fine riding to keep up, to choose the level ground, and to follow
Slingerland’s orders. Neale got up in the thick of the rolling din and
dust. The pursuit liberated something fierce within him which gave him
a measure of freedom from his constant pain. All before spread the great
bobbing herd. The wind whistled, the dust choked him, the gravel stung
his face, the strong, even action of his horse was exhilarating. He lost
track of Larry, but he stayed close to Slingerland. The trapper
kept shooting at intervals. Neale saw the puffs of smoke, but in the
thundering din he could not hear a report. It seemed impossible for him
to select the kind of buffalo Slingerland wanted shot. Neale could not
tell one from the other. He rode right upon their flying heels. Unable,
finally, to restrain himself from shooting, he let drive and saw a beast
drop and roll over. Neale rode on.
Presently out of a lane in the dust he thought he saw Slingerland
pass. He reined toward the side. Larry was riding furiously at him,
and Slingerland’s horse was stretched out, heading straight away. The
trapper madly waved his arms. Neale spurred toward them. Something was
amiss. Larry’s face flashed in the sun. He whirled his horse to take
Neale’s course and then he pointed.
Neale thrilled as he looked. A few hundred rods in the rear rode a band
of Sioux, coming swiftly. A cloud of dust rose behind them. They had,
no doubt, been hiding in the vicinity of the grazing buffalo, lying in
wait.
As Neale closed in on Larry he saw the cowboy’s keen glance measuring
distance and speed.
“We shore got to ride!” was what Larry apparently yelled, though the
sound of words drifted as a faint whisper to Neale. But the roar of
buffalo hoofs was rapidly diminishing.
Then Neale realized what it meant to keep close to the cowboy. Every
moment Larry turned round both to watch the Indians and to have a glance
at his comrade. They began to gain on Slingerland. Brush was riding for
dear life off to the right, and the Irishman, Pat, still farther in that
direction, was in the most perilous situation of all. Already the white
skipping streaks of dust from bullets whipped up in front of him. The
next time Neale looked back the Sioux had split up; some were riding
hard after Brush and Pat; the majority were pursuing the other three
hunters, cutting the while a little to the right, for Slingerland was
working round toward the work-train. Neale saw the smoke of the engine
and then the train. It seemed far away. And he was sure the Indians
were gaining. What incomparable riders! They looked half naked, dark,
gleaming, low over their mustangs, feathers and trappings flying in the
wind--a wild and panic-provoking sight.
“Don’t ride so close!” yelled Larry. “They’re spreadin’!”
Neale gathered that the Indians were riding farther apart because they
soon expected to be in range of bullets; and Larry wanted Neale to ride
farther from him for the identical reason.
Neale saw the first white puff of smoke from a rifle of the leader. The
bullet hit far behind. More shots kept raising the dust, the last time
still a few yards short.
“Gawd! Look!” yelled Larry. “The devils hit Pat’s hoss!”
Neale saw the Irishman go down with his horse, plunge in the dust, and
then roll over and lie still.
“They got him!” he yelled at Larry.
“Ride thet hoss!” came back grimly and appealingly from the cowboy.
Neale rode as he had never before ridden. Fortunately his horse was
fresh and fast, and that balanced the driving the cowboy was giving his
mount. For a long distance they held their own with the Sioux. They had
now gained a straight-away course for the work-train, so that with the
Sioux behind they had only to hold out for a few miles. Brush appeared
as well off as they were. Slingerland led by perhaps a hundred feet, far
over to the left, and he was wholly out of range.
It took a very short time at that pace to cover a couple of miles. And
then the Indians began to creep up closer and closer. Again they were
shooting. Neale heard the reports and each one made him flinch in
expectation of feeling the burn of a bullet. Brush was now turning to
fire his rifle.
