Again the train started up and had scarcely gotten under way when

with jerk and bump it stopped once more. The conflict grew fiercer

as the Indians became more desperate. But evidently they were kept

from closing in, for during the thick of the heaviest volleying the

engine again began to puff and the wheels to grind. Slowly the train

moved on. Like hail the bullets pattered against the car. Smoke

drifted away on the wind.

Neale lay there, watching these cool men who fought off the savages.

No doubt Casey and Shane and McDermott were merely three of many

thousands engaged in building and defending the U. P. R. This trio

liked the fighting, perhaps better than the toiling. Casey puffed

his old black pipe, grinned and aimed, shot and reloaded, sang his

quaint song, and joked with his comrades, all in the same cool,

quiet way. If he knew that the shadow of death hung over the train,

he did not show it. He was not a thinker. Casey was a man of action.

Only once he yelled, and that was when he killed the Indian on the

pinto mustang.

Shane grew less loquacious and he dropped and fumbled over his

rifle, but he kept on shooting. Neale saw him feel the hot muzzle of

his gun and shake his bandaged head. The blood trickled down his

cheek.

McDermott plied his weapon, and ever and anon he would utter some

pessimistic word, or presage dire disaster, or remind Casey that his

scalp was destined to dry in a Sioux's lodge, or call on Shane to

hit something to save his life, or declare the engine was off the

track. He rambled on. But it was all talk. The man had gray hairs

and he was a born fighter.