by Zane Grey
She was working herself into a frenzied state when unexpectedly Durade came to her room. At first glance she hardly knew him. He looked thin and worn; his eyes glittered; his hands shook; and the strange radiance that emanated from him when his passion for gambling had been crowned with success shone stronger than Allie had ever seen it.
“Allie, the time’s come,” he said. He seemed to be looking back into the past.
“What time?” she asked.
“For you to do for me—as your mother did before you.”
“I—I—don’t understand.”
“Make yourself beautiful!”
“Beautiful!… How?” Allie had an inkling of what it meant, but all her mind repudiated the horrible suggestion.
Durade laughed. He had indeed changed. He seemed a weaker man. Benton was acting powerfully upon him.
“How little vanity you have!… Allie, you are beautiful now or at any time. You’ll be so when you’re old or dead.… I mean for you to show more of your beauty.… Let down your hair. Braid it a little. Put on a white waist. Open it at the neck.… You remember how your mother did.”
Allie stared at him, slowly paling. She could not speak. It had come—the crisis that she had dreaded.
“You look like a ghost!” Durade exclaimed. “Like she did, years ago when I told her—this same thing—the first time!”
“You mean to use me—as you used her?” faltered Allie.
“Yes. But you needn’t be afraid or sick. I’ll always be with you.”
“What am I to do?”
“Be ready in the afternoon when I call you.”
“I know now why my mother hated you,” burst out Allie. For the first time she too hated him, and felt the stronger for it.
“She’ll pay for that hate, and so will you,” he replied, passionately. His physical action seemed involuntary—a shrinking as if from a stab. Then followed swift violence. He struck Allie across the mouth with his open hand, a hard blow, almost knocking her down.
“Don’t let me hear that from you again!” he continued, furiously.
With that he left the room, closing but not barring the door.
Allie put her hand to her lips. They were bleeding. She tasted her own warm and salty blood. Then there was born in her something that burned and throbbed and swelled and drove out all her vacillations. That blow was what she had needed. There was a certainty now as to her peril, just as there was imperious call for her to help herself and save herself.
“Neale or Larry will visit Durade’s,” she soliloquized, with her pulses beating fast. “And if they do not come—someone else will…some man I can trust.”
Therefore she welcomed Durade’s ultimatum. She paid more heed to the brushing and arranging of her hair, and to her appearance, than ever before in her life. The white of her throat and neck mantled red as she exposed them, intentionally, for the gaze of men. Her beauty was to be used as had been her mother’s. But there would be someone who would understand, someone to pity and help her.
She had not long to meditate and wait. She heard the heavy steps and voices of men entering the room next hers.
Presently Durade called her. With a beating heart Allie rose and pushed open the door. From that moment there never would be any more monotony for her—nor peace—nor safety. Yet she was glad, and faced the room bravely, for Neale or Larry might be there.
Durade had furnished this larger place luxuriously, and evidently intended to use it for a private gambling-den, where he would bring picked gamesters. Allie saw about eight or ten men who resembled miners or laborers.
Durade led her to a table that had been placed under some shelves which were littered with bottles and glasses. He gave her instructions what to do when called upon, saying that Stitt would help her; then motioning her to a chair, he went back to the men. It was difficult for her to raise her eyes, and she could not at once do so.
“Durade, who’s the girl?” asked a man.
The gambler vouchsafed for reply only a mysterious smile.
“Bet she’s from California,” said another. “They bloom like that out there.”
“Now, ain’t she your daughter?” queried a third.
But Durade chose to be mysterious. In that he left his guests license for covert glances without the certainty which would permit of brutal boldness.
They gathered around a table to play faro. Then Durade called for drinks. This startled Allie and she hastened to comply with his demand. When she lifted her eyes and met the glances of these men—she had a strange feeling that somehow recalled the California days. Her legs were weak under her; a hot anger labored under her breast; she had to drag her reluctant feet across the room. Her spirit sank, and then leaped. It whispered that looks and words and touches could only hurt and shame her for this hour of her evil plight. They must rouse her resistance and cunning wit. It was a fact that she was helpless for the present. But she still lived, and her love was infinite.
