The U. P. Trail / Grey, Zane, 1872-1939

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Title: The U.P. Trail

Author: Zane Grey

Release Date: November, 2003 [Etext #4684]
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ZANE GREY

THE U. P. TRAIL






 ... When I think how the railroad has been pushed through this
unwatered wilderness and haunt of savage tribes; how at each stage
of the construction roaring, impromptu cities, full of gold and lust
and death, sprang up and then died away again, and are now but
wayside stations in the desert; how in these uncouth places Chinese
pirates worked side by side with border ruffians and broken men from
Europe, gambling, drinking, quarreling, and murdering like wolves;
and then when I go on to remember that all this epical turmoil was
conducted by gentlemen in frock-coats, with a view to nothing more
extraordinary than a fortune and a subsequent visit to Paris--it
seems to me as if this railway were the one typical achievement of
the age in which we live, as if it brought together into one plot
all the ends of the world and all the degrees of social rank, and
offered to some great writer the busiest, the most extended, and the
most varied subject for an enduring literary work. If it be romance,
if it be contrast, if it be heroism that we require, what was Troy
to this?

               --ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON
                 In ACROSS THE PLAINS




1

In the early sixties a trail led from the broad Missouri, swirling
yellow and turgid between its green-groved borders, for miles and
miles out upon the grassy Nebraska plains, turning westward over the
undulating prairie, with its swales and billows and long, winding
lines of cottonwoods, to a slow, vast heave of rising ground--
Wyoming--where the herds of buffalo grazed and the wolf was lord and
the camp-fire of the trapper sent up its curling blue smoke from
beside some lonely stream; on and on over the barren lands of
eternal monotony, all so gray and wide and solemn and silent under
the endless sky; on, ever on, up to the bleak, black hills and into
the waterless gullies and through the rocky gorges where the deer
browsed and the savage lurked; then slowly rising to the pass
between the great bold peaks, and across the windy uplands into
Utah, with its verdant valleys, green as emeralds, and its haze-
filled canons and wonderful wind-worn cliffs and walls, and its pale
salt lakes, veiled in the shadows of stark and lofty rocks, dim,
lilac-colored, austere, and isolated; ever onward across Nevada, and
ever westward, up from desert to mountain, up into California, where
the white streams rushed and roared and the stately pines towered,
and seen from craggy heights, deep down, the little blue lakes
gleamed like gems; finally sloping to the great descent, where the
mountain world ceased and where, out beyond the golden land, asleep
and peaceful, stretched the illimitable Pacific, vague and grand
beneath the setting sun.




2

Deep in the Wyoming hills lay a valley watered by a stream that ran
down from Cheyenne Pass; a band of Sioux Indians had an encampment
there. Viewed from the summit of a grassy ridge, the scene was
colorful and idle and quiet, in keeping with the lonely, beautiful
valley. Cottonwoods and willows showed a bright green; the course of
the stream was marked in dark where the water ran, and light where
the sand had bleached; brown and black dots scattered over the
valley were in reality grazing horses; lodge-pole tents gleamed
white in the sun, and tiny bits of red stood out against the white;
lazy wreaths of blue smoke rose upward.

The Wyoming hills were split by many such valleys and many such
bare, grassy ridges sloped up toward the mountains. Upon the side of
one ridge, the highest, there stood a solitary mustang, haltered
with a lasso. He was a ragged, shaggy, wild beast, and there was no
saddle or bridle on him, nothing but the halter. He was not grazing,
although the bleached white grass grew long and thick under his
hoofs. He looked up the slope, in a direction indicated by his
pointing ears, and watched a wavering movement of the long grass.

It was wild up on that ridge, bare of everything except grass, and
the strange wavering had a nameless wildness in its motion. No
stealthy animal accounted for that trembling--that forward
undulating quiver. It wavered on to the summit of the ridge.

What a wide and wonderful prospect opened up to view from this lofty
point! Ridge after ridge sloped up to the Wyoming hills, and these
in turn raised their bleak, dark heads toward the mountains, looming
pale and gray, with caps of snow, in the distance. Out beyond the
ridges, indistinct in the glare, stretched an illimitable expanse,
gray and dull--that was the prairie-land. An eagle, lord of all he
surveyed, sailed round and round in the sky.

Below this grassy summit yawned a valley, narrow and long, losing
itself by turns to distant east and west; and through it ran a
faint, white, winding line which was the old St. Vrain and Laramie
Trail.

There came a moment when the wavering in the grass ceased on the
extreme edge of the slope. Then it parted to disclose the hideous
visage of a Sioux Indian in war paint. His dark, piercing, malignant
glance was fixed upon the St. Vrain and Laramie Trail. His half-
naked body rested at ease; a rifle lay under his hand.

There he watched while the hours passed. The sun moved on in its
course until it tipped the peaks with rose. Far down the valley
black and white objects appeared, crawling round the bend. The
Indian gave an almost imperceptible start, but there was no change
in his expression. He watched as before.

These moving objects grew to be oxen and prairie-schooners--a small
caravan traveling east. It wound down the trail and halted in a
circle on the bank of a stream.

The Indian scout slid backward, and the parted grass, slowly
closing, hid from his dark gaze the camp scene below. He wormed his
way back well out of sight; then rising, he ran over the summit of
the ridge to leap upon his mustang and ride wildly down the slope.




3

Bill Horn, leader of that caravan, had a large amount of gold which
he was taking back East. No one in his party, except a girl, knew
that he had the fortune.

Horn had gone West at the beginning of the gold strikes, but it was
not until '53 that any success attended his labors. Later he struck
it rich, and in 1865, as soon as the snow melted on the mountain
passes, he got together a party of men and several women and left
Sacramento. He was a burly miner, bearded and uncouth, of rough
speech and taciturn nature, and absolutely fearless.

At Ogden, Utah, he had been advised not to attempt to cross the
Wyoming hills with so small a party, for the Sioux Indians had gone
on the war-path.

Horn was leading his own caravan and finding for himself the trail
that wound slowly eastward. He did not have a scout or hunter with
him. Eastward-traveling caravans were wont to be small and poorly
outfitted, for only the homesick, the failures, the wanderers, and
the lawless turned their faces from the Golden State. At the start
Horn had eleven men, three women, and the girl. On the way he had
killed one of the men; and another, together with his wife, had
yielded to persuasion of friends at Ogden and had left the party. So
when Horn halted for camp one afternoon in a beautiful valley in the
Wyoming hills there were only nine men with him.

On a long journey through wild country strangers grow close together
or far apart. Bill Horn did not think much of the men who had
accepted the chance he offered them, and daily he grew more aloof.
They were not a responsible crowd, and the best he could get out of
them was the driving of oxen and camp chores indifferently done. He
had to kill the meat and find the water and keep the watch. Upon
entering the Wyoming hills region Horn showed a restlessness and
hurry and anxiety. This in no wise affected the others. They
continued to be aimless and careless as men who had little to look
forward to.

This beautiful valley offered everything desirable for a camp site
except natural cover or protection in case of attack. But Horn had
to take the risk. The oxen were tired, the wagons had to be greased,
and it was needful to kill meat. Here was an abundance of grass, a
clear brook, wood for camp-fires, and sign of game on all sides.

"Haul round--make a circle!" Horn ordered the drivers of the oxen.

This was the first time he had given this particular order, and the
men guffawed or grinned as they hauled the great, clumsy prairie-
schooners into a circle. The oxen were unhitched; the camp duffle
piled out; the ring of axes broke the stillness; fires were started.

Horn took his rifle and strode away up the brook to disappear in the
green brush of a ravine.

It was early in the evening, with the sun not yet out of sight
behind a lofty ridge that topped the valley slope. High grass,
bleached white, shone brightly on the summit. Soon several columns
of blue smoke curled lazily aloft until, catching the wind high up,
they were swept away. Meanwhile the men talked at their tasks.

"Say, pard, did you come along this here Laramie Trail goin' West?"
asked one.

"Nope. I hit the Santa Fe Trail," was the reply.

"How about you, Jones?"

"Same fer me."

"Wal," said another, "I went round to California by ship, an' I'd
hev been lucky to drown."

"An' now we're all goin' back poorer than when we started," remarked
a third.

"Pard, you've said somethin'."

"Wal, I seen a heap of gold, if I didn't find any."

"Jones, has this here Bill Horn any gold with him?"

"He acts like it," answered Jones. "An' I heerd he struck it rich
out thar."

The men appeared divided in their opinions of Bill Horn. From him
they drifted to talk of possible Indian raids and scouted the idea;
then they wondered if the famous Pony Express had been over this
Laramie Trail; finally they got on the subject of a rumored railroad
to be built from East to West.

"No railroad can't be built over this trail," said Jones, bluntly.

"Sure not. But couldn't more level ground be dug?" asked another.

"Dug? Across them Utah deserts an' up them mountains? Hell! Men sure
hev more sense than thet," exclaimed the third.

And so they talked and argued at their tasks.

The women, however, had little to say. One, the wife of the
loquacious Jones, lived among past associations of happy years that
would not come again--a sober-faced, middle-aged woman. The other
woman was younger, and her sad face showed traces of a former
comeliness. They called her Mrs. Durade. The girl was her daughter
Allie. She appeared about fifteen years old, and was slight of form.
Her face did not seem to tan. It was pale. She looked tired, and was
shy and silent, almost ashamed. She had long, rich, chestnut-colored
hair which she wore in a braid. Her eyes were singularly large and
dark, and violet in color.

"It's a long, long way we are from home yet," sighed Mrs. Jones.

"You call East home!" replied Mrs. Durade, bitterly.

"For land's sake! Yes, I do," exclaimed the other. "If there was a
home in that California, I never saw it. Tents and log cabins and
mud-holes! Such places for a woman to live. Oh, I hated that
California! A lot of wild men, all crazy for gold. Gold that only a
few could find and none could keep! ... I pray every night to live to
get back home."

Mrs. Durade had no reply; she gazed away over the ridges toward the
east with a haunting shadow in her eyes.

Just then a rifle-shot sounded from up in the ravine. The men paused
in their tasks and looked at one another. Then reassured by this
exchange of glances, they fell to work again. But the women cast
apprehensive eyes around. There was no life in sight except the
grazing oxen. Presently Horn appeared carrying a deer slung over his
shoulders.

Allie ran to meet him. She and Horn were great friends. To her alone
was he gentle and kind. She saw him pause at the brook, then drop
the deer carcass and bend over the ground, as if to search for
something. When Allie reached his side he was on his knees examining
a moccasin print in the sand.

"An Indian track!" exclaimed Allie.

"Allie, it sure ain't anythin' else," he replied. "Thet is what I've
been lookin' fer.... A day old--mebbe more."

"Uncle Bill, is there any danger?" she asked, fearfully gazing up
the slope.

"Lass, we're in the Wyoming hills, an' I wish to the Lord we was
out," he answered.

Then he picked up the deer carcass, a heavy burden, and slung it,
hoofs in front, over his shoulders.

"Let me carry your gun," said Allie.

They started toward camp.

"Lass, listen," began Horn, earnestly. "Mebbe there's no need to
fear. But I don't like Injun tracks. Not these days. Now I'm goin'
to scare this lazy outfit. Mebbe thet'll make them rustle. But don't
you be scared."

In camp the advent of fresh venison was hailed with satisfaction.

"Wal, I'll gamble the shot thet killed this meat was heerd by
Injuns," blurted out Horn, as he deposited his burden on the grass
and whipped out his hunting-knife. Then he glared at the outfit of
men he had come to despise.

"Horn, I reckon you 'pear more set up about Injuns than usual,"
remarked Jones.

"Fresh Sioux track right out thar along the brook."

"No!"

"Sioux!" exclaimed another.

"Go an' look fer yourself."

Not a man of them moved a step. Horn snorted his disdain and without
more talk began to dress the deer.

Meanwhile the sun set behind the ridge and the day seemed far spent.
The evening meal of the travelers was interrupted when Horn suddenly
leaped up and reached for his rifle.

"Thet's no Injun, but I don't like the looks of how he's comin'."

All gazed in the direction in which Horn pointed. A horse and rider
were swiftly approaching down the trail from the west. Before any of
the startled campers recovered from their surprise the horse reached
the camp. The rider hauled up short, but did not dismount.

"Hello!" he called. The man was not young. He had piercing gray eyes
and long hair. He wore fringed gray buckskin, and carried a long,
heavy, muzzle-loading rifle.

"I'm Slingerland--trapper in these hyar parts," he went on, with
glance swiftly taking in the group. "Who's boss of this caravan?"

"I am--Bill Horn," replied the leader, stepping out.

"Thar's a band of Sioux redskins on your trail."

Horn lifted his arms high. The other men uttered exclamations of
amaze and dread. The women were silent.

"Did you see them?" asked Horn.

"Yes, from a ridge back hyar ten miles. I saw them sneakin' along
the trail an' I knowed they meant mischief. I rode along the ridges
or I'd been hyar sooner."

"How many Injuns?"

"I counted fifteen. They were goin' along slow. Like as not they've
sent word fer more. There's a big Sioux camp over hyar in another
valley."

"Are these Sioux on the war-path?"

"I saw dead an' scalped white men a few days back," replied
Slingerland.

Horn grew as black as a thundercloud, and he cursed the group of
pale-faced men who had elected to journey eastward with him.

"You'll hev to fight," he ended, brutally, "an' thet'll be some
satisfaction to me."

"Horn, there's soldiers over hyar in camp," went on Slingerland. "Do
you want me to ride after them?"

"Soldiers!" ejaculated Horn.

"Yes. They're with a party of engineers surveyin' a line fer a
railroad. Reckon I could git them all hyar in time to save you--IF
them Sioux keep comin' slow.... I'll go or stay hyar with you."

"Friend, you go--an' ride thet hoss!"

