“Oh yes—­locked and barred.  I never get out.  I have been threatened so—­that until now I feared to tell anyone.  But Durade—­he is going mad.  I—­I can bear it no longer.”

“Miss Lee, you shall not bear it,” declared Ancliffe.  “We’ll take you out of here.”

“How?” queried Hough, shortly.

Ancliffe was for walking right out with her, but Hough shook his head.

“Listen,” began Allie, hurriedly.  “He would kill me the instant I tried to escape.  He loved my mother.  He does not believe she is dead.  He lives only to be revenged upon her ...  He has a desperate gang here.  Fresno, Mull, Stitt, Black, Grist, Dayss, a greaser called Mex, and others—­all the worst of bad men.  You cannot get me out of here alive except by some trick.”

“How about bringing the troops?”

“Durade would kill me the first thing.”

“Could we steal you out at night?”

“I don’t see how.  They are awake all night.  I am barred in, watched ...  Better work on Durade’s weakness.  Gold!  He’s mad for gold.  When the fever’s on him he might gamble me away—­or sell me for gold.”

Hough’s cold eyes shone like fire in ice.  He opened his lips to speak—­then quickly motioned Ancliffe back to the table.  They had just seated themselves when the two gamblers returned, followed by Durade.  He was rubbing his hands in satisfaction.

“What was the fuss about?” queried Hough, tipping the ashes off his cigar.

“Some drunks after money they had lost.”

“And got thrown out for their pains?” inquired Ancliffe.

“Yes.  Mull and Fresno are out there now.”

The game was taken up again.  Allie sensed a different note in it.  The gambler Hough now faced her in his position at the table; and behind every card he played there seemed to be intense purpose and tremendous force.  Ancliffe soon left the game.  But he appeared fascinated where formerly he had been indifferent.  Soon it developed that Hough, by his spirit and skill, was driving his opponents, inciting their passion for play, working upon their feelings.  Durade seemed the weakest gambler, though he had the best luck.  Good luck balanced his excited play.  The two other gamblers pitted themselves against Hough.

The shadows of evening had begun to darken the room when Durade called for lights.  A slim, sloe-eyed, pantherish-moving Mexican came in to execute the order.  He wore a belt with a knife in it and looked like a brigand.  When he had lighted the lamps he approached Durade and spoke in Spanish.  Durade replied in the same tongue.  Then the Mexican went out.  One of the gamblers lost and arose from the table.

“Gentlemen, may I go out for more money and return to the game?” he asked.

“Certainly,” replied Hough.

Durade assented with bad grace.

The game went on and grew in interest.  Probably the Mexican had reported the fact of its possibilities, or perhaps Durade had sent out word of some nature.  For one by one his villainous lieutenants came in, stepping softly, gleaming-eyed.