How strange for Neale to greet a dawn without hatred!  He and Slingerland had breakfast together.

“Son, will you go into the hills with me?” asked the old trapper.

“Yes, some day, when the railroad’s built,” replied Neale, thoughtfully.

Slingerland’s keen eyes quickened.  “But the railroad’s about done—­ an’ you need a vacation,” he insisted.

“Yes,” Neale answered, dreamily.

“Son, mebbe you ought to wait awhile.  You’re packin’ a bullet somewhar in your carcass.”

“It’s here,” said Neale, putting his hand to his breast, high up toward the shoulder.  “I feel it—­a dull, steady, weighty pain....  But that’s nothing.  I hope I always have it.”

“Wal, I don’t....  An’, son, you ain’t never goin’ back to drink an’ cards-an’ all thet hell? ...  Not now!”

Neale’s smile was a promise, and the light of it was instantly reflected on the rugged face of the trapper.

“Reckon I needn’t asked thet.  Wal, I’ll be sayin’ good-bye....  You kin expect me back some day....  To see the meetin’ of the rails from east an’ west—­an’ to pack you off to my hills.”

Neale rode out of Roaring City on the work-train, sitting on a flat-car with a crowd of hairy-breasted, red-shirted laborers.

That train carried hundreds of men, tons of steel rails, thousands of ties; and also it was equipped to feed the workers and to fight Indians.  It ran to the end of the rails, about forty miles out of Roaring City.

Neale sought out Reilly, the boss.  This big Irishman was in the thick of the start of the day—­which was like a battle.  Neale waited in the crowd, standing there in his shirt-sleeves, with the familiar bustle and color strong as wine to his senses.  At last Reilly saw him and shoved out a huge paw.

“Hullo, Neale!  I’m glad to see ye....  They tell me ye did a dom’ foine job.”

“Reilly, I need work,” said Neale.

“But, mon—­ye was shot!” ejaculated the boss.

“I’m all right.”

“Ye look thot an’ no mistake....  Shure, now, ye ain’t serious about work?  You—­that’s chafe of all thim engineer jobs?”

“I want to work with my hands.  Let me heave ties or carry rails or swing a sledge—­for just a few days.  I’ve explained to General Lodge.  It’s a kind of vacation for me.”

Reilly gazed with keen, twinkling eyes at Neale.  “Ye can’t be drunk an’ look sober.”

“Reilly, I’m sober—­and in dead earnest,” appealed Neale.  “I want to go back—­be in the finish—­to lay some rails—­drive some spikes.”

The boss lost his humorous, quizzing expression.  “Shure—­shure,” replied Reilly, as if he saw, but failed to comprehend.  “Ye’re on....  An’ more power to ye!”

He sent Neale out with the gang detailed to heave railroad ties.

A string of flat-cars, loaded with rails and ties, stood on the track where the work of yesterday had ended.  Beyond stretched the road-bed, yellow, level, winding as far as eye could see.  The sun beat down hot; the dry, scorching desert breeze swept down from the bare hills, across the waste; dust flew up in puffs; uprooted clumps of sage, like balls, went rolling along; and everywhere the veils of heat rose from the sun-baked earth.