Larry paused.  His ruddy tan had faded slightly.

Neale eyed him, aware of a hard and tense contraction of the cowboy’s throat.

“Well, what ’ll you do?” queried Neale, shortly.

Larry threw back his head, and the subtle, fierce tensity seemed to leave him.

“Wal, the day you come back I’ll clean out Stanton’s place—­jest to start entertainin’ you,” he replied, with his slow drawl as marked as ever it was.

A stir of anger in Neale’s breast subsided with the big, warm realization of this wild cowboy’s love for him and the melancholy certainty that Larry would do exactly as he threatened.

“Suppose I come back and beat you all up?” suggested Neale.

“Wal, thet won’t make a dam’ bit of difference,” replied Larry, seriously.

Whereupon Neale soberly bade his friend good-bye and boarded the train.

The ride appeared slow and long, dragged out by innumerable stops.  All along the line laborers awaited the train to unload supplies.  At the end of the line there was a congestion Neale had not observed before in all the work.  Freight-cars, loaded with stone and iron beams and girders for bridge-work, piles of ties and piles of rails, and gangs of idle men attested to the delay caused by an obstacle to progress.  The sight aggressively stimulated Neale.  He felt very curious to learn the cause of the setback, and his old scorn of difficulties flashed up.

The camp Neale’s guide led him to was back some distance from the construction work.  It stood in a little valley through which ran a stream.  There was one large building, low and flat, made of boards and canvas, adjoining a substantial old log cabin; and clustered around, though not close together, were a considerable number of tents.  Troopers were in evidence, some on duty and many idle.  In the background, the slopes of the valley were dark green with pine and cedar.

At the open door of the building Neale met Baxter face to face, and that worthy’s greeting left Neale breathless and aghast, yet thrilling with sheer gladness.

“What’re you up against?” asked Neale.

“The boss ’ll talk to you.  Get in there!” Baxter replied, and pushed Neale inside.  It was a big room, full of smoke, noise, men, tables, papers.  There were guns stacked under port-holes.  Some one spoke to Neale, but he did not see who it was.  All the faces he saw so swiftly appeared vague, yet curious and interested.  Then Baxter halted him at a table.  Once again Neale faced his chief.  Baxter announced something.  Neale did not hear the words plainly.

General Lodge looked older, sterner, more worn.  He stood up.

“Hello, Neale!” he said, offering his hand, and the flash of a smile went over his grim face.

“Come in here,” continued the chief, and he led Neale into another room, of different aspect.  It was small; the walls were of logs; new boards had been recently put in the floor; new windows had been cut; and it contained Indian blankets, chairs, a couch.