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 brief for him to
analyze; when away from her he lost it. Could that have been love? He
thought of the day she waded the brook, the feel of her as he carried
her in his arms; and of that last sight of her, on her knees in the
cabin, her face hidden, her slender form still as a statue. His own
heart was touched. Yet this was not love. It was enough for Neale to
feel that he had done what he would have applauded in another man, that
he seemed the better for his pledge, that the next meeting with Allie
was one he looked forward to with a strange, new interest.
September came and half sped by before Neale, with Larry and an engineer
named Service, arrived at the head of Sherman Pass with pack-burros and
supplies, ready to begin the long vigil of watching the snow drift over
the line in winter.
They were to divide the pass between them, Service to range the upper
half and Neale the lower. As there were but few trees up in that
locality, and these necessary for a large supply of fire-wood, they
decided not to attempt building a cabin for Service, but to dig a
dugout. This was a hole hollowed out in a hillside and covered with a
roof of branches and earth.
No small job, indeed, was it to build a satisfactory dugout--one that
was not conspicuous from every ridge for Indian eyes to spy out--and
warm and dry and safe. They started several before they completed one.
“It’ll be lonesomer for you--and colder,” observed Neale.
“I won’t mind that,” replied the other.
“We’ll see each other before the snow flies, surely.”
“Not unless you come up. I’m no climber. I’ve got a bad leg.”
“I’ll come, then. We may have weeks of fine weather yet. I’m going to
hunt some.”
“Good luck to you.”
So these comrades parted. They were only two of the intrepid engineers
selected to brave the perils and hardships of that wild region in
winter, to serve the great cause.
The golds and purples of autumn mingled with the predominating green of
Slingerland’s valley. In one place beaver had damned the stream, forming
a small lake, and here cranes and other aquatic birds had congregated.
Neale saw beaver at work, and deer on the hillside.
“It’s been three months,” he soliloquized, as he paused at the ford
which Allie had so bravely and weakly tried to cross at his bidding.
“Three months! So much can have happened. But Slingerland is safe from
Indians. I hope--I believe I’ll find her well.”
He was a prey to dread and yet he did not hurry. Larry, driving the
pack-train, drew on ahead and passed out of sight in a green bend of the
brook. At length Neale saw a column of blue smoke curling up above the
trees, and that sight relieved him. If the trapper was there, the girl
would be with him.
At this moment his horse shot up his long ears and snorted.
A gray form glided out of the green and began to run down the trail
toward him--a lithe, swift girl in buckskin.
“An Indian girl!” ejaculated Neale.
But her face was white, her hair tawny and flying in the wind. Could
that be Allie? It must be she. It was.
“Lord! I’m in for it!” muttered Neale, dismounting, and he gazed with
eager eyes. She was approaching quickly.
“Neale! You’ve come!” she cried, and ran straight upon him.
He hardly recognized her face or her voice, but what she said proclaimed
her to be Allie. She enveloped him. Her arms, strong, convulsive,
clasped him. Up came her face, white, gleaming, joyous, strange to
Neale, but he knew somehow that it was held up to be kissed. Dazedly he
kissed her--felt cool sweet lips touch his lips again and then again.
“Allie!... I--I hardly knew you!” was his greeting. Now he was holding
her, and he felt her press her head closely to his breast, felt the
intensity of what must have been her need of physical contact to make
sure he was here in the flesh. And as he held her, looking down upon
her, he recognized the little head and the dull gold and ripple of
chestnut hair. Yes--it was Allie. But this new Allie was taller--up to
his shoulder--and lithe and full-bosomed and strong. This was not the
frail girl he had left.
“I thought--you’d--never, never come,” she murmured, clinging to him.
“It was--pretty long,” he replied, unsteadily. “But I’ve come.... And
I’m very glad to see you.”
“You didn’t know me,” she said, shyly. “You looked--it.”
“Well, no wonder. I left a thin, pale little girl, all eyes--and what do
I find?... Let me look at you.”
