The U. P. Trail Page 6

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  Some ten miles from the scene of the massacre and perhaps fifteen fromthe line surveyed by the engineers, Slingerland lived in a wild valleyin the heart of the Wyoming hills.

  The ride there was laborsome and it took time, but Neale scarcely notedeither fact. He paid enough attention to the trail to fix landmarksand turnings in his mind, so that he would remember how to find theway there again. He was, however, mostly intent upon the girl he wascarrying.

  Twice that he knew of her eyes opened during the ride. But it was to seenothing and only to grip him tighter, if that were possible. Neale beganto imagine that he had been too hopeful. Her body was a dead weight andcold. Those two glimpses he had of her opened eyes hurt him. What shouldhe do when she did come to herself? She would be frantic with horror andgrief and he would be helpless. In a case like hers it might have beenbetter if she had been killed.

  The last mile to Slingerland's lay through a beautiful green valley withsteep sides almost like a canon--trees everywhere, and a swift, clearbrook running over a bed of smooth rock. The trail led along this brookup to where the valley boxed and the water boiled out of a great springin a green glade overhung by bushy banks and gray rocks above. A rudecabin with a red-stone chimney and clay-chinked cracks between the logs,stuffed to bursting with furs and pelts and horns and traps, marked thehome of the trapper.

  "Wal, we're hyar," sung out Slingerland, and in the cheery tones therewas something which told that the place was indeed home to him.

  "Shore is a likely-lookin' camp," drawled Red, throwing his bridle."Been heah a long time, thet cabin."

  "Me an' my pard was the first white men in these hyar hills," repliedSlingerland. "He's gone now." Then he turned to Neale. "Son, you mustbe tired. Thet was a ways to carry a girl nigh onto dead.... Look howwhite! Hand her down to me."

  The girl's hands slipped nervelessly and limply from their hold uponNeale. Slingerland laid her on the grass in a shady spot. The three mengazed down upon her, all sober, earnest, doubtful.

  "I reckon we can't do nothin' but wait," said the trapper.

  Red King shook his head as if the problem were beyond him.

  Neale did not voice his thought, yet he wanted to be the first personher eyes should rest upon when she did return to consciousness.

  "Wal, I'll set to work an' clean out a place fer her," said Slingerland.

  "We'll help," rejoined Neale. "Red, you have a look at the horses."

  "I'll slip the saddles an' bridles," replied King, "an' let 'em go.Hosses couldn't be chased out of heah."

  Slingerland's cabin consisted really of two adjoining cabins with a doorbetween, one part being larger and of later construction. Evidently heused the older building as a storeroom for his pelts. When all these hadbeen removed the room was seen to be small, with two windows, a table,and a few other crude articles of home-made furniture. The men cleanedthis room and laid down a carpet of deer hides, fur side up. A bed wasmade of a huge roll of buffalo skins, flattened and shaped, and coveredwith Indian blankets. When all this had been accomplished the trapperremoved his fur cap, scratched his grizzled head, and appealed to Nealeand King.

  "I reckon you can fetch over some comfortable-like necessaries--fixin'sfer a girl," he suggested.

  Red King laughed in his cool, easy, droll way. "Shore, we'll rustle fera lookin'-glass, an' hair-brush, an' such as girls hev to hev. Our campis full of them things."

  But Neale did not see any humor in Slingerland's perplexity or in thecowboy's facetiousness. It was the girl's serious condition that worriedhim, not her future comfort.

  "Run out thar!" called Slingerland, sharply.

  Neale, who was the nearest to the door, bolted outside, to see the girlsitting up, her hair disheveled, her manner wild in the extreme. Atsight of him she gave a start, sudden and violent, and uttered asharp cry. When Neale reached her it was to find her shaking all over.Terrible fear had never been more vividly shown, yet Neale believed shesaw in him a white man, a friend. But the fear in her was still strongerthan reason.

  "Who are you?" she asked.

