Baxter and Neale, with the four young engineers, took to the several

rooms of the log cabin, where each selected an aperture between the

logs or a window through which to fire upon the Indians. But Neale

soon ascertained that there was nothing to shoot at, outside of some

white puffs of smoke rising from behind rocks on the slope. There

was absolutely not a sign of an Indian. The graders were firing, but

Neale believed they would have done better to save their powder.

Bullets pattered against the logs; now and then a leaden pellet sang

through a window, to thud into the wall. Neale shut the heavy door

leading from the cabin into the engineers' quarters, for bullets

were ripped through from one side to the other of this canvas-and-

clapboard structure. Then Neale passed from room to room, searching

for Allie. Two of the engineers were kneeling at a chink between the

logs, aiming and firing in great excitement. Campbell had sustained

a slight wound and looked white with rage and fear. Baxter was

peeping from behind the rude jamb of a window.

"Nothin' to shoot at, boy," he said, in exasperation.

"Wait. Listen to that bunch of Irish shoot. They're wasting powder."

"We've plenty of ammunition. Let 'em shoot. They may not hit any

redskins, but they'll scare 'em."

"We can hold out here--if the troopers hurry back," said Neale.

"Sure. But maybe they're hard at it, too. I've no hope this is the

same bunch of Sioux that held up the work-train."

"Neither have I. And if the troops don't get here before dark--"
Neale halted, and Baxter shook his gray head.

"That would be bad," he said. "But we've squeezed out of narrow

places before, buildin' this U. P. R."

Neale found the women in the large room, between the corner of the

walls and a huge stone fireplace. They were quiet. Allie leaped at

sight of Neale. Her hands trembled as she grasped him.

"Neale!" she whispered. "I saw Fresno!"

"Who's he?" queried Neale, blankly.