The U. P. Trail, Zane Grey [robert munsch read aloud .txt] 📗

He walked down to the construction line and went among the idle men and the strings of cars, the piles of rails and the piles of ties. He seemed to absorb in them again. Then he walked down the loose, unspiked ties to where they ended, and so on along the graded road-bed to the point where his quick eyes recognized the trouble. They swiftly took in what had been done and what had been attempted. How much needless work begun and completed in the building of the railroad! He clambered around in the sand, up and down the ravine, over the rocks, along the stream for half a mile, and it was laborious work. But how good to pant and sweat once more! He retraced his steps. Then he climbed the long slope of the hill. The wind up there blew him a welcome, and the sting and taste of dust were sweet. His steps was swift. And then again he loitered, with keen, roving glance studying the lay of the ground. Neale’s was the deductive method of arriving at conclusions. Today he was inspired. And at length there blazed suddenly his solution to the problem.

Then he gazed over the rolling hills with contemplative and dreamy vision. They were beautiful, strong, changeless—and he divined now how they might have helped him if he had only looked with seeing eyes.

Late that afternoon, tired and dusty, he tramped into the big office room. General Lodge was pacing the floor, chewing at his cigar; Baxter sat over blueprint papers, and his face was weary; Colonel Dillon, Campbell, and several other young men were there.

Neale saw that his manner of entrance, or the look of him, or both together, struck these men singularly. He laughed.

“It was great—going back to my job!” he exclaimed.

Baxter sat up. General Lodge threw away his cigar with an action that suggested a sudden vitalizing of a weary but indomitable spirit.

“Did you find the snag we’ve struck?” asked Baxter, slowly.

“No,” replied Neale.

“Aha! Well, I’ll have to take you out tomorrow and show you.”

The chief’s keen eyes began to shine as they studied Neale.

“No, couldn’t find any snag, Baxter, old boy... and the reason is because there’s no snag to find.”

Baxter stared and his worn face reddened. “Boy, somethin’s gone to your head,” he retorted.

“Wal, I should smile, as Larry would say.”

Baxter pounded the table. “Neale, it’s no smiling matter,” he said harshly. “You come back here, your eye and mind—fresh, but even so, it can’t be you make light of this difficulty. You can’t—you can’t—”

“But I do!” cried Neale, his manner subtly changing.

Baxter got up. His shaking hand rustled a paper he held. “I know you—of old. You’ve tormented me often. You’re a boy... But here—this—this thing has stumped me. I’ve had no one to help... and I’m getting old—this damned railroad has made me old. If—if you saw a way out—tell me—”

Baxter faltered. Indeed he had aged. Neale saw the growth of the great railroad with its problems in the face and voice of the old engineer.

“Listen,” said Neale, swiftly. “A half-mile down from where you struck your snag we’ll change the course of that stream... We’ll change the line—set a compound curve by intersections—and we’ll get much less than a ninety-foot grade to the mile.”

Then he turned to General Lodge. “Chief, Baxter had so many problems—so much on his mind—that he couldn’t think... The work will go on tomorrow.”

“But, Neale, you went out without any instrument,” protested the chief.

“I didn’t need one.”

“Son, are you sure? This has been a stumper. What you say—seems too good—too—”

“Am I sure?” cried Neale, gaily. “Look at Baxter’s face!”

Indeed, one look at the old engineer was confirmation enough.

Neale was made much of that night. The chief and his engineers, the officers and their wives, all vied with one another in their efforts to celebrate Neale’s return to work. The dinner party was merry, yet earnest, too. Baxter made a speech, his fine old face alight with gladness as he extolled youth and genius and the inspiring power of bright eyes. Neale had to answer. His voice was deep and full as he said that Providence had returned him to his work and to a happiness he had believed lost. He denied the genius attributed to him, but not the inspiring power of bright eyes. And he paid a fine tribute to Baxter.

Through all this gaiety and earnestness Allie’s lips were mute, and her cheeks flushed and paled by turns. It was an ordeal for her, both confusing and poignant. At last she and Neale got away alone to the cabin room where they had met earlier in the day.

They stood at the open window, close together, hands locked, gazing out over the quiet valley. The moon was full, and broad belts of silver light lay in strong contrast to black shadows. The hour was late. The sentries paced their beats.

Allie stirred and lifted her face to Neale’s. “What they said about you makes me almost as happy as to see you again,” she said.

“They said! Who? What?” asked Neale, dreamily.

“Oh, I heard, I remember!... For instance, Mr. Baxter said you had genius.”

“He was just eulogizing me,” replied Neale. “What he said about your bright eyes was more to the point, I think.”

“It’s sweet to believe I could inspire you. But I know—and you know—that if I had not been here you would have seen through the engineering problem just the same... Now, be honest.”

“Yes, I would,” replied Neale, frankly. “Though perhaps not so swiftly. I could see through stone today.”

“And that proves your worth. Your duty it always has been—to stand by your chief. Oh, I love him!... He seems so much younger today. You have encouraged them all... Oh, dear Neale, there is something noble in what you can do for him. Can’t you see it?”

“Yes, Allie, indeed I do.”

“Promise me—never to fail him again.”

“I promise.”

“No matter what happens to me. I am alive, safe, well... and I’m yours. But something might happen—you can never tell, and I don’t refer particularly to Durade and his gang. I mean, life and everything is uncertain out here. So promise me, no matter what happens, that you’ll stand by your work.”

“I promise that, too,” replied Neale, huskily. “But you frighten me. You fear—for yourself?”

“No, I don’t,” she protested.

“Fate could not be so brutal—to take you from me. Anyway, I’ll not think of it.”