She drew back and stood before him, shy and modest, but without a trace
of embarrassment, surely the sweetest and loveliest girl he had ever
beheld. Some remembered trace he found in her features, perhaps the
look, the shape of her eyes--all else was unfamiliar. And that all else
was a white face, blue-veined, with rich blood slowly mantling to the
broad brow, with sweet red lips haunting in their sadness, with glorious
eyes, like violets drenched in dew, shadowy, exquisite, mournful and
deep, yet radiant with beautiful light.
Neale recognized her beauty at the instant he realized her love, and
he was so utterly astounded at the one, and overwhelmed with the other,
that he was mute. A powerful reaction took place within him, so strong
that it helped to free him from the other emotions. He found his tongue
and controlled his glance.
“I took you for an Indian girl in all this buckskin,” he said.
“Dress, leggings, moccasins, I made them all myself,” she replied,
sweeping a swift hand from fringe to beads. “Not a single button! Oh, it
was hard--so much work! But they’re more comfortable than any clothes I
ever had.”
“So you’ve not been--altogether idle since I left?”
“Since that day,” and she blushed exquisitely at the words, “I’ve
been doing everything under the sun except that grieving which you
disliked--everything--cooking, sewing, fishing, bathing, climbing,
riding, shooting--AND watching for you.”
“That accounts,” he replied, musingly.
“For what?”
“Your--your improvement. You seem happy--and well.”
“Do you mean the activity accounts for that--or my watching for you?”
she queried, archly. She was quick, bright, roguish. Neale had no idea
what qualities she might have possessed before that fateful massacre,
but she was bewilderingly different from the sick-minded girl he had
tried so hard to interest and draw out of her gloom. He was so amazed,
so delighted with her, and so confused with his own peculiar state of
mind, that he could not be natural. Then his mood shifted and a little
heat at his own stupidity aroused his wits.
“Allie, I want to realize what’s happened,” he said. “Let’s sit down
here. We sat here once before, if you remember. Slingerland can wait to
see me.”
Neale’s horse grazed along the green border of the brook. The water ran
with low, swift rush; there were bees humming round the autumn flowers
and a fragrance of wood-smoke wafted down from the camp; over all lay
the dreaming quietness of the season and the wild.
Allie sat down upon the rock, but Neale, changing his mind, stood beside
her. Still he did not trust himself to face her. He was unsettled,
uncertain. All this was like a dream.
“So you watched for me?” he asked, gently.
“For hours and days and weeks,” she sighed.
“Then you--cared--cared a little for me?”
She kept silence. And he, wanting intensely to look up, did not.
“Tell me,” he insisted, with a hint of the old dominance. He remembered
again the scene at the crossing of the brook. Could he control this
wonderful girl now?
“Of course,” she replied.
“But--how do you care?” he added, more forcibly. He felt ashamed, yet he
could not resist it. What was happening to him?
“I--I love you.” Her voice was low, almost faltering, rich with
sweetness, and full of some unutterable emotion.
Neale sustained a shock. He never could have told how that affected him,
except in his sudden fury at himself. Then he stole a glance at her.
Her eyes were downcast, hidden under long lashes; her face was soft and
sweet, dreaming and spiritual, singularly pure; her breast heaved under
the beaded buckskin. Neale divined she had never dreamed of owing him
anything except the maiden love which quivered on her tremulous lips and
hovered in the exquisite light of her countenance. And now he received
a great and impelling change in his spirit, an uplift, a splendid and
beautiful consciousness of his good fortune. But what could he say to
her? If only he could safely pass over this moment, so he could have
time to think, to find himself. Another glance at her encouraged him.
She expected nothing--not a word; she took all for granted. She was lost
in dreams of her soul.
He looked down again to see her hand--small, shapely, strong and brown;
and upon the third finger he espied his ring. He had forgotten to look
to see if she wore it. Then softly he touched it and drew her hand in
his.
“My ring. Oh, Allie!” he whispered.
The response was a wonderful purple blaze of her eyes. He divined
then that his ring had been the tangible thing upon which she had
reconstructed her broken life.
“You rode away--so quickly--I had no chance to--tell,” she replied,
haltingly and low-voiced. All was sweet shame about her now, and he had
to fight himself to keep from gathering her to his breast. Verily this
meeting between Allie and him was not what he had anticipated.
He kissed her hand.
“You’ve all the fall and all the winter to tell me such sweet things,”
he said. “Perhaps to-morrow I’ll find my tongue and tell you something.”
