Whereupon he became a seeker, a searcher; he believed there was not a tent or a hut or a store or a hall in the town that he had not visited.  But he found no clue of Allie; he never encountered the well-remembered face of the bandit Fresno.  He saw more than one Spaniard and many Mexicans, not one of whom could have been the gambler Durade.

But Benton was too full, too changeful, too secret to be thoroughly searched in little time.  Neale bore his burden, although it grew heavier each day.  And his growing work on the railroad was his salvation.

One morning he went to the telegraph station, expecting orders from General Lodge.  He found the chief’s special train at the station, headed east.

“Neale, I’m off for Omaha,” said Lodge.  “Big pow-wow.  The directors roaring again!”

“What about?” queried Neale, always alive to interest of that nature.

“Cost of the construction.  What else?  Neale, there are two kinds of men building the U. P. R.—­men who see the meaning of the great work, and the men who see only the gold in it.”

“And they conflict! ...  That’s what you mean?”

“Exactly.  We’ve been years on the job now, and the nearer the meeting of rails from west to east the harder become our problems.  Henney is played out, Boone is ill, Baxter won’t last much longer.  If I were not an old soldier, I would be done up now.”

“Chief, I can see only success,” replied Neale, with spirit.

“Assuredly.  We see with the same eyes,” said General Lodge, smiling.  “Neale, I’ve a job for you that will make you gray-headed.”

“Hardly that,” returned Neale, laughing.

“Do you remember the survey we made out here in the hills for Number Ten Bridge?  Made over two years ago.”

“I’m not likely to forget it.”

“Well, the rails are within twenty miles of Number Ten.  They’ll be there presently—­and no piers to cross on.”

“How’s that?”

“I don’t know.  The report came in only last night.  It’s a queer document.  Here it is.  Study it at your leisure....  It seems a big force of men have been working there for months.  Piers have been put in—­only to sink.”

“Sink!” ejaculated Neale.  “Whew!  That’s a stumper! ...  Chief, the survey is mine.  I’ll never forget how I worked on it.”

“Could you have made a mistake?”

“Of course,” replied Neale, readily.  “But I’d never believe that unless I saw it.  A tough job it was—­but just the kind of work I eat up.”

“Well, you can go out and eat it up some more.”

“That means I’ll have to camp out there.  I can’t get back to Benton.”

“No, you can’t.  And isn’t that just as well?” queried the chief, with his keen, dark glance on Neale.  “Son, I’ve heard your name coupled with gamblers—­and that Stanton woman.”

“No doubt.  I know them.  I’ve been—­seeking some trace of—­Allie.”