Under a sign, “Hotel,” he entered a door in a clapboard house.  The place was as crude as an unfinished barn.  Paying in advance for lodgings, he went to the room shown him—­a stall with a door and a bar, a cot and a bench, a bowl and a pitcher.  Through cracks he could see out over an uneven stretch of tents and houses.  Toward the edge of town stood a long string of small tents and several huge ones, which might have been the soldiers’ quarters.

Neale went out in search of a meal and entered the first restaurant.  It was merely a canvas house stretched over poles, with compartments at the back.  High wooden benches served as tables, low benches as seats.  The floor was sand.  At one table sat a Mexican, an Irishman, and a Negro.  The Irishman was drunk.  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.  The waiter brought his dinner, which turned out to be a poor one at a high price.  After eating, Neale went out and began to saunter along the walk.  The sun had set and the wind had gone down.  There was no flying dust.  The street was again crowded with men, but nothing like it had been after the arrival of the train.  No one paid much attention to Neale.  On that walk he counted nineteen saloons, and probably some of the larger places were of like nature, but not so wide open to the casual glance.

Neale strolled through the town from end to end, and across the railroad outside the limits, to a high bank, where he sat down.  The desert was beautiful away to the west, with its dull, mottled hues backed by gold and purple, with its sweep and heave and notched horizon.  Near at hand it seemed drab and bare.  He watched a long train of flat and box cars come in, and saw that every car swarmed with soldiers and laborers.  The train discharged its load of thousands, and steamed back for more.