"All right. You hitch up an' break camp. Keep goin' hard down the
trail, an' I'll fetch the troops an' head off the redskins."

"Any use to take to the hills?" queried Horn, sharply.

"I reckon not. You've no hosses. You'd be tracked down. Hurry along.
Thet's best.... An' say, I see you've a young girl hyar. I can take
her up behind me."

"Allie, climb up behind him," said Horn, motioning to the girl.

"I'll stay with mother," she replied.

"Go child--go!" entreated Mrs. Durade.

Others urged her, but she shook her head. Horn's big hand trembled
as he held it out, and for once there was no trace of hardness about
his face.

"Allie, I never had no lass of my own.... I wish you'd go with him.
You'd be safe--an' you could take my--"

"No!" interrupted the girl.

Slingerland gave her a strange, admiring glance, then turned his
quick gray eyes upon Horn. "Anythin' I can take?"

Horn hesitated. "No. It was jest somethin' I wanted the girl to
hev."

Slingerland touched his shaggy horse and called over his shoulder:
"Rustle out of hyar!" Then he galloped down the trail, leaving the
travelers standing aghast.

"Break camp!" thundered Horn.

A scene of confusion followed. In a very short while the prairie-
schooners were lumbering down the valley. Twilight came just as the
flight got under way. The tired oxen were beaten to make them run.
But they were awkward and the loads were heavy. Night fell, and the
road was difficult to follow. The wagons rolled and bumped and
swayed from side to side; camp utensils and blankets dropped from
them. One wagon broke down. The occupants, frantically gathering
together their possessions, ran ahead to pile into the one in front.

Horn drove on and on at a gait cruel to both men and beasts. The
women were roughly shaken. Hours passed and miles were gained. That
valley led into another with an upgrade, rocky and treacherous. Horn
led on foot and ordered the men to do likewise. The night grew
darker. By and by further progress became impossible, for the oxen
failed and a wild barrier of trees and rocks stopped the way.

Then the fugitives sat and shivered and waited for dawn. No one
slept. All listened intently to the sounds of the lonely night,
magnified now by their fears. Horn strode to and fro with his rifle
--a grim, dark, silent form. Whenever a wolf mourned, or a cat
squalled, or a night bird voiced the solitude, or a stone rattled
off the cliff, the fugitives started up quiveringly alert, expecting
every second to hear the screeching yell of the Sioux. They
whispered to keep up a flickering courage. And the burly Horn strode
to and fro, thoughtful, as though he were planning something, and
always listening. Allie sat in one of the wagons close to her
mother. She was wide awake and not so badly scared. All through this
dreadful journey her mother had not seemed natural to Allie, and the
farther they traveled eastward the stranger she grew. During the
ride that night she had moaned and shuddered, and had clasped Allie
close; but when the flight had come to a forced end she grew silent.

Allie was young and hopeful. She kept whispering to her mother that
the soldiers would come in time.

"That brave fellow in buckskin--he'll save us," said Allie.

"Child, I feel I'll never see home again," finally whispered Mrs.
Durade.

"Mother!"

"Allie, I must tell you--I must!" cried Mrs. Durade, very low and
fiercely. She clung to her daughter.

"Tell me what?" whispered Allie.

"The truth--the truth! Oh, I've deceived you all your life!"

"Deceived me! Oh, mother! Then tell me--now."

"Child--you'll forgive me--and never--hate me?" cried the mother,
brokenly.

"Mother, how can you talk so! I love you." And Allie clasped the
shaking form closer. Then followed a silence during which Mrs.
Durade recovered her composure.

"Allie, I ran off with Durade before you were born," began the
mother, swiftly, as if she must hurry out her secret. "Durade is not
your father.... Your name is Lee. Your father is Allison Lee. I've
heard he's a rich man now.... Oh, I want to get back--to give you to
him--to beg his forgiveness.... We were married in New Orleans in
1847. My father made me marry him. I never loved Allison Lee. He was
not a kind man--not the sort I admired.... I met Durade. He was a
Spaniard--a blue-blooded adventurer. I ran off with him. We joined
the gold-seekers traveling to California. You were born out there in
1850.... It has been a hard life. But I taught you--I did all I
could for you. I kept my secret from you--and his! ... Lately I could
endure it no longer. I've run off from Durade."

"Oh, mother, I knew we were running off from him!" cried Allie,
breathlessly. "And I know he will follow us."

"Indeed, I fear he will," replied the mother. "But Lord spare me his
revenge!"

"Mother! Oh, it is terrible! ... He is not my father. I never loved
him. I couldn't.... But, mother, you must have loved him!"

"Child, I was Durade's slave," she replied, sadly.

"Then why did you run away? He was kind--good to us."

"Allie, listen. Durade was a gambler--a man crazy to stake all on
the fall of a card. He did not love gold. But he loved games of
chance. It was a terrible passion with him. Once he meant to gamble
my honor away. But that other gambler was too much of a man. There
are gamblers who are men! ... I think I began to hate Durade from
that time.... He was a dishonest gambler. He made me share in his
guilt. My face lured miners to his dens.... My face--for I was
beautiful once! ... Oh, I sunk so low! But he forced me.... Thank God
I left him--before it was too late--too late for you."

"Mother, he will follow us!" cried Allie.

"But he shall never have you. I'll kill him before I let him get
you," replied the mother.

"He'd never harm me, mother, whatever he is," murmured Allie.

"Child, he would use you exactly as he used me. He wanted me to let
him have you--already. He wanted to train you--he said you'd be
beautiful some day."

"Mother!" gasped Allie, "is THAT what he meant?"

"Forget him, child. And forget your mother's guilt! ... I've
suffered. I've repented.... All I ask of God is to take you safely
home to Allison Lee--the father whom you have never known."

The night hour before dawn grew colder and blacker. A great silence
seemed wedged down between the ebony hills. The stars were wan. No
cry of wolf or moan of wind disturbed the stillness. And the stars
grew warmer. The black east changed and paled. Dawn was at hand. An
opaque and obscure grayness filled the world; all had changed,
except that strange, oppressive, and vast silence of the wild.

That silence was broken by the screeching, blood-curdling yell of
the Sioux.

At times these bloody savages attacked without warning and in the
silence of the grave; again they sent out their war-cries, chilling
the hearts of the bravest. Perhaps that warning yell was given only
when doom was certain.

Horn realized the dread omen and accepted it. He called the
fugitives to him and, choosing the best-protected spot among the
rocks and wagons, put the women in the center.

"Now, men--if it's the last for us--let it be fight! Mebbe we can
hold out till the troops come."

Then in the gray gloom of dawn he took a shovel; prying up a piece
of sod, he laid it aside and began to dig. And while he dug he
listened for another war-screech and gazed often and intently into
the gloom. But there was no sound and nothing to see. When he had
dug a hole several feet deep he carried an armful of heavy leather
bags and deposited them in it. Then he went back to the wagon for
another armful. The men, gray-faced as the gloom, watched him fill
up the hole, carefully replace the sod, and stamp it down.

He stood for an instant gazing down, as if he had buried the best of
his life. Then he laughed grim and hard.

"There's my gold! If any man wins through this he can have it!"

Bill Horn divined that he would never live to touch his treasure
again. He who had slaved for gold and had risked all for it cared no
more what might become of it. Gripping his rifle, he turned to await
the inevitable.

Moments of awful suspense passed. Nothing but the fitful beating of
hearts came to the ears of the fugitives--ears that strained to the
stealthy approach of the red foe--ears that throbbed prayerfully for
the tramp of the troopers' horses. But only silence ensued, a
horrible silence, more nerve-racking than the clash of swift, sure
death.

Then out of the gray gloom burst jets of red flame; rifles cracked,
and the air suddenly filled with hideous clamor. The men began to
shoot at gliding shadows, grayer than the gloom. And every shot
brought a volley in return. Smoke mingled with the gloom. In the
slight intervals between rifleshots there were swift, rustling
sounds and sharp thuds from arrows. Then the shrill strife of sound
became continuous; it came from all around and closed in upon the
doomed caravan. It swelled and rolled away and again there was
silence.




4

In 1865, just after the war, a party of engineers was at work in the
Wyoming hills on a survey as hazardous as it was problematical. They
had charge of the laying out of the Union Pacific Railroad.

This party, escorted by a company of United States troops under
Colonel Dillon, had encountered difficulties almost insurmountable.
And now, having penetrated the wild hills to the eastern slope of
the Rockies they were halted by a seemingly impassable barrier--a
gorge too deep to fill, too wide to bridge.

General Lodge, chief engineer of the corps, gave an order to one of
his assistants. "Put young Neale on the job. If we ever survey a
line through this awful place we'll owe it to him."

The assistant, Baxter, told an Irishman standing by and smoking a
short, black pipe to find Neale and give him the chief's orders. The
Irishman, Casey by name, was raw-boned, red-faced, and hard-
featured, a man inured to exposure and rough life. His expression
was one of extreme and fixed good humor, as if his face had been
set, mask-like, during a grin. He removed the pipe from his lips.

"Gineral, the flag I've been holdin' fer thot dom' young surveyor is
the wrong color. I want a green flag."

Baxter waved the Irishman to his errand, but General Lodge looked up
from the maps and plans before him with a faint smile. He had a
dark, stern face and the bearing of a soldier.

"Casey, you can have any color you like," he said. "Maybe green
would change our luck."

"Gineral, we'll niver git no railroad built, an' if we do it'll be
the Irish thot builds it," responded Casey, and went his way.

Truly only one hope remained--that the agile and daring Neale, with
his eye of a mountaineer and his genius for estimating distance and
grade, might run a line around the gorge.

While waiting for Neale the engineers went over the maps and
drawings again and again, with the earnestness of men who could not
be beaten.

Lodge had been a major-general in the Civil War just ended, and
before that he had traveled through this part of the West many
times, and always with the mighty project of a railroad looming in
his mind. It had taken years to evolve the plan of a continental
railroad, and it came to fruition at last through many men and
devious ways, through plots and counterplots. The wonderful idea of
uniting East and West by a railroad originated in one man's brain;
he lived for it, and finally he died for it. But the seeds he had
sown were fruitful. One by one other men divined and believed,
despite doubt and fear, until the day arrived when Congress put the
Government of the United States, the army, a group of frock-coated
directors, and unlimited gold back of General Lodge, and bade him
build the road.

In all the length and breadth of the land no men but the chief
engineer and his assistants knew the difficulty, the peril of that
undertaking. The outside world was interested, the nation waited,
mostly in doubt. But Lodge and his engineers had been seized by the
spirit of some great thing to be, in the making of which were
adventure, fortune, fame, and that strange call of life which
foreordained a heritage for future generations. They were grim; they
were indomitable.

Warren Neale came hurrying up. He was a New Englander of poor
family, self-educated, wild for adventure, keen for achievement,
eager, ardent, bronze-faced, and keen-eyed, under six feet in
height, built like a wedge, but not heavy--a young man of twenty-
three with strong latent possibilities of character.

General Lodge himself explained the difficulties of the situation
and what the young surveyor was expected to do. Neale flushed with
pride; his eyes flashed; his jaw set. But he said little while the
engineers led him out to the scene of the latest barrier. It was a
rugged gorge, old and yellow and crumbled, cedar-fringed at the top,
bare and white at the bottom. The approach to it was through a break
in the walls, so that the gorge really extended both above and below
this vantage-point.

"This is the only pass through these foot-hills," said Engineer
Henney, the eldest of Lodge's corps.

The passage ended where the break in the walls fronted abruptly upon
the gorge. It was a wild scene. Only inspired and dauntless men
could have entertained any hope of building a railroad through such
a place. The mouth of the break was narrow; a rugged slope led up to
the left; to the right a huge buttress of stone wall bulged over the
gorge; across stood out the seamed and cracked cliffs, and below
yawned the abyss. The nearer side of the gorge could only be guessed
at.

Neale crawled to the extreme edge of the precipice, and, lying flat,
he tried to discover what lay beneath. Evidently he did not see
much, for upon getting up he shook his head. Then he gazed at the
bulging wall.

"The side of that can be blown off," he muttered.

"But what's around the corner? If it's straight stone wall for miles
and miles we are done," said Boone, another of the engineers.

"The opposite wall is just that," added Henney. "A straight stone
wall."

General Lodge gazed at the baffling gorge. His face became grimmer,
harder. "It seems impossible to go on, but we must go on!" he said.

A short silence ensued. The engineers faced one another like men
confronted by a last and crowning hindrance. Then Neale laughed. He
appeared cool and confident.

"It only looks bad," he said. "We'll climb to the top and I'll go
down over the wall on a rope."

Neale had been let down over many precipices in those stony hills.
He had been the luckiest, the most daring and successful of all the
men picked out and put to perilous tasks. No one spoke of the
accidents that had happened, or even the fatal fall of a lineman who
a few weeks before had ventured once too often. Every rod of road
surveyed made the engineers sterner at their task, just as it made
them keener to attain final success.

The climb to the top of the bluff was long and arduous. The whole
corps went, and also some of the troopers.

"I'll need a long rope," Neale had said to King, his lineman.

It was this order that made King take so much time in ascending the
bluff. Besides, he was a cowboy, used to riding, and could not climb
well.

"Wal--I--shore--rustled--all the line--aboot heah," he drawled,
pantingly, as he threw lassoes and coils of rope at Neale's feet.

Neale picked up some of the worn pieces. He looked dubious. "Is this
all you could get?" he asked.

"Shore is. An' thet includes what Casey rustled from the soldiers."

"Help me knot these," went on Neale.

"Wal, I reckon this heah time I'll go down before you," drawled
King.

Neale laughed and looked curiously at his lineman. Back somewhere in
Nebraska this cowboy from Texas had attached himself to Neale. They
worked together; they had become friends. Larry Red King made no
bones of the fact that Texas had grown too hot for him. He had been
born with an itch to shoot. To Neale it seemed that King made too
much of a service Neale had rendered--the mere matter of a helping
hand. Still, there had been danger.

