“No!”

“But, pardon me, General.  If—­as you intimate—­there was an attachment between him and my unfortunate child, would he have become an associate of gamblers and vicious women?”

“He would not.  The nature of his fury, the retribution he visited upon this damned Spaniard, prove the manner of man he is.”

“Wild indeed.  But hardly from a sense of loyalty.  These camps breed blood-spillers.  I heard you say that.”

“You’ll hear me say something more, presently,” retorted the other, with heat scarcely controlled.  “But we’re wasting time.  I don’t insist that you see Neale.  That’s your affair.  It seems to me the least you could do would be to thank him.  I certainly advise you not to offer him gold.  I do insist, however, that you let him see the girl!”

“No!”

“But, man....  Say, McDermott, go fetch Neale in here.”

Allie Lee heard all this strange talk with consternation.  An irresistible magnet drew her toward those curtains, which she grasped with trembling hands, ready, but not able, to part them and enter the room.  It seemed that in there was a friend of Neale’s whom she was going to love, and an enemy whom she was going to hate.  As for Neale seeing her—­at once—­only death could rob her of that.

“General Lodge, I have no sympathy for Neale,” came the cold voice of Allison Lee.

There was no reply.  Some one coughed.  Footsteps sounded in the hallway, and a hum of distant voices.

“You forget,” continued Lee, “what happened not many hours ago when your train was saved by that dare-devil Casey—­the little book held tight in his locked teeth—­the letter meant for this Neale from one of Benton’s camp-women....  Your engineer read enough.  You heard.  I heard....  A letter from a dying woman.  She accused Neale of striking her—­of killing her....  She said she was dying, but she loved him....  Do you remember that, General Lodge?”

“Yes, alas! ...  Lee, I don’t deny that.  But—­”

“There are no buts.”

“Lee, you’re hard, hard as steel.  Appearances seem against Neale.  I don’t seek to extenuate them.  But I know men.  Neale might have fallen—­it seems he must have.  These are terrible times.  In anger or drink Neale might have struck this woman....  But kill her—­No!”

A gleam pierced Allie Lee’s dark bewilderment.  They meant Beauty Stanton, that beautiful, fair woman with such a white, soft bosom and such sad eyes—­she whom Larry King had shot.  What a tangle of fates and lives!  She could tell them why Beauty Stanton was dying.  Then other words, like springing fire, caught Allie’s thought, and a sickening ripple of anguish convulsed her.  They believed Beauty Stanton had loved Neale—­had—­Allie would have died before admitting that last thought to her consciousness.  For a second the room turned black.  Her hold on the curtains kept her from falling.  With frantic and terrible earnestness—­the old dominance Neale had acquired over her—­she clung to the one truth that mattered.  She loved Neale—­ belonged to him—­and he was there!  That they were about to meet again was as strange and wonderful a thing as had ever happened.  What had she not endured?  What must he have gone through?  The fiery, stinging nature of her new and sudden pain she could not realize.