Union Pacific

by Zane Grey

  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, I’ll buy your place. I’ll give this gold! Your place with everything in it!”

  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. “Señor . . . do you . . . mock me?” he gasped hoarsely.

  “I offer you my winnings for your gambling house . . . with all it contains!”

  “You are crazy!” ejaculated the Spaniard.

  “Certainly . . . But hurry. Do you accept?”

  “¡Sí, señor! ” 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.

  Durade, in one splendid gesture that made the gold give out a ringing clash, swept his winnings across the table. “Gentlemen,” he called to his friends, “I call upon you as witnesses to this sale!” Then he faced Durade’s gang. “Do you men understand the bargain made here?”

  “Sure we do,” replied Mull.

  Others nodded. Then the giant Fresno lurched forward, with a knowing gleam in his wicked eye. “I’m onto you, Hough. A hell of a lot you want the house . . . ! It’s the girl you’re after!”

  Durade did not seem to gather the content of Fresno’s words, or else, dazzled by the fortune he had recovered and which he was drawing toward him with clutching hands, he did not care.

  Swiftly Hough stepped to Allie’s door. He saw her peering out. “Come . . . Miss Lee,” he said.

  Allie stepped out, trembling and unsteady on her feet, and kept close to Hough.

  “Durade, I’ll give you back your gambling hell. The girl is all I want.”

  The Spaniard seemed compelled to look up from his gold. When he saw Allie, another slow and remarkable transformation came over him. He started slightly, perhaps more at Hough’s hand on Allie’s arm than at the sudden sight of her. 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. It mounted to amaze—to astonishing realization. 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, turgid, 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.

  “Señor, you tricked me,” he whispered.

  “No. I bought your house and all in it. My friends and your men heard the deal.”

  “Señor, I would not sell that girl for all the gold of the Indians!”

  “You have sold her . . . Let me warn you, Durade. Be careful . . . once in your life.”

  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 fortune, scattered everywhere, released Durade’s men from their motionless suspense. They began to pick up the gold.

  The Spaniard was halted by the gleam of a Derringer in Hough’s hand. Hissing then 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 that 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, although 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, seeming to refresh 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, low down, in the gloom. Durade’s high, quick voice mingled with hoarser and deeper voices. Someone in the canvas house was talking to Durade, who apparently must have been in Allie’s room, at her window.

  “See hyar, greaser, we ain’t harborin’ any of your outfit, an’ we’ll plug the fust gent we see!” boomed a surly voice.

  Durade’s staccato tones succeeded it. “Did you see them?”

  “We heard them gettin’ out the winder.”

  Durade’s voice rose high in Spanish curses. “Men! Fresno . . . Mull . . . take men . . . go around the street . . . watch! They can’t get away . . . You, Mex, get down in there with the gang. Kill that gambler!”

  Lower voices answered, questioning, eager, but indistinct.

  “Gold! Kill him . . . bring her back . . . and you can have it all!” 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 exti
nguished 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 Reddy 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. And, oh, they both believe me dead.”

  Hough uttered an amazed exclamation and bent low to peer into Allie’s face—to see her ring. Ancliffe showed no excitement.

  “Ancliffe, did you hear what she said?” queried Hough hoarsely.

  “Yes,” replied the Englishman.

  “How things work out . . . I always suspected that was what was wrong with Neale. Now I know. He believed this girl was lost . . . dead. No wonder he’s haunted . . . driven. Ancliffe, the minute I saw her face I changed. Do you understand me?”

  “By Jove, I do,” replied Ancliffe.

  “I’ve never been so glad for anything in my life . . . as this moment,” said Hough. “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 told me about Neale,” he said, and where his voice was not husky it held an exquisite softness. “I owe him a great deal. I like him . . . Ancliffe will get you out of here . . . and safely back to Neale. May God bless you! May you be happy!”

  Allie knew somehow—from something in his tone, his presence—that he would never leave this gloomy enclosure. 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, as much of life as it was of night. Suddenly a light appeared moving slowly from the most obscure corner of the square, perhaps fifty paces distant.

  Hough drew Allie closer to Ancliffe. “Get behind me,” he whispered.

  A sharp ripping and splitting of wood told of Ancliffe’s progress—also it located the fugitives for Durade’s gang. The light vanished; quick voices rasped out; then stealthy feet padded over the boards.

  Allie saw or imagined she saw gliding forms black against the pale gloom. She was so close to Ancliffe that he touched her as he worked. Turning, she beheld a ray of light through an aperture he had made. Suddenly the gloom split to a reddish flare. It revealed dark forms. A gun cracked. Allie heard the heavy thud of a bullet against the wall. Then Hough shot. His Derringer made a small, spiteful report. It was followed by a cry—a groan. Other guns cracked. Bullets pattered on the wood. Allie heard the spat of lead striking Hough. It had a sickening sound. He moved as if from a blow. A volley followed and Allie could not distinguish those shots fired by Hough, but she saw the bright flashes. All about her bullets were whistling and thudding. She knew with a keen horror every time Hough was struck. Hoarse yells and strangling cries mixed with the diminishing shots.

  Then Ancliffe grasped her and pushed her through a vent he had made. Allie crawled backward and she could see Hough still standing in front. It seemed that he swayed. Then as she rose further view was cut off. While not looking about her, she was aware of a dimly lighted storeroom. Outside the shots had ceased. She heard something heavy fall suddenly, then a patter of quick, light footsteps.

