the U P Trail (1940)

by Grey, Zane

Neale slowly ceased his sobbing. "My nerve's gone," he said, shakily.

  "No. It jest broke you all up to see Slingerland. An' it shore did me, too," replied Larry.

  "It's hard, but; " Slingerland could not finish his thought.

  "Slingerland, I'm glad to see you, even if it did cut me," said Neale, more rationally. "I'm surprised, too. Are you here with a load of pelts?"

  "No. Boys, I hed to give up trappin'. I couldn't stand the loneliness; after; after... An' now I'm killin' buffalo meat for the soldiers an' the construction gangs. Jest got in on thet train with a car-load of fresh meat."

  "Buffalo meat," echoed Neale. His mind wandered.

  "Son, how's your work goin'?"

  Neale shook his head.

  The cowboy, answering for him, said, "We kind of chucked the work, Slingerland."

  "What? Are you hyar in Benton, doin' nothin'?"

  "Shore. Thet's the size of it."

  The trapper made a vehement gesture of disapproval and he bent a scrutinizing gaze upon Neale.

  "Son, you've not gone an'; an'; "

  "Yes," replied Neale, throwing out his hands. "I quit. I couldn't work. I CAN'T work. I CAN'T rest or stand still!"

  A spasm of immense regret contracted the trapper's face. And Larry King, looking away over the sordid, dusty passing throng, cursed under his breath. Neale was the first to recover his composure.

  "Let's say no more. What's done is done," he said. "Suppose you take us on one of your buffalo-hunts."

  Slingerland grasped at straws. "Wal, now, thet ain't a bad idee. I can use you," he replied, eagerly. "But it's hard an' dangerous work. We git chased by redskins often. An' you'd hev to ride. I reckon, Neale, you're good enough on a hoss. But our cowboy friend hyar, he can't ride, as I recollect your old argyments."

  "My job was hosses," drawled Larry.

  "An" besides, you've got to shoot straight, which Reddy hasn't bed experience of," went on Slingerland, with a broader smile.

  "I seen you was packin' a Winchester all shiny an' new," replied Larry. "Shore

  I'm in fer anythin' with ridin' an' shootin'."

  Neale and Larry accepted the proposition then and there.

  "You'll need to buy rifles an' shells, thet's all," said Slingerland. "I've hosses an' outfit over at the work-camp, an' I've been huntin' east of thar.

  Come on, we'll go to a store. Thet train's goin' back soon."

  "Wal, I come in on thet train an' now I'm leavin' on it," drawled Larry. "Shore is funny. Without even lookin' over this heah Benton."

  On the ride eastward Slingerland inquired if Neale and Larry had ever gone back to the scene of the massacre of the caravan where Horn had buried his gold.

  Neale had absolutely forgotten the buried gold. Probably when he and Larry had scoured the wild hills for trace of Allie they had passed down the valley where the treasure had been hidden. Slingerland gave the same reason for his oversight. They talked about the gold and planned, when the railroad reached the foot-hills, to go after it.

  Both Indians and buffalo were sighted from the train before the trio got to the next camp.

  "I reckon I don't like thet," declared Slingerland. "I was friendly with the

  Sioux. But now thet I've come down hyar to kill off their buffalo fer the whites they're ag'in' me. I know thet. An' I allus regarded them buffalo as Injun property. If it wasn't thet I seen this railroad means the end of the buffalo, an' the Indians, too, I'd never hev done it. Thet I'll swar."

  It was night when they reached their destination. How quiet and dark after

  Benton! Neale was glad to get there. He wondered if he could conquer his unrest.

  Would he go on wandering again? He doubted himself and dismissed the thought.

  Perhaps the companionship of his old friends and the anticipation of action would effect a change in him.

  Neale and Larry spent the night in Slingerland's tent. Next morning the trapper was ready with horses at an early hour, but, owing to the presence of Sioux in the vicinity, it was thought best to wait for the work-train and ride out on the plains under its escort.

  By and by the train, with its few cars and half a hundred workmen, was ready, and the trapper and his comrades rode out alongside. Some few miles from camp the train halted at a place where stone-work and filling awaited the laborers.

  Neale was again interested, in spite of himself. Yet his love for that railroad was quite as hopeless as other things in his life.

  These laborers were picked men, all soldiers, and many Irish; they stacked their guns before taking up shovels and bars.

  "Dom me if it ain't me ould fri'nd Neale!" exclaimed a familiar voice.

  And there stood Casey, with the same old grin, the same old black pipe.

  Neale's first feeling of pleasure at seeing the old flagman was counteracted by one of dismay at the possibility of coming in contact with old acquaintances. It would hurt him to meet General Lodge or any of the engineers who had predicted a future for him.

  Shane and McDermott were also in this gang, and they slouched forward.

  "It's thot gun-throwin' cowboy as wuz onct goin' to kill Casey!" exclaimed

  McDermott, at sight of Larry.

  Neale, during the few moments of reunion with his old comrades of the survey, received a melancholy insight into himself and a clearer view of them. The great railroad had gone on, growing, making men change. He had been passed by. He was no longer a factor. Along with many, many other men, he had retrograded. The splendid spirit of the work had not gone from him, but it had ceased to govern his actions. He had ceased to grow. But these uncouth Irishmen, they had changed. In many ways they were the same slow, loquacious, quarreling trio as before, but they showed the effect of toil, of fight, of growth under the great movement and its spirit; the thing which great minds had embodied; and these laborers were no longer ordinary men. Something shone out of them. Neale saw it.

  He felt an inexplicable littleness in their presence. They had gone on; he had been left. They would toil and fight until they filled nameless graves. He, too, would find a nameless grave, he thought, but he would not lie in it as one of these. The moment was poignant for Neale, exceedingly bitter, and revealing.

  Slingerland was not long in sighting buffalo. After making a careful survey of the rolling country for lurking Indians he rode out with Neale, Larry, and two other men; Brush and an Irishman named Pat; who were to skin the buffalo the hunters killed, and help load the meat into wagons which would follow.

  "It ain't no trick to kill buffalo," Slingerland was saying to his friends. "But

  I don't want old bulls an' old cows killed. An' when you're ridin' fast an' the herd is bunched it's hard to tell the difference. You boys stick close to me an' watch me first. An' keep one eye peeled fer Injuns!"

  Slingerland approached the herd without alarming it, until some little red calves on the outskirts of the herd became frightened. Then the herd lumbered off, raising a cloud of dust. The roar of hoofs was thunderous.

  "Ride!" yelled Slingerland.

  Not the least interesting sight to Neale was Larry riding away from them. He was whacking the buffalo on the rumps with his bare hand before Slingerland and

  Neale got near enough to shoot.

  At the trapper's first shot the herd stampeded. Thereafter it took 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 t
he 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, an
d 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.

  Gasey 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."