“Slingerland, the trains—the trains will follow the laying of the rails!”
“Oho! An’ you mean thar’ll be towns grow up overnightall full of bad people who ain’t workin’ on the railroad, but jest followin’ the gold?”
“Exactly. Now listen. Remember all these mixed gangs—the gold—and the bad women—out here in the wild country—no law—no restraint—no fear, except of death—drinking-hells—gambling-hells—dancing-hells! What’s going to happen?”
The trapper meditated a while, stroking his beard, and then he said: “Wal, thar ain’t enough gold to build thet railroad—an’ if thar was it couldn’t never be done!”
“Ah!” cried Neale, raising his head sharply. “It’s a matter of gold first. Streams of gold! And then—can it be done?”
One day, as the time for Neale’s departure grew closer, Slingerland’s quiet and peaceful valley was violated by a visit from four rough-looking men.
They rode in without packs. It was significant to Neale that Larry swore at sight of them, and then in his cool, easy way sauntered between them and the cabin door, where Allie stood with astonishment fixed on her beautiful face. The Texan always packed his heavy gun, and certainly no Western men would mistake his quality. These visitors were civil enough, asked for a little tobacco, and showed no sign of evil intent.
“Way off the beaten track up hyar,” said one.
“Yes. I’m a trapper,” replied Slingerland. “Whar do you hail from?”
“Ogden. We’re packin’ east.”