He
tried to call up her face--to see it in the ruddy embers. But he could
visualize only her eyes. They were unforgettable--the somber, haunting
shadows of thoughts of death. Yet he remembered that once or twice they
had changed, had become wonderful, with promise of exceeding beauty.

It seemed incredible that he had pledged himself. But he had no regrets.
Time had not made any difference, only it had shown him that his pity
and tenderness were not love. Still there had been another emotion
connected with Allie--a strange thing too subtle and brief for him to
analyze; when away from her he lost it. Could that have been love? He
thought of the day she waded the brook, the feel of her as he carried
her in his arms; and of that last sight of her, on her knees in the
cabin, her face hidden, her slender form still as a statue. His own
heart was touched. Yet this was not love. It was enough for Neale to
feel that he had done what he would have applauded in another man, that
he seemed the better for his pledge, that the next meeting with Allie
was one he looked forward to with a strange, new interest.

September came and half sped by before Neale, with Larry and an engineer
named Service, arrived at the head of Sherman Pass with pack-burros and
supplies, ready to begin the long vigil of watching the snow drift over
the line in winter.

They were to divide the pass between them, Service to range the upper
half and Neale the lower. As there were but few trees up in that
locality, and these necessary for a large supply of fire-wood, they
decided not to attempt building a cabin for Service, but to dig a
dugout. This was a hole hollowed out in a hillside and covered with a
roof of branches and earth.

No small job, indeed, was it to build a satisfactory dugout--one that
was not conspicuous from every ridge for Indian eyes to spy out--and
warm and dry and safe. They started several before they completed one.

"It'll be lonesomer for you--and colder," observed Neale.

"I won't mind that," replied the other.

"We'll see each other before the snow flies, surely."

"Not unless you come up. I'm no climber. I've got a bad leg."

"I'll come, then. We may have weeks of fine weather yet. I'm going to
hunt some."

"Good luck to you."

So these comrades parted. They were only two of the intrepid engineers
selected to brave the perils and hardships of that wild region in
winter, to serve the great cause.

The golds and purples