Gloom, heartsickness, and despair surged in upon him, but he did not think of giving up.  He remembered all Allie had told him.  Those fiends had gotten her again.  He believed now all that she had said; and there was something of hope in the thought that if Durade had found her again she would at least not be at the mercy of ruffians like Fresno.  But this was a forlorn hope.  Still, it upheld Neale and determined him to seek her during the time in which his work did not occupy him.

And thus it came about that Neale plodded through his work along the line during the day, and late in the afternoon rode back with the laborers to Benton.  If Allie Lee lived she must be in Benton.

20

Neale took up lodgings with his friend Larry.  He did not at first tell the cowboy about his recovery of Allie Lee and then her loss for the second time; and when finally he could not delay the revelation any longer he regretted that he had been compelled to tell.

Larry took the news hard.  He inclined to the idea that she had fallen again into the hands of the Indians.  Nevertheless, he showed himself terribly bitter against men of the Fresno stamp, and in fact against all the outlaw, ruffianly, desperado class so numerous in Benton.

Neale begged Larry to be cautious, to go slow, to ferret out things, and so help him, instead of making it harder to locate Allie through his impetuosity.

“Pard, I reckon Allie’s done for,” said Larry, gloomily.

“No—­no!  Larry, I feel she’s alive—­well.  If she were dead or—­or—­ well, wouldn’t I know?” protested Neale.

But Larry was not convinced.  He had seen the hard side of border life; he knew the odds against Allie.

“Reckon I’ll look fer that Fresno,” he said.

And deeper than before he plunged into Benton’s wild life.

One evening Neale, on returning from work to his lodgings, found the cowboy there.  In the dim light Larry looked strange.  He had his gun-belt in his hands.  Neale turned up the lamp.

“Hello, Red!  What’s the matter?  You look pale and sick,” said Neale.

“They wanted to throw me out of thet dance ball,” said Larry.

“Which one?”

“Stanton’s.”

“Well, did they?” inquired Neale.

“Wal, I reckon not.  I walked.  An’ some night I’ll shore clean out thet hall.”

Neale did not know what to make of Larry’s appearance.  The cowboy seemed to be relaxing.  His lips, that had been tight, began to quiver, and his hands shook.  Then he swung the heavy gun-belt with somber and serious air, as if he were undecided about leaving it off even when about to go to bed.

“Red, you’ve thrown a gun!” exclaimed Neale.

Larry glanced at him, and Neale sustained a shock.

“Shore,” drawled Larry.

“By Heaven!  I knew you would,” declared Neale, excitedly, and he clenched his fist.  “Did you—­you kill some one?”