“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 any one.

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.