“It will be great!” exclaimed Neale, with shining eyes.

“It will be terrible,” muttered the elder man, gravely.  Then, as he got up and bade his young assistant good night, the somberness had returned to his eyes and the weight to his shoulders.  He did not underestimate his responsibility nor the nature of his task, and he felt the coming of nameless and unknown events beyond all divining.

Henney was Neale’s next visitor.  The old engineer appeared elated, but for the moment he apparently forgot everything else in his solicitude for the young man’s welfare.

Presently, after he had been reassured, the smile came back to his face.

“The chief has promoted you,” he said.

“What!” exclaimed Neale, starting up.

“It’s a fact.  He just talked it over with Baxter and me.  This last job of yours pleased him mightily... and so you go up.”

“Go up! ...  To what?” queried Neale, eagerly.

“Well, that’s why he consulted us, I guess,” laughed Henney.  “You see, we sort of had to make something to promote you to, for the present.”

“Oh, I see!  I was wondering what job there could be,” replied Neale, and he laughed, too.  “What did the chief say?”

“He said a lot.  Figured you’d land at the top if the U. P. is ever built....  Chief engineer! ...  Superintendent of maintenance of way!”

“Good Lord!” breathed Neale.  “You’re not in earnest?”

“Wal, I shore am, as your cowboy pard says,” returned Henney.  And then he spoke with real earnestness.  “Listen, Neale.  Here’s the matter in a nutshell.  You will be called upon to run these particular and difficult surveys, just as yesterday.  But no more of the routine for you.  Added to that, you will be sent forward and back, inspecting, figuring.  You can make your headquarters with us or in the construction camps, as suits your convenience.  All this, of course, presently, when we get farther on.  So you will be in a way free—­your own boss a good deal of the time.  And fitting yourself for that ‘maintenance of way’ job.  In fact, the chief said that—­he called you Maintenance-of-Way Neale.  Well, I congratulate you.  And my advice is keep on as you’ve begun—­go straight—­look out for your wildness and temper....  That’s all.  Good night.”

Then he went out, leaving Neale speechless.

Neale had many callers that night, and the last was Larry Red King.  The cowboy stooped to enter the tent.

“Wal, how aboot you-all?” he drawled.

“Not so good, Red,” replied Neale.  “My head’s hot and I’ve got a lot of pain.  I think I’m going to be a little flighty.  Would you mind getting your blankets and staying with me tonight?”

“I reckon I’d be glad,” answered King.  He put a hand on Neale’s face.  “You shore have fever.”  He left the tent, to return presently with a roll of blankets and a canteen.  Then he awkwardly began to bathe Neale’s face with cold water.  There was a flickering camp-fire outside that threw shadows on the wall of the tent.  By its light Neale saw that King’s left hand was bandaged and that he used it clumsily.