These two hard experiences made actuality out of what Neale’s chief had told him would be a man’s game in a wild time.  This work on the U. P. was not play or romance.  But the future unknown called alluringly to him.  In his moments of leisure, by the camp-fire at night, he reflected and dreamed and wondered.  And these reflections always turned finally to memory of Allie.

The girl he had saved seemed far away in mind as well as in distance.  He tried to call up her face—­to see it in the ruddy embers.  But he could visualize only her eyes.  They were unforgettable—­the somber, haunting shadows of thoughts of death.  Yet he remembered that once or twice they had changed, had become wonderful, with promise of exceeding beauty.

It seemed incredible that he had pledged himself.  But he had no regrets.  Time had not made any difference, only it had shown him that his pity and tenderness were not love.  Still there had been another emotion connected with Allie—­a strange thing too subtle and brief for him to analyze; when away from her he lost it.  Could that have been love?  He thought of the day she waded the brook, the feel of her as he carried her in his arms; and of that last sight of her, on her knees in the cabin, her face hidden, her slender form still as a statue.  His own heart was touched.  Yet this was not love.  It was enough for Neale to feel that he had done what he would have applauded in another man, that he seemed the better for his pledge, that the next meeting with Allie was one he looked forward to with a strange, new interest.

September came and half sped by before Neale, with Larry and an engineer named Service, arrived at the head of Sherman Pass with pack-burros and supplies, ready to begin the long vigil of watching the snow drift over the line in winter.

They were to divide the pass between them, Service to range the upper half and Neale the lower.  As there were but few trees up in that locality, and these necessary for a large supply of fire-wood, they decided not to attempt building a cabin for Service, but to dig a dugout.  This was a hole hollowed out in a hillside and covered with a roof of branches and earth.

No small job, indeed, was it to build a satisfactory dugout—­one that was not conspicuous from every ridge for Indian eyes to spy out—­and warm and dry and safe.  They started several before they completed one.

“It’ll be lonesomer for you—­and colder,” observed Neale.

“I won’t mind that,” replied the other.

“We’ll see each other before the snow flies, surely.”

“Not unless you come up.  I’m no climber.  I’ve got a bad leg.”

“I’ll come, then.  We may have weeks of fine weather yet.  I’m going to hunt some.”

“Good luck to you.”

So these comrades parted.  They were only two of the intrepid engineers selected to brave the perils and hardships of that wild region in winter, to serve the great cause.