“Son, will you go into the hills with me?” asked the old trapper.
“Yes, some day, when the railroad’s built,” replied Neale, thoughtfully.
Slingerland’s keen eyes quickened. “But the railroad’s about done—an’ you need a vacation,” he insisted.
“Yes,” Neale answered, dreamily.
“Son, mebbe you ought to wait awhile. You’re packin’ a bullet somewhar in your carcass.”
“It’s here,” said Neale, putting his hand to his breast, high up toward the shoulder. “I feel it—a dull, steady, weighty pain.... But that’s nothing. I hope I always have it.”
“Wal, I don’t.... An’, son, you ain’t never goin’ back to drink an’ cards-an’ all thet hell?... Not now!”
Neale’s smile was a promise, and the light of it was instantly reflected on the rugged face of the trapper.
“Reckon I needn’t asked thet. Wal, I’ll be sayin’ good-bye.... You kin expect me back some day.... To see the meetin’ of the rails from east an’ west—an’ to pack you off to my hills.”
Neale rode out of Roaring City on the work-train, sitting on a flat-car with a crowd of hairy-breasted, red-shirted laborers.