“Tell me now,” she said, quickly.
“Well, you’re beautiful,” he replied, with strong feeling.
“Really?” she smiled, and that smile was the first he had ever seen upon
her face. It brought out the sadness, the very soul of her great beauty.
“I used to be pretty,” she went on, naively. “But if I remember how I
used to look I’m not pretty any more.”
Neale laughed. He had begun to feel freer, and to accept this
unparalleled situation with some composure.
“Tell me,” he said, with gentle voice and touch--“tell me your name.
Allie--what?”
“Didn’t you ever know?” she asked.
“You said Allie. That was all.”
He feared this call to her memory, yet he wanted to put her to a test.
Her eyes dilated--the light shaded; they grew sad, dark, humid gulfs of
thought. But the old, somber veil, the insane, brooding stare, did not
return.
“Allie what?” he repeated.
Then the tears came, softening and dimming the pain. “Allie Lee,” she
said.
9
Slingerland appeared younger to Neale. The burden of loneliness did not
weigh upon him, and the habit of silence had been broken. Neale guessed
why, and was actually jealous.
“Wal, it’s beyond my calculatin’,” the trapper said, out by the spring,
where Neale followed him. “She jest changed thet’s all. Not so much at
first, though she sparked up after I give her your ring. I reckon
it come little by little. An’ one day, why, the cabin was full of
sunshine!... Since then I’ve seen how she’s growed an’ brightened.
Workin’, runnin’ after me--an’ always watchin’ fer you. Allie’s changed
to what she is now. Onct, fur back, I recollect she said she had you to
live fer. Mebbe thet’s the secret. Anyhow, she loves you as I never seen
any man loved.... An’, son, I reckon you oughter be somewhars near the
kingdom of heaven!”
Neale stole off by himself and walked in the twilight. The air was warm
and sultry, full of fragrance and the low chirp of crickets. Within his
breast was a full uneasy sensation of imminent catastrophe. Something
was rising in him--great--terrible--precious. It bewildered him to try
to think of himself, of his strange emotions, when his mind seemed to
hold only Allie.
What then had happened? After a long absence up in the mountains he had
returned to Slingerland’s valley home, and to the little girl he had
rescued and left there. He had left her frail, sick-minded, silent,
somber, a pale victim to a horrible memory. He had found her an amazing
contrast to what she had been in the past. She had grown strong, active,
swift. She was as lovely as a wild rose. No dream of his idle fancy, but
a fact! Then last--stirring him even as he tried to clarify and arrange
this magic, this mystery--had come the unbelievable, the momentous and
dazzling assurance that she loved him. It was so plain that it seemed
unreal. While near her he saw it, yet could not believe his eyes;
he felt it, but doubted his sensibilities. But now, away from the
distraction of her presence and with Slingerland’s eloquent words
ringing in his ears, he realized the truth. Love of him had saved the
girl’s mind and had made her beautiful and wonderful. He had heard
of the infinite transforming power of love; here in Allie Lee was its
manifestation. Whether or not he deserved such a blessing was not the
question. It was his, and he felt unutterably grateful and swore he
would be worthy of this great gift.
Darkness had set in when Neale returned to the cabin, the interior of
which was lighted by blazing sticks in a huge stone fireplace.
Slingerland was in the shadow, busy as usual, but laughing at some sally
of Larry’s. The cowboy and Allie, however, were in plain sight. Neale
needed only one look at Larry to divine what had come over that young
man. Allie appeared perplexed.
“He objects to my calling him Mr. King and even Larry,” she said.
Larry suddenly looked sheepish.
“Allie, this cowboy is a bad fellow with guns, ropes, horses--and I
suspect with girls,” replied Neale, severely.
“Neale, he doesn’t look bad,” she rejoined. “You’re fooling me.... He
wants me to call him Reddy.”
“Ahuh!” grunted Neale. He laughed grimly at himself, for again he had
felt a pang of jealousy. He knew what to expect from Larry or any other
young man who ever had the wonderful good luck to get near Allie Lee.
“All right, call him Reddy,” he went on. “I guess I can allow my future
wife so much familiarity with my pard.”
This confused Allie out of her sweet gravity, and she blushed.
