Baxter and Neale, with the four young engineers, took to the several rooms of the log cabin, where each selected an aperture between the logs or a window through which to fire upon the Indians.  But Neale soon ascertained that there was nothing to shoot at, outside of some white puffs of smoke rising from behind rocks on the slope.  There was absolutely not a sign of an Indian.  The graders were firing, but Neale believed they would have done better to save their powder.  Bullets pattered against the logs; now and then a leaden pellet sang through a window, to thud into the wall.  Neale shut the heavy door leading from the cabin into the engineers’ quarters, for bullets were ripped through from one side to the other of this canvas-and-clapboard structure.  Then Neale passed from room to room, searching for Allie.  Two of the engineers were kneeling at a chink between the logs, aiming and firing in great excitement.  Campbell had sustained a slight wound and looked white with rage and fear.  Baxter was peeping from behind the rude jamb of a window.

“Nothin’ to shoot at, boy,” he said, in exasperation.

“Wait.  Listen to that bunch of Irish shoot.  They’re wasting powder.”

“We’ve plenty of ammunition.  Let ’em shoot.  They may not hit any redskins, but they’ll scare ’em.”

“We can hold out here—­if the troopers hurry back,” said Neale.

“Sure.  But maybe they’re hard at it, too.  I’ve no hope this is the same bunch of Sioux that held up the work-train.”

“Neither have I. And if the troops don’t get here before dark—­”

Neale halted, and Baxter shook his gray head.

“That would be bad,” he said.  “But we’ve squeezed out of narrow places before, buildin’ this U. P. R.”

Neale found the women in the large room, between the corner of the walls and a huge stone fireplace.  They were quiet.  Allie leaped at sight of Neale.  Her hands trembled as she grasped him.

“Neale!” she whispered.  “I saw Fresno!”

“Who’s he?” queried Neale, blankly.

“He’s one of Durade’s gang.”

“No!” exclaimed Neale.  He drew Allie aside.  “You’re scared.”

“I’d never forget Fresno,” she replied, positively.  “He was one of the four ruffians who burned Slingerland’s cabin and made off with me.”

Then Neale shook with a violent start.  He grasped Allie tight.

“I saw him, too.  Just before I came in.  I saw one of the men that visited us at Slingerland’s....  Big, hulking fellow—­red, ugly face —­bad look.”

“That’s Fresno.  He and the gang must have been camped with those graders you brought here.  Oh, I’m more afraid of Fresno’s gang than of the Indians.”

“But Allie—­they don’t know you’re here.  You’re safe.  The troops will be back soon, and drive these Indians away.”

Allie clung to Neale, and again he felt something of the terror these ruffians had inspired in her.  He reassured her, assuming a confidence he was far from feeling, and cautioned her to stay in that protected corner.  Then he went in the other room to his station.  It angered Neale, and alarmed him, that another peril perhaps menaced Allie.  And he prayed for the return of the troops.