  "My name's Neale--Warren Neale," he replied, sitting down beside her.He took one of the shaking hands in his. He was glad that she talkedrationally.

  "Where am I?"

  "This is the home of a trapper. I brought you here. It was the best--infact, the only place."

  "You saved me--from--from those devils?" she queried, hoarsely, andagain the cold and horrible shade veiled her eyes.

  "Yes--yes--but don't think of them--they're gone," replied Neale,hastily. The look of her distressed and frightened him. He did not knowwhat to say.

  The girl fell back with a poignant cry and covered her eyes as if toshut out a hateful and appalling sight. "My--mother!" she moaned,and shuddered with agony. "They--murdered--her!... Oh! the terribleyells!... I saw--killed--every man--Mrs. Jones! My mother--she fell--shenever spoke! Her blood was on me!... I crawled away--I hid!... TheIndians--they tore--hacked--scalped--burned!... I couldn't die!--Isaw!... Oh!--Oh!--Oh!" Then she fell to moaning in inarticulate fashion.

  Slingerland and King came out and looked down at the girl.

  "Wal, the life's strong in her," said the trapper. "I reckon I know whenlife is strong in any critter. She'll git over thet. All we can do nowis to watch her an' keep her from doin' herself harm. Take her in an'lay her down."

  For two days and nights Neale watched over her, except for the hoursshe slept, when he divided his vigil with King. She had periods ofconsciousness, in which she knew Neale, but most of the time she ravedor tossed or moaned or lay like one dead. On the third day, however.Neale felt encouraged. She awoke weak and somber, but quiet andrational. Neale talked earnestly to her, in as sensible a way as he knewhow, speaking briefly of the tragic fate that had been hers, bidding herforce it out of her mind by taking interest in her new surroundings. Shelistened to him, but did not seem impressed. It was a difficult matterto get her to eat. She did not want to move. At length Neale told herthat he must go back to the camp of the engineers, where he had work todo; he promised that he would return to see her soon and often. She didnot speak or raise her eyes when he left her.

  Outside, when Red brought up the horses, Slingerland said to Neale: "Seehyar, son, I reckon you needn't worry. She'll come around all right."

  "Shore she will," corroborated the cowboy. "Time'll cure her. I'm fromTexas, whar sudden death is plentiful in all families."

  Neale shook his head. "I'm not so sure," he said. "That girl's moresensitively and delicately organized than you fellows see. I doubtif she'll ever recover from the shock. It'll take a mighty greatinfluence.... But let's hope for the best. Now, Slingerland, take careof her as best you can. Shut her in when you leave camp. I'll ride overas often as possible. If she gets so she will talk, then we can find outif she has any relatives, and if so I'll take her to them. If not I'lldo whatever else I can for her."

  "Wal, son, I like the way you're makin' yourself responsible fer thetkid," replied the trapper. "I never had no wife nor daughter. But I'mthinkin'--wouldn't it jest be hell to be a girl--tender an' young an'like Neale said--an' sudden hev all you loved butchered before youreyes?"

  "It shore would," said Red, feelingly. "An' thet's what she sees all thetime."

  "Slingerland, do we run any chance of meeting Indians?" queried Neale.

  "I reckon not. Them Sioux will git fur away from hyar after thetmassacre. But you want to keep sharp eyes out, an' if you do meet any,jest ride an' shoot your way through. You've the best horses I've seen.Whar'd you git them?"

  "They belong to King. He's a cowboy."

  "Hosses was my job. An' we can shore ride away from any redskins,"replied King.

  "Wal, good luck, an' come back soon," was Slingerland's last word.

  So they parted. The cowboy led the way with the steady, easy, trottingwalk that saved a horse yet covered distance; in three hours they werehailed by a trooper outpost, and soon they were in camp.