"Go down before me!" exclaimed Neale.

"I reckon," replied King.

"You will not," rejoined the other, bluntly. "I may not need you at
all. What's the sense of useless risk?"

"Wal, I'm goin'--else I throw up my job."

"Oh, hell!" burst out Neale as he strained hard on a knot. Again he
looked at his lineman, this time with something warmer than
curiosity in his glance.

Larry Red King was tall, slim, hard as iron, and yet undeniably
graceful in outline--a singularly handsome and picturesque cowboy
with flaming hair and smooth, red face and eyes of flashing blue.
From his belt swung a sheath holding a heavy gun.

"Wal, go ahaid," added Neale, mimicking his comrade. "An' I shore
hope thet this heah time you-all get aboot enough of your job."

One by one the engineers returned from different points along the
wall, and they joined the group around Neale and King.

"Test that rope," ordered General Lodge.

The long rope appeared to be amply strong. When King fastened one
end round his body under his arms the question arose among the
engineers, just as it had arisen for Neale, whether or not it was
needful to let the lineman down before the surveyor. Henney, who
superintended this sort of work, decided it was not necessary.

"I reckon I'll go ahaid," said King. Like all Texans of his type,
Larry King was slow, easy, cool, careless. Moreover, he gave a
singular impression of latent nerve, wildness, violence.

There seemed every assurance of a deadlock when General Lodge
stepped forward and addressed his inquiry to Neale.

"Larry thinks the rope will break. So he wants to go first," replied
Neale.

There were broad smiles forthcoming, yet no one laughed. This was
one of the thousands of strange human incidents that must be enacted
in the building of the railroad. It might have been humorous, but it
was big. It fixed the spirit and it foreshadowed events.

General Lodge's stern face relaxed, but he spoke firmly. "Obey
orders," he admonished Larry King.

The loop was taken from Larry's waist and transferred to Neale's.
Then all was made ready to let the daring surveyor with his
instrument down over the wall.

Neale took one more look at the rugged front of the cliff. When he
straightened up the ruddy bronze had left his face.

"There's a bulge of rock. I can't see what's below it," he said. "No
use for signals. I'll go down the length of the rope and trust to
find a footing. I can't be hauled up."

They all conceded this silently.

Then Neale sat down, let his legs dangle over the wall, firmly
grasped his instrument, and said to the troopers who held the rope,
"All right!"

They lowered him foot by foot.

It was windy and the dust blew up from under the wall. Black canon
swifts, like swallows, darted out with rustling wings, uttering
frightened twitterings. The engineers leaned over, watching Neale's
progress. Larry King did not look over the precipice. He watched the
slowly slipping rope as knot by knot it passed over. It fascinated
him.

"He's reached the bulge of rock," called Baxter, craning his neck.

"There, he's down--out of sight!" exclaimed Henney.

Casey, the flagman, leaned farther out than any other. "Phwat a dom'
sthrange way to build a railroad, I sez," he remarked.

The gorge lay asleep in the westering sun, silent, full of blue
haze. Seen from this height, far above the break where the engineers
had first halted, it had the dignity and dimensions of a canon. Its
walls had begun to change color in the sunset light.

Foot by foot the soldiers let the rope slip, until probably two
hundred had been let out, and there were scarcely a hundred feet
left. By this time all that part of the cable which had been made of
lassoes had passed over; the remainder consisted of pieces of worn
and knotted and frayed rope, at which the engineers began to gaze
fearfully.

"I don't like this," said Henney, nervously. "Neale surely ought to
have found a ledge or bench or slope by now."

Instinctively the soldiers held back, reluctantly yielding inches
where before they had slacked away feet. But intent as was their
gaze, it could not rival that of the cowboy.

"Hold!" he yelled, suddenly pointing to where the strained rope
curved over the edge of the wall.

The troopers held hard. The rope ceased to pay out. The strain
seemed to increase. Larry King pointed with a lean hand.

"It's a-goin' to break!"

His voice, hoarse and swift, checked the forward movement of the
engineers. He plunged to his knees before the rope and reached
clutchingly, as if he wanted to grasp it, yet dared not.

"Ropes was my job! Old an' rotten! It's breakin'!"

Even as he spoke the rope snapped. The troopers, thrown off their
balance, fell backward. Baxter groaned; Boone and Henney cried out
in horror; General Lodge stood aghast, dazed. Then they all froze
rigid in the position of intense listening.

A dull sound puffed up from the gorge, a low crash, then a slow-
rising roar and rattle of sliding earth and rock. It diminished and
ceased with the hollow cracking of stone against stone.

Casey broke the silence among the listening men with a curse. Larry
Red King rose from his knees, holding the end of the snapped rope,
which he threw from him with passionate violence. Then with action
just as violent he unbuckled his belt and pulled it tighter and
buckled it again. His eyes were blazing with blue lightning; they
seemed to accuse the agitated engineers of deliberate murder. But he
turned away without speaking and hurried along the edge of the
gorge, evidently searching for a place to go down.

General Lodge ordered the troopers to follow King and if possible
recover Neale's body.

"That lad had a future," said old Henney, sadly. "We'll miss him."

Boone's face expressed sickness and horror.

Baxter choked. "Too bad!" he murmured, "but what's to be done?"

The chief engineer looked away down the shadowy gorge where the sun
was burning the ramparts red. To have command of men was hard,
bitter. Death stalked with his orders. He foresaw that the building
of this railroad was to resemble the war in which he had sent so
many lads and men to bloody graves.

The engineers descended the long slope and returned to camp, a mile
down the narrow valley. Fires were blazing; columns of smoke were
curling aloft; the merry song and reckless laugh of soldiers were
ringing out, so clear in the still air; horses were neighing and
stamping.

Colonel Dillon reported to General Lodge that one of the scouts had
sighted a large band of Sioux Indians encamped in a valley not far
distant. This tribe had gone on the war-path and had begun to harass
the engineers. Neale's tragic fate was forgotten in the apprehension
of what might happen when the Sioux discovered the significance of
that surveying expedition.

"The Sioux could make the building of the U. P. impossible," said
Henney, always nervous and pessimistic.

"No Indians--nothing can stop us!" declared his chief.

The troopers sent to follow Larry King came back to camp, saying
that they had lost him and that they could not find any place where
it was possible to get down into that gorge.

In the morning Larry King had not returned.

Detachments of troopers were sent in different directions to try
again. And the engineers went out once more to attack their problem.
Success did not attend the efforts of either party, and at sunset,
when all had wearily returned to camp, Larry King was still absent.
Then he was given up for lost.

But before dark the tall cowboy limped into camp, dusty and torn,
carrying Neale's long tripod and surveying instrument. It looked the
worse for a fall, but apparently was not badly damaged. King did not
give the troopers any satisfaction. Limping on to the tents of the
engineers, he set down the instrument and called. Boone was the
first to come out, and his summons brought Henney, Baxter, and the
younger members of the corps. General Lodge, sitting at his campfire
some rods away, and bending over his drawings, did not see King's
arrival.

No one detected any difference in the cowboy, except that he limped.
Slow, cool, careless he was, yet somehow vital and impelling. "Wal,
we run the line around--four miles up the gorge whar the crossin' is
easy. Only ninety-foot grade to the mile."

The engineers looked at him as if he were crazy.

"But Neale! He fell--he's dead!" exclaimed Henney.

"Daid? Wal, no, Neale ain't daid," drawled Larry.

"Where is he, then?"

"I reckon he's comin' along back heah."

"Is he hurt?"

"Shore. An' hungry, too, which is what I am," replied Larry, as he
limped away.

Some of the engineers hurried out in the gathering dusk to meet
Neale, while others went to General Lodge with the amazing story.

The chief received the good news quietly but with intent eyes.
"Bring Neale and King here--as soon as their needs have been seen
to," he ordered. Then he called after Baxter, "Ninety feet to the
mile, you said?"

"Ninety-foot grade, so King reported."

"By all that's lucky!" breathed the chief, as if his load had been
immeasurably lightened. "Send those boys to me."

Some of the soldiers had found Neale down along the trail and were
helping him into camp. He was crippled and almost exhausted. He made
light of his condition, yet he groaned when he dropped into a seat
before the fire.

Some one approached Larry King to inform him that the general wanted
to see him.

"Wal, I'm hungry--an' he ain't my boss," replied Larry, and went on
with his meal. It was well known that the Southerner would not talk.

But Neale talked; he blazed up in eloquent eulogy of his lineman;
before an hour had passed away every one in camp knew that Larry had
saved Neale's life. Then the loquacious Casey, intruding upon the
cowboy's reserve, got roundly cursed for his pains.

"G'wan out among thim Sooz Injuns an' be a dead hero, thin,"
retorted Casey, as the cowboy stalked off to be alone in the gloom.
Evidently Casey was disappointed not to get another cursing, for he
turned to his comrade, McDermott, an axman. "Say, Mac, phwot do you
make of cowboys?"

"I tell ye, Pat, I make of thim thet you'll be full of bulletholes
before this railroad's built."

"Thin, b'gosh, I'll hould drink fer a long time yit," replied Casey.

Later General Lodge visited Neale and received the drawings and
figures that made plain solution of what had been a formidable
problem.

"It was easy, once I landed under that bulge of cliff," said Neale.
"There's a slope of about forty-five degrees--not all rock. And four
miles up the gorge peters out. We can cross. I got to where I could
see the divide--and oh! there is where our troubles begin. The worst
is all to come."

"You've said it," replied the chief, soberly. "We can't follow the
trail and get the grade necessary. We've got to hunt up a pass."

"We'll find one," said Neale, hopefully.

"Neale, you're ambitious and you've the kind of spirit that never
gives up. I've watched your work from the start. You'll make a big
position for yourself with this railroad, if you only live through
the building of it."

"Oh, I'll live through it, all right," replied Neale, laughing. "I'm
like a cat--always on my feet--and have nine lives besides."

"You surely must! How far did you fall this time?"

"Not far. I landed in a tree, where my instrument stuck. But I
crashed down, and got a hard knock on the head. When Larry found me
I was unconscious and sliding for another precipice."

"That Texan seems attached to you."

"Well, if he wasn't before he will be now," said Neale, feelingly.
"I'll tell you, General, Larry's red-headed, a droll, lazy
Southerner, and he's made fun of by the men. But they don't
understand him. They certainly can't see how dangerous he is. Only I
don't mean that. I do mean that he's true like steel."

"Yes, he showed that. When the rope snapped I was sure he'd pull a
gun on us.... Neale, I would like to have had you and Larry Red King
with me through the war."

"Thank you, General Lodge.... But I like the prospects now."

"Neale, you're hungry for wild life?"

"Yes," replied Neale, simply.

"I said as much. I felt very much the same way when I was your age.
And you like our prospects? ... Well, you've thought things out.
Neale, the building of the U. P. will be hell!"

"General, I can see that. It sort of draws me--two ways--the
wildness of it and then to accomplish something."

"My lad, I hope you will accomplish something big without living out
all the wildness."

"You think I might lose my head?" queried Neale.

"You are excitable and quick-tempered. Do you drink?"

"Yes--a little," answered the young man. "But I don't care for
liquor."

"Don't drink, Neale," said the chief, earnestly. "Of course it
doesn't matter now, for we're only a few men out here in the wilds.
But when our work is done over the divide, we must go back along the
line. You know ground has been broken and rails laid west of Omaha.
The work's begun. I hear that Omaha is a beehive. Thousands of idle
men are flocking West. The work will be military. We must have the
army to protect us, and we will hire all the soldiers who apply. But
there will be hordes of others--the dregs of the war and all the bad
characters of the frontier. They will flock to the construction
camp. Millions of dollars will go along with the building. Gold! ...
Where it's all coming from I have no idea. The Government backs us
with the army--that's all. But the gold will be forthcoming. I have
that faith.... And think, lad, what it will mean in a year or two.
Ten thousand soldiers in one camp out here in these wild hills. And
thousands of others--honest merchants and dishonest merchants,
whisky men, gamblers, desperadoes, bandits, and bad women. Niggers,
Greasers, Indians, all together moving from camp to camp, where
there can be no law."

"It will be great!" exclaimed Neale, with shining eyes.

"It will be terrible," muttered the elder man, gravely. Then, as he
got up and bade his young assistant good night, the somberness had
returned to his eyes and the weight to his shoulders. He did not
underestimate his responsibility nor the nature of his task, and he
felt the coming of nameless and unknown events beyond all divining.

Henney was Neale's next visitor. The old engineer appeared elated,
but for the moment he apparently forgot everything else in his
solicitude for the young man's welfare.

Presently, after he had been reassured, the smile came back to his
face.

"The chief has promoted you," he said.

"What!" exclaimed Neale, starting up.

"It's a fact. He just talked it over with Baxter and me. This last
job of yours pleased him mightily... and so you go up."

"Go up! ... To what?" queried Neale, eagerly.

"Well, that's why he consulted us, I guess," laughed Henney. "You
see, we sort of had to make something to promote you to, for the
present."

"Oh, I see! I was wondering what job there could be," replied Neale,
and he laughed, too. "What did the chief say?"

"He said a lot. Figured you'd land at the top if the U. P. is ever
built.... Chief engineer! ... Superintendent of maintenance of way!"

"Good Lord!" breathed Neale. "You're not in earnest?"

