“My train was to have been ambushed at Deep Cut,” he explained.  “Big force of Sioux.  We were amazed to find them so far west.  It would have been a massacre—­but for Casey....  We have no particulars yet, for the wire is cut.  But we know what Casey did.  He ran the gantlet of the Indians through that cut....  He was on a gravel-car running wild down-hill.  You know the grade, Neale....  Of course his intention was to hold up my train—­block us before we reached the ambushed cut.  There must have been a broken brake, for he derailed the car not half a mile ahead of us.  My engineer saw the runaway flat-car and feared a collision....  Casey threw a railroad tie—­on the track—­in front of him....  We found him under the car—­crushed—­ dying—­”

General Lodge’s voice thickened and slowed a little.  He looked down.  His face appeared quite pale.

Neale began to quiver in the full presaging sense of a revelation.

“My engineer, Tom Daley, reached Casey’s side just the instant before he died,” said General Lodge, resuming his story.  “In fact, Daley was the only one of us who did see Casey alive....  Casey’s last words were ‘ambush—­Sooz—­’ Deep Cut,’ and then ’me fri’nd Neale!’ ...  We were at a loss to understand what he meant—­that is, at first.  We found Casey with this little note-book and his pipe tight between his teeth.”

The chief gave the note-book to Neale, who received it with a trembling hand.

“You can see the marks of Casey’s teeth in the leather.  It was difficult to extract the book.  He held on like grim death.  Oh!  Casey was grim death....  We could not pull his black pipe out at all.  We left it between his set jaws, where it always had been—­where it belonged....  I ordered him interred that way....  So they buried him out there along the track.”  The chief’s low voice ceased, and he stood motionless a moment, his brow knotted, his eyes haunted, yet bright with a glory of tribute to a hero.

Neale heard the ticking of a watch and the murmur of the street outside.  He felt the soft little note-book in his hand.  And the strangest sensation shuddered over him.  He drew his breath sharply.

When General Lodge turned again to face him, Neale saw him differently—­aloof, somehow removed, indistinct.

“Casey meant that note-book for you,” said the general, “It belonged to the woman, Beauty Stanton.  It contained a letter, evidently written while she was dying....  This developed when Daley began to read aloud.  We all heard.  The instant I understood it was a letter intended for you I took the book.  No more was read.  We were all crowded round Daley—­curious, you know.  There were visitors on my train—­and your enemy Lee.  I’m sorry—­but, no matter.  You see it couldn’t be helped....  That’s all....”

Neale was conscious of calamity.  It lay in his hand.  “Poor old Casey!” he murmured.  Then he remembered.  Stanton dying!  What had happened?  He could not trust himself to read that message before Lodge, and, bowing, he left the room.  But he had to grope his way through the lobby, so dim had become his sight.  By the time he reached the street he had lost his self-control.  Something burnt his hand.  It was the little leather note-book.  He had not the nerve to open it.  What had been the implication in General Lodge’s strange words?