  Shortly after their
arrival the engineers returned, tired, dusty,work-stained, and yet in unusually good spirits. They had run the lineup over Sherman Pass, and now it seemed their difficulties were tolessen as the line began to descend from the summit of the divide.Neale's absence had been noticed, for his services were in demand.But all the men rejoiced in his rescue of the little girl, and weresympathetic and kind in their inquiries. It seemed to Neale that hischief looked searchingly at him, as if somehow the short absencehad made a change in him. Neale himself grew conscious of a strangedifference in his inner nature; he could not forget the girl, herhelplessness, her pathetic plight.

  "Well, it's curious," he soliloquized. "But--it's not so, either. I'msorry for her."

  And he remembered the strange change in her eyes when he had watchedthe shadow of horror and death and blood fade away before the naturalemotions of youth and life and hope.

  Next day Neale showed more than ever his value to the engineeringcorps, and again won a word of quiet praise from his chief. He liked thecommendation of his superiors. He began to believe heart and soul inthe coming greatness of the railroad. And that strenuous week drove hisfaithful lineman, King, to unwonted complaint.

  Larry tugged at his boots and groaned as he finally pulled them off.They were full of holes, at which he gazed ruefully. "Shore I'll be donewith this heah job when they're gone," he said.

  "Why do you work in high-heeled boots?" inquired Neale. "You can't walkor climb in them. No wonder they're full of holes."

  "Wal, I couldn't wear no boots like yours," declared Red.

  "You'll have to. Another day will about finish them, and your feet,too."

  Red eyed his boss with interest. "You-all cussed me to-day because I wasslow," he complained.

  "Larry, you always are slow, except with a horse or gun. And latelyyou've been--well, you don't move out of your tracks."

  Neale often exaggerated out of a desire to tease his friend. Nobody elsedared try and banter King.

  "Wal, I didn't sign up with this heah outfit to run up hills all day,"replied Red.

  "I'll tell you what. I'll get Casey to be my lineman. No, I've a betteridea. Casey is slow, too. I'll use one of the niggers."

  Red King gave a hitch to his belt and a cold gleam chased away the lazyblue warmth from his eyes. "Go ahaid," he drawled, "an' they'll bury thenigger to-morrow night."

  Neale laughed. He knew Red hated darkies--he suspected the Texan hadthrown a gun on more than a few--and he knew there surely would be afuneral in camp if he changed his lineman.

  "All right, Red. I don't want blood spilled," he said, cheerfully. "I'llbe a martyr and put up with you.... What do you say to a day off? Let'sride over to Slingerland's."

  The cowboy's red face slowly wrinkled into a smile. "Wal, I shore waswonderin' what in the hell made you rustle so lately. I reckon nothin'would suit me better. I've been wonderin', too, about our little girl."

  "Red, let's wade through camp and see what we can get to take over."

  "Man, you mean jest steal?" queried King, in mild surprise.

  "No. We'll ask for things. But if we can't get what we wantthat way--why, we'll have to do the other thing," replied Neale,thoughtfully. "Slingerland did not have even a towel over there.Think of that girl! She's been used to comfort, if not luxury. I couldtell.... Let's see. I've a mirror and an extra brush.... Red, come on."

  Eagerly they went over their scant belongings, generously appropriatingwhatever might be made of possible use to an unfortunate girl in a wildand barren country. Then they fared forth into the camp. Every one inthe corps contributed something. The chief studied Neale's heated face,and a smile momentarily changed his stern features--a wise smile, alittle sad, and full of light.

  "I suppose you'll marry her," he said.

  Neale blushed like a girl. "It--that hadn't occurred to me, sir," hestammered.

  Lodge laughed, but his glance was kind. "Sure you'll marry her," hesaid. "You saved her life. And, boy, you'll be a big man of the U. P.some day. Chief engineer or superintendent of maintenance of way or someother big job. What could be finer? Romance, boy. The little waif ofthe caravan--you'll send her back to Omaha to school; she'll grow into abeautiful woman! She'll have a host of admirers, but you'll be the kingof the lot--sure."