"Wal, I shore am, as your cowboy pard says," returned Henney. And
then he spoke with real earnestness. "Listen, Neale. Here's the
matter in a nutshell. You will be called upon to run these
particular and difficult surveys, just as yesterday. But no more of
the routine for you. Added to that, you will be sent forward and
back, inspecting, figuring. You can make your headquarters with us
or in the construction camps, as suits your convenience. All this,
of course, presently, when we get farther on. So you will be in a
way free--your own boss a good deal of the time. And fitting
yourself for that 'maintenance of way' job. In fact, the chief said
that--he called you Maintenance-of-Way Neale. Well, I congratulate
you. And my advice is keep on as you've begun--go straight--look out
for your wildness and temper.... That's all. Good night."

Then he went out, leaving Neale speechless.

Neale had many callers that night, and the last was Larry Red King.
The cowboy stooped to enter the tent.

"Wal, how aboot you-all?" he drawled.

"Not so good, Red," replied Neale. "My head's hot and I've got a lot
of pain. I think I'm going to be a little flighty. Would you mind
getting your blankets and staying with me tonight?"

"I reckon I'd be glad," answered King. He put a hand on Neale's
face. "You shore have fever." He left the tent, to return presently
with a roll of blankets and a canteen. Then he awkwardly began to
bathe Neale's face with cold water. There was a flickering camp-fire
outside that threw shadows on the wall of the tent. By its light
Neale saw that King's left hand was bandaged and that he used it
clumsily.

"What's wrong with your hand?" he queried.

"I reckon nawthin'."

"Why is it bound up, then?"

"Wal, some one sent thet fool army doctor to me an' he said I had
two busted bones in it."

"He did! I had no idea you were hurt. You never said a word. And you
carried me and my instrument all day--with a broken hand!"

"Wal, I ain't so shore it's broke."

Neale swore at his friend and then he fell asleep. King watched
beside him, ever and anon rewetting the hot brow.

The camp-fire died out, and at length the quietness of late night
set in. The wind mourned and lulled by intervals; a horse thudded
his hoofs now and then; there were the soft, steady footsteps of the
sentry on guard, and the wild cry of a night bird.




5

Neale had not been wrong when he told the engineers that once they
had a line surveyed across the gorge and faced the steep slopes of
the other side their troubles would be magnified.

They found themselves deeper in the Wyoming hills, a range of
mountains that had given General Lodge great difficulty upon former
exploring trips, and over which a pass had not yet been discovered.

The old St. Vrain and Laramie Trail wound along the base of these
slopes and through the valleys. But that trail was not possible for
a railroad. A pass must be found--a pass that would give a grade of
ninety feet to the mile. These mountains had short slopes, and they
were high.

It turned out that the line as already surveyed through ravines and
across the gorge had to be abandoned. The line would have to go over
the hills. To that end the camp was moved east again to the first
slopes of the Wyoming hills; from there the engineers began to
climb. They reached the base of the mountains, where they appeared
to be halted for good and all.

The second line, so far as it went, overlooked the Laramie Trail,
which fact was proof that the old trail-finders had as keen eyes as
engineers.

With a large band of hostile Sioux watching their movements the
engineer corps found it necessary to have the troops close at hand
all the time. The surveyors climbed the ridges while the soldiers
kept them in sight from below. Day after day this futile search for
a pass went on. Many of the ridges promised well, only to end in
impassable cliffs or breaks or ascents too steep. There were many
slopes and they all looked alike. It took hard riding and hard
climbing. The chief and his staff were in despair. Must their great
project fail because of a few miles of steep ascent? They would not
give up.

The vicinity of Cheyenne Pass seemed to offer encouragement. Camp
was made in the valley on a creek. From here observations were
taken. One morning the chief, with his subordinates and a scout,
ascended the creek and then through the pass to the summit. Again
the old St. Vrain and Laramie Trail lay in sight. And again the
troops rode along it, with the engineers above.

The chief with his men rode on and up farther than usual; farther
than they ought to have gone unattended. Once the scout halted and
gazed intently across the valley.

"Smoke signals over thar," he said.

The engineers looked long, but none of them saw any smoke. They
moved on. But the scout called them back.

"Thet bunch of redskins has split on us. Fust thing we'll run into
some of them."

It was Neale's hawk eye that first sighted Indians. "Look! Look!" he
cried, in great excitement, as he pointed with shaking finger.

Down a grassy slope of a ridge Indians were riding, evidently to
head off the engineers, to get between them and the troops.

"Wal, we're in fer it now," declared the scout. "We can't get back
the way we come up."

The chief gazed coolly at the Indians and then at the long ridge
sloping away from the summit. He had been in tight places before.

"Ride!" was his order.

"Let's fight!" cried Neale.

The band of eight men were well armed and well mounted, and if
imperative, could have held off the Sioux for a time. But General
Lodge and the scout headed across a little valley and up a higher
ridge, from which they expected to sight the troops. They rode hard
and climbed fast, but it took a quarter of an hour to gain the
ridge-top. Sure enough the troops were in sight, but far away, and
the Sioux were cutting across to get in front.

It was a time for quick judgment. The scout said they could not ride
down over the ridge, and the chief decided they must follow along
it. The going got to be hard and rough. One by one the men
dismounted to lead their horses. Neale, who rode a mettlesome bay,
could scarcely keep up.

"Take mine," called Larry King, as he turned to Neale.

"Red, I'll handle this stupid beast or--"

"Wal, you ain't handlin' him," interrupted King. "Hosses is my job,
you know."

Red took the bridle from Neale and in one moment the balky horse
recognized a master arm.

"By Heaven! we've got to hurry!" called Neale.

It did seem that the Indians would head them off. Neale and King
labored over the rocky ground as best they could, and by dint of
hard effort came up with their party. The Indians were quartering
the other ridge, riding as if on level ground. The going grew
rougher. Baxter's horse slipped and lamed his right fore leg.
Henney's saddle turned, and more valuable time was lost. All the men
drew their rifles. At every dip of ground they expected to come to a
break that would make a stand inevitable.

From one point on the ridge they had a good view of the troops.

"Signal!" ordered the chief.

They yelled and shot and waved hats and scarfs. No use--the soldiers
kept moving on at a snail pace far below.

"On--down the ridge!" was the order.

"Wal, General, thet looks bad to me," objected the scout. Red King
shoved his lean, brown hand between them. There was a flame in his
flashing, blue glance as it swept the slowly descending ridge.

"Judgin' the lay of land is my job," he said, in his cool way.
"We'll git down heah or not at all."

Neale was sore, lame, and angry as well. He kept gazing across at
the Sioux. "Let's stop--and fight," he panted. "We can--whip--that
bunch."

"We may have to fight, but not yet," replied the chief. "Come on."

They scrambled on over rocky places, up and down steep banks. Here
and there were stretches where it was possible to ride, and over
these they made better time. The Indians fell out of sight under the
side of the ridge, and this fact was disquieting, for no one could
tell how soon they would show up again or in what quarter. This
spurred the men to sterner efforts.

Meanwhile the sun was setting and the predicament of the engineers
grew more serious. A shout from Neale, who held up the rear, warned
all that the Indians had scaled the ridge behind them and now were
in straightaway pursuit. Thereupon General Lodge ordered his men to
face about with rifles ready. This move checked the Sioux. They
halted out of range.

"They're waitin' fer dark to set in," said the scout.

"Come on! We'll get away yet," said the chief, grimly. They went on,
and darkness began to fall about them. This increased both the
difficulty and the danger. On the other hand, it enabled them to try
and signal the troops with fire. One of them would hurry ahead and
build a fire while the others held back to check the Indians if they
appeared. And at length their signals were answered by the troops.
Thus encouraged, the little band of desperate men plunged on down
the slope. And just when night set in black--the fateful hour that
would have precipitated the Indian attack--the troops met the
engineers on the slope. The Indians faded away into the gloom
without firing a shot. There was a general rejoicing. Neale,
however, complained that he would rather have fought them.

"Wal, I shore was achin' fer trouble," drawled his faithful ally,
King.

The flagman, Casey, removed his black pipe to remark, "All thet
cloimb without a foight'"

General Lodge's first word to Colonel Dillon was evidently inspired
by Casey's remark.

"Colonel, did you have steep work getting up to us?"

"Yes, indeed, straight up out of the valley," was the rejoinder.

But General Lodge did not go back to camp by this short cut down the
valley. He kept along the ridge, and it led for miles slowly down to
the plain. There in the starlight he faced his assistants with
singular fire and earnestness.

"Men, we've had a bad scare and a hard jaunt, but we've found our
pass over the Wyoming hills. To-morrow we'll run a line up that long
ridge. We'll name it Sherman Pass.... Thanks to those red devils!"

On the following morning Neale was awakened from a heavy, dreamless
sleep by a hard dig in the ribs.

"Neale--air you daid?" Larry was saying. "Wake up! An' listen to
thet."

Neale heard the clear, ringing notes of a bugle-call. He rolled out
of his blankets. "What's up, Red?" he cried, reaching for his boots.

"Wal, I reckon them Injuns," drawled Red.

It was just daylight. They found the camp astir--troopers running
for horses, saddles, guns.

"Red, you get our horses and I'll see what's up," cried Neale.

The cowboy strode off, hitching at his belt. Neale ran forward into
camp. He encountered Lieutenant Leslie, whom he knew well, and who
told him a scout had come in with news of a threatened raid; Colonel
Dillon had ordered out a detachment of troopers.

"I'm going," shouted Neale. "Where's that scout?"

Neale soon descried a buckskin-clad figure, and he made toward it.
The man, evidently a trapper or hunter, carried a long, brown rifle,
and he had a powder-horn and bullet-pouch slung over his shoulder.
There was a knife in his belt. Neale went directly up to the man.

"My name's Neale," he said. "Can I be of any help?"

He encountered a pair of penetrating gray eyes.

"My name's Slingerland," replied the other, as he offered his hand.
"Are you an officer?"

"No. I'm a surveyor. But I can ride and shoot. I've a cowboy with
me--a Texan. He'll go. What's happened?"

"Wal, I ain't sure yet. But I fear the wust. I got wind of some
Sioux thet was trailin' some prairie-schooners up in the hills. I
warned the boss--told him to break camp an' run. Then I come fer the
troops. But the troops had changed camp an' I jest found them.
Reckon we'll be too late."

"Was it a caravan?" inquired Neale, intensely interested.

"Six wagons. Only a few men. Two wimmen. An' one girl."

"Girl!" exclaimed Neale.

"Yes. I reckon she was about sixteen. A pretty girl with big, soft
eyes. I offered to take her up behind me on my hoss. An' they all
wanted her to come. But she wouldn't.... I hate to think--"

Slingerland did not finish his thought aloud. Just then Larry rode
up, leading Neale's horse. Slingerland eyed the lithe cowboy.

"Howdy!" drawled Larry. He did not seem curious or eager, and his
cool, easy, reckless air was in sharp contrast to Neale's fiery
daring.

"Red, you got the rifles, I see," said Neale.

"Sure, an' I rustled some biscuits."

In a few moments the troops were mounted and ready. Slingerland led
them up the valley at a rapid trot and soon started to climb. When
he reached the top he worked up for a mile, and then, crossing over,
went down into another valley. Up and down he led, over ridge after
ridge, until a point was reached where the St. Vrain and Laramie
Trail could be seen in the valley below. From there he led them
along the top of the ridge, and just as the sun rose over the hills
he pointed down to a spot where the caravan had been encamped. They
descended into this valley. There in the trail were fresh tracks of
unshod horses.

"We ain't fur behind, but I reckon fur enough to be too late," said
Slingerland. And he clenched a big fist.

On this level trail he led at a gallop, with the troops behind in
the clattering roar. They made short work of that valley. Then
rougher ground hindered speedy advance.

Presently Slingerland sighted something that made him start. It
proved to be the charred skeleton of a prairie-schooner. The oxen
were nowhere to be seen.

Then they saw that a little beyond blankets and camp utensils
littered the trail. Still farther on the broad wheel-tracks sheered
off the road, where the hurried drivers had missed the way in the
dark. This was open, undulating ground, rock-strewn and overgrown
with brush. A ledge of rock, a few scraggy trees, and more black,
charred remains of wagons marked the final scene of the massacre.



Neale was the first man who dismounted, and Larry King was the
second. They had outstripped the more cautious troopers.

"My Gawd!" breathed Larry.

Neale gripped his rifle with fierce hands and strode forward between
two of the burned wagons. Naked, mutilated bodies, bloody and
ghastly, lay in horrible positions. All had been scalped.

Slingerland rode up with the troops, and all dismounted, cursing and
muttering.

Colonel Dillon ordered a search for anything to identify the dead.
There was nothing. All had been burned or taken away. Of the camp
implements, mostly destroyed, there were two shovels left, one with
a burnt handle. These were used by the troopers to dig graves.

Neale had at first been sickened by the ghastly spectacle. He walked
aside a little way and sat down upon a rock. His face was wet with
clammy sweat. A gnawing rage seemed to affect him in the pit of the
stomach. This was his first experience with the fiendish work of the
savages. A whirl of thoughts filled his mind.

Suddenly he fancied he heard a low moan. He started violently.
"Well, I'm hearing things," he muttered, soberly.

It made him so nervous that he got up and walked back to where the
troopers were digging. He saw the body of a woman being lowered into
a grave and the sight reminded him of what Slingerland had said. He
saw the scout searching around and he went over to him.

"Have you found the girl?" he asked.

"Not yet. I reckon the devils made off with her. They'd take her, if
she happened to be alive."

"God! I hope she's dead."

"Wal, son, so does Al Slingerland."

More searching failed to find the body of the girl. She was given up
as lost.

"I'll find out if she was took captive," said Slingerland. "This
Sioux band has been friendly with me."

"Man, they're on the war-path," rejoined Dillon.

"Wal, I've traded with them same Sioux when they was on the war-
path.... This massacre sure is awful, an' the Sioux will hev to be
extarminated. But they hev their wrongs. An' Injuns is Injuns."

Slabs of rock were laid upon the graves. Then the troopers rode
away.