Neale bethought himself of his own Winchester, which he was carrying in
his hand. Dropping the rein over the horn of his saddle, he turned half
round. How close, how red, how fierce these Sioux were! He felt his hair
rise stiff under his hat. And at the same instant a hot wrath rushed
over him, madness to fight, to give back blow for blow. Just then
several of the Indians fired. He heard the sharp cracks, then the spats
of bullets striking the ground; he saw the little streaks of dust in
front of him. Then the whistle of lead. That made him shoot in return.
His horse lunged forward, almost throwing him, and ran the faster for
his fright. Neale heard Larry begin to shoot. It became a running duel
now, with the Indians scattering wide, riding low, yelling like demons,
and keeping up a continuous volley. They were well armed with white
men’s guns. Neale worked the lever of his rifle while he looked ahead
for an instant to see where his horse was running; then he wheeled
quickly and took a snap shot at the nearest Indian, no more than three
hundred yards distant now. He saw where his bullet, going wide, struck
up the dust. It was desperately hard to shoot from the back of a scared
horse. Neale did not notice that Larry’s shots were any more effective
than his own. He grew certain that the Sioux were gaining faster now.
But the work-train was not far away. He saw the workmen on top of the
cars waving their arms. Rougher ground, though, on this last stretch.
Larry was drawing ahead. He had used all the shells in his rifle and now
with hand and spur was goading his horse.
Suddenly Neale heard the soft thud of lead striking flesh. His horse
leaped with a piercing snort of terror, and Neale thought he was going
down. But he recovered, and went plunging on, still swift and game,
though with uneven gait. Larry yelled. His red face flashed back over
his shoulder. He saw something was wrong with Neale’s horse and he
pulled his own.
“Save your own life!” yelled Neale, fiercely. It enraged him to see the
cowboy holding back to let him come up. But he could not prevent it.
“He’s hit!” shouted Larry.
“Yes, but not badly,” shouted Neale, in reply. “Spread out!”
The cowboy never swerved a foot. He watched Neale’s horse with keen,
sure eyes.
“He’s breakin’! Mebbe he can’t last!”
Bullets whistled all around Neale now. He heard them strike the stones
on the ground and sing away; he saw them streak through the scant grass;
he felt the tug at his shoulder where one cut through his coat, stinging
the skin. That touch, light as it was, drove the panic out of him. The
strange darkness before his eyes, hard to see through, passed away. He
wheeled to shoot again, and with deliberation he aimed as best he could.
Yet he might as well have tried to hit flying birds. He emptied the
Winchester.
Then, hunching low in the saddle, Neale hung on. Slingerland was close
to the train; Brush on his side appeared to be about out of danger; the
pursuit had narrowed down to Neale and Larry. The anger and the grimness
faded from Neale. He did not want to go plunging down in front of those
lean wild mustangs, to be ridden over and trampled and mutilated. The
thought sickened him. The roar of pursuing hoofs grew distinct, but
Neale did not look back.
Another roar broke on his ear--the clamor of the Irish soldier-laborers
as they yelled and fired.
“Pull him! Pull him!” came the piercing cry from Larry.
Neale was about to ride his frantic horse straight into the work-train.
Desperately he hauled the horse up and leaped off. Larry was down,
waiting, and his mount went plunging away. Bullets were pattering
against the sides of the cars, from which puffed streaks of flame and
smoke.
“Up wid yez, lads!” sang out a cheery voice. Casey’s grin and black pipe
appeared over the rim of the car, and his big hands reached down.
One quick and straining effort and Neale was up, over the side, to fall
on the floor in a pile of sand and gravel. All whirled dim round him for
a second. His heart labored. He was wet and hot and shaking.
“Shure yez ain’t hit now!” exclaimed Casey.
Larry’s nervous hands began to slide and press over Neale’s quivering
body.
“No--I’m--all--safe!” panted Neale.
The engine whistled shrilly, as if in defiance of the Indians, and with
a jerk and rattle the train started.
Neale recovered to find himself in a novel and thrilling situation. The
car was of a gondola type, being merely a flat-car, with sides about
four feet high, made of such thick oak planking that bullets did
not penetrate it. Besides himself and Larry there were half a dozen
soldiers, all kneeling at little port-holes. Neale peeped over the rim.