“Shore you’re mighty kind,” drawled Larry, recovering. “More ‘n I
reckoned on from a fellar who’s shore lost his haid.”
“I’ve lost more ‘n that,” retorted Neale, “and I’m afraid a certain wild
young cowboy I know has lost as much.”
“Wal, I reckon somethin’ abbot this heah place of Slingerland’s draws on
a fellar,” admitted Larry, resignedly.
Allie did not long stay embarrassed by their sallies.
“Neale, tell me--”
“See heah, Allie, if you call me Reddy an’ him only Neale--why he’s
a-goin’ to pitch into me,” interrupted Larry, with twinkling eyes. “An’
he’s shore a bad customer when he’s r’iled.”
“Only Neale? What does he mean?” inquired Allie.
“Beyond human conjecture,” replied Neale, laughing.
“Wal, don’t you know his front name?” asked Larry.
“Neale. I call him that,” she replied.
“Haw! Haw! But it ain’t thet.”
“Allie, my name is Warren,” said Neale. “You’ve forgotten.”
“Oh!... Well, it’s always been Neale--and always will be.”
Larry rose and stretched his long arms for the pipe on the rude stone
chimney.
“Slingerland,” he drawled, “these heah young people need to find out who
they are. An’ I reckon we’d do wal to go out an’ smoke an’ talk.”
The trapper came forth from the shadows, and as he filled his pipe his
keen, bright gaze shifted from the task to his friends.
“It’s good to see you an’ hyar you,” he said. “I was a youngster once I
missed--but thet’s no matter.... Live while you may!... Larry, come with
me. I’ve got a trap to set yit.”
Allie flashed a glance at them.
“It’s not so. You never set traps after dark.”
“Wal, child, any excuse is better ‘n none. Neale wouldn’t never git to
hyar you say all thet sweet talk as is comin’ to him--if two old fools
hung round.”
“Slingerland, I’ve throwed a gun for less ‘n thet,” drawled Larry.
“Aboot the fool part I ain’t shore, but I was twenty-five yesterday--an’
I’m sixteen to-day.”
They lit their pipes with red embers scraped from the fire, and with
wise nods at Neale and Allie passed out into the dark.
Allie’s eyes were upon Neale, with shy, eloquent intent, and directly
the others had departed she changed her seat to one close to Neale; she
nestled against his shoulder, her face to the fire.
“They thought we wanted to make love, didn’t they?” she said, dreamily.
“I guess they did,” replied Neale.
He was intensely fascinated. Did she want him to make love to her? A
look at her face was enough to rebuke him for the thought. The shadows
from the flickering fire played over her.
“Tell me all about yourself,” she said. “Then about your work.”
Neale told all that he thought would interest her about his youth in the
East with a widowed mother, the home that was broken up after she died,
and his working his way through a course of civil engineering.
“I was twenty when I first read about this U. P. railroad project,”
he went on. “That was more than three years ago. It decided me on my
career. I determined to be an engineer and be in the building of the
road. No one had any faith in the railroad. I used to be laughed at.
But I stuck. And--well, I had to steal some rides to get as far west as
Omaha.
“That was more than a year ago. I stayed there--waiting. Nothing
was sure, except that the town grew like a mushroom. It filled with
soldiers--and the worst crowd I ever saw. You can bet I was shaky when
I finally got an audience with General Lodge and his staff. They had
an office in a big storehouse. The place was full of men--soldiers and
tramps. It struck me right off what a grim and discouraged bunch those
engineers looked. I didn’t understand them, but I do now.... Well,
I asked for a job. Nobody appeared to hear me. It was hard to make
yourself heard. I tried again--louder. An old engineer, whom I know
now--Henney--waved me aside. Just as if a job was unheard of!”
Neale quickened and warmed as he progressed, aware now of a little hand
tight in his, of an interest that would have made any story-telling a
pleasure.
“Well, I felt sick. Then mad. When I get mad I do things. I yelled at
that bunch: ‘Here, you men! I’ve walked and stole rides to get here. I’m
a surveyor. You’re going to build a railroad. I want a job and I’m going
to get it.’
“My voice quieted the hubbub. The old engineer, Henney, looked queerly
at me.