  Neale got out of the tent with tingling ears. He was used to thebadinage of the men, and had always retaliated with a sharp and readytongue. But this half-kind, half-humorous talk encroached upon what hefelt to be the secret side of his nature--the romantic and the dreamfulside--to which such fancies were unconscionably dear.

  Early the next morning Neale and King rode out on the way toSlingerland's.

  The sun was warm when they reached the valley through which ran thestream that led up to the cabin. Spring was in the air. The leaves ofcottonwood and willow added their fresh emerald to the darker greenof the pine. Bluebells showed in the grass along the trail; there grewlavender and yellow flowers unfamiliar to Neale; trout rose and splashedon the surface of the pools; and the way was melodious with the hummingof bees and the singing of birds.

  Slingerland saw them coming and strode out to meet them with heartygreeting.

  "Is she all right?" queried Neale, abruptly.

  "No, she ain't," replied Slingerland, shaking his shaggy head. "Shewon't eat or move or talk. She's wastin' away. She jest sits or layswith that awful look in her eyes."

  "Can't you make her talk?"

  "Wal, she'll say no to 'most anythin'. There was three times she askedwhen you was comin' back. Then she quit askin'. I reckon she's forgotyou. But she's never forgot thet bloody massacre. It's there in hereyes."

  Neale dismounted, and, untying the pack from his saddle, he laid itdown, removed saddle and bridle; then he turned the horse loose. He didthis automatically while his mind was busy.

  "Where is she?" he asked.

  "Over thar under the pines whar the brook spills out of the spring.Thet's the only place she'll walk to. I believe she likes to listen tothe water. An' she's always afraid."

  "I've fetched a pack of things for her," said Neale. "Come on, Red."

  "Shore you go alone," replied the cowboy, hanging back. "Girls is not myjob."

  So Neale approached alone. The spot was green, fragrant, shady, brightwith flowers, musical with murmuring water. Presently he spied her--adrooping, forlorn little figure. The instant he saw her he felt glad andsad at once. She started quickly at his step and turned. He rememberedthe eyes, but hardly the face. It had grown thinner and whiter than theone he had in mind.

  "My Lord! she's going to die!" breathed Neale. "What can I do--what canI say to her?"

  He walked directly but slowly up to her, aware of her staring eyes, andconfused by them.

  "Hello! little girl, I've brought you some things," he said, and triedto speak cheerfully.

  "Oh--is--it you?" she said, brokenly.

  "Yes, it's Neale. I hope you've not forgotten me."

  There came a fleeting change over her, but not in her face, he thought,because not a muscle moved, and the white stayed white. It must havebeen in her eyes, though he could not certainly tell. He bent over tountie the pack.

  "I've brought you a lot of things," he said. "Hope you'll find themuseful. Here--"

  She did not look at the open pack or pay any attention to him. Thedrooping posture had been resumed, together with the somber staring atthe brook. Neale watched her in despair, and, watching, he divined thatonly the most infinite patience and magnetism and power could bring herout of her brooding long enough to give nature a chance. He recognizedhow unequal he was to the task. But the impossible or the unattainablehad always roused Neale's spirit. Defeat angered him. This girl wasalive; she was not hurt physically; he believed she could be made toforget that tragic night of blood and death. He set his teeth and sworehe would display the tact of a woman, the patience of a saint, the skillof a physician, the love of a father--anything to hold back this girlfrom the grave into which she was fading. Reaching out, he touched her.
r />   "Can you understand me?" he asked.

  "Yes," she murmured. Her voice was thin, far away, an evident effort.

  "I saved your life."

  "I wish you had let me die." Her reply was quick with feeling, andit thrilled Neale because it was a proof that he could stimulate oraggravate her mind.

  "But I DID save you. Now you owe me something."

  "What?"

  "Why, gratitude--enough to want to live, to try to help yourself."

  "No--no," she whispered, and relapsed into the somber apathy.

  Neale could scarcely elicit another word from her; then by way ofchange he held out different articles he had brought--scarfs, a shawl,a mirror--and made her look at them. Her own face in the mirror did notinterest her. He tried to appeal to a girl's vanity. She had none.

