gambler--but gentleman. I’ve heard strange rumors about you, and now I
see for myself. Are you Allie Lee?”
Allie’s heart seemed to come to her throat. She shook all over, and she
gazed with piercing intensity at the man. When he had arisen from the
table he had appeared the same black-garbed, hard-faced gambler as any
of the others. But looked at closely, he was different. Underneath the
cold, expressionless face worked something mobile and soft. His eyes
were of crystal clearness and remarkable for a penetrating power. They
shone with wonder, curiosity, sympathy.
Allie instinctively trusted the voice and then consciously trusted the
man. “Oh, sir, I am--distressed--ill from fright!” she faltered. “If I
only dared--”
“You dare tell me,” he interrupted, swiftly. “Be quick. Are you here
willingly with this man?”
“Oh no!”
“What then?”
“Oh, sir--you do not think--I--”
“I knew you were good, innocent--the moment I laid eyes on you,... Who
are you?”
“Allie Lee. My father is Allison Lee.”
“Whew!” The gambler whistled softly and, turning, glanced at the door,
then beckoned Ancliffe. The Englishman arose. In the adjoining rooms
sounds of strife were abating.
“Ancliffe, this girl is Allie Lee--daughter of Allison Lee--a big man
of the U.P.R.... Something terribly wrong here.” And he whispered to
Ancliffe.
Allie became aware of the Englishman’s scrutiny, doubtful, sad, yet kind
and curious. Indeed these men had heard of her.
“Hough, you must be mistaken,” he said.
Allie felt a sudden rush of emotion. Her opportunity had come. “I am
Allie Lee. My mother ran off with Durade--to California. He used her as
a lure to draw men to his gambling-hells--as he uses me now... Two years
ago we escaped--started east with a caravan. The Indians attacked us. I
crawled under a rock--escaped the massacre. I--”
“Never mind all your story,” interrupted Hough. “We haven’t time for
that. I believe you... You are held a close prisoner?”
“Oh yes--locked and barred. I never get out. I have been threatened
so--that until now I feared to tell anyone. But Durade--he is going mad.
I--I can bear it no longer.”
“Miss Lee, you shall not bear it,” declared Ancliffe. “We’ll take you
out of here.”
“How?” queried Hough, shortly.
Ancliffe was for walking right out with her, but Hough shook his head.
“Listen,” began Allie, hurriedly. “He would kill me the instant I tried
to escape. He loved my mother. He does not believe she is dead. He lives
only to be revenged upon her... He has a desperate gang here. Fresno,
Mull, Stitt, Black, Grist, Dayss, a greaser called Mex, and others--all
the worst of bad men. You cannot get me out of here alive except by some
trick.”
“How about bringing the troops?”
“Durade would kill me the first thing.”
“Could we steal you out at night?”
“I don’t see how. They are awake all night. I am barred in, watched
... Better work on Durade’s weakness. Gold! He’s mad for gold. When the
fever’s on him he might gamble me away--or sell me for gold.”
Hough’s cold eyes shone like fire in ice. He opened his lips to
speak--then quickly motioned Ancliffe back to the table. They had just
seated themselves when the two gamblers returned, followed by Durade. He
was rubbing his hands in satisfaction.
“What was the fuss about?” queried Hough, tipping the ashes off his
cigar.
“Some drunks after money they had lost.”
“And got thrown out for their pains?” inquired Ancliffe.
“Yes. Mull and Fresno are out there now.”
The game was taken up again. Allie sensed a different note in it. The
gambler Hough now faced her in his position at the table; and behind
every card he played there seemed to be intense purpose and tremendous
force. Ancliffe soon left the game. But he appeared fascinated where
formerly he had been indifferent. Soon it developed that Hough, by his
spirit and skill, was driving his opponents, inciting their passion for
play, working upon their feelings. Durade seemed the weakest gambler,
though he had the best luck. Good luck balanced his excited play. The
two other gamblers pitted themselves against Hough.
The shadows of evening had begun to darken the room when Durade called
for lights. A slim, sloe-eyed, pantherish-moving Mexican came in to
execute the order. He wore a belt with a knife in it and looked like a
brigand. When he had lighted the lamps he approached Durade and spoke in
Spanish. Durade replied in the same tongue. Then the Mexican went out.
One of the gamblers lost and arose from the table.
“Gentlemen, may I go out for more money and return to the game?” he
asked.
“Certainly,” replied Hough.
Durade assented with bad grace.