Neale and Slingerland and Larry King were the last to mount. And it
was at this moment that Neale either remembered the strange, low
moan or heard it again. He reined in his horse.

"I'm going back," he called.

"What fer?" Slingerland rejoined.

Larry King wheeled his mount and trotted back to Neale.

"Red, I'm not satisfied," said Neale, and told his friend what he
thought he had heard.

"Boy, you're oot of yur haid!" expostulated Red.

"Maybe I am. But I'm going back. Are you coming?"

"Shore," replied Red, with his easy good nature.

Slingerland sat his horse and watched while he waited. The dust-
cloud that marked the troops drew farther away.

Neale dismounted, threw his bridle, and looked searchingly around.
But Larry, always more comfortable on horseback than on land, kept
his saddle. Suddenly Neale felt inexplicably drawn in a certain
direction--toward a rocky ledge. Still he heard nothing except the
wind in the few scraggy trees. All the ground in and around the
scene of the massacre had been gone over; there was no need to
examine it again. Neale had nothing tangible upon which to base his
strange feeling. Yet absurd or not, he refused to admit it was fancy
or emotion. Some voice had called him. He swore it. If he did not
make sure he would always be haunted. So with clear, deliberate eyes
he surveyed the scene. Then he strode for the ledge of rock.

Tufts of sage grew close at its base. He advanced among them. The
surface of the rock was uneven--and low down a crack showed. At that
instant a slow, sobbing, gasping intake of breath electrified Neale.

"Red--come here!" he yelled, in a voice that made the cowboy jump.

Neale dropped to his knees and parted the tufts of sage. Lower down
the crack opened up. On the ground, just inside that crack he saw
the gleam of a mass of chestnut hair. His first flashing thought was
that here was a scalp the red devils did not get.

Then Red King was kneeling beside him--bending forward. "It's a
girl!" he ejaculated.

"Yes--the one Slingerland told me about--the girl with big eyes,"
replied Neale. He put a hand softly on her head. It was warm. Her
hair felt silky, and the touch sent a quiver over him. Probably she
was dying.

Slingerland came riding up. "Wal, boys, what hev you found?" he
asked, curiously.

"That girl," replied Neale.

The reply brought Slingerland sliding out of his saddle.

Neale hesitated a moment, then reaching into the aperture, he got
his hands under the girl's arms and carefully drew her out upon the
grass. She lay face down, her hair a tumbled mass, her body inert.
Neale's quick eye searched for bloodstains, but found none.

"I remember thet hair," said Slingerland. "Turn her over."

"I reckon we'll see then where she's hurt," muttered Red King.

Evidently Neale thought the same, for he was plainly afraid to place
her on her back.

"Slingerland, she's not such a little girl," he said, irrelevantly.
Then he slipped his hands under her arms again. Suddenly he felt
something wet and warm and sticky. He pulled a hand out. It was
blood-stained.

"Aw!" exclaimed Red.

"Son, what'd you expect?" demanded Slingerland. "She got shot or
cut, an' in her fright she crawled in thar. Come, over with her.
Let's see. She might live."

This practical suggestion acted quickly upon Neale. He turned the
girl over so that her head lay upon his knees. The face thus exposed
was deathly pale, set like stone in horror. The front of her dress
was a bloody mass, and her hands were red.

"Stabbed in the breast!" exclaimed King.

"No," replied Slingerland. "If she'd been stabbed she'd been
scalped, too. Mebbe thet blood comes from an arrow an' she might hev
pulled it out."

Neale bent over her with swift scrutiny. "No cut or hole in her
dress!"

"Boys, thar ain't no marks on her--only thet blood," added
Slingerland, hopefully.

Neale tore open the front of her blouse and slipped his hand in upon
her breast. It felt round, soft, warm under his touch, but quiet. He
shook his head.

"Those moans I heard must have been her last dying breaths," he
said.

"Mebbe. But she shore doesn't look daid to me," replied King. "I've
seen daid people. Put your hand on her heart."

Neale had been feeling for heart pulsations on her right side. He
shifted his hand. Instantly through the soft swell of her breast
throbbed a beat-beat-beat. The beatings were regular and not at all
faint.

"Good Lord, what a fool I am!" he cried. "She's alive! Her heart's
going! There's not a wound on her!"

"Wal, we can't see any, thet's sure," replied Slingerland.

"She might hev a fatal hurt, all the same," suggested King.

"No!" exclaimed Neale. "That blood's from some one else--most likely
her murdered mother.... Red, run for some water. Fetch it in your
hat. Slingerland, ride after the troops."

Slingerland rose and mounted his horse. "Wal, I've an idee. Let's
take the girl to my cabin. Thet's not fur from hyar. It's a long
ride to the camp. An' if she needs the troop doctor we can fetch him
to my place."

"But the Sioux?"

"Wal, she'd be safer with me. The Injuns an' me are friends."

"All right. Good. But you ride after the troops, anyhow, and tell
Dillon about the girl--that we're going to your cabin." Slingerland
galloped away after the dust cloud down the trail.

Neale gazed strangely down at the face of the girl he had rescued.
Her lips barely parted to make again the low moan. So that was what
had called to him. No--not all! There was something more than this
feeble cry that had brought him back to search; there had been some
strong and nameless and inexplicable impulse. Neale believed in his
impulses--in those strange ones which came to him at intervals. So
far in his life girls had been rather negative influences. But this
girl, or the fact that he had saved her, or both impressions
together, struck deep into him; life would never again be quite the
same to Warren Neale.

Red King came striding back with a sombrero full of water.

"Take your scarf and wash that blood off her hands before she comes
to and sees it," said Neale.

The cowboy was awkward at the task, but infinitely gentle. "Poor
kid! I'll bet she's alone in the world now."

Neale wet his scarf and bathed the girl's face. "If she's only
fainted she ought to be reviving now. But I'm afraid--"

Then suddenly her eyes opened. They were large, violet-hued, covered
with a kind of veil or film, as though sleep had not wholly gone;
and they were unseeingly, staringly set with horror. Her breast
heaved with a sharply drawn breath; her hands groped and felt for
something to hold; her body trembled. Suddenly she sat up. She was
not weak. Her motions were violent. The dazed, horror-stricken eyes
roved around, but did not fasten upon anything.

"Aw! Gone crazy!" muttered King, pityingly.

It did seem so. She put her hands to her ears as if to shut out a
horrible sound. And she screamed. Neale grasped her shoulders,
turned her round, and forced her into such a position that her gaze
must meet his.

"You're safe!" he cried sharply. "The Indians have gone! I'm a white
man!"

It seemed as though his piercing voice stirred her reason. She
stared at him. Her face changed. Her lips parted and her hand,
shaking like a leaf, covered them, clutched at them. The other hand
waved before her as if to brush aside some haunting terror.

Neale held that gaze with all his power--dominant, masterful,
masculine. He repeated what he had said.

Then it became a wonderful and terrible sight to watch her, to
divine in some little way the dark and awful state of her mind. The
lines, the tenseness, the shade, the age faded out of her face; the
deep-set frown smoothed itself out of her brow and it became young.
Neale saw those staring eyes fix upon his; he realized a dull,
opaque blackness of horror, hideous veils let down over the windows
of a soul, images of hell limned forever on a mind. Then that film,
that unseeing cold thing, like the shade of sleep or of death,
passed from her eyes. Now they suddenly were alive, great dark-
violet gulfs, full of shadows, dilating, changing into exquisite and
beautiful lights.

"I'm a white man!" he said, tensely. "You're saved! The Indians are
gone!"

She understood him. She realized the meaning of his words. Then,
with a low, agonized, and broken cry she shut her eyes tight and
reached blindly out with both hands; she screamed aloud. Shock
claimed her again. Horror and fear convulsed her, and it must have
been fear that was uppermost. She clutched Neale with fingers of
steel, in a grip he could not have loosened without breaking her
bones.

"Red, you saw--she was right in her mind for a moment--you saw?"
burst out Neale.

"Shore I saw. She's only scared now," replied King. "It must hev
been hell fer her."

At this juncture Slingerland came riding up to them. "Did she come
around?" he inquired, curiously gazing at the girl as she clung to
Neale.

"Yes, for a moment," replied Neale.

"Wal, thet's good.... I caught up with Dillon. Told him. He was
mighty glad we found her. Cussed his troopers some. Said he'd
explain your absence, an' we could send over fer anythin'."

"Let's go, then," said Neale. He tried to loosen the girl's hold on
him, but had to give it up. Taking her in his arms, he rose and went
toward his horse. King had to help him mount with his burden. Neale
did not imagine he would ever forget that spot, but he took another
long look to fix the scene indelibly on his memory. The charred
wagons, the graves, the rocks over which the naked, gashed bodies
had been flung, the three scraggy trees close together, and the
ledge with the dark aperture at the base--he gazed at them all, and
then turned his horse to follow Slingerland.




6

Some ten miles from the scene of the massacre and perhaps fifteen
from the line surveyed by the engineers, Slingerland lived in a wild
valley in the heart of the Wyoming hills.

The ride there was laborsome and it took time, but Neale scarcely
noted either fact. He paid enough attention to the trail to fix
landmarks and turnings in his mind, so that he would remember how to
find the way there again. He was, however, mostly intent upon the
girl he was carrying.

Twice that he knew of her eyes opened during the ride. But it was to
see nothing and only to grip him tighter, if that were possible.
Neale began to imagine that he had been too hopeful. Her body was a
dead weight and cold. Those two glimpses he had of her opened eyes
hurt him. What should he do when she did come to herself? She would
be frantic with horror and grief and he would be helpless. In a case
like hers it might have been better if she had been killed.

The last mile to Slingerland's lay through a beautiful green valley
with steep sides almost like a canon--trees everywhere, and a swift,
clear brook running over a bed of smooth rock. The trail led along
this brook up to where the valley boxed and the water boiled out of
a great spring in a green glade overhung by bushy banks and gray
rocks above. A rude cabin with a red-stone chimney and clay-chinked
cracks between the logs, stuffed to bursting with furs and pelts and
horns and traps, marked the home of the trapper.

"Wal, we're hyar," sung out Slingerland, and in the cheery tones
there was something which told that the place was indeed home to
him.

"Shore is a likely-lookin' camp," drawled Red, throwing his bridle.
"Been heah a long time, thet cabin."

"Me an' my pard was the first white men in these hyar hills,"
replied Slingerland. "He's gone now." Then he turned to Neale. "Son,
you must be tired. Thet was a ways to carry a girl nigh onto
dead.... Look how white! Hand her down to me."

The girl's hands slipped nervelessly and limply from their hold upon
Neale. Slingerland laid her on the grass in a shady spot. The three
men gazed down upon her, all sober, earnest, doubtful.

"I reckon we can't do nothin' but wait," said the trapper.

Red King shook his head as if the problem were beyond him.

Neale did not voice his thought, yet he wanted to be the first
person her eyes should rest upon when she did return to
consciousness.

"Wal, I'll set to work an' clean out a place fer her," said
Slingerland.

"We'll help," rejoined Neale. "Red, you have a look at the horses."

"I'll slip the saddles an' bridles," replied King, "an' let 'em go.
Hosses couldn't be chased out of heah."

Slingerland's cabin consisted really of two adjoining cabins with a
door between, one part being larger and of later construction.
Evidently he used the older building as a storeroom for his pelts.
When all these had been removed the room was seen to be small, with
two windows, a table, and a few other crude articles of home-made
furniture. The men cleaned this room and laid down a carpet of deer
hides, fur side up. A bed was made of a huge roll of buffalo skins,
flattened and shaped, and covered with Indian blankets. When all
this had been accomplished the trapper removed his fur cap,
scratched his grizzled head, and appealed to Neale and King.

"I reckon you can fetch over some comfortable-like necessaries--
fixin's fer a girl," he suggested.

Red King laughed in his cool, easy, droll way. "Shore, we'll rustle
fer a lookin'-glass, an' hair-brush, an' such as girls hev to hev.
Our camp is full of them things."

But Neale did not see any humor in Slingerland's perplexity or in
the cowboy's facetiousness. It was the girl's serious condition that
worried him, not her future comfort.

"Run out thar!" called Slingerland, sharply.

Neale, who was the nearest to the door, bolted outside, to see the
girl sitting up, her hair disheveled, her manner wild in the
extreme. At sight of him she gave a start, sudden and violent, and
uttered a sharp cry. When Neale reached her it was to find her
shaking all over. Terrible fear had never been more vividly shown,
yet Neale believed she saw in him a white man, a friend. But the
fear in her was still stronger than reason.

"Who are you?" she asked.

"My name's Neale--Warren Neale," he replied, sitting down beside
her. He took one of the shaking hands in his. He was glad that she
talked rationally.

"Where am I?"

"This is the home of a trapper. I brought you here. It was the best
--in fact, the only place."

"You saved me--from--from those devils?" she queried, hoarsely, and
again the cold and horrible shade veiled her eyes.

"Yes--yes--but don't think of them--they're gone," replied Neale,
hastily. The look of her distressed and frightened him. He did not
know what to say.

The girl fell back with a poignant cry and covered her eyes as if to
shut out a hateful and appalling sight. "My--mother!" she moaned,
and shuddered with agony. "They--murdered--her! ... Oh! the terrible
yells! ... I saw--killed--every man--Mrs. Jones! My mother--she fell
--she never spoke! Her blood was on me! ... I crawled away--I hid! ...
The Indians--they tore--hacked--scalped--burned! ... I couldn't
die!--I saw! ... Oh!--Oh!--Oh!" Then she fell to moaning in
inarticulate fashion.

Slingerland and King came out and looked down at the girl.

"Wal, the life's strong in her," said the trapper. "I reckon I know
when life is strong in any critter. She'll git over thet. All we can
do now is to watch her an' keep her from doin' herself harm. Take
her in an' lay her down."