  "Your hair is all tangled," he said, bringing forth comb and brush."Here, smooth it out."

  "No--no--no," she moaned.

  "All right, I'll do it for you," he countered. Surprised at findingher passive when he had expected resistance, he began to comb out thetangled tresses. In his earnestness he did not perceive how singular hisaction might seem to an onlooker. She had a mass of hair that quicklybegan to smooth out and brighten under his hand. He became absorbed inhis task and failed to see the approach of Larry King.

  The cowboy was utterly amazed, and presently he grinned his delight.Evidently the girl was all right and no longer to be feared.

  "Wal, shore thet's fine," he drawled. "Neale, I always knowed you was alady's man." And Larry sat down beside them.

  The girl's face was half hidden under the mass of hair, and her head waslowered. Neale gave Larry a warning glance, meant to convey that he wasnot to be funny.

  "This is my cowboy friend, Larry Red King," said Neale. "He was with mewhen I--I found you."

  "Larry--Red--King," murmured the girl. "My name is--Allie."

  Again Neale had penetrated into her close-locked mind. What she saidastounded him so that he dropped the brush and stared at Larry. AndLarry lost his grin; he caught a glimpse of her face, and his own grewtroubled.

  "Allie--I shore--am glad to meet you," he said, and there was morefeeling in his voice than Neale had ever before heard. Larry was notslow of comprehension. He began to talk in his drawling way. Neale heardhim with a smile he tried to hide, but he liked Larry the better for hissimplicity. This gun-throwing cowboy had a big heart.

  Larry, however, did not linger for long. His attempts to get the girlto talk grew weaker and ended; then, after another glance at the tragic,wan face he got up and thoughtfully slouched away.

  "So your name is Allie," said Neale. "Well, Allie what?"

  She did not respond to one out of a hundred questions, and this queryfound no lodgment in her mind.

  "Will you braid your hair now?" he asked.

  The answer was the low and monotonous negative, but, nevertheless, herhands sought her hair and parted it, and began to braid it mechanically.This encouraged Neale more than anything else; it showed him that therewere habits of mind into which he could turn her. Finally he got her towalk along the brook and also to eat and drink.

  At the end of that day he was more exhausted than he would have beenafter a hard climb. Yet he was encouraged to think that he could getsome kind of passive unconscious obedience from her.

  "Reckon you'd better stay over to-morrow," suggested Slingerland. Hisconcern for the girl could not have been greater had she been his owndaughter. "Allie--thet was her name, you said. Wal, it's pretty an' easyto say."

  Next day Allie showed an almost imperceptible improvement. It might havebeen Neale's imagination leading him to believe that there were reallygrounds for hope. The trapper and the cowboy could not get any responsefrom her, but there was certain proof that he could. The convictionmoved him to deep emotion.

  An hour before sunset Neale decided to depart, and told Larry to get thehorses. Then he went to Allie, undecided what to say, feeling that hemust have tortured her this day with his ceaseless importunities.How small the chance that he might again awaken the springs of lifeinterest. Yet the desire was strong within him to try.

  "Allie." He repeated her name before she heard him. Then she looked up.The depths--the tragic lonesomeness--of her eyes--haunted Neale.

  "I'm going back. I'll come again soon."

  She made a quick movement--seized his arm. He remembered the close,tight grip of her hands.

  "Don't go!" she implored. Black fear stared out of her eyes.

  Neale was thunderstruck at the suddenness of her speech--at itsintensity. Also he felt an unfamiliar kind of joy. He began to explainthat he must return to work, that he would soon come to see her again;but even as he talked she faded back into that dull and somber apathy.

  Neale rode away with only one conviction gained from the developmentsof the two days; it was that he would be restless and haunted until hecould go to her again. Something big and moving--something equal to hisambition for his work on the great railroad--had risen in him and wouldnot be denied.