Fresno was there, throwing dice with two soldiers. To his ugliness had been added something that had robbed his face of the bronze tinge of outdoor life and had given it red and swollen lines and shades of beastly greed. Benton had made a bad man worse.
Mull was there, heavier than when he had ruled the grading-camp, sodden with drink, thick-lipped and red-cheeked, burly, brutal, and still showing in every action and loud word the bully. He was whirling a wheel and rolling a ball and calling out in his heavy voice. With him was a little, sallow-faced man, like a wolf, with sneaky, downcast eyes and restless hands. He answered to the name of Andy. These two were engaged in fleecing several blue-shirted, half-drunken spikers.
Durade was playing faro with four other men, or at least there were that number seated with him. One, whose back was turned toward Allie, wore black, and looked and seemed different from the others. He did not talk nor drink. Evidently his winning aggravated Durade. Presently Durade addressed the man as Jones.
Then there were several others standing around, dividing their attention between Allie and the gamblers. The door opened occasionally, and each time a different man entered, held a moment’s whispered conversation with Durade, and then went out. These men were of the same villainous aspect that characterized Fresno. Durade had surrounded himself with lieutenants and comrades who might be counted upon to do anything.
Allie was not long in gathering this fact, nor that there were subtle signs of suspicion among the gamesters. Most of them had gotten under the influence of drink that Durade kept ordering. Evidently he furnished this liquor free and with a purpose.
The afternoon’s play ended shortly. So far as Allie could see, Jones, the man in black, a pale, thin-lipped, cold-eyed gambler, was the only guest to win. Durade’s manner was not pleasant while he paid over his debts. Durade always had been a poor loser.
“Jones, you’ll sit in tomorrow,” said Durade.
“Maybe,” replied the other.
“Why not? You’re winner,” retorted Durade, hot-headed in an instant.
“Winners are choosers,” returned Jones, with an enigmatic smile. His hard, cold eyes shifted to Allie and seemed to pierce her, then went back to Durade and Mull and Fresno. Plain it was to Allie, with her woman’s intuition, that if Jones returned it would not be because he trusted that trio. Durade apparently made an effort to swallow his resentment, but the gambling pallor of his face had never been more marked. He went out with Jones, and the others slowly followed.
Fresno approached Allie.
“Hullo, gurly! You sure look purtier than in thet buckskin outfit,” he leered.
Allie got up, ready for fight or defense. Durade had forgotten her.
Fresno saw her glance at the door.
“He’s goin’ to the bad,” he went on, with his big hand indicating the door. “Benton’s too hot fer his kind. He’ll not git up some fine mornin’.… An’ you’d better cotton to me. You ain’t his kin—an’ he hates you an’ you hate him. I seen thet. I’m no fool. I’m sorta gone
on you. I wish I hadn’t fetched you back to him.”
“Fresno, I’ll tell Durade,” replied Allie, forcing her lips to be firm. If she expected to intimidate him she was disappointed.
Fresno leered wisely. “You’d better not. Fer I’ll kill him, an’ then you’ll be a sweet little chunk of meat among a lot of wolves!”
He laughed and his large frame lurched closer. He wore a heavy gun and a knife in his belt. Also there protruded the butt of a pistol from the inside of his open vest. Allie felt the heat from his huge body, and she smelled the whisky upon him, and sensed the base, faithless, malignant animalism of the desperado. Assuredly, if he had any fear, it was not of Durade.
“I’m sorta gone on you myself,” repeated Fresno. “An’ Durade’s a greaser. He’s runnin’ a crooked game. All these games are crooked. But Benton won’t stand for a polite greaser who talks sweet an’ gambles crooked. Mebbe’ no one’s told you what this place Benton is.”
