It was a tribute as generous as it was diplomatic, and its effect was instantaneous.
"It goes, chief," exclaimed the engineer, with the nearest approach to real enthusiasm he ever permitted himself. "The limit! An' they'll need a big bank roll of fight to call my hand."
Half an hour later Peigan Charley was surprised into wakefulness under the southern embankment, where he had fallen asleep over his pipe. His boss was standing over him, gazing down at him with steady, gray, unsmiling eyes. The scout was sitting up in a moment. He was not yet certain what the visitation portended.
"Had a good sleep, Peigan?" Kars demanded,
"Him sleep plenty, boss."
"Good."
Kars turned and glanced out over the great volume of water passing down the river in a ponderous tide. Peigan Charley waited in mute, unquestioning fashion for what was to come.
Presently Kars turned back to his trusted henchman. He began to talk rapidly. And as he talked the scout thrust his pipe away into a pocket in his ragged coat, which had once formed part of his boss's wardrobe. He stood up. Nor did he interrupt. The keen light in his big black eyes alone betrayed any emotion. There was no doubt as to the nature of that emotion. For the sparkle in them grew, and robbed them of the last shadow of their native lack of expression.
Following upon his boss's words came the Indian's brief but cordial expression of appreciation. Then came a few minutes of sharp question, and eager reply. And, at last, came Kars' final injunctions.
"Well, you'll get right up to the cook-house and eat your belly full. Get fixed that way good. Maybe you'll need it. Then start right in, when it's dark, and don't pass word to a soul, or I'll rawhide you. Get this good. If the neches get wise to you the game's played, and we've lost."