weapon and fired.
The Indian fell and lay still.

Larry's drink was rudely disturbed by plunging horses. When he had
quieted them he turned to Neale.

"So you-all was heah. Shore you scared me. What'd you shoot at?"

Neale stared and pointed. His hand shook. He felt cold, sick, hard, yet
he held the rifle ready to fire again. Larry dropped the bridles and,
pulling his gun, he climbed the bank with unusual quickness for him.
Neale saw him stand over the Indian.

"Wal, plumb center!" he called, with a new note in his usually indolent
voice. "Come heah!"

"No!" shouted Neale, violently. "Is he dead?"

"Daid! Wal, I should smile.... An' mebbe he ain't alone."

The cowboy ran down to his horse and Neale followed suit. They rode up
on the ridge to reconnoiter, but saw no moving objects.

"I reckon thet redskin was shore a-goin' to plug me," drawled Larry, as
they trotted homeward.

"He certainly was," replied Neale, with a shudder.

Larry reached a long hand to Neale's shoulder. He owed his life to his
friend. But he did not speak of that. Instead he glanced wisely at Neale
and laughed.

"Kinda weak in the middle, eh?" he said. "I felt thet way once.... Pard,
if you ever get r'iled you'll be shore bad."

For Neale shooting at an Indian was strikingly different from boyish
dreams of doing it. He had acted so swiftly that it seemed it must have
been instinctive. Yet thinking back, slowly realizing the nature of
the repellent feeling within him, he remembered a bursting gush of hot
blood, a pantherish desire to leap, to strike--and then cool, stern
watchfulness. The whole business had been most unpleasant.

Upon arriving at camp they reported the incident, and they learned
Indians had showed up at various points along the line. Troopers had
been fired upon. Orders were once more given that all work must be
carried on under the protection of the soldiers, so that an ambush would
be unlikely. Meanwhile a detachment of troops would be sent out to drive
back the band of Sioux.

These two hard experiences made actuality out of what Neale's chief had
told him would be a man's game in a wild time. This work on the U. P.
was not play or romance. But the future unknown called alluringly to
him. In his moments of leisure, by the camp-fire at night, he reflected
and dreamed and wondered. And these reflections always turned finally to
memory of Allie.

The girl he had saved seemed far away in mind as well as in distance.