All the engineers, including the chief, though he was noncommittal,
were bitter about this expert-commissioner law. If a good road-bed
had been surveyed, the engineers knew more about it than any one
else. They were the pioneers of the work. It was exceedingly
annoying and exasperating to have a number of men travel leisurely
in trains over the line and criticize the labors of engineers who
had toiled in heat and cold and wet, with brain and heart in the
task. But it was so.
In May, 1866, a wagon-train escorted by troops rolled into the
growing camp of North Platte, and the first man to alight was Warren
Neale, strong, active, eager-eyed as ever, but older and with face
pale from his indoor work and hope long deferred.
The first man to greet him was Larry King, in whom time did not make
changes.
They met as long-separated brothers.
"Red how're your horses?" was Neale's query, following the greeting.
"Wintered well, but cost me all I had. I'm shore busted," replied
Larry.
"I've plenty of money," said Neale, "and what's mine is yours. Come
on, Red. We'll get light packs and hit the trail for the Wyoming
hills."
"Wal, I reckoned so ... Neale, it's shore goin' to be risky. The
Injuns are on the rampage already. You see how this heah camp has
growed.
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