sperating
to have a number of men travel leisurely in trains over the line and
criticize the labors of engineers who had toiled in heat and cold and
wet, with brain and heart in the task. But it was so.

In May, 1866, a wagon-train escorted by troops rolled into the growing
camp of North Platte, and the first man to alight was Warren Neale,
strong, active, eager-eyed as ever, but older and with face pale from
his indoor work and hope long deferred.

The first man to greet him was Larry King, in whom time did not make
changes.

They met as long-separated brothers.

"Red how're your horses?" was Neale's query, following the greeting.

"Wintered well, but cost me all I had. I'm shore busted," replied Larry.

"I've plenty of money," said Neale, "and what's mine is yours. Come on,
Red. We'll get light packs and hit the trail for the Wyoming hills."

"Wal, I reckoned so... Neale, it's shore goin' to be risky. The Injuns
are on the rampage already. You see how this heah camp has growed. Men
ridin' in all since winter broke. An' them from west tell some hard
stories."

"I've got to go," replied Neale, with emotion. "It's nearly a year since
I saw Allie. Not a word between us in all that time!... Red, I can't
stand it longer."

"Shore, I know," replied King, hastily. "You ain't reckonin' I wanted to
crawfish? I'll go. We'll pack light, hit the trail at night, an' hide up
in the daytime."

Neale had arrived in North Platte before noon, and before sunset he and
King were far out on the swelling slopes of plainland, riding toward the
west.

Traveling by night, camping by day, they soon left behind them the
monotonous plains of Nebraska. The Sioux had been active for two summers
along the southern trails of Wyoming. The Texan's long training on the
ranges stood them in good stead here. His keen eye for tracks and smoke
and distant objects, his care in hiding trails and selecting camps, and
his skill and judgment in all pertaining to the horses--these things
made the journey possible. For they saw Indian signs more than once
before the Wyoming hills loomed up in the distance. More than one
flickering camp-fire they avoided by a wide detour.

Slingerland's valley showed all the signs of early summer. The familiar
trail, however, bore no tracks of horses or man or beast. A heavy rain
had fallen recently and it would have obliterated tracks.

Neale's suspense sustained the added burden of dread. In the oppressive
silenc