For two days and nights Neale watched over her, except for the hours
she slept, when he divided his vigil with King. She had periods of
consciousness, in which she knew Neale, but most of the time she
raved or tossed or moaned or lay like one dead. On the third day,
however. Neale felt encouraged. She awoke weak and somber, but quiet
and rational. Neale talked earnestly to her, in as sensible a way as
he knew how, speaking briefly of the tragic fate that had been hers,
bidding her force it out of her mind by taking interest in her new
surroundings. She listened to him, but did not seem impressed. It
was a difficult matter to get her to eat. She did not want to move.
At length Neale told her that he must go back to the camp of the
engineers, where he had work to do; he promised that he would return
to see her soon and often. She did not speak or raise her eyes when
he left her.

Outside, when Red brought up the horses, Slingerland said to Neale:
"See hyar, son, I reckon you needn't worry. She'll come around all
right."

"Shore she will," corroborated the cowboy. "Time'll cure her. I'm
from Texas, whar sudden death is plentiful in all families."

Neale shook his head. "I'm not so sure," he said. "That girl's more
sensitively and delicately organized than you fellows see. I doubt
if she'll ever recover from the shock. It'll take a mighty great
influence.... But let's hope for the best. Now, Slingerland, take
care of her as best you can. Shut her in when you leave camp. I'll
ride over as often as possible. If she gets so she will talk, then
we can find out if she has any relatives, and if so I'll take her to
them. If not I'll do whatever else I can for her."

"Wal, son, I like the way you're makin' yourself responsible fer
thet kid," replied the trapper. "I never had no wife nor daughter.
But I'm thinkin'--wouldn't it jest be hell to be a girl--tender an'
young an' like Neale said--an' sudden hev all you loved butchered
before your eyes?"

"It shore would," said Red, feelingly. "An' thet's what she sees all
the time."

"Slingerland, do we run any chance of meeting Indians?" queried
Neale.

"I reckon not. Them Sioux will git fur away from hyar after thet
massacre. But you want to keep sharp eyes out, an' if you do meet
any, jest ride an' shoot your way through. You've the best horses
I've seen. Whar'd you git them?"

"They belong to King. He's a cowboy."

"Hosses was my job. An' we can shore ride away from any redskins,"
replied King.

"Wal, good luck, an' come back soon," was Slingerland's last word.

So they parted. The cowboy led the way with the steady, easy,
trotting walk that saved a horse yet covered distance; in three
hours they were hailed by a trooper outpost, and soon they were in
camp.

Shortly after their arrival the engineers returned, tired, dusty,
work-stained, and yet in unusually good spirits. They had run the
line up over Sherman Pass, and now it seemed their difficulties were
to lessen as the line began to descend from the summit of the
divide. Neale's absence had been noticed, for his services were in
demand. But all the men rejoiced in his rescue of the little girl,
and were sympathetic and kind in their inquiries. It seemed to Neale
that his chief looked searchingly at him, as if somehow the short
absence had made a change in him. Neale himself grew conscious of a
strange difference in his inner nature; he could not forget the
girl, her helplessness, her pathetic plight.

"Well, it's curious," he soliloquized. "But--it's not so, either.
I'm sorry for her."

And he remembered the strange change in her eyes when he had watched
the shadow of horror and death and blood fade away before the
natural emotions of youth and life and hope.

Next day Neale showed more than ever his value to the engineering
corps, and again won a word of quiet praise from his chief. He liked
the commendation of his superiors. He began to believe heart and
soul in the coming greatness of the railroad. And that strenuous
week drove his faithful lineman, King, to unwonted complaint.

Larry tugged at his boots and groaned as he finally pulled them off.
They were full of holes, at which he gazed ruefully. "Shore I'll be
done with this heah job when they're gone," he said.

"Why do you work in high-heeled boots?" inquired Neale. "You can't
walk or climb in them. No wonder they're full of holes."

"Wal, I couldn't wear no boots like yours," declared Red.

"You'll have to. Another day will about finish them, and your feet,
too."

Red eyed his boss with interest. "You-all cussed me to-day because I
was slow," he complained.

"Larry, you always are slow, except with a horse or gun. And lately
you've been--well, you don't move out of your tracks."

Neale often exaggerated out of a desire to tease his friend. Nobody
else dared try and banter King.

"Wal, I didn't sign up with this heah outfit to run up hills all
day," replied Red.

"I'll tell you what. I'll get Casey to be my lineman. No, I've a
better idea. Casey is slow, too. I'll use one of the niggers."

Red King gave a hitch to his belt and a cold gleam chased away the
lazy blue warmth from his eyes. "Go ahaid," he drawled, "an' they'll
bury the nigger to-morrow night."

Neale laughed. He knew Red hated darkies--he suspected the Texan had
thrown a gun on more than a few--and he knew there surely would be a
funeral in camp if he changed his lineman.

"All right, Red. I don't want blood spilled," he said, cheerfully.
"I'll be a martyr and put up with you.... What do you say to a day
off? Let's ride over to Slingerland's."

The cowboy's red face slowly wrinkled into a smile. "Wal, I shore
was wonderin' what in the hell made you rustle so lately. I reckon
nothin' would suit me better. I've been wonderin', too, about our
little girl."

"Red, let's wade through camp and see what we can get to take over."

"Man, you mean jest steal?" queried King, in mild surprise.

"No. We'll ask for things. But if we can't get what we want that
way--why, we'll have to do the other thing," replied Neale,
thoughtfully. "Slingerland did not have even a towel over there.
Think of that girl! She's been used to comfort, if not luxury. I
could tell.... Let's see. I've a mirror and an extra brush.... Red,
come on."

Eagerly they went over their scant belongings, generously
appropriating whatever might be made of possible use to an
unfortunate girl in a wild and barren country. Then they fared forth
into the camp. Every one in the corps contributed something. The
chief studied Neale's heated face, and a smile momentarily changed
his stern features--a wise smile, a little sad, and full of light.

"I suppose you'll marry her," he said.

Neale blushed like a girl. "It--that hadn't occurred to me, sir," he
stammered.

Lodge laughed, but his glance was kind. "Sure you'll marry her," he
said. "You saved her life. And, boy, you'll be a big man of the U.
P. some day. Chief engineer or superintendent of maintenance of way
or some other big job. What could be finer? Romance, boy. The little
waif of the caravan--you'll send her back to Omaha to school; she'll
grow into a beautiful woman! She'll have a host of admirers, but
you'll be the king of the lot--sure."

Neale got out of the tent with tingling ears. He was used to the
badinage of the men, and had always retaliated with a sharp and
ready tongue. But this half-kind, half-humorous talk encroached upon
what he felt to be the secret side of his nature--the romantic and
the dreamful side--to which such fancies were unconscionably dear.

Early the next morning Neale and King rode out on the way to
Slingerland's.

The sun was warm when they reached the valley through which ran the
stream that led up to the cabin. Spring was in the air. The leaves
of cottonwood and willow added their fresh emerald to the darker
green of the pine. Bluebells showed in the grass along the trail;
there grew lavender and yellow flowers unfamiliar to Neale; trout
rose and splashed on the surface of the pools; and the way was
melodious with the humming of bees and the singing of birds.

Slingerland saw them coming and strode out to meet them with hearty
greeting.

"Is she all right?" queried Neale, abruptly.

"No, she ain't," replied Slingerland, shaking his shaggy head. "She
won't eat or move or talk. She's wastin' away. She jest sits or lays
with that awful look in her eyes."

"Can't you make her talk?"

"Wal, she'll say no to 'most anythin'. There was three times she
asked when you was comin' back. Then she quit askin'. I reckon she's
forgot you. But she's never forgot thet bloody massacre. It's there
in her eyes."

Neale dismounted, and, untying the pack from his saddle, he laid it
down, removed saddle and bridle; then he turned the horse loose. He
did this automatically while his mind was busy.

"Where is she?" he asked.

"Over thar under the pines whar the brook spills out of the spring.
Thet's the only place she'll walk to. I believe she likes to listen
to the water. An' she's always afraid."

"I've fetched a pack of things for her," said Neale. "Come on, Red."

"Shore you go alone," replied the cowboy, hanging back. "Girls is
not my job."

So Neale approached alone. The spot was green, fragrant, shady,
bright with flowers, musical with murmuring water. Presently he
spied her--a drooping, forlorn little figure. The instant he saw her
he felt glad and sad at once. She started quickly at his step and
turned. He remembered the eyes, but hardly the face. It had grown
thinner and whiter than the one he had in mind.

"My Lord! she's going to die!" breathed Neale. "What can I do--what
can I say to her?"

He walked directly but slowly up to her, aware of her staring eyes,
and confused by them.

"Hello! little girl, I've brought you some things," he said, and
tried to speak cheerfully.

"Oh--is--it you?" she said, brokenly.

"Yes, it's Neale. I hope you've not forgotten me."

There came a fleeting change over her, but not in her face, he
thought, because not a muscle moved, and the white stayed white. It
must have been in her eyes, though he could not certainly tell. He
bent over to untie the pack.

"I've brought you a lot of things," he said. "Hope you'll find them
useful. Here--"

She did not look at the open pack or pay any attention to him. The
drooping posture had been resumed, together with the somber staring
at the brook. Neale watched her in despair, and, watching, he
divined that only the most infinite patience and magnetism and power
could bring her out of her brooding long enough to give nature a
chance. He recognized how unequal he was to the task. But the
impossible or the unattainable had always roused Neale's spirit.
Defeat angered him. This girl was alive; she was not hurt
physically; he believed she could be made to forget that tragic
night of blood and death. He set his teeth and swore he would
display the tact of a woman, the patience of a saint, the skill of a
physician, the love of a father--anything to hold back this girl
from the grave into which she was fading. Reaching out, he touched
her.

"Can you understand me?" he asked.

"Yes," she murmured. Her voice was thin, far away, an evident
effort.

"I saved your life."

"I wish you had let me die." Her reply was quick with feeling, and
it thrilled Neale because it was a proof that he could stimulate or
aggravate her mind.

"But I DID save you. Now you owe me something."

"What?"

"Why, gratitude--enough to want to live, to try to help yourself."

"No--no," she whispered, and relapsed into the somber apathy.

Neale could scarcely elicit another word from her; then by way of
change he held out different articles he had brought--scarfs, a
shawl, a mirror--and made her look at them. Her own face in the
mirror did not interest her. He tried to appeal to a girl's vanity.
She had none.

"Your hair is all tangled," he said, bringing forth comb and brush.
"Here, smooth it out."

"No--no--no," she moaned.

"All right, I'll do it for you," he countered. Surprised at finding
her passive when he had expected resistance, he began to comb out
the tangled tresses. In his earnestness he did not perceive how
singular his action might seem to an onlooker. She had a mass of
hair that quickly began to smooth out and brighten under his hand.
He became absorbed in his task and failed to see the approach of
Larry King.

The cowboy was utterly amazed, and presently he grinned his delight.
Evidently the girl was all right and no longer to be feared.

"Wal, shore thet's fine," he drawled. "Neale, I always knowed you
was a lady's man." And Larry sat down beside them.

The girl's face was half hidden under the mass of hair, and her head
was lowered. Neale gave Larry a warning glance, meant to convey that
he was not to be funny.

"This is my cowboy friend, Larry Red King," said Neale. "He was with
me when I--I found you."

"Larry--Red--King," murmured the girl. "My name is--Allie."

Again Neale had penetrated into her close-locked mind. What she said
astounded him so that he dropped the brush and stared at Larry. And
Larry lost his grin; he caught a glimpse of her face, and his own
grew troubled.

"Allie--I shore--am glad to meet you," he said, and there was more
feeling in his voice than Neale had ever before heard. Larry was not
slow of comprehension. He began to talk in his drawling way. Neale
heard him with a smile he tried to hide, but he liked Larry the
better for his simplicity. This gun-throwing cowboy had a big heart.

Larry, however, did not linger for long. His attempts to get the
girl to talk grew weaker and ended; then, after another glance at
the tragic, wan face he got up and thoughtfully slouched away.

"So your name is Allie," said Neale. "Well, Allie what?"

She did not respond to one out of a hundred questions, and this
query found no lodgment in her mind.

"Will you braid your hair now?" he asked.

The answer was the low and monotonous negative, but, nevertheless,
her hands sought her hair and parted it, and began to braid it
mechanically. This encouraged Neale more than anything else; it
showed him that there were habits of mind into which he could turn
her. Finally he got her to walk along the brook and also to eat and
drink.

At the end of that day he was more exhausted than he would have been
after a hard climb. Yet he was encouraged to think that he could get
some kind of passive unconscious obedience from her.

"Reckon you'd better stay over to-morrow," suggested Slingerland.
His concern for the girl could not have been greater had she been
his own daughter. "Allie--thet was her name, you said. Wal, it's
pretty an' easy to say."

Next day Allie showed an almost imperceptible improvement. It might
have been Neale's imagination leading him to believe that there were
really grounds for hope. The trapper and the cowboy could not get
any response from her, but there was certain proof that he could.
The conviction moved him to deep emotion.

An hour before sunset Neale decided to depart, and told Larry to get
the horses. Then he went to Allie, undecided what to say, feeling
that he must have tortured her this day with his ceaseless
importunities. How small the chance that he might again awaken the
springs of life interest. Yet the desire was strong within him to
try.

"Allie." He repeated her name before she heard him. Then she looked
up. The depths--the tragic lonesomeness--of her eyes--haunted Neale.

"I'm going back. I'll come again soon."

She made a quick movement--seized his arm. He remembered the close,
tight grip of her hands.

"Don't go!" she implored. Black fear stared out of her eyes.

Neale was thunderstruck at the suddenness of her speech--at its
intensity. Also he felt an unfamiliar kind of joy. He began to
explain that he must return to work, that he would soon come to see
her again; but even as he talked she faded back into that dull and
somber apathy.

