The Man Who Would Not Be Saved

monotonous yellow level stretched out like a tawny carpet, to where a slight rise in the land caused it to meet the sky as sharp and distinct as a placid lake meets the sandy beach.

On the side of the shack nearest to the mountain side stood a new freshly-painted army ambulance; a note of modernity interluded in a world-old symphony of sand, rocks, and atmosphere.

Crosswise on the tongue of the vehicle, limp as a half-filled grain bag, lay the form of a man clad in the stripeless trousers of a private soldier, and near him, in a tangle of gear and harness, lay a pair of the mule team that he had but recently driven.

At first glance it was easily discernible that man and mules were but recently dead from gunshot wounds, and here and there a bullet had torn its way through the sides of the ambulance, ripping off splinters and exposing the white wood beneath the dark paint. On every hand were unmistakable signs of strife.

Within the adobe house Second Lieutenant Horton, recently Cadet Horton of West Point