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.