Neale rode away with only one conviction gained from the
developments of the two days; it was that he would be restless and
haunted until he could go to her again. Something big and moving--
something equal to his ambition for his work on the great railroad--
had risen in him and would not be denied.




7

Neale rode to Slingerland's cabin twice during the ensuing
fortnight, but did not note any improvement in Allie's condition or
demeanor. The trapper, however, assured Neale that she was gradually
gaining a little and taking some slight interest in things; he said
that if Neale could only spend enough time there the girl might
recover. This made Neale thoughtful.

General Lodge and his staff had decided to station several engineers
in camp along the line of the railroad for the purpose of studying
the drift of snow. It was important that all information possible
should be obtained during the next few winters. There would be
severe hardships attached to this work, but Neale volunteered to
serve, and the chief complimented him warmly. He was to study the
action of the snowdrift along Sherman Pass.

Upon his next visit to Slingerland Neale had the project soberly in
mind and meant to broach it upon the first opportunity.

This morning, when Neale and King rode up to the cabin, Allie did
not appear as upon the last occasion of their arrival. Neale missed
her.

Slingerland came out with his usual welcome.

"Where's Allie?" asked Neale,

"Wal, she went in jest now. She saw you comin' an' then run in to
hide, I reckon. Girls is queer critters."

"She watched for me--for us--and then ran?" queried Neale,
curiously.

"Wal, she ain't done nothin' but watch fer you since you went away
last. An', son, thet's a new wrinkle fer Allie, An' run? Wal, like a
skeered deer."

"Wonder what that means?" pondered Neale. Whatever it meant, it sent
a little tingle of pleasure along his pulses. "Red, I want to have a
serious talk with Slingerland," he announced, thoughtfully.

"Shore; go ahaid an' talk," drawled the Southerner, as he slipped
his saddle and turned his horse loose with a slap on the flank. "I
reckon I'll take a gun an' stroll off fer a while."

Neale led the trapper aside to a shady spot under the pines and
there unburdened himself of his plan for the winter.

"Son, you'll freeze to death!" ejaculated the trapper.

"I must build a cabin, of course, and prepare for severe weather,"
replied Neale.

Slingerland shook his shaggy head. "I reckon you ain't knowin' these
winters hyar as I know them. But thet long ridge you call Sherman
Pass--it ain't so fur we couldn't get thar on snow-shoes except in
the wust weather. I reckon you can stay with me hyar."

"Good!" exclaimed Neale. "And now about Allie."

"Wal, what about her?"

"Shall I leave her here or send her back to Omaha with the first
caravan, or let her go to Fort Fetterman with the troops?"

"Son, she's your charge, but I say leave her hyar, 'specially now
you can be with us. She'd die or go crazy if you sent her. Why, she
won't even say if she's got a livin' relation. I reckon she hain't.
She'd be better hyar. I've come to be fond of Allie. She's strange.
She's like a spirit. But she's more human lately."

"I'm glad you say that, Slingerland," replied Neale. "What to do
about her had worried me. I'll decide right now. I'll leave her with
you, and I hope to Heaven I'm doing best by her."

"Wal, she ain't strong enough to travel fur. We didn't think of
thet."

"That settles it, then," said Neale, in relief. "Time enough to
decide when she is well again.... Tell me about her."

"Son, thar's nuthin' to tell. She's done jest the same, except fer
thet takin' to watchin' fer you. Reckon thet means a good deal."

"What?"

"Wal, I don't figger girls as well as I do other critters," answered
Slingerland, reflectively. "But I'd say Allie shows interest in
you."

"Slingerland! You don't mean she--she cares for me?" demanded Neale.

"I don't know. Mebbe not. Mebbe she's beyond carin'. But I believe
you an' thet red memory of bloody death air all she ever thinks of.
An' mostly of it."

"Then it'll be a fight between me and that memory?"

"So I take it, son. But recollect I ain't no mind-doctor. I jest
feel you could make her fergit thet hell if you tried hard enough."

"I'll try--hard as I can," replied Neale, resolutely, yet with a
certain softness. "I'm sorry for her. I saved her. Why shouldn't I
do everything possible?"

"Wal, she's alone."

"No, Allie has friends--you and King and me. That's three."

"Son, I reckon you don't figger me. Listen. You're a fine, strappin'
young feller an' good-lookin'. More 'n thet, you've got some--some
quality like an Injun's--thet you can feel but can't tell about. You
needn't be insulted, fer I know Injuns thet beat white men holler
fer all thet's noble. Anyway, you attract. An' now if you keep on
with all thet--thet--wal, usin' yourself to make Allie fergit the
bloody murder of all she loved, to make her mind clear again--why,
sooner or later she's a-goin' to breathe an' live through you. Jest
as a flower lives offen the sun. Thet's all, I reckon."

Neale's bronze cheek had paled a little. "Well, if that's all,
that's easy," he replied, with a cool, bright smile which showed the
latent spirit in him. "If it's only that--why she can have me....
Slingerland, I've no ties now. The last one was broken when my
mother died--not long ago. I'm alone, too.... I'd do as much for any
innocent girl--but for this poor child Allie--whose life I saved--
I'd do anything."

Slingerland shoved out a horny hand and made a giant grip express
what evidently just then he could not express in speech.

Upon returning to the cabin they found Allie had left her room. From
appearances Neale concluded that she had made little use of the
things he had brought her. He was conscious of something akin to
impatience. He was not sure what he did feel. The situation had
subtly changed and grown, all in that brief talk with Slingerland.
Neale slowly walked out toward the brook, where he expected to find
her. It struck him suddenly that if she had watched for him all week
and had run when he came, then she must have wanted to see him, but
was afraid or shy or perverse. How like any girl! Possibly in the
week past she had unconsciously grown a little away from her grief.

"I'll try something new on you, Allie," he muttered, and the boy in
him that would never grow into a man meant to be serious even in his
fun.

Allie sat in the shady place under the low pine where the brook
spilled out of the big spring. She drooped and appeared oblivious to
her surroundings. A stray gleam of sunlight, touching her hair, made
it shine bright. Neale's quick eye took note of the fact that she
had washed the blood-stain from the front of her dress. He was glad.
What hope had there been for her so long as she sat hour after hour
with her hands pressed to that great black stain on her dress--that
mark where her mother's head had rested? Neale experienced a renewal
of hope. He began to whistle, and, drawing his knife, he went into
the brush to cut a fishing-pole. The trout in this brook had long
tempted his fisherman's eye, and upon this visit he had brought a
line and hooks. He made a lot of noise all for Allie's benefit;
then, tramping out of the brush, he began to trim the rod within
twenty feet of where she sat. He whistled; he even hummed a song
while he was rigging up the tackle. Then it became necessary to hunt
for some kind of bait, and he went about this with pleasure, both
because he liked the search and because, out of the corner of his
eye, he saw that Allie was watching him. Therefore he redoubled his
efforts at pretending to be oblivious of her presence and at keeping
her continually aware of his. He found crickets, worms, and grubs
under the dead pine logs, and with this fine variety of bait he
approached the brook.

The first cast Neale made fetched a lusty trout, and right there his
pretensions of indifference vanished, together with his awareness of
Allie's proximity. Neale loved to fish. He had not yet indulged his
favorite pastime in the West. He saw trout jumping everywhere. It
was a beautiful little stream, rocky, swift here and eddying there,
clear as crystal, murmurous with tiny falls, and bordered by a
freshness of green and gold; there were birds singing in the trees,
but over all seemed to hang the quiet of the lonely hills. Neale
forgot Allie--forgot that he had meant to discover if she could be
susceptible to a little neglect. The brook was full of trout,
voracious and tame; they had never been angled for. He caught three
in short order.

When his last bait, a large and luscious grub, struck the water
there was a swirl, a splash, a tug. Neale excitedly realized that he
had hooked a father of the waters. It leaped. That savage leap, the
splash, the amazing size of the fish, inflamed in Neale the old
boyish desire to capture, and, forgetting what little skill he
possessed, he gave a mighty pull. The rod bent double. Out with a
vicious splash lunged the huge, glistening trout, to dangle heavily
for an instant in the air. Neale thought he heard a cry behind him.
He was sitting down, in awkward posture. But he lifted and swung.
The line snapped. The fish dropped in the grass and began to thresh.
Frantically Neale leaped to prevent the escape of the hugest trout
he had ever seen. There was a dark flash--a commotion before him.
Then he stood staring in bewilderment at Allie, who held the
wriggling trout by the gills.

"You don't know how to fish!" she exclaimed, with great severity.

"I don't, eh?" ejaculated Neale, blankly.

"You should play a big trout. You lifted him right out. He broke
your line. He'd have--gotten--away--but for me."

She ended, panting a little from her exertion and quick speech. A
red spot showed in each white cheek. Her eyes were resolute and
flashing. It dawned upon Neale that he had never before seen a tinge
of color in her face, nor any of the ordinary feelings of life
glancing in her eyes. Now she seemed actually pretty. He had made a
discovery--perhaps he had now another means to distract her from
herself. Then the squirming trout drew his attention and he took it
from her.

"What a whopper! Oh, say, Allie, isn't he a beauty? I could hug--I--
You bet I'm thankful. You were quick.... He certainly is slippery."

Allie dropped to her knees and wiped her hands on the grass while
Neale killed the fish and strung it upon a willow with the others he
had caught. Then turning to Allie, he started to tell her how glad
he was to see her again, to ask her if she were glad to see him. But
upon looking at her he decided to try and keep her mind from
herself. She was different now and he liked the difference. He
feared he might frighten it away.

"Will you help me get more bait?" he asked.

Allie nodded and got up. Then Neale noticed her feet were bare. Poor
child! She had no shoes and he did not know how to procure any
suitable footwear in that wilderness.

"Have you ever fished for trout?" he asked, as he began to dig under
a rotting log.

"Yes. In California," she replied, with sudden shadowing of her
eyes.

"Let's go down the brook," said Neale, hastily, fearful that he had
been tactless. "There are some fine holes below."

She walked beside him, careful of the sharp stones that showed here
and there. Presently they came to a likely-looking pool.

"If you hook another big one don't try to pull him right out,"
admonished Allie.

Neale could scarcely conceal his delight, and in his effort to
appear natural made a poor showing at this pool, losing two fish and
scaring others so they would not rise.

"Allie, won't you try?" he asked, offering the rod.

"I'd rather look on. You like it so much."

"How do you know that?" he asked, more to hear her talk than from
curiosity.

"You grow so excited," she said.

Thankfully he accepted the realization that after all these weeks of
silence it was possible to make her speak. But he must exercise
extreme caution. One wrong word might send her back into that
apathy--that senseless, voiceless trance.

In every pool where Neale cast he caught or lost a trout. He was
enjoying himself tremendously and at the same time feeling a warmth
in his heart that was not entirely due to the exhilaration of
fishing. Below the head of the valley, where the stream began and
the cabin nestled, the ground was open, like a meadow, with grass
and flowers growing to the edge of the water. There were deep,
swirling pools running under the banks, and in these Neale hooked
fish he could not handle with his poor tackle, and they broke away.
But he did not care. There was a brightness, a beauty, a fragrance
along the stream that seemed to enhance the farther down he went.
Presently they came to a place where the water rushed over a rocky
bed, and here Neale wanted to cross. He started to wade, curious and
eager to see what Allie would do.

"I can't wade that," she called.

Neale returned to her side. "I'll carry you," he said. "You hold the
rod. We'll leave the fish here." Then he lifted her in his arms. How
light she was--how much lighter than upon that first occasion of his
carrying her. He slipped in the middle of the brook and nearly fell
with her. Allie squealed. The sound filled Neale with glee. After
all, and whatever she had gone through, she was feminine--she was a
girl--she was squeamish. Thereupon he slipped purposely and made a
heroic effort to save himself. She clasped his neck convulsively
with her free arm, and as he recovered his balance her head bumped
into his and her hair got into his eyes. He laughed. This was great
fun. But it could scarcely have been the exertion that made his
heart beat out of time. At last he gained the opposite bank.

"You nearly fell with me," she said.

"Well, I'd have got wet, too," he replied, wondering if it were
possible to make her laugh or even smile. If he could do that to-
day, even in the smallest degree, he would be assured that happiness
might come back to her.

Soon they met Larry, who came stooping along, burdened with a deer
carcass on his shoulder. Relieving himself, he hailed them.

"How air you-all?" he drawled, addressing himself mostly to Allie.

"What's your name?" she asked.

"Allie, he's my friend and partner," replied Neale. "Larry King. But
I call him Red--for obvious reasons."

"Wal, Miss Allie, I reckon no tall kick would be a-comin' if you was
to call me Red," drawled Larry. "Or better--Reddy. No other lady
ever had thet honor."

Allie looked at him steadily, as if this was the first time she had
seen him, but she did not reply. And Larry, easily disconcerted,
gathered up his burden and turned toward camp.

"Wal, I'm shore wishin' you-all good luck," he called,
significantly.

Neale shot a quick glance at Allie to see if the cowboy's good-
humored double meaning had occurred to her. But apparently she had
not heard. She seemed to be tiring. Her lips were parted and she
panted.

"Are you tired? Shall we go back?" he asked.

"No--I like it," she returned, slowly, as if the thought were
strange to her.

They fished on, and presently came to a wide, shallow place with
smooth rock bottom, where the trail crossed. Neale waded across
alone. And he judged that the water in the middle might come up to
Allie's knees.

"Come on," he called.

Allie hesitated. She gathered up her faded skirt, slowly waded in
and halted, uncertain of her footing. She was not afraid, Neale
decided, and neither did she seem aware that her slender, shapely
legs gleamed white against the dark water.

"Won't you come and carry me?" she asked.

"Indeed I won't," replied Neale. "Carry a big girl like you!"