In a long thinned-out line the Sioux were circling round the train,
hiding on the off sides of their mustangs, and shooting from these
difficult positions. They were going at full speed, working in closer.
A bullet, striking the rim of the car and showering splinters in Neale’s
face, attested to the fact that the Sioux were still to be feared, even
from a moving fort. Neale dropped back and, reloading his rifle, found a
hole from which to shoot. He emptied his magazine before he realized
it. But what with his trembling hands, the jerking of the train, and the
swift motion of the Indians, he did not do any harm to the foe.
Suddenly, with a jolt, the train halted.
“Blocked ag’in, b’gorra,” said Casey, calmly. “Me pipe’s out. Sandy,
gimme a motch.”
The engine whistled two shrill blasts.
“What’s that for?” asked Neale, quickly.
“Them’s for the men in the foist car to pile over the engine an’ remove
obstruchtions from the track,” replied Casey.
Neale dared to risk a peep over the top of the car. The Sioux were
circling closer to the front of the train. All along a half-dozen cars
ahead of Neale puffs of smoke and jets of flame shot out. Heavy volleys
were being fired. The attack of the savages seemed to be concentrating
forward, evidently to derail the engine or kill the engineer.
Casey pulled Neale down. “Risky fer yez,” he said. “Use a port-hole an’
foight.”
“My shells are gone,” replied Neale.
He lay well down in the car then, and listened to the uproar, and
watched the Irish trio. When the volleys and the fiendish yells mingled
he could not hear anything else. There were intervals, however, when the
uproar lulled for a moment.
Casey got his black pipe well lit, puffed a cloud of smoke, and picked
up his rifle.
“Drill, ye terriers, drill!” he sang, and shoved his weapon through a
port-hole. He squinted, over the breech.
“Mac, it’s the same bunch as attacked us day before yisteddy,” he
observed.
“It shure ain’t,” replied McDermott. “There’s a million of thim to-day.”
He aimed his rifle as if following a moving object, and fired.
“Mac, you git excited in a foight. Now I niver do. An’ I’ve seen thot
pinto hoss an’ thot dom’ redskin a lot of times. I’ll kill him yit.”
Casey kept squinting and aiming, and then, just as he pressed the
trigger, the train started with a sudden lurch.
“Sp’iled me aim! Thot engineer’s savin’ of the Sooz tribe!... Drill, ye
terriers, drill! Drill, ye terriers, drill!... Shane, I don’t hear yez
shootin’.”
“How’n hell can I shoot whin me eye is full of blood?” demanded Shane.
Neale then saw blood on Shane’s face. He crawled quietly to the
Irishman.
“Man, are you shot? Let me see.”
“Jist a bullet hit me, loike,” replied Shane.
Neale found that a bullet, perhaps glancing from the wood, had cut a
gash over Shane’s eye, from which the blood poured. Shane’s hands and
face and shirt were crimson. Neale bound a scarf tightly over the wound.
“Let me take the rifle now,” he said.
“Thanks, lad. I ain’t hurted. An’ hev Casey make me loife miserable
foriver? Not much. He’s a harrd mon, thot Casey.”
Shane crouched back to his port-hole, with his bloody bandaged face and
his bloody hands. And just then the train stopped with a rattling crash.
“Whin we git beyond thim ties as was scattered along here mebbe we’ll go
on in,” remarked McDermott.
“Mac, yez looks on the gloomy side,” replied Casey. Then quickly
he aimed the shot. “I loike it better whin we ain’t movin’,” he
soliloquized, with satisfaction. “Thot red-skin won’t niver scalp a
soldier of the U. P. R.... Drill, ye terriers! Drill, ye terriers,
drill!”
The engine whistle shrieked out and once more the din of conflict headed
to the front. Neale lay there, seeing the reality of what he had so
often dreamed. These old soldiers, these toilers with rail and sledge
and shovel, these Irishmen with the rifles, they were the builders
of the great U. P. R. Glory might never be theirs, but they were the
battle-scarred heroes. They were as used to fighting as to working. They
dropped their sledges or shovels to run for their guns.