The game went on and grew in interest. Probably the Mexican had reported
the fact of its possibilities, or perhaps Durade had sent out word of
some nature. For one by one his villainous lieutenants came in, stepping
softly, gleaming-eyed.
“Durade, have you stopped play outside?” queried Hough.
“Supper-time. Not much going on,” replied Mull.
Hough watched this speaker with keen coolness.
“I did not address you,” he said.
Durade, catching the drift, came out of his absorption of play long
enough to say that with a big game at hand he did not want to risk any
interruption. He spoke frankly, but he did not look sincere.
Presently the second gambler announced that he would consider it a favor
to be allowed to go out and borrow money. Then he left hurriedly. Durade
and Hough played alone; and the luck seesawed from one to the other
until both the other players returned. They did not come alone. Two
more black-frocked, black-sombreroed, cold-faced individuals accompanied
them.
“May we sit in?” they asked.
“With pleasure,” replied Hough.
Durade frowned and the glow left his face. Though the luck was still
with him, it was evident that he did not favor added numbers. Yet the
man’s sensitiveness to any change immediately manifested itself when he
won the first large stake. His radiance returned and also his vanity.
Hough interrupted the game by striking the table with his hand. The
sound seemed hard, metallic, yet his hand was empty. Any attentive
observer would have become aware that Hough had a gun up his sleeve. But
Durade did not catch the significance.
“I object to that man leaning over the table,” said Hough, and he
pointed to the lounging Fresno.
“Thet so?” leered the ugly giant. He looked bold and vicious.
“Do not address me,” ordered Hough.
Fresno backed away silently from the cold-faced gambler.
“Don’t mind him, Hough,” protested Durade. “They’re all excited. Big
stakes always work them up.”
“Send them out so we can play without annoyance.”
“No,” replied Durade, sharply. “They can watch the game.”
“Ancliffe,” called Hough, just as sharply, “fetch some of my friends to
watch this game. Don’t forget Neale and Larry King.”
Allie, who was watching and listening with strained faculties, nearly
fainted at the sudden mention of her lover Neale and her friend Larry.
She went blind for a second; the room turned round and round; she
thought her heart would burst with joy.
The Englishman hurried out.
Durade looked up with a passionate and wolfish swiftness.
“What do you mean?”
“I want some of my friends to watch the game,” replied Hough.
“But I don’t allow that red-headed cowboy gun-fighter to come into my
place.”
“That is regrettable, for you will make an exception this time...
Durade, you don’t stand well in Benton. I do.”
The Spaniard’s eyes glittered. “You insinuate--SENOR--”
“Yes,” interposed Hough, and his cold, deliberate voice dominated the
explosive Durade. “Do you remember a gambler named Jones?... He was
shot in this room... If _I_ should happen to be shot here--in the same
way--you and your gang would not last long in Benton!”
Durade’s face grew livid with rage and fear. And in that moment the mask
was off. The nature of the Spaniard stood forth. Another manifest fact
was that Durade had not before matched himself against a gambler of
Hough’s caliber.
“Well, are you only a bluff or do we go on with the game?” inquired
Hough.
Durade choked back his rage and signified with a motion of his hand that
play should be resumed.
Allie fastened her eyes upon the door. She was in a tumult of emotion.
Despite that, her mind revolved wild and intermittent ideas as to the
risk of letting Neale see and recognize her there. Yet her joy was so
overpowering that she believed if he entered the door she would rush to
him and trust in God to save her. In God and Reddy King! She remembered
the cowboy, and a thrill linked all her emotions. Durade and his gang
would face a terrible reckoning if Reddy King ever entered to see her
there.
Moments passed. The gambling went on. The players spoke low; the
spectators were silent. Discordant sounds from outside disturbed the
quiet.
Allie stared fixedly at the door. Presently it opened. Ancliffe entered
with several men, all quick in movement, alert of eye. But Neale and
Larry King were not among them. Allie’s heart sank like lead. The
revulsion of feeling, the disappointment, was sickening. She saw
Ancliffe shake his head, and divined in the action that he had not been
able to find the friends Hough wanted particularly. Then Allie felt
the incredible strangeness of being glad that Neale was not to find her
there--that Larry was not to throw his guns on Durade’s crowd. There
might be a chance of her being liberated without violence.
