“How far do you want to call it, general?” asked General Corse.
“Seven miles and five-eighths, sir. That won’t miss it more than a foot. And I also call it a mighty good day’s work. Come on. Let’s go to supper.” With that, General “Jack,” champion track-layer of the continent, turned on his heel and strode off. He didn’t seem to care anything about the thousand dollars, or about Jenny.
“Close onto eight, annyhow,” Pat puffed. “’Twill be somethin’ for them pig-tails to chaw on.”
The tired men gave a cheer, and looking for coats and hats surged to meet the boarding-train or else to their camps. The crowd raced for the construction-train, and a ride back to Bryan. Helping the weeping Virgie, Terry and George hastened for the cab of 119. They passed Jenny—or what had been Jenny. She was dead; she didn’t give a sign of knowing who they were, although her eyes were staring wide open.
“Don’t suppose there’s any use in trying to bury her,” George proposed, as they paused a moment, while Virgie ran on blubbering.
“Nope. Who’d lend a hand at it? What does the U. P. care about a horse or mule?” Terry demanded, thickly.
“She died in line of duty, just the same; like old Shep was killed in action.”
“I know it. But that’s happening to something or somebody, about every day; and doesn’t matter, as long as the rails move forward.”
Remembering the handcar crew and the freight-train crew, and Percy Browne and Surveyor Hills (who was younger still), and now counting Shep and Jenny, it did seem as though the road was taking a heavy toll. There were many others, besides—somebody or something almost every day, as Terry had said.
Each bestowing upon Jenny’s cold hide a last pat, they followed after Virgie.