by Zane Grey
8
That summer the engineers crossed the Wyoming hills and ran the lineon into Utah, where they met the surveying party working in from thePacific.
The initial step of the great construction work was done, the engineerswith hardship and loss of life had proved that a railroad across theRockies was a possibility. Only, they had little conception of thetitanic labor involved in the building.
For Neale the months were hard, swift, full. It came to him that love ofthe open and the wild was incorporated in his ambition for achievement.He wondered if he would have felt the one without the other. Camp lifeand the daily climbing over the ridges made of him a lithe, strong,sure-footed mountaineer. They made even the horse-riding cowboy a goodclimber, though nothing, Neale averred, would ever straighten Larry'sbow legs.
Only two incidents or accidents marred the work and pleasure of thosefruitful weeks.
The first happened in camp. There was a surly stake-driver by the nameof Shurd who was lazy and otherwise offensive among hard-working men.Having been severely handled by Neale, he had nursed a grievance andonly 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 kickedNeale's instrument out of his way. Some one saw him do it and toldNeale. Thereupon Neale, in high dudgeon, had sought out the fellow.Larry King, always Neale's shadow, came slouching after with hiscowboy's gait. They found Shurd at the camp of the teamsters and otherlaborers. Neale did not waste many words. He struck Shurd a blow thatstaggered 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 hemade 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 andthe man began to bawl curses.
"Get out of heah!" called Larry King, advancing slowly. The maddenedShurd tried to use the broken arm, perhaps to draw on King. Thereuponthe cowboy, with gun low and apparently not aiming, shot again, thistime almost tearing Shurd's arm off. Then he prodded Shurd with thecocked gun. The man turned ghastly. He seemed just now to have realizedthe nature of this gaunt flaming-eyed cowboy.
"Shore your mind ain't workin'," said Larry. "Get out of heah. Mozeyover 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 nearlykilled 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 lickedhim, club and all."
"Mebbe," replied the cowboy, as he sheathed the big gun. "Neale. I'mused to what you ain't. Shore I can see death a-comin'. Wal, every daythe outfit grows wilder. A little whisky 'll burn hell loose along thisheah U.P. line."
Larry strode on in the direction Shurd had taken. Neale pondered amoment, perplexed, and grateful to his comrade. He heard remarks amongthe laborers, and he saw the flagman Casey remove his black pipe fromhis lips--an unusual occurrence.
"Mac, it wus thot red-head cowboy wot onct p'inted his gun at me!" burstout 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, PatCasey, an' if he ever throwed thot cannon at yez, why, runnin' 'd beslow 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 agun, preferably a rifle when it was possible. In the use of the long gunhe was an adept, but when it came to Larry's kind of a gun Neale neededpractice. Larry could draw his gun and shoot twice before Neale couldget his hand on his weapon.
It was through Neale's habit of carrying the rifle out on his surveyingtrips that the second incident came about.
One day in early summer Neale was waiting near a spring for Larry toarrive 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 thethud of hoofs. He sat up to see Larry in the act of kneeling at thebrook to drink. At the same instant a dark moving object above Larryattracted Neale's quick eye. It was an Indian sneaking along with a gunready 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 hadquieted 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, yethe 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 indolentvoice. "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 upon the ridge to reconnoiter, but saw no moving objects.
"I reckon thet redskin was shore a-goin' to plug me," drawled Larry, asthey trotted homeward.
"He certainly was," replied Neale, with a shudder.
Larry reached a long hand to Neale's shoulder. He owed his life to hisfriend. But he did not speak of that. Instead he glanced wisely at Nealeand laughed.
"Kinda weak in the middle, eh?" he said. "I felt thet way once.... Pard,if you ever get r'iled you'll be shore bad."
For Neale shooting at an Indian was strikingly different from boyishdreams of doing it. He had acted so swiftly that it seemed it must havebeen instinctive. Yet thinking back, slowly realizing the nature ofthe repellent feeling within him, he remembered a bursting gush of hotblood, a pantherish desire to leap, to strike--and then cool, sternwatchfulness. The whole business had been most unpleasant.
Upon arriving at camp they reported the incident, and they learnedIndians had showed up at various points along the line. Troopers hadbeen fired upon. Orders were once more given that all work must becarried on under the protection of the soldiers, so that an ambush wouldbe unlikely. Meanwhile a detachment of troops would be sent out to driveback the band of Sioux.
These two hard experiences made actuality out of what Neale's chief hadtold 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 tohim. In his moments of leisure, by the camp-fire at night, he reflectedand dreamed and wondered. And these reflections always turned finally tomemory of Allie.
The girl he had saved seemed far away in mind as well as in distance. Hetried to call up her face--to see it in the ruddy embers. But he couldvisualize only her eyes. They were unforgettable--the somber, hauntingshadows of thoughts of death. Yet he remembered that once or twice theyhad 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 pityand tenderness were not love. Still there had been another emotionconnected with Allie--a strange thing too subtle and brief for him toanalyze; when away from her he lost it. Could that have been love? Hethought of the day she waded the brook, the feel of her as he carriedher in his arms; and of that last sight of her, on her knees in thecabin, her face hidden, her slender form still as a statue. His ownheart was touched. Yet this was not love. It was enough for Neale tofeel that he had done what he would have applauded in another man, thathe seemed the better for his pledge, that the next meeting with Alliewas one he looked forward to with a strange, new interest.
