The Negro came to wait on
Neale, and, receiving an order, went to the kitchen. The Irishman
sidled over to Neale.
"Say, did yez hear about Casey?" he inquired, in very friendly
fashion.
"No, I didn't," replied Neale. He remembered Casey, the flagman, but
probably there were many Caseys in that camp.
"There wus a foight, out on the line, yisteddy," went on the fellow,
"an' the dom' redskins chased the gang to the troop-train. Phwat do
you think? A bullet knocked Casey's pipe out of his mouth, as he wus
runnin', an' b'gorra, Casey sthopped fer it an' wus all shot up."
"Is he dead?" inquired Neale.
"Not yit. No bullets can't kill Casey."
"Was his pipe a short, black one?"
"It wus thot."
"And did Casey have it everlastingly in his mouth?"
"He shlept in it."
Neale knew that particular Casey, and he examined this loquacious
Irishman more closely. He recognized him as Pat Shane, one of the
trio he had known during the survey in the hills two years ago. The
recognition was like a stab to Neale. Memory of the Wyoming hills--
of the lost Allie Lee--cut him to the quick. Shane had aged greatly.
There were scars on his face that Neale had not seen before.
"Mister, don't I know yez?" leered Shane, studying Neale with bleary
eyes.
Neale did not care to be remembered.
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