down
at uneven intervals. To the eastward the street ended in the corrals and
shipping-pens; in the other direction it merged into a narrow dusty trail
that curved northward from the twin steel rails and quickly lost itself in
the encompassing prairie.

That was all. Paloma Springs in its entirety lay there in full view,
drowsing in the torrid heat of mid-September. Not a human being was in
sight. Only a brindled dog slept in a small patch of shade beside the
store; and fastened to the hotel hitching-rack, two burros, motionless
save for twitching tails and ears, were almost hidden beneath stupendous
loads of firewood.

But to Buck Stratton the charm lay deeper than mere externals. As a matter
of fact he had seen Paloma Springs only twice in his life, and then very
briefly. But it was a typical little cow-town of the Southwest, and to the
homesick cattleman the sight of it was like a refreshing draft of water in
the desert. Pushing back his hat, Stratton drew another full breath, the
beginnings of a smile curving the corners of his mouth.

"It sure is good to get back," he murmured, picking up his bag. "Someway
the very air tastes different. Gosh almighty. It don't seem like two
years, though."

Abruptly the light went out of his eyes and his face clouded. No wonder
the time seemed short when one of those years had vanished from his life
as utterly and completely as if it had never been. Whenever Stratton
thought of it, which was no oftener than he could help, he cringed
mentally. There was something uncanny and even horrible in the realization
that for the better part of a twelve-month he had been eating, sleeping,
walking about, making friends, even, like any normal person, without
retaining a single atom of recollection of the entire period.

Frowning, Buck put up one hand and absently touched a freshly healed scar
half-hidden by his thick hair. Even now there were moments when he felt
the whole thing must be some wild nightmare. Vividly he remembered the
sudden winking out of consciousness in the midst of that panting, uphill
dash through Belleau Wood. He could recall perfectly the most trifling
event leading up to it--the breaking down of his motor-cycle in a strange
sector just before the charge, his sudden determination to take part in it
by hook or crook, even the thrill and tingle of that advance against heavy
machine-gun fire.

The details of his awakening were equally clear. It was like closing his
eye