When Neale at last reached Benton it was night.  Benton and night!  And he had forgotten.  A mob of men surged down and up on the train.  Neale had extreme difficulty in getting off at all.  But the excitement, the hurry, the discordant and hoarse medley of many voices, were unusual at that hour around the station, even for strenuous Benton.  All these men were carrying baggage.  Neale shouted questions into passing ears, until at length some fellow heard and yelled a reply.

The last night of Benton!

He understood then.  The great and vile construction camp had reached the end of its career.  It was being torn down—­moved away—­ depopulated.  There was an exodus.  In another forty-eight hours all that had been Benton, with its accumulated life and gold and toil, would be incorporated in another and a greater and a last camp—­ Roaring City.

The contrast to the beautiful Washington, the check to his half-dreaming memory of what he had experienced there, the sudden plunge into this dim—­lighted, sordid, and roaring hell, all brought about in Neale a revulsion of feeling.

And with the sinking of his spirit there returned the old haunting pangs—­the memory of Allie Lee, the despairing doubts of life or death for her.  Beyond the camp loomed the dim hills, mystical, secretive, and unchangeable.  If she were out there among them, dead or alive, to know it would be a blessed relief.  It was this horror of Benton that he feared.

He walked the street, up and down, up and down, until the hour was late and he was tired.  All the halls and saloons were blazing in full blast.  Once he heard low, hoarse cries and pistol-shots—­and then again quick, dull, booming guns.  How strange they should make him shiver!  But all seemed strange.  From these sounds he turned away, not knowing what to do or where to go, since sleep or rest was impossible.  Finally he went into a gambling-den and found a welcome among players whose faces he knew.

It was Benton’s last night, and there was something in the air, menacing, terrible.

Neale gave himself up to the spirit of the hour and the game.  He had almost forgotten himself when a white, jeweled hand flashed over his shoulder, to touch it softly.  He heard his name whispered.  Looking up, he saw the flushed and singularly radiant face of Beauty Stanton.

25

The afternoon and night of pay-day in Benton, during which Allie Lee was barred in her room, were hideous, sleepless, dreadful hours.  Her ears were filled with Benton’s roar—­whispers and wails and laughs; thick shouts of drunken men; the cold voices of gamblers; clink of gold and clink of glasses; a ceaseless tramp and shuffle of boots; pistol-shots muffled and far away, pistol-shots ringing and near at hand; the angry hum of brawling men; and strangest of all this dreadful roar were the high-pitched, piercing voices of women, in songs without soul, in laughter without mirth, in cries wild and terrible and mournful.