This reaction left her weak and dazed for a while. Still she heard the
low voices of the gamesters, the slap of cards and clink of gold. Her
wits had gone from her ever since the mention of Neale. She floundered
in a whirl of thoughts and fears until gradually she recovered
self-possession. Whatever instinct or love or spirit had guided her
had done so rightly. She had felt Neale’s presence in Benton. It was
stingingly sweet to realize that. Her heart swelled with pangs of
fullest measure. Surely he again believed her dead. Soon he would
come upon her--face to face--somewhere. He would learn she was
alive--unharmed--true to him with all her soul. Indians, renegade
Spaniards, Benton with its terrors, a host of EVIL men, not these nor
anything else could keep her from Neale forever. She had believed that
always, but never as now, in the clearness of this beautiful spiritual
insight. Behind her belief was something unfathomable and great. Not
the movement of progress as typified by those men who had dreamed of the
railroad, nor the spirit of the unconquerable engineers as typified by
Neale, nor the wildness of wild youth like Larry King, nor the heroic
labor and simplicity and sacrifice of common men, nor the inconceivable
passion of these gamblers for gold, nor the mystery hidden in the mad
laughter of these fallen women, strange and sad on the night wind--not
any of these things nor all of them, wonderful and incalculable as they
were, loomed so great as the spirit that upheld Allie Lee.
When she raised her head again the gambling scene had changed. Only
three men played--Hough, Durade, and another. And even as Allie looked
this third player threw his cards into the deck and with silent gesture
rose from the table to take a position with the other black-garbed
gamblers standing behind Hough. The blackness of their attire contrasted
strongly with the whiteness of their faces. They had lost gold, which
fact meant little to them. But there was something big and significant
in their presence behind Hough. Gamblers leagued against a crooked
gambling-hell! Durade had lost a fortune, yet not all his fortune. He
seemed a haggard, flaming-eyed wreck of the once debonair Durade. His
hair was wet and dishevelled, his collar was open, his hand wavered.
Blood trickled down from his lower lip. He saw nothing except the gold,
the cards, and that steel-nerved, gray-faced, implacable Hough. Behind
him lined up his gang, nervous, strained, frenzied, with eyes on the
gold--hate-filled, murderous eyes.
Allie slipped into her room, leaving the door ajar so she could peep
out, and there she paced the floor, waiting, listening for what she
dared not watch. The gambler Hough would win all that Durade had, and
then stake it against her. That was what Allie believed. She had no
doubts of Hough’s winning her, too, but she doubted if he could take her
away. There would be a fight. And if there was a fight, then that must
be the end of Durade. For this gambler, Hough, with his unshakable
nerve, his piercing eyes, his wonderful white hands, swift as light--he
would at the slightest provocation kill Durade.
Suddenly Allie was arrested by a loud, long suspiration--a heave of
heavy breaths in the room of the gamblers. A chair scraped, noisily
breaking the silence, which instantly clamped down again.
“Durade, you’re done!” It was the cold, ringing voice of Hough.
Allie ran to the door, peeped through the crack. Durade sat there like
a wild beast bound. Hough stood erect over a huge golden pile on the
table. The others seemed stiff in their tracks.
“There’s a fortune here,” went on Hough, indicating the gold. “All I
had--all our gentlemen opponents had--all YOU had... I have won it all!”
Durade’s eyes seemed glued to that dully glistening heap. He could not
even look up at the coldly passionate Hough.
“All! All!” echoed Durade.
Then Hough, like a striking hawk, bent toward the Spaniard. “Durade,
have you anything more to bet?”
Durade was the only man who moved. Slowly he arose, shaking in every
limb, and not till he became erect did he unrivet his eyes from that
yellow heap on the table.
“Senor--do you--mock me?” he gasped, hoarsely.
“I offer you my winnings--ALL--FOR THE GIRL YOU HAVE HERE!”
“You are crazy!” ejaculated the Spaniard.
“Certainly... But hurry! Do you accept?”
“Senor, I would not sell that girl for all the gold of the Indies,”
replied Durade, instantly. No vacillation--no indecision in him here.
Hough’s offer held no lure for this Spaniard who had committed many
crimes for gold.
“BUT YOU’LL GAMBLE HER!” asserted Hough, and now indeed his words were
mockery. In one splendid gesture he swept his winnings into the middle
of the table, and the gold gave out a ringing clash. As a gambler he
read the soul of his opponent.
Durade’s jaw worked convulsively, as if he had difficulty in holding it
firm enough for utterance. What he would not sell for any price he would
risk on a gambler’s strange faith in chance.
“All my winnings against this girl,” went on Hough, relentlessly. Scorn
and a taunting dare and an insidious persuasion mingled with the passion
of his offer. He knew how to inflame. Durade, as a gambler, was a
weakling in the grasp of a giant. “Come!... Do you accept?”