Again the train started up and had scarcely gotten under way when with
jerk and bump it stopped once more. The conflict grew fiercer as the
Indians became more desperate. But evidently they were kept from closing
in, for during the thick of the heaviest volleying the engine again
began to puff and the wheels to grind. Slowly the train moved on. Like
hail the bullets pattered against the car. Smoke drifted away on the
wind.
Neale lay there, watching these cool men who fought off the savages. No
doubt Casey and Shane and McDermott were merely three of many thousands
engaged in building and defending the U. P. R. This trio liked the
fighting, perhaps better than the toiling. Casey puffed his old black
pipe, grinned and aimed, shot and reloaded, sang his quaint song, and
joked with his comrades, all in the same cool, quiet way. If he knew
that the shadow of death hung over the train, he did not show it. He was
not a thinker. Casey was a man of action. Only once he yelled, and that
was when he killed the Indian on the pinto mustang.
Shane grew less loquacious and he dropped and fumbled over his rifle,
but he kept on shooting. Neale saw him feel the hot muzzle of his gun
and shake his bandaged head. The blood trickled down his cheek.
McDermott plied his weapon, and ever and anon he would utter some
pessimistic word, or presage dire disaster, or remind Casey that his
scalp was destined to dry in a Sioux’s lodge, or call on Shane to hit
something to save his life, or declare the engine was off the track.
He rambled on. But it was all talk. The man had gray hairs and he was a
born fighter.
This time the train gained more headway, and evidently had passed the
point where the Indians could find obstructions to place on the track.
Neale saw through a port-hole that the Sioux were dropping back from the
front of the train and were no longer circling. Their firing had become
desultory. Medicine Bow was in sight. The engine gathered headway.
“We’ll git the rest of the day off,” remarked Casey, complacently.
“Shane, yez are dom’ quiet betoimes. An’ Mac, I shure showed yez up
to-day.”
“Ye DID not,” retorted McDermott. “I kilt jist twinty-nine Sooz!”
“Jist thorty wus moine. An’, Mac, as they wus only about fifthy of thim,
yez must be a liar.”
The train drew on toward Medicine Bow. Firing ceased. Neale stood up to
see the Sioux riding away. Their ranks did not seem noticeably depleted.
“Drill, ye terriers, drill!” sang Casey, as he wiped his sweaty and
begrimed rifle. “Mac, how many Sooz did Shane kill?”
“B’gorra, he ain’t said yit,” replied McDermott. “Say, Shane.... CASEY!”
Neale whirled at the sharp change of tone.
Shane lay face down on the floor of the car, his bloody hands gripping
his rifle. His position was inert, singularly expressive.
Neale strode toward him. But Casey reached him first. He laid a
hesitating hand on Shane’s shoulder.
“Shane, old mon!” he said, but the cheer was not in his voice.
Casey dropped his pipe! Then he turned his comrade over. Shane had done
his best and his last for the U. P. R.
17
Neale and Larry and Slingerland planned to go into the hills late in
the fall, visit Slingerland’s old camp, and then try to locate the gold
buried by Horn. For the present Larry meant to return to Benton, and
Neale, though vacillating as to his own movements, decided to keep an
eye on the cowboy.
The trapper’s last words to Neale were interesting. “Son,” he said,
“there’s a feller hyar in Medicine Bow who says as how he thought your
pard Larry was a bad cowpuncher from the Pan Handle of Texas.”
“Bad?” queried Neale.
“Wal, he meant a gun-throwin’ bad man, I take it.”
“Don’t let Reddy overhear you say it,” replied Neale, “and advise your
informant to be careful. I’ve always had a hunch that Reddy was really
somebody.”
“Benton ‘ll work on the cowboy,” continued Slingerland, earnestly. “An’,
son, I ain’t so all-fired sure of you.”