  Ancliffe essayed to get through the aperture feet first. It was a tight squeeze, or else someone held him back. There came a crashing of the wood; Ancliffe’s body whirled in the aperture and he wrestled. Allie heard hissing, sibilant Spanish utterances. She stood petrified, certain that Durade had attacked Ancliffe. Suddenly the Englishman crashed through, drawing a supple, twisting, slender man with him. He held this man by the throat with one hand and by the wrist with the other. Allie recognized Durade’s Mexican ally. He gripped a knife and the blade was bloody.

  Once inside, where Ancliffe could move, he handled the Mexican with deliberate and remorseless ease. Allie saw and heard him twist and break the arm that held the knife. Not that sight, but the eyes of the Mexican made Allie close her own. When she opened them, at a touch, Ancliffe stood beside her and the Mexican lay quivering. Ancliffe held the bloody knife; he hid it under his coat.

  “Come,” he said. His voice seemed thin.

  “But Hough! We must . . .”

  Ancliffe’s strange gesture froze Allie’s lips. She followed him—clung close to him. There were voices near—and persons. All seemed to fall back before the Englishman. He strode on. Indeed, his movements appeared unnatural. They went down a low stairway, out into the dark. Lights were there to the right, and hurrying forms. Ancliffe ran with her in the other direction. Only dim, pale lamps shone through tents. Down the side street it was quiet and dark. Allie stumbled, would have fallen but for Ancliffe. Yet sometimes he stumbled, too. He turned a corner and proceeded rapidly toward bright lights. The houses loomed big. Down that way many people passed to and fro. Allie’s senses admitted a new sound—a confusion of music, dancing, hilarity, all distinct, near at hand. She could scarcely keep up with Ancliffe. He did not speak or look to right or left.

  At the corner of a large house—a long structure that sent out gleams of light—Ancliffe opened a door and pulled Allie into a hallway, dark near at hand, but brilliant at the other end. He drew her along this passage, striding slower now and unsteadily. He turned into another hall lighted by lamps. Music and gaiety seemed to sweep stunningly into Allie’s face. But Allie saw only one person there—a Negress. As Ancliffe halted, the Negress rose from her seat. She was frightened.

  “Call Stanton . . . quick!” he panted. He thrust a handful of gold at her. “Tell no one else!” Then he opened a door, pushed Allie into a bright elegantly furnished parlor, and, closing the door, staggered to a couch, upon which he fell. His face wore a singular look, remarkable for its whiteness. All its careless indifferent weary shade had vanished. As he lay back, his hands loosed their hold of his coat and fell away, all bloody. The knife slid to the floor. A bloody froth flecked his lips.

  “Oh . . . heaven! You were . . . stabbed!” gasped Allie, sinking to her knees.

  “If Stanton doesn’t come in time . . . tell her what happened . . . and ask her to fetch Neale to you,” he said. He spoke with extreme difficulty and a fluttering told of blood in his throat.

  Allie could not speak. She could not pray. But her sight and her perception were abnormally keen. Ancliffe’s strange, clear gaze rested upon her, and it seemed to Allie that he smiled, not with lips or face, but in spirit. How strange and beautiful!

  Then Allie heard a rush of silk at the door. It opened—closed. A woman of fair face, bare of arm and neck, glittering with diamonds, swept into the parlor. She had great, dark-blue eyes full of shadows and they flashed from Ancliffe to Allie and back again.

  “What’s happened? You’re pale as death! Ancliffe! Your hands . . . your breast! My God!” She bent over him.

  “Stanton, I’ve been . . . cut up . . . and Hough is . . . dead.”

  “Oh, this horrible Benton!” cried the woman.

  “Don’t faint . . . Hear me. You remember we were curious about a girl . . . Durade had in his place. This is she . . . Allie Lee. She is innocent. Durade held her for revenge. He had loved . . . then hated her mother . . . Hough won all Durade’s gold . . . and bought the girl. But we had to fight . . . Stanton, this All
ie Lee is Neale’s sweetheart . . . He believes her dead . . . You hide her . . . bring Neale to her.”

  Quickly she replied: “I promise you, Ancliffe, I promise . . . How strange . . . what you tell. But not strange for Benton. Ancliffe! Speak to me! Oh, he is fading . . .”

  With her first words a subtle change passed over Ancliffe. It was the release of his will. His whole body sank. Under the intense whiteness of his face a cold gray shade began to creep. His last conscious instant spent itself in the strange gaze Allie had felt before, and now she had a vague perception that in some way it expressed a blessing and a deliverance. The instant the beautiful light turned inward, as if to illumine the darkness of his soul, she divined what he had once been, his ruin, his secret and eternal remorse—and the chance to die that had made him great.

  So, forgetful of the other beside her, Allie Lee watched Ancliffe, sustained by a nameless spirit, feeling with melancholy and tragic pity her duty as a woman—to pray for him, to stay beside him, that he might not be alone when he died. And while she watched, with the fading of that singular radiance, there returned to his face a slow, careless weariness, cold now, fixing bitterly, a mask of death.

  “He’s gone,” murmured Stanton, rising. A dignity had come to her. “Dead! And we know nothing of him . . . not his real name . . . nor his place. But not even Benton could keep him from dying like an English gentleman.” She took Allie by the hand, led her out of the parlor and across the hall into a bedroom. Then she faced Allie, wonderingly, with all a woman’s sympathy, and something else that Allie sensed as a sweet and poignant wistfulness. “Are you . . . Neale’s sweetheart?” she asked, very low.

  “Oh . . . please . . . find him . . . for me!” sobbed Allie.

  The tenderness in this woman’s voice and look and touch was what Allie needed more than anything, and it made her a trembling child. How strangely, hesitatingly, with closing eyes, this woman reached to fold her in gentle arms. What a tumult Allie felt throbbing in the full breast where she laid her head.