“Come,” said Ancliffe, touching Allie.

He helped her get out, and followed laboriously.  Then he softly called to Hough.  The gambler let himself down swiftly and noiselessly.

“Now what?” he muttered.

They appeared to be in a narrow alley between a house of boards and a house of canvas.  Excited voices sounded inside this canvas structure and evidently alarmed Hough, for with a motion he enjoined silence and led Allie through the dark passage out into a gloomy square surrounded by low, dark structures.  Ancliffe followed close behind.

The night was dark, with no stars showing.  A cool wind blew in Allie’s face, refreshing her after her long confinement.  Hough began groping forward.  This square had a rough board floor and a skeleton framework.  It had been a house of canvas.  Some of the partitions were still standing.

“Look for a door—­any place to get out,” whispered Hough to Ancliffe, as they came to the opposite side of this square space.  Hough, with Allie close at his heels, went to the right while Ancliffe went to the left.  Hough went so far, then muttering, drew Allie back again to the point whence they had started.  Ancliffe was there.

“No place!  All boarded up tight,” he whispered.

“Same on this side.  We’ll have to—­”

“Listen!” exclaimed Ancliffe, holding up his hand.

There appeared to be noise all around, but mostly on the other side of the looming canvas house, behind which was the alleyway that led to Durade’s hall.  Gleams of light flashed through the gloom.  Durade’s high, quick voice mingled with hoarser and deeper tones.  Some one in the canvas house was talking to Durade, who apparently must have been in Allie’s room and at her window.

“See hyar, Greaser, we ain’t harborin’ any of your outfit, an’ we’ll plug the fust gent we see,” called a surly voice.

Durade’s staccato tones succeeded it.  “Did you see them?”

“We heerd them gettin’ out the winder.”

Durade’s voice rose high in Spanish curses.  Then he called: 

“Fresno—­Mull—­take men—­go around the street.  They can’t get away ...  You, Mex, get down in there with the gang.”

Lower voices answered, questioning, eager, but indistinct.

“Kill him—­bring her back—­and you can have the gold,” shouted Durade.

Following that came the heavy tramp of boots and the low roar of angry men.

Hough leaned toward Ancliffe.  “They’ve got us penned in.”

“Yes.  But it’s pretty dark here.  And they’ll be slow.  You watch while I tear a hole through somewhere,” replied Ancliffe.

He was perfectly cool and might have been speaking of some casual incident.  He extinguished his cigarette, dropped it, then put on his gloves.

Hough loomed tall and dark.  His face showed pale in the shadow.  He stood with his elbows stiff against his sides, a derringer in each hand.