“I’ll take what comes,” returned Neale, shortly. “Good-bye, old friend.
And if you can use us for buffalo-hunting without the ‘dom’ Sooz,’ as
Casey says; why, we’ll come.”
After Slingerland departed Neale carried with him a memory of the
trapper’s reluctant and wistful good-bye. It made Neale think--where
were he and Larry going? Friendships in this wild West were stronger
ties than he had known elsewhere.
The train arrived at Benton after dark. And the darkness seemed a windy
gulf out of which roared yellow lights and excited men. The tents, with
the dim lights through the canvas, gleamed pale and obscure, like so
much of the life they hid. The throngs hurried, the dust blew, the band
played, the barkers clamored for their trade.
Neale found the more pretentious hotels overcrowded, and he was
compelled to go to his former lodgings, where he and Larry were
accommodated.
“Now, we’re here, what ‘ll we do?” queried Neale, more to himself. He
felt as if driven. And the mood he hated and feared was impinging upon
his mind.
“Shore we’ll eat,” replied Larry.
“Then what?”
“Wal, I reckon we’ll see what’s goin’ on in this heah Benton.”
As a matter of fact, Neale reflected, there was nothing to do that he
wanted to do.
“You-all air gettin’ the blues,” said Larry, with solicitude.
“Red, I’m never free of them.”
Larry put his hands on Neale’s shoulder. Demonstration of this kind was
rare in the cowboy.
“Pard, are we goin’ to see this heah Benton, an’ then brace, an’ go back
to work?”
“No. I can’t hold a job,” replied Neale, bitterly.
“You’re showin’ a yellow streak? You’re done, as you told Slingerland?
Nothin’ ain’t no good?... Life’s over, fer all thet’s sweet an’ right?
Is thet your stand?”
“Yes, it must be, Reddy,” said Neale, with scorn of himself. “But
you--it needn’t apply to you.”
“I reckon I’m sorry,” rejoined Larry, ignoring Neale’s last words. “I
always hoped you’d get over Allie’s loss.... You had so much to live
fer.”
“Reddy, I wish the bullet that hit Shane to-day had hit me instead....
You needn’t look like that. I mean it. To-day when the Sioux chased us
my hair went stiff and my heart was in my mouth. I ran for my life as
if I loved it. But that was my miserable cowardice.... I’m sick of the
game.”
“Are you in daid earnest?” asked Larry, huskily.
Neale nodded gloomily. He did not even regret the effect of his speech
upon the cowboy. He divined that somehow the moment was as critical and
fateful for Larry, but he did not care. The black spell was enfolding
him. All seemed hard, cold, monstrous within his breast. He could not
love anything. He was lost. He realized the magnificent loyalty of this
simple Texan, who was his true friend.
“Reddy, for God’s sake don’t make me ashamed to look you in the eyes,”
appealed Neale. “I want to go on. You know!”
“Wal, I reckon there ain’t anythin’ to hold me now,” drawled Larry. He
had changed as he spoke. He had aged. The dry humor of the cowboy, the
amiable ease, were wanting.
“Oh, forgive my utter selfishness!” burst out Neale. “I’m not the man I
was. But don’t think I don’t love you.”
They went out together, and the hum of riotous Benton called them; the
lights beckoned and the melancholy night engulfed them.
Next morning late, on the way to breakfast, Neale encountered a young
man whose rough, bronzed face somehow seemed familiar.
At sight of Neale this young fellow brightened and he lunged forward.
“Neale! Lookin’ for you was like huntin’ for a needle in a haystack.”
Neale could not place him, and he did not try hard for recognition, for
that surely would recall his former relations to the railroad.
“I don’t remember you,” replied Neale.
“I’ll bet Larry does,” said the stranger, with a grin at the cowboy.
“Shore. Your name’s Campbell an’ you was a lineman for Baxter,” returned
Larry.
“Right you are,” said Campbell, offering his hand to Neale, and then to
Larry. He appeared both glad and excited.