Durade’s body leaped, as if an irresistible current had been shot into
it.
“Si, Senor!” he cried, with power and joy in his voice. In that moment,
no doubt the greatest in his life of gambling, he unconsciously went
back to the use of his mother tongue.
Actuated by one impulse, Hough and Durade sat down at the table. The
others crowded around. Fresno lurched close, with a wicked gleam in his
eyes.
“I was onto Hough,” he said to his nearest ally. “It’s the girl he’s
after!”
The gamblers cut the cards for who should deal. Hough won. For him
victory seemed to exist in the suspense of the very silence, in the
charged atmosphere of the room. He began to shuffle the cards. His hands
were white, shapely, perfect, like a woman’s, and yet not beautiful.
The spirit, the power, the ruthless nature in them had no relation to
beauty. How marvelously swift they moved--too swift for the gaze to
follow. And the incomparable dexterity with which he manipulated the
cards gave forth the suggestion as to what he could do with them. In
those gleaming hands, in the flying cards, in the whole intenseness of
the gambler there showed the power and the intent to win. The crooked
Durade had met his match, a match who toyed with him. If there were an
element of chance in this short game it was that of the uncertainty of
life, not of Durade’s chance to win. He had no chance. No eye, no
hand could have justly detected Hough in the slightest deviation from
honesty. Yet all about the man in that tense moment proved what a
gambler really was.
Durade called in a whisper for two cards, and he received them with
trembling fingers. Terrible hope and exultation transformed his face.
“I’ll take three,” said Hough, calmly. With deliberate care and
slowness, in strange contrast to his former motions, he took, one by
one, three cards from the deck. Then he looked at them, and just as
calmly dropped all his cards, face up, on the table, disclosing what he
knew to be an unbeatable hand.
Durade stared. A thick cry escaped him.
Swiftly Hough rose. “Durade, I have won.” Then he turned to his friends.
“Gentlemen, please pocket this gold.”
With that he stepped to Allie’s door. He saw her peering out. “Come,
Miss Lee,” he said.
Allie stepped out, trembling and unsteady on her feet.
The Spaniard now seemed compelled to look up from the gold Hough’s
comrades were pocketing. When he saw Allie another slow and remarkable
transformation came over him. At first he started slightly at Hough’s
hand on Allie’s arm. The radiance of his strange passion for gold, that
had put a leaping glory into his haggard face, faded into a dark and
mounting surprise. A blaze burned away the shadows. His eyes betrayed
an unsupportable sense of loss and the spirit that repudiated it. For a
single instant he was magnificent--and perhaps in that instant race
and blood spoke; then, with bewildering suddenness, surely with the
suddenness of a memory, he became a black, dripping-faced victim of
unutterable and unquenchable hate.
Allie recoiled in the divination that Durade saw her mother in her. No
memory, no love, no gold, no wager, could ever thwart the Spaniard.
“Senor, you tricked me!” he whispered.
“I beat you at your own game,” said Hough. “My friends and your men
heard the stake--saw the game.”
“Senor, I would not--bet--that girl--for any stake!”
“You have LOST her... Let me warn you, Durade. Be careful, once in your
life!... You’re welcome to what gold is left there.”
Durade shoved back the gold so fiercely that he upset the table, and its
contents jangled on the floor. The spill and the crash of a scattered
fortune released Durade’s men from their motionless suspense. They began
to pick up the coins.
The Spaniard was halted by the gleam of a derringer in Hough’s hand.
Hissing like a snake, Durade stood still, momentarily held back by a
fear that quickly gave place to insane rage.
“Shoot him!” said Ancliffe, with a coolness which proved his foresight.
One of Hough’s friends swung a cane, smashing a lamp; then with like
swift action he broke the other lamp, instantly plunging the room into
darkness. This appeared to be the signal for Durade’s men to break
loose into a mad scramble for the gold. Durade began to scream and rush
forward.
Allie felt herself drawn backward, along the wall, through her door.
It was not so dark in there. She distinguished Hough and Ancliffe. The
latter closed the door. Hough whispered to Allie, though the din in the
other room made such caution needless.
“Can we get out this way?” he asked.
“There’s a window,” replied Allie.
“Ancliffe, open it and get her out. I’ll stop Durade if he comes in.
Hurry!”
