. Producing a paper from the saddle pocket, he tacked it to a pine beside the road, directly in line of Scotty's vision.

Scotty read, with a convulsive clutching at his heart:

He grinned wickedly. He would fight wickedly, too. He was unarmed, and, though chilled and hungry, he would have put up a fight if he had had his gun. It had fallen beside Covenay's body when he fled from the mob.

The sheriff glanced casually around the adjacent surroundings and mounted his horse.

"Now for supper and a night's rest We'll get out early in the morning."

Magruder buttoned his coat closer. "B-r-r," he shivered. "It will snow tonight. Where do you suppose he is?" "There's a chance that he crossed the ridge at Gold Lake-he may try to reach

Blairsden and slip over the Nevada line." The sheriff was perplexed, for after two days of scouting the hills they had found no trace of the man they sought.

Scotty rose as they passed from sight. "Blairsden, eh," he muttered. "I'll strike out for the desert and find Pike and Jeff. They'll stake me for enough to reach Arizona. I've a little job here first, though."

He crept from his hiding place and, crossing the road, tore the glaring poster from the tree and crushing it, flung it into the ditch. "Nobody'll read any of that stuff until tomorrow, and I'll be heeled then." A daring resolve was forming in his brain.

He scanned the dim mountains, heavily timbered but too near to the public highway, so he hurried across the dry fields, filled with thoughts of escape. The clouds gathered for storm, and cattle huddled in the shelter of barns and fences. Once he stumbled over a calf which fled bawling to its mother. Lights glimmered in the town a mile off. He gazed, irresolute for a moment, then walked rapidly in their direction.

A weather-beaten sign groaned as it swung in the gale. To Scotty's taut nerves it moaned a dull monotonous refrain "Hanging high, hanging high," and he shuddered, crouching in the dark shadow of a building.

Inside the Arcade saloon, a long-limbed cowpuncher was amusing the smoke-enveloped assembly with tales of his superior horsemanship and gunplay. A heavy pistol and cartridge belt topped the hirsute chaps, whose owner lurched unsteadily on the high-heeled boots, leaning more and more on the tobacco-stained bar for support. A rotund barkeeper eyed his customer warily while re-inforcing the refreshments.

Scotty entered and closed the door. Bareheaded and grim, he looked the thing he was-a fugitive from the law. Eyes gleaming like those of a dog at bay, his thin lips a carved line, his attitude wholly defiant and reckless. The crowd stared uneasily, and the bragging cowman was speechless and uncertain.

Scotty jeered at the bartender. "Why don't you offer a man a drink?"

The man shoved the glass and bottle along the bar

"Drink, partner," he conciliated.

Scotty drank and re-filled the glass, tossing the contents into the cowman's face.

"Wake up, Mr. Broncho Buster. This is no pipe dream. Rough-house this joint-"

A revolver gleamed. Scotty sprang forward, striking an upward blow and snatched the weapon as it fell harmlessly to the floor. Backing toward the door, he pointed to the poster on the wall.

"Read that!" he yelled. "I'm Scotty, the man they want! Get me! Come on and win the money."

He wheeled suddenly, pointing a grimy finger at the dazed cowman.

"Give me that belt!"

The belt was flung over Scotty's extended arm with surprising alacrity, where it hung loosely as he waved an ironic farewell to the apprehensive loungers.

"Goodbye, fellows. I haven't always been a bad man. Force of circumstances. Tell Johnson you saw me. He'll be here in the morning," and he slipped out. He was armed now and indifferent to danger.

He faced the north, stumbling through the night. The desert was his best chance for freedom. The sheriff was close and the desert treacherous in November, but Scotty knew its guile and its allurement, its promised security for the outcast and desperado who sought its delusive shadows.

The wind cut through his lungs, the snow stung in icy flakes. A coyote howled a menacing denunciation, and a thousand throats seemed to answer the desert mongrel. Scotty gritted his teeth.

"Vamose, you devils," he growled, "Hell, with its tortured yells, couldn't be worse tonight."

The sheriff and his aides, selected from local ranchmen, rode tirelessly through the storm, scouting every recess for some trace of the outlaw. Nonplussed and unsuccessful, they separated at midnight, returning to their homes for rest and food, conceding more readily when the night held an ambushed foe. Instructions were given to Johnson and the deputy for procuring accommodations at a big ranch near the foothills.

Johnson was loathe to abandon the search while the trail was still warm. The report of Scotty's proximity aroused his bulldog energy, and the violence of the storm aided in obstructing the fugitive's escape.

A track in the snow, peculiarly onesided, attracted him and he drew the deputy's attention, remarking:

"A lame man made that track, Magruder."

The deputy's glance was significant. "Fresh, at that," he responded.

They traced it in silence until it ended abruptly at a huge mound of hay, covered by a heavy canvas. The moon was now breaking through the clouds, and as the fate of nations may depend upon a straw, so did Scotty's fate depend upon a track in the snow.

"Hell!" Johnson exclaimed impatiently after they had thoroughly examined the exterior of the bales. "Just some rancher looking to protect his hay from the storm. Let's go back to Dennis Riley's and put up 'till 'morning."

Magruder needed no urging. He felt the desire for dry clothes and sleep, so they hurried away.

Under the canvas a shivering form crouched uneasily. Justice and the law were stalking his trail for the second time that day. Sleep had not given peace, for dreams of Covenay's dying struggle and the horror of his own plight haunted him. He mumbled vaguely: "I'm sorry, Bill, old chap. You kicked me like a dog in your path, and I grabbed the gun when-Perhaps 'twas me-you