by Zane Grey
He walked the street, up and down, up and down, until the hour was late and he was tired. All the halls and saloons were blazing in full blast. Once he heard low, hoarse cries and pistol shots—and then again quick, dull, booming guns. How strange they should make him shiver! But all seemed strange. From these sounds he turned away, not knowing what to do or where to go, since sleep or rest was impossible. Finally he went into a gambling den and found a welcome among players whose faces he knew.
It was Benton’s last night, and there was something in the air—a release of compression.
Neale gave himself up to the spirit of the hour and the game. He had almost forgotten himself when a white, jeweled hand flashed over his shoulder, to touch it softly. He heard his name whispered. Looking up, he saw the flushed and singularly radiant face of Beauty Stanton.
Chapter Twenty-Five
The afternoon and night of pay day in Benton, during which Allie Lee was barred in her room, were hideous, sleepless, dreadful hours. Her ears were filled with Benton’s roar—whispers and wails and laughs; thick voices of drunken men; the cold voices of gamblers; clink of gold and clink of glasses; a ceaseless tramp and shuffle of boots; pistol shots muffled and far away, pistol shots ringing and near at hand; the angry hum of brawling men, and strangest of all this dreadful roar were the high-pitched, piercing voices of woman in songs without soul, in laughter without mirth, in cries wild and terrible and mournful.
Allie lay in the dark, praying for the dawn, shuddering at this strife of sound, fearful that any moment the violence of Benton would burst through the flimsy walls of her room to destroy her. But the roar swelled and subsided and died away; the darkness gave place to gray light and then dawn; the sun arose and the wind began to blow. Still Benton slept or it was dead or it was drunk unto exhaustion.
Her mirror told Allie the horror of that night. Her face was white; her eyes were haunted by terrors, with great dark shadows beneath. She could not hold her hands steady.
Late that afternoon there were stirrings and sounds in Durade’s hall. The place had awakened. Presently Durade himself brought her food and drink. He looked haggard, worn, yet radiant. He did not seem to note Allie’s condition or appearance.
“That deaf and dumb fool who waited on you is gone,” said Durade. “Yesterday was pay day in Benton . . . Many are gone . . . Allie, I won fifty thousand dollars in gold!”
“Isn’t that enough?” she asked.
He did not hear her, but went on talking of his winnings, of gold, of games, and of big stakes coming. His lips trembled; his eyes glittered; his fingers clawed at the air.
For Allie it was a relief when Durade left her. He had almost reached the apex of his fortunes and the inevitable end. Allie realized that, if she were ever to lift a hand to save herself, she must do so at once. This was a fixed and desperate thought in her mind when Durade called her to her work.
Allie always entered that private den of Durade’s with eyes cast down. She had been scorched too often by the glances of men. As she went in this time, she felt the presence of gamblers, but they were quieter than those to whom she had become accustomed. Durade ordered her to fetch drinks, then he went on talking rapidly, in excitement, elated, boastful, almost gay. Others also were talking.
Allie did not look up. As she carried the tray to the large table, she heard a man whisper low: “By jove, Hough, that’s the girl.” Then she heard a slight, quick intake of breath, and the exclamation: “Good God!”
Both voices thrilled Allie. The former seemed the low, well-modulated, refined, and drawling speech of an Englishman; the latter was keen, quick, soft, and full of genuine emotion.
Allie returned to her chair by the sideboard before she ventured to look up. Durade was playing cards with four men, three of whom were black-garbed, after the manner of professional gamblers. The other player wore gray, and a hat of unusual shape, with wide, loose, cloth band. He removed his hat as he caught Allie’s glance, and she associated the act with the fact of her presence. She thought that this must be the man whose voice had proclaimed him English. He had a fair face, lined and shadowed and dissipated, with tired blue eyes and a blond mustache that failed altogether to hide a well-shaped mouth. It was the kindest and saddest face Allie had ever seen there. She read its story. In her extremity she had acquired a melancholy wisdom in the judgment of the faces of the men drifting through Durade’s hall. What Allie had heard in this Englishman’s voice, she saw in his features. He did not look at her again. He played cards wearily, carelessly, indifferently, with his mind plainly on something else.
“Ancliffe, how many cards?” called one of the black-garbed men.
The Englishman threw down his cards. “None,” he said.
The game was interrupted by a commotion in the adjoining room, which was the public gambling hall of Durade’s establishment.
“Another fight!” exclaimed Durade impatiently. “And only Mull and Fresno showed up today.”
Harsh voices and heavy stamps were followed by a pistol shot. Durade hurriedly arose.
“Gentlemen, excuse me,” he said, and went out. One of the gamblers also left the room, and another crossed it to peep through the door. This left the Englishman sitting at the table with the last gambler, whose back was turned toward Allie. She saw the Englishman lean forward to speak. Then the gambler arose and, turning, came directly toward her.
“My name is Place Hough,” he said, speaking rapidly and low. “I am a gambler . . . but a gentleman. I’ve heard strange rumors about you, and now I see for myself . . . you look distressed. Perhaps . . . but can I be of any service to you?”
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, doubt. 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 Durade’s daughter?”
“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’s terribly wrong here. Look at her.”
Allie became aware of the Englishman’s scrutiny, doubtful, sad, yet kind. She 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 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, 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 lost.”
“And got thrown out for their pains?” inquired Ancliffe.
“Yes. Mull and Fresno know what to do.”
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. 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, although 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.
“Suppertime. Not much going on,” replied Mull.
Hough eyed 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 sincerely, 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, Hough, and Ancliffe played alone, and the luck see-sawed 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. Although 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,” said Hough, just as sharply, “fetch some of my friends to watch this game! Don’t forget Neale and Red King.”
Allie, who was watching and listening with strained faculties, nearly fainted at the sudden mention of her lover Neale and her friend Reddy. She went blind for a second; the room turned around and around; 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 gunfighter 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 . . . señor . . .”
“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 Red 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 Reddy 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 and tremblings and thrills 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; it was terrible to realize that. Her heart swelled with pangs of fullest measure. Surely he 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 or 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 Red 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 these nor all of them, wonderful and incalculable as they were, loomed so great as the thing 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 disheveled; 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.