“‘Young man, there’s not going to be any railroad.’
“Then I blurted out that there WAS going to be a railroad. Some one
spoke up: ‘Who said that? Fetch him here.’ Pretty soon I was looking at
Major-General Lodge. He was just from the war and he looked it. Stern
and dark, with hard lines and keen eyes. He glanced me over.
“‘There is going to be a railroad?’ he questioned sharply.
“‘Of course there is,’ I replied. I felt foolish, disappointed.
“‘You’re right,’ he said, ‘and I’ll never forget his eyes.’
“‘I can use a few more young fellows like you.’ And that’s how I got on
the staff.
“Well, we ran a quick survey west to the Bad Lands--for it was out here
that we must find success or failure. And Allie, it’s all been like
the biggest kind of an adventure. The troops and horses and camps and
trails--the Indian country with its threats from out of the air--the
wild places with their deer, buffalo, panthers, trappers like
Slingerland, scouts, and desperadoes. It began to get such a hold on me
that I was wild. That might have been bad for me but for my work. I
did well. Allie, I ran lines for the U. P. that no other engineer could
run.”
Neale paused, as much from the squeeze Allie suddenly gave him as for an
instant’s rest to catch his breath.
“I mean I had the nerve to tackle cliffs and dangerous slopes,” he
went on. Then he told how Larry Red King had saved his life, and that
recollection brought back his service to the cowboy; then naturally
followed the two dominating incidents of the summer.
Allie lifted a blanched face and darkening eyes. “Neale! You were in
danger.”
“Oh, not much, I guess. But Red thought so.”
“He saved you again!... I--I’ll never forget that.”
“Anyway, we’re square, for he’d have got shot sure the day the Indian
sneaked up on him.” Allie shuddered and shrank back to Neale, while he
hastily resumed his story. “We’re great pards now, Red and I. He doesn’t
say much, but his acts tell. He will not let me alone. He follows
me everywhere. It’s a joke among the men.... Well Allie, it seems
unbelievable that we have crossed the mountains and the desert--grade
ninety feet to the mile! The railroad can and will be built. I wish I
could tell you how tremendously all this has worked upon me--upon all
the engineers. But somehow I can’t. It chokes me. The idea is big. But
the work--what shall I call that?... Allie, if you can, imagine
some spirit seizing hold of you and making you see difficulties as
joys--impossible tasks as only things to strike fire from genius,
perils of death as merely incidents of daring adventure to treasure in
memory--well that’s something like it. The idea of the U. P. has got me.
I believe in it. I shall see it accomplished.... I’ll live it all.”
Allie moved her head on his shoulder, and, looking up at him with eyes
that made him ashamed of his egotism, she said, “Then, when it’s done
you’ll be chief of engineers or superintendent of maintenance of way?”
She had remembered his very words.
“Allie, I hope so,” he replied, thrilling at her faith. “I’ll work--I’ll
get some big position.”
Next day ushered in for Neale a well-earned rest, and he proceeded to
enjoy it to the full.
The fall had always been Neale’s favorite season. Here, as elsewhere,
the aspect of it was flaming and golden, but different from what he
had known hitherto. Dreaming silence of autumn held the wildness and
loneliness of the Wyoming hills. The sage shone gray and purple, the
ridges yellow and gold; the valleys were green and amber and red. No
dust, no heat, no wind--a clear, blue, cloudless sky, sweet odors in the
still air--it was a beautiful time.
Days passed and nights passed, as if on wings. Every waking hour drew
him closer to this incomparable girl who had arisen upon his horizon
like a star. He knew the hour was imminent when he must read his heart.
He fought it off; he played with his bliss. Allie was now his shadow
instead of the faithful Larry, although the cowboy was often with them,
adapting himself to the changed conditions, too big and splendid to
be envious or jealous. They fished down the brook, and always at the
never-to-be-forgotten ford he would cross first and turn to see her
follow. She could never understand why Neale would delight in carrying
her across at other points, yet made her ford this one by herself.
“It’s such a bother to take off moccasins and leggings,” she would say.
They rode horseback up and down the trails that Slingerland assured them
were safe. And it was the cowboy Larry who lent his horse and taught her
a flying mount; he said she would make a rider.