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the influence of liquor, and a wicked, boyish, heated smile crossed his face.

She led him easily. But his heavy gun bumped against her, giving her little cold shudders. The passage opened into a wide room, which in turn opened into her dancing-hall. She saw strange, eager, dark faces among the men present, but in her excitement she did not note them particularly. She led Larry across the wide room, up a stairway to another hall, and down this to the corner of an intersecting passageway.

ā€œTakeā€”thisā€”key!ā€ she whispered. Her hand shook. She felt herself to be a black and monstrous creature. All of Benton seemed driving her. She was another woman. This was her fling at a rotten world, her slap in Nealeā€™s face. But she could not speak again; her lips failed. She pointed to a door.

She waited long enough to see the stalking, graceful cowboy halt in front of the right door. Then she fled.





27

For many moments after the beautiful bare-armed woman closed and locked the door Allie Lee sat in ecstasy, in trembling anticipation of Neale.

Gradually, however, in intervals of happy mind-wanderings, other thoughts intruded. This little bedroom affected her singularly and she was at a loss to account for the fact. It did not seem that she was actually afraid to be there, for she was glad. Fear of Durade and his gang recurred, but she believed that the time of her deliverance was close at hand. Possibly Durade, with some of his men, had been killed in the fight with Hough. Then she remembered having heard the Spaniard order Fresno and Mull to go round by the street. They must be on her trail at this very moment. Ancliffe had been seen, and not much time could elapse before her whereabouts would be discovered. But Allie bore up bravely. She was in the thick of grim and bloody and horrible reality. Those brave men, strangers to her, had looked into her face, questioned her, then had died for her. It was all so unbelievable. In another room, close to her, lay Ancliffe, dead. Allie tried not to think of him; of the remorseless way in which he had killed the Mexican; of the contrast between this action and his gentle voice and manner. She tried not to think of the gambler Houghā€”the cold iron cast of his face as he won Duradeā€™s gold, the strange, intent look which he gave her a moment before the attack. There was something magnificent in Ancliffeā€™s bringing her to a refuge while he was dying; there was something magnificent in Houghā€™s standing off the gang. Allie divined that through her these two men had fought and died for something in themselves as well as for her honor and life.

The little room seemed a refuge for Allie, yet it was oppressive, as had been the atmosphere of the parlor where Ancliffe lay. But this oppressiveness was not death. Allie had become familiar with death near at hand. This refuge made her flesh creep.

The room was not the home of any oneā€”it was not inhabited, it was not livable. Yet it contained the same kind of furniture Durade had bought for her and it was clean and comfortable. Still, Allie shrank from touching anything. Through the walls came the low, strange, discordant din to which she had become accustomedā€”an intense, compelling blend of music, song, voice, and step actuated by one spirit. Then at times she imagined she heard distant hammering and the slap of a falling board.

Probably Allie had not stayed in this room many moments when she began to feel that she had been there hours. Surely the woman would return soon with Neale. And the very thoughts drove all else out of her mind, leaving her palpitating with hope, sick with longing.

Footsteps outside distracted her from the nervous, dreamy mood. Some one was coming along the hall. Her heart gave a wild boundā€”then sank. The steps passed by her door. She heard the thick, maudlin voice of a man and the hollow, trilling laugh of a girl.

Allieā€™s legs began to grow weak under her. The strain, the suspense, the longing grew to be too much for her and occasioned a revulsion of feeling. She had let her hopes carry her too high.

Suddenly the door-handle rattled and turned. Allie was brought to a stifling expectancy, motionless in the center of the room. Some one was outside at the door. Could it be Neale? It must be! Her sensitive ears caught short, puffing breathsā€”then the click of a key in the lock. Allie stood there in an anguish of suspense, with the lift of her heart almost suffocating her. Like a leaf in the wind she quivered.

Whoever was out there fumbled at the key. Then the lock rasped, the handle turned, the door opened. A tall man swaggered in, with head bent sideways, his hand removing the key from the lock. Before he saw Allie he closed the door. With that he faced around.

Allie recognized the red face, the flashing eyes, the flaming hair.

ā€œLarry!ā€ she cried, with bursting heart. She took a quick step, ready to leap into his arms, but his violent start checked her. Larry staggered backā€”put a hand out. His face was heated and flushed as Allie had never seen it. A stupid surprise showed there. Slowly his hand moved up to cross his lips, to brush through his red hair; then with swifter movement it swept back to feel the door, as if he wanted the touch of tangible things.

ā€œReckon Iā€™m seeinā€™ ā€˜em again!ā€ he muttered to himself. ā€œOh, Larryā€”Iā€™m Allie Lee!ā€ she cried, holding out her hands.

She saw the color fade out of his face. A shock seemed to go over his body. He took a couple of dragging strides toward her. His eyes had the gaze of a man who did not believe what he saw. The hand he reached out shook.

ā€œIā€™m no ghost! Larry, donā€™tā€”youā€”know me?ā€ she faltered. Indeed he must have thought her a phantom. Great, clammy drops stood out upon his brow.

ā€œDear oldā€”redhead!ā€ she whispered, brokenly, with a smile of agony and joy. He would know her when she spoke that wayā€”called him the name she had tormented him withā€”the name no one else would have dared to use.

Then she saw he believed in her reality. His face began to work. She threw her arms about himā€”she gave up to a frenzy of long-deferred happiness. Where Larry was there would Neale be.

ā€œAllieā€”it ainā€™tā€”you?ā€ he asked, hoarsely, as he hugged her close.

ā€œOh, Larryā€”yesā€”yesā€”and Iā€™ll die of joy!ā€ she whispered.

ā€œThen you shore ainā€™tā€”daid?ā€ he went on, incredulously.

How sweet to Allie was the old familiar Southern drawl!

ā€œDead? Never....Why, Iā€™ve kissed you!... and you havenā€™t kissed me back.ā€

She felt his breast heave as he lifted her off her feet to kiss her awkwardly, boyishly.

ā€œShoreā€”the worldā€™s cominā€™ to an end!... But mebbe Iā€™m only drunk!ā€

He held her close, towering over her, while he gazed around him and down at her, shaking his head, muttering again in bewilderment.

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