nough 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 Hough--the cold iron cast of his face
as he won Durade's gold, the strange, intent look which he gave her a
moment before the attack. There was something magnificent in Ancliffe's
bringing her to a refuge while he was dying; there was something
magnificent in Hough'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 one--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 accustomed--an intense, compelling blend of
music, song, voice, and step actuated by o