While the Englishman opened the window Hough stood in front of the door
with both arms extended. Allie could just see his tall form in the pale
gloom. Pandemonium had begun in the other room, with Durade screaming
for lights, and his men yelling and fighting for the gold, and Hough’s
friends struggling to get out. But they did not follow Hough into this
room and evidently must have thought he had escaped through the other
door.
“Come,” said Ancliffe, touching Allie.
He helped her get out, and followed laboriously. Then he softly called
to Hough. The gambler let himself down swiftly and noiselessly.
“Now what?” he muttered.
They appeared to be in a narrow alley between a house of boards and a
house of canvas. Excited voices sounded inside this canvas structure and
evidently alarmed Hough, for with a motion he enjoined silence and led
Allie through the dark passage out into a gloomy square surrounded by
low, dark structures. Ancliffe followed close behind.
The night was dark, with no stars showing. A cool wind blew in Allie’s
face, refreshing her after her long confinement. Hough began groping
forward. This square had a rough board floor and a skeleton framework.
It had been a house of canvas. Some of the partitions were still
standing.
“Look for a door--any place to get out,” whispered Hough to Ancliffe, as
they came to the opposite side of this square space. Hough, with Allie
close at his heels, went to the right while Ancliffe went to the left.
Hough went so far, then muttering, drew Allie back again to the point
whence they had started. Ancliffe was there.
“No place! All boarded up tight,” he whispered.
“Same on this side. We’ll have to--”
“Listen!” exclaimed Ancliffe, holding up his hand.
There appeared to be noise all around, but mostly on the other side
of the looming canvas house, behind which was the alleyway that led to
Durade’s hall. Gleams of light flashed through the gloom. Durade’s
high, quick voice mingled with hoarser and deeper tones. Some one in
the canvas house was talking to Durade, who apparently must have been in
Allie’s room and at her window.
“See hyar, Greaser, we ain’t harborin’ any of your outfit, an’ we’ll
plug the fust gent we see,” called a surly voice.
Durade’s staccato tones succeeded it. “Did you see them?”
“We heerd them gettin’ out the winder.”
Durade’s voice rose high in Spanish curses. Then he called:
“Fresno--Mull--take men--go around the street. They can’t get away ...
You, Mex, get down in there with the gang.”
Lower voices answered, questioning, eager, but indistinct.
“Kill him--bring her back--and you can have the gold,” shouted Durade.
Following that came the heavy tramp of boots and the low roar of angry
men.
Hough leaned toward Ancliffe. “They’ve got us penned in.”
“Yes. But it’s pretty dark here. And they’ll be slow. You watch while I
tear a hole through somewhere,” replied Ancliffe.
He was perfectly cool and might have been speaking of some casual
incident. He extinguished his cigarette, dropped it, then put on his
gloves.
Hough loomed tall and dark. His face showed pale in the shadow. He stood
with his elbows stiff against his sides, a derringer in each hand.
“I wish I had heavier guns,” he said.
Allie’s thrill of emotion spent itself in a shudder of realization.
Calmly and chivalrously these two strangers had taken a stand against
her enemies and with a few cool words and actions had accepted whatever
might betide.
“I must tell you--oh, I must!” she whispered, with her hand on Hough’s
arm. “I heard you send for Neale and Larry King... It made my heart
stop!... Neale--Warren Neale is my sweetheart. See, I wear his ring!...
Reddy King is my dearest friend--my brother!...”
Hough bent low to peer into Allie’s face--to see her ring. Then he
turned to Ancliffe.
“How things work out!... I always suspected what was wrong with Neale.
Now I know--after seeing his girl.”
“By Jove!” exclaimed Ancliffe.
“Well, I’ll block Durade’s gang. Will you save the girl?”
“Assuredly,” answered the imperturbable Englishman. “Where shall I take
her?”
“Where CAN she be safe? The troop camp? No, too far,... Aha! take her to
Stanton. Tell Stanton the truth. Stanton will hide her. Then find Neale
and King.”
Hough turned to Allie. “I’m glad you spoke--about Neale,” he said, and
there was a curious softness in his voice. “I owe him a great deal.
I like him... Ancliffe will get you out of here--and safely back to
Neale.”
Allie knew somehow--from something in his tone, his presence--that he
would never leave this gloomy inclosure. She heard Ancliffe ripping a
board off the wall or fence, and that sound seemed alarmingly loud. The
voices no longer were heard behind the canvas house. The wind whipped
through the bare framework. Somewhere at a distance were music and
revelry. Benton’s night roar had begun. Over all seemed to hang a
menacing and ponderous darkness.