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Success did not attend the efforts of either party, and at sunset, when all had wearily returned to camp, Larry King was still absent. Then he was given up for lost. But before dark the tall cowboy limped into camp, dusty and torn, carrying Neale's long tripod and surveying instrument. It looked the worse for a fall, but apparently was not badly damaged.
If anyone questions this judgment, let him toil through Neale's and Littledale's Translations of the Primitive Liturgies and see whether he can find six, nay, three, consecutive lines which he would be willing to see introduced into our own Communion Office.
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.
They had run the line up over Sherman Pass, and now it seemed their difficulties were to lessen as the line began to descend from the summit of the divide. Neale's absence had been noticed, for his services were in demand. But all the men rejoiced in his rescue of the little girl, and were sympathetic and kind in their inquiries.
Well, what was deepest and most living in her? That was what she was trying to find out. That was what those voices were trying to cry her down from finding. For the first time in all her life, she drew an inspiration from Neale's resistance to opposition, knew something of the joy of battle. What right had those people to cry her down? She would not submit to it.
Much still baffled him, yet gradually more and more of what had happened became clear specifically in his memory. He could not think from the present back over the past. He had to ponder the other way. One day, leaning on his sledge, Neale's torturing self, morbid, inquisitive, growing by what it fed on, whispered another question to his memory. "What were some of the last words she spoke to me?"
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.
"When shall we get married?" he asked, presently. This simple question caused Allie to avert her face, and just at that moment there came a knock on the door. Allie made a startled movement. "Come in," called Neale. It was his chief who entered. General Lodge's face wore the smile that softened it. Then it showed surprise. "Neale, you're transfigured!" Neale's laugh rang out.
"Not to my knowledge, Mr. Walford," answered Neale, who knew well that the old innkeeper was hand-in-glove with the Scarnham police, and invariably kept himself well primed with information about their doings. "I should think you know nearly everything just as much as I do more, perhaps." The landlord poked a stout forefinger into Neale's waistcoat. "Aye!" he said.
It was through Neale's habit of carrying the rifle out on his surveying trips that the second incident came about. One day in early summer Neale was waiting near a spring for Larry to arrive with the horses. On this occasion the cowboy was long in coming. Neale fell asleep in the shade of some bushes and was awakened by the thud of hoofs.
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