“I haven’t heard. Tell me,” replied Allie. She might learn from anyone.
Fresno appeared at fault for speech. “Benton’s a beehive,” he replied, presently. “An’ when the bees come home with their honey, why, the red ants an’ scorpions an’ centipedes an’ rattlesnakes git busy. I’ve seen some places in my time, but—Benton beats ’em all.… Say, I’ll sneak you out at nights to see what’s goin’ on, an’ I’ll treat you handsome. I’m sorta—”
The entrance of Durade cut short Fresno’s further speech. “What are you saying to her?” demanded Durade, in anger.
“I was jest tellin’ her about what a place Benton is,” replied Fresno.
“Allie, is that true?” queried Durade, sharply.
“Yes,” she replied.
“Fresno, I did not like your looks.”
“Boss, if you don’t like ’em you know what you can do,” rejoined Fresno, impudently, and he lounged out of the room.
“Allie, these men are all bad,” said Durade. “You must avoid them when my back’s turned. I cannot run my place without them, so I am compelled to endure much.”
Allie’s attendant came in with her supper and she went to her room.
Thus began Allie Lee’s life as an unwilling and innocent accomplice of Durade in his retrogression from the status of a gambler to that of a criminal. In California he had played the game, diamond cut diamond. But he had broken. His hope, spirit, luck, nerve were gone. The bottle and Benton had almost destroyed his skill at professional gambling.
The days passed swiftly. Every afternoon Durade introduced a new company to his private den. Few ever came twice. In this there was a grain of hope, for if all the men in Benton, or out on the road, could only pass through Durade’s hall, the time would come when she would meet Neale or Larry. She lived for that. She was constantly on the lookout for a man she could trust with her story. Honest-faced laborers were not wanting in the stream of visitors Durade ushered into her presence, but either they were drunk or obsessed by gambling, or she found no opportunity to make her appeal.
These afternoons grew to be hideous for Allie. She had been subjected to every possible attention, annoyance, indignity, and insult, outside of direct violence. She could only shut her eyes and ears and lips. Fresno found many opportunities to approach her, sometimes in Durade’s presence, the gambler being blind to all but the cards and gold. At such times Allie wished she was sightless and deaf and feelingless. But after she was safely in her room again she told herself nothing had happened. She was still the same as she had always been. And sleep obliterated quickly what she had suffered. Every day was one nearer to that fateful and approaching moment. And when that moment did come what would all this horror amount to? It would fade—be as nothing. She would not let words and eyes harm her. They were not tangible—they had no substance for her. They made her sick with rage and revolt at the moment, but they had no power, no taint, no endurance. They were evil passing winds.
As she saw Durade’s retrogression, so she saw the changes in all about him. His winnings were large and his strange passion for play increased with them. The free gold that enriched Fresno and Mull and Andy only augmented their native ferocity. There were also Durade’s other helpers—Black, his swarthy doorkeeper, a pallid fellow called Dayss, who always glanced behind him, and Grist, a short, lame, bullet-headed, silent man—all of them under the spell of the green cloth.
With Durade’s success had come the craze for bigger stakes, and these could only be played for with other gamblers. So the black-frocked, cold-faced sharps became frequent visitors at Durade’s. Jones, the professional, won on that second visit—a fatal winning for him. Allie saw the giant Fresno suddenly fling himself upon Jones and bear him to the floor. Then Allie fled to her room. But she heard curses—a shot—a groan—Durade’s loud voice proclaiming that the gambler had cheated—and then the scraping of a heavy body being dragged out.
This murder horrified Allie, yet sharpened her senses. Providence had protected her. Durade had grown rich—wild—vain—mad to pit himself against the coolest and most skilful gamblers in Benton—and therefore his end was imminent. Allie lay in the dark, listening to Benton’s strange wailing roar, sad, yet hideous, and out of what she had seen and heard, and from the mournful message on the night wind, she realized how closely associated were gold and evil and men, and how inevitably they must lead to lawlessness and to bloodshed and to death.
