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 to-morrow,” 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.”