“I guess I recall you now,” said Neale, thoughtfully. “You said--you
were hunting me?”
“Well, I should smile!” returned Campbell, and handed Neale a letter.
Neale tore it open and hastily perused its contents. It was a brief,
urgent request from Baxter that Neale should return to work. The words,
almost like an order, made Neale’s heart swell for a moment. He stood
there staring at the paper. Larry read the letter over his shoulder.
“Pard, shore I was expectin’ jest thet there, an’ I say go!” exclaimed
Larry.
Neale slowly shook his head.
Campbell made a quick, nervous movement. “Neale, I was to
say--tell--There’s more ‘n your old job waitin’ for you.”
“What do you mean?” queried Neale.
“That’s all, except the corps have struck a snag out here west of
Benton. It’s a bad place. You an’ Henney were west in the hills when
this survey was made. It’s a deep wash--bad grade an’ curves. The gang’s
stuck. An’ Baxter swore, ‘We’ve got to have Neale back on the job!’”
“Where’s Henney?” asked Neale, rather thickly. Campbell’s words affected
him powerfully.
“Henney had to go to Omaha. Boone is sick at Fort Fetterman. Baxter has
only a new green hand out there, an’ they’ve sure struck a snag.”
“That’s too bad,” replied Neale, still thoughtfully. “Is--the chief--is
General Lodge there?”
“Yes. There’s a trooper camp. Colonel Dillon an’ some of the officers
have their wives out on a little visit to see the work. They couldn’t
stand Benton.”
“Well--you thank Baxter and tell him I’m sorry I must refuse,” said
Neale.
“You won’t come!” ejaculated Campbell.
Neale shook his head. Larry reached out with big, eager hands.
“See heah, pard, I reckon you will go.”
Campbell acted strangely, as if he wanted to say more, but did not have
authority to do so. He looked dismayed. Then he said: “All right, Neale.
I’ll take your message. But you can expect me back.”
And he went on his way.
“Neale, shore there’s somethin’ in the wind,” said Larry. “Wal, it jest
tickles me. They can’t build the railroad without you.”
“Would you go back to work?” queried Neale.
“Shore I would if they’d have me. But I reckon thet little run-in of
mine with Smith has made bad feelin’. An’ come to think of thet, if I
did go back I’d only have to fight some of Smith’s friends. An’ I reckon
I’d better not go. It’d only make trouble for you.”
“Me!... You heard me refuse.”
“Shore I heerd you,” drawled Larry, softly, “but you’re goin’ back if I
have to hawg-tie you an’ pack you out there on a hoss.”
Neale said no more. If he had said another word he would have betrayed
himself to his friend. He yearned for his old work. To think that the
engineer corps needed him filled him with joy. But at the same time he
knew what an effort it would take to apply himself to any task. He
hated to attempt it. He doubted himself. He was morbid. All that day he
wandered around at Larry’s heels, half oblivious of what was going on.
After dark he slipped away from his friend to be alone. And being alone
in the dark quietness brought home to him the truth of a strange, strong
growth, out of the depths of him, that was going to overcome his morbid
craving to be idle, to drift, to waste his life on a haunting memory.
He could not sleep that night, and so was awake when Larry lounged in,
slow and heavy. The cowboy was half-drunk. Neale took him to task, and
they quarreled. Finally Larry grew silent and fell asleep. After that
Neale likewise dropped into slumber.
In the morning Larry was again his old, cool, easy, reckless self, and
had apparently forgotten Neale’s sharp words. Neale, however, felt a
change in himself. This was the first morning for a long time that he
had not hated the coming of daylight.
When he and Larry went out the sun was high. For Neale there seemed
something more than sunshine in the air. At sight of Campbell, waiting
in the same place in which they had encountered him yesterday, Neale’s
pulses quickened.
Campbell greeted them with a bright smile. “I’m back,” he said.
“So I see,” replied Neale, constrainedly.
“I’ve a message for you from the chief,” announced Campbell.
“The chief!” exclaimed Neale.