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.