Then, hunching low in the saddle, Neale hung on. Slingerland was close to the train; Brush on his side appeared to be about out of danger; the pursuit had narrowed down to Neale and Larry. The anger and the grimness faded from Neale. He did not want to go plunging down in front of those lean wild mustangs, to be ridden over and trampled and mutilated. The thought sickened him. The roar of pursuing hoofs grew distinct, but Neale did not look back.
Another roar broke on his ear—the clamor of the Irish soldier-laborers as they yelled and fired.
“Pull him! Pull him!” came the piercing cry from Larry.
Neale was about to ride his frantic horse straight into the work-train. Desperately he hauled the horse up and leaped off. Larry was down, waiting, and his mount went plunging away. Bullets were pattering against the sides of the cars, from which puffed streaks of flame and smoke.
“Up wid yez, lads!” sang out a cheery voice. Casey’s grin and black pipe appeared over the rim of the car, and his big hands reached down.
One quick and straining effort and Neale was up, over the side, to fall on the floor in a pile of sand and gravel. All whirled dim round him for a second. His heart labored. He was wet and hot and shaking.
“Shure yez ain’t hit now!” exclaimed Casey.
Larry’s nervous hands began to slide and press over Neale’s quivering body.
“No—I’m—all—safe!” panted Neale.
The engine whistled shrilly, as if in defiance of the Indians, and with a jerk and rattle the train started.