She took him seriously and moved a little farther. "My feet slip
so," she said.

It became fascinating to watch her. The fun of it--the pleasure of
seeing a girl wade a brook, innocently immodest, suddenly ceased for
Neale. There was something else. He had only meant to tease; he was
going to carry her; he started back. And then he halted. There was a
strange earnestness in Allie's face--a deliberateness in her intent,
out of all proportion to the exigency of the moment. It was as if
she must cross that brook. But she kept halting. "Come on!" Neale
called. And she moved again. Every time this happened she seemed to
be compelled to go on. When she got into the swift water, nearly to
her knees, then she might well have faltered. Yet she did not
falter. All at once Neale discovered that she was weak. She did not
have the strength to come on. It was that which made her slip and
halt. What then made her try so bravely? How strange that she tried
at all! Stranger than all was her peculiar attitude toward the task
--earnest, sober, grave, forced.

Neale was suddenly seized with surprise and remorse. That which
actuated this girl Allie was merely the sound of his voice--the
answer to his demand. He plunged in and reached her just as she was
slipping. He carried her back to the side from which she had
started. It cost him an effort not to hold her close. Whatever she
was--orphan or waif, left alone in the world by a murdering band of
Sioux--an unfortunate girl to be cared for, succored, pitied--none
of these considerations accounted for the change that his power over
her had wrought in him.

"You're not strong," he said, as he put her down.

"Was that it?" she asked, with just a touch of wonder. "I used to
wade--anywhere."

He spoke little on the way back up the brook, for he hesitated to
tell her that he must return to his camp so as to be ready for
important work on the morrow, and not until they were almost at the
cabin did he make up his mind. She received the intelligence in
silence, and upon reaching the cabin she went to her room.

Neale helped Larry and Slingerland with the task of preparing a meal
that all looked forward to having Allie share with them. However,
when Slingerland called her there was no response.

Neale found her sunk in the old, hopeless, staring, brooding mood.
He tried patience at first, and gentleness, but without avail. She
would not come with him. The meal was eaten without her. Later Neale
almost compelled her to take a little food. He felt discouraged
again. Time had flown all too swiftly, and there was Larry coming
with the horses and sunset not far off. It might be weeks, even
months, before he would see her again.

"Allie, are you ever going to cheer up?" he demanded.

"No--no," she sighed.

He put his hand under her chin, and, forcing her face up, studied it
earnestly. Strained, white, bloodless, thin, with drooping lips and
tragic eyes, it was not a beautiful, not even a pretty face. But it
might have been one--very easily. The veiled, mournful eyes did not
evade his; indeed, they appeared to stare deeply, hopelessly,
yearningly. If he could only say and do the right thing to kill that
melancholia. She needed to be made to live. Suddenly he had the
impulse to kiss her. That, no doubt, was owing to the proximity of
her lips. But he must not kiss her. She might care for him some day
--it was natural to imagine she would. But she did not care now, and
that made kisses impossible.

"You just won't cheer up?" he went on.

"No--no."

"But you were so different out there by the brook."

She made no reply. The veil grew darker, more shadowy, over her
eyes. Neale divined a deadness in her.

"I'm going away," he said, sharply.

"Yes."

"Do you care?" He went on, with greater intensity.

She only stared at him.

"You MUST care!" he exclaimed.

"Why?" she asked, dully,

"Why! ... Because--because--" he stammered, angry with himself. After
all, why should she care?

"I wish--you'd--left me--to die!" she moaned.

"Oh! Allie! Allie!" began Neale, in distress. Then he caught the
different quality in her voice. It carried feeling. She was thinking
again. He swore that he would overcome this malady of hers, and he
grew keen, subtle, on fire with his resolve. He watched her. He put
his hands on her shoulders and pulled her gently. She slid off the
pile of buffalo robes to her knees before him. Then she showed the
only hint of shyness he had ever noted in her. Perhaps it was fear.
At any rate, she half averted her face, so that her loosened hair
hid it.

"Allie! Allie! Listen! Have you nothing to LIVE for?" he asked.

"No."

"Why, yes, you have."

"What?"

"Why, I--The thing is--Allie--you have ME!" he said, a little
hoarsely. Then he laughed. How strange his laugh sounded! He would
always remember that rude room of logs and furs and the kneeling
girl in the dim light.

"YOU!"

"Yes, me," he replied, with a ring in his voice. Never before had
she put wonder in a word. He had struck the right chord at last. Now
it seemed that he held a live creature under his hands, as if the
deadness and the dread apathy had gone away forever with the
utterance of that one syllable. This was a big moment. If only he
could make up to her for what she had lost! He felt his throat
swell, and speech was difficult.

"Allie, do you understand me now? You--have something--to live
for! ... Do you hear?"

When his ear caught the faint "Yes" he suddenly grew glad and strong
with what he felt to be a victory over her gloom and despair.

"Listen. I'm going to my work," he began, swiftly. "I'll be gone
weeks--maybe more. BUT I'LL COME BACK! ... Early in the fall. I'll be
with you all winter. I'm to work here on the pass.... Then--then--
Well, I'll be a big man on the U. P. some day. Chief engineer or
superintendent of maintenance of way.... You're all alone--maybe
you'll care for me some day. I'll work hard. It's a great idea--this
railroad. When it's done--and I've my big job--will you--you'll
marry me then?"

Neale heard her gasp and felt her quiver. He let go of her and stood
up, for fear he might suddenly take her in his arms. His words had
been shock enough. He felt remorse, anxiety, tenderness, and yet he
was glad. Some delicate and fine consciousness in him told him he
had not done wrong, even if he had been dominating. She was alone in
the world; he had saved her life. His heart beat quick and heavy.

"Good-by, Allie.... I'll come back. Never forget!"

She stayed motionless on her knees with the mass of hair hiding her
face, and she neither spoke nor made a sign.

Neale went out. The air seemed to wave in his face, cool and
relieving. Larry was there with the horses. Slingerland stood by
with troubled eyes. Both men stared at Neale. He was aware of that,
and conscious of his agitation. And suddenly, as always at a climax
of emotion, he swiftly changed and grew cool.

"Red, old pard, congratulate me! I'm engaged to marry Allie!" he
said, with a low laugh that had pride in it.

"Wal, damn me!" ejaculated Larry King. Then he shot out the hand
that was so quick with rope and gun. "Put her thar! Shore if you
hadn't made up to her I'd have.... An', Neale, if you say Pard, I'm
yours till I'm daid!"

"Pard!" replied Neale, as he met the outstretched hand.

Slingerland's hard and wrinkled face softened.

"Strange how we all cottoned to thet girl! No--I reckon it ain't so
strange. Wal, it's as it oughter be. You saved her. May you both be
happy, son!"

Neale slipped a ring from his little finger.

"Give Allie this. Tell her it's my pledge. I'll come back to her.
And she must think of that."




8

That summer the engineers crossed the Wyoming hills and ran the line
on into Utah, where they met the surveying party working in from the
Pacific.

The initial step of the great construction work was done, the
engineers with hardship and loss of life had proved that a railroad
across the Rockies was a possibility. Only, they had little
conception of the titanic labor involved in the building.

For Neale the months were hard, swift, full. It came to him that
love of the open and the wild was incorporated in his ambition for
achievement. He wondered if he would have felt the one without the
other. Camp life and the daily climbing over the ridges made of him
a lithe, strong, sure-footed mountaineer. They made even the horse-
riding cowboy a good climber, though nothing, Neale averred, would
ever straighten Larry's bow legs.

Only two incidents or accidents marred the work and pleasure of
those fruitful weeks.

The first happened in camp. There was a surly stake-driver by the
name of Shurd who was lazy and otherwise offensive among hard-
working men. Having been severely handled by Neale, he had nursed a
grievance and only waited for an opportunity for revenge. Neale was
quick-tempered, and prone to sharp language and action when
irritated or angered. Shurd, passing through the camp, either drunk
or unusually surly, had kicked Neale's instrument out of his way.
Some one saw him do it and told Neale. Thereupon Neale, in high
dudgeon, had sought out the fellow. Larry King, always Neale's
shadow, came slouching after with his cowboy's gait. They found
Shurd at the camp of the teamsters and other laborers. Neale did not
waste many words. He struck Shurd a blow that staggered him, and
would have followed it up with more had not the man, suddenly
furious, plunged away to pick up a heavy stake with which he made at
Neale to brain him.

Neale could not escape. He yelled at Shurd, trying to intimidate
him.

Then came a shot from behind. It broke Shurd's arm. The stake fell
and the man began to bawl curses.

"Get out of heah!" called Larry King, advancing slowly. The maddened
Shurd tried to use the broken arm, perhaps to draw on King.
Thereupon the cowboy, with gun low and apparently not aiming, shot
again, this time almost tearing Shurd's arm off. Then he prodded
Shurd with the cocked gun. The man turned ghastly. He seemed just
now to have realized the nature of this gaunt flaming-eyed cowboy.

"Shore your mind ain't workin'," said Larry. "Get out of heah. Mozey
over to thet camp doctor or you'll never need one."

Shurd backed away, livid and shaking, and presently he ran.

"Red! ..." expostulated Neale. "You--you shot him all up! You nearly
killed him."

"Why in hell don't you pack a gun?" drawled Larry.

"Red, you're--you're--I don't know what to call you. I'd have licked
him, club and all."

"Mebbe," replied the cowboy, as he sheathed the big gun. "Neale. I'm
used to what you ain't. Shore I can see death a-comin'. Wal, every
day the outfit grows wilder. A little whisky 'll burn hell loose
along this heah U.P. line."

Larry strode on in the direction Shurd had taken. Neale pondered a
moment, perplexed, and grateful to his comrade. He heard remarks
among the laborers, and he saw the flagman Casey remove his black
pipe from his lips--an unusual occurrence.

"Mac, it wus thot red-head cowboy wot onct p'inted his gun at me!"
burst out Casey.

"Did yez see him shoot?" replied Mac, with round eyes. "Niver aimed
an' yit he hit!"

Mike Shane, the third of the trio of Irish laborers in Neale's
corps, was a little runt of a sandy-haired wizened man, and he
spoke up: "Begorra, he's wan of thim Texas Jacks. He'd loike to kill
yez, Pat Casey, an' if he ever throwed thot cannon at yez, why,
runnin' 'd be slow to phwat yez 'd do."

"I niver run in me loife," declared Casey, doggedly.

Neale went his way. It was noted that from that day he always
carried a gun, preferably a rifle when it was possible. In the use
of the long gun he was an adept, but when it came to Larry's kind of
a gun Neale needed practice. Larry could draw his gun and shoot
twice before Neale could get his hand on his weapon.

It was through Neale's habit of carrying the rifle out on his
surveying trips that the second incident came about.

One day in early summer Neale was waiting near a spring for Larry to
arrive with the horses. On this occasion the cowboy was long in
coming. Neale fell asleep in the shade of some bushes and was
awakened by the thud of hoofs. He sat up to see Larry in the act of
kneeling at the brook to drink. At the same instant a dark moving
object above Larry attracted Neale's quick eye. It was an Indian
sneaking along with a gun ready to level. Quick as a flash Neale
raised his own weapon and fired. The Indian fell and lay still.

Larry's drink was rudely disturbed by plunging horses. When he had
quieted them he turned to Neale.

"So you-all was heah. Shore you scared me. What'd you shoot at?"

Neale stared and pointed. His hand shook. He felt cold, sick, hard,
yet he held the rifle ready to fire again. Larry dropped the bridles
and, pulling his gun, he climbed the bank with unusual quickness for
him. Neale saw him stand over the Indian.

"Wal, plumb center!" he called, with a new note in his usually
indolent voice. "Come heah!"

"No!" shouted Neale, violently. "Is he dead?"

"Daid! Wal, I should smile.... An' mebbe he ain't alone."

The cowboy ran down to his horse and Neale followed suit. They rode
up on the ridge to reconnoiter, but saw no moving objects.

"I reckon thet redskin was shore a-goin' to plug me," drawled Larry,
as they trotted homeward.

"He certainly was," replied Neale, with a shudder.

Larry reached a long hand to Neale's shoulder. He owed his life to
his friend. But he did not speak of that. Instead he glanced wisely
at Neale and laughed.

"Kinda weak in the middle, eh?" he said. "I felt thet way once....
Pard, if you ever get r'iled you'll be shore bad."

For Neale shooting at an Indian was strikingly different from boyish
dreams of doing it. He had acted so swiftly that it seemed it must
have been instinctive. Yet thinking back, slowly realizing the
nature of the repellent feeling within him, he remembered a bursting
gush of hot blood, a pantherish desire to leap, to strike--and then
cool, stern watchfulness. The whole business had been most
unpleasant.

Upon arriving at camp they reported the incident, and they learned
Indians had showed up at various points along the line. Troopers had
been fired upon. Orders were once more given that all work must be
carried on under the protection of the soldiers, so that an ambush
would be unlikely. Meanwhile a detachment of troops would be sent
out to drive back the band of Sioux.

These two hard experiences made actuality out of what Neale's chief
had told him would be a man's game in a wild time. This work on the
U. P. was not play or romance. But the future unknown called
alluringly to him. In his moments of leisure, by the camp-fire at
night, he reflected and dreamed and wondered. And these reflections
always turned finally to memory of Allie.

The girl he had saved seemed far away in mind as well as in
distance. He tried to call up her face--to see it in the ruddy
embers. But he could visualize only her eyes. They were
unforgettable--the somber, haunting shadows of thoughts of death.
Yet he remembered that once or twice they had changed, had become
wonderful, with promise of exceeding beauty.

It seemed incredible that he had pledged himself. But he had no
regrets. Time had not made any difference, only it had shown him
that his pity and tenderness were not love. Still there had been
another emotion connected with Allie--a strange thing too subtle and
bri