“Is Cheyenne as tough as Julesburg?” asked George.
The corporal laughed.
“Wait till the pay-car comes on, along with end of track. That graveyard the Injuns planted will be ’tended to by the white men. She’s grown already.”
Down the slope of the pass and to Cheyenne the grade was marked, and knots of ants were busy—but not ants, they were men, of course. As for the smoke of the construction-train, no one could be certain that he saw it, from this distance. However, it was there, seventy-five miles distant, at end o’ track; and mile by mile, this very day, it was drawing nearer.
You could trust in Paddy Miles for that.
“Squad, halt,” barked the corporal. “Dismount. We’ll make noon camp, boys. By evening we’ll meet that wagon train, yonder, and learn the news. I expect there’ll be some surveyors I can leave you with, on the right o’ way, who’ll pass you along. The orders are for me to get back to Sanders as quick as ever I can.”
Another gang of graders were passed, on the downward trail, after the noon hour. They were digging a cut—wielding their shovels lustily, and throwing the dirt and gravel out upon the dump, while their stacked guns stood near, and the ploughs and scrapers clattered.
“Drill, you tarriers, drill!” daringly shouted Terry, as with George and the cavalry squad he rode along the line. But only two or three of the men lifted face, to stare and wipe their brows; the rest stuck to the job as if they had no time for nonsense.
Now there was an interval of a couple of miles; and then a little crew of surveyors, checking a grade already leveled. They worked with revolvers hanging at their waists, and picked up their rifles and blanket-rolls whenever they moved on with level and transit.
“Where’s your camp, boys?” queried the corporal.