September came and half sped by before Neale, with Larry and an engineernamed Serv
ice, arrived at the head of Sherman Pass with pack-burros andsupplies, ready to begin the long vigil of watching the snow drift overthe line in winter.
They were to divide the pass between them, Service to range the upperhalf and Neale the lower. As there were but few trees up in thatlocality, and these necessary for a large supply of fire-wood, theydecided not to attempt building a cabin for Service, but to dig adugout. This was a hole hollowed out in a hillside and covered with aroof of branches and earth.
No small job, indeed, was it to build a satisfactory dugout--one thatwas not conspicuous from every ridge for Indian eyes to spy out--andwarm 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 tohunt some."
"Good luck to you."
So these comrades parted. They were only two of the intrepid engineersselected to brave the perils and hardships of that wild region inwinter, to serve the great cause.
The golds and purples of autumn mingled with the predominating green ofSlingerland's valley. In one place beaver had damned the stream, forminga 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 fordwhich Allie had so bravely and weakly tried to cross at his bidding."Three months! So much can have happened. But Slingerland is safe fromIndians. I hope--I believe I'll find her well."
He was a prey to dread and yet he did not hurry. Larry, driving thepack-train, drew on ahead and passed out of sight in a green bend of thebrook. At length Neale saw a column of blue smoke curling up above thetrees, and that sight relieved him. If the trapper was there, the girlwould 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 trailtoward 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. Couldthat be Allie? It must be she. It was.
"Lord! I'm in for it!" muttered Neale, dismounting, and he gazed witheager 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 proclaimedher to be Allie. She enveloped him. Her arms, strong, convulsive,clasped him. Up came her face, white, gleaming, joyous, strange toNeale, but he knew somehow that it was held up to be kissed. Dazedly hekissed her--felt cool sweet lips touch his lips again and then again.
"Allie!... I--I hardly knew you!" was his greeting. Now he was holdingher, and he felt her press her head closely to his breast, felt theintensity of what must have been her need of physical contact to makesure he was here in the flesh. And as he held her, looking down uponher, he recognized the little head and the dull gold and ripple ofchestnut hair. Yes--it was Allie. But this new Allie was taller--up tohis shoulder--and lithe and full-bosomed and strong. This was not thefrail 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.... AndI'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 doI find?... Let me look at you."
She drew back and stood before him, shy and modest, but without a traceof embarrassment, surely the sweetest and loveliest girl he had everbeheld. Some remembered trace he found in her features, perhaps thelook, the shape of her eyes--all else was unfamiliar. And that all elsewas a white face, blue-veined, with rich blood slowly mantling to thebroad brow, with sweet red lips haunting in their sadness, with gloriouseyes, like violets drenched in dew, shadowy, exquisite, mournful anddeep, yet radiant with beautiful light.
Neale recognized her beauty at the instant he realized her love, andhe was so utterly astounded at the one, and overwhelmed with the other,that he was mute. A powerful reaction took place within him, so strongthat it helped to free him from the other emotions. He found his tongueand 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, itwas hard--so much work! But they're more comfortable than any clothes Iever had."
"So you've not been--altogether idle since I left?"
"Since that day," and she blushed exquisitely at the words, "I'vebeen doing everything under the sun except that grieving which youdisliked--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 ideawhat qualities she might have possessed before that fateful massacre,but she was bewilderingly different from the sick-minded girl he hadtried 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 ofmind, that he could not be natural. Then his mood shifted and a littleheat at his own stupidity aroused his wits.
"Allie, I want to realize what's happened," he said. "Let's sit downhere. We sat here once before, if you remember. Slingerland can wait tosee me."
Neale's horse grazed along the green border of the brook. The water ranwith low, swift rush; there were bees humming round the autumn flowersand a fragrance of wood-smoke wafted down from the camp; over all laythe dreaming quietness of the season and the wild.
Allie sat down upon the rock, but Neale, changing his mind, stood besideher. 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 rememberedagain the scene at the crossing of the brook. Could he control thiswonderful girl now?
"Of course," she replied.
"But--how do you care?" he added, more forcibly. He felt ashamed, yet hecould not resist it. What was happening to him?
"I--I love you." Her voice was low, almost faltering, rich withsweetness, 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 andsweet, dreaming and spiritual, singularly pure; her breast heaved underthe beaded buckskin. Neale divined she had never dreamed of owing himanything except the maiden love which quivered on her tremulous lips andhovered in the exquisite light of her countenance. And now he receiveda great and impelling change in his spirit, an uplift, a splendid andbeautiful consciousness of his good fortune. But what could he say toher? If only he could safely pass over this moment, so he could havetime to think, to find himself. Another glance at her encouraged him.She expected nothing--not a word; she took all for granted. She was lostin 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 lookto see if she wore it. Then softly he touched it and drew her hand inhis.
"My ring. Oh, Allie!" he whispered.
The response was a wonderful purple blaze
of her eyes. He divinedthen that his ring had been the tangible thing upon which she hadreconstructed 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 hadto fight himself to keep from gathering her to his breast. Verily thismeeting 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 uponher 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 Iused to look I'm not pretty any more."
Neale laughed. He had begun to feel freer, and to accept thisunparalleled 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 ofthought. But the old, somber veil, the insane, brooding stare, did notreturn.
"Allie what?" he repeated.
Then the tears came, softening and dimming the pain. "Allie Lee," shesaid.
