September came and half sped by before Neale, with Larry and an
engineer named Service, arrived at the head of Sherman Pass with
pack-burros and supplies, ready to begin the long vigil of watching
the snow drift over the line in winter.
They were to divide the pass between them, Service to range the
upper half and Neale the lower. As there were but few trees up in
that locality, and these necessary for a large supply of fire-wood,
they decided not to attempt building a cabin for Service, but to dig
a dugout. This was a hole hollowed out in a hillside and covered
with a roof of branches and earth.
No small job, indeed, was it to build a satisfactory dugout--one
that was not conspicuous from every ridge for Indian eyes to spy
out--and warm and dry and safe. They started several before they
completed one.
"It'll be lonesomer for you--and colder," observed Neale.
"I won't mind that," replied the other.
"We'll see each other before the snow flies, surely."
"Not unless you come up. I'm no climber. I've got a bad leg."
"I'll come, then. We may have weeks of fine weather yet. I'm going
to hunt some."
"Good luck to you."
So these comrades parted. They were only two of the intrepid
engineers selected to brave the perils and hardships of that wild
region in winter, to serve the great cause.
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