THE U. P. TRAIL [Part 3]
CHAPTER 23
Neale conceived an idea that he was in line for the long-looked-for promotion. Neither the chief nor Baxter gave any suggestion of a hint of such possibility, but more and more, as the work rapidly progressed, Neale had been intrusted with important inspections.
Long since he had discovered his talent for difficult engineering problems, and with experience had come confidence in his powers. He had been sent from place to place, in each case with favorable results. General Lodge consulted him, Baxter relied upon him, the young engineers learned from him. And when Baxter and his assistants were sent on ahead into the hills Neale had an enormous amount of work on his hands. Still he usually managed to get back to Benton at night.
Whereupon he became a seeker, a searcher; he believed there was not a tent or a hut or a store or a hall in the town that he had not visited. But he found no clue of Allie; he never encountered the well-remembered face of the bandit Fresno. He saw more than one Spaniard and many Mexicans, not one of whom could have been the gambler Durade.
But Benton was too full, too changeful, too secret to be thoroughly searched in little time. Neale bore his burden, although it grew heavier each day. And his growing work on the railroad was his salvation.
One morning he went to the telegraph station, expecting orders from General Lodge. He found the chief’s special train at the station, headed east.
“Neale, I’m off for Omaha,” said Lodge. “Big pow-wow. The directors roaring again!”
“What about?” queried Neale, always alive to interest of that nature.
“Cost of the construction. What else? Neale, there are two kinds of men building the U. P. R.—men who see the meaning of the great work, and the men who see only the gold in it.”
“And they conflict!… That’s what you mean?”
“Exactly. We’ve been years on the job now, and the nearer the meeting of rails from west to east the harder become our problems. Henney is played out, Boone is ill, Baxter won’t last much longer. If I were not an old soldier, I would be done up now.”
“Chief, I can see only success,” replied Neale, with spirit.
“Assuredly. We see with the same eyes,” said General Lodge, smiling. “Neale, I’ve a job for you that will make you gray-headed.”
“Hardly that,” returned Neale, laughing.
“Do you remember the survey we made out here in the hills for Number Ten Bridge? Made over two years ago.”
“I’m not likely to forget it.”
“Well, the rails are within twenty miles of Number Ten. Th
ey’ll be there presently—and no piers to cross on.”
“How’s that?”
“I don’t know. The report came in only last night. It’s a queer document. Here it is. Study it at your leisure.… It seems a big force of men have been working there for months. Piers have been put in—only to sink.”
“Sink!” ejaculated Neale. “Whew! That’s a stumper!… Chief, the survey is mine. I’ll never forget how I worked on it.”
“Could you have made a mistake?”
“Of course,” replied Neale, readily. “But I’d never believe that unless I saw it. A tough job it was—but just the kind of work I eat up.”
“Well, you can go out and eat it up some more.”
“That means I’ll have to camp out there. I can’t get back to Benton.”
“No, you can’t. And isn’t that just as well?” queried the chief, with his keen, dark glance on Neale. “Son, I’ve heard your name coupled with gamblers—and that Stanton woman.”
“No doubt. I know them. I’ve been—seeking some trace of—Allie.”
“You still hope to find her? You still imagine some of this riffraff Benton gang made off with her?”
“Yes.”
“Son, it’s scarcely possible,” said Lodge, earnestly. “Anderson claims the Sioux got her. We all incline to that.… Oh, it’s hard, Neale.… Love and life are only atoms under the iron heel of the U. P. R.… It’s too late now. You can’t forget—no—but you must not risk your life—your opportunities—your reputation.”
Neale turned away his face for a moment and was silent. An engine whistled; a bell began to ring; some train official called to General Lodge. The chief held up his hand for a little more delay.
