Allie knew him.  He was the first person who had ever dominated her through sheer force of will.  Unless she abided by his command her fate would be worse than if she had stayed captive among the Sioux.  This man was not an American.  His years among men of later mold had not changed the Old World cruelty of his nature.  She recognized the fact in utter despair.  She had not strength left to keep her eyes open.

After a while Allie grew conscious that Durade had left her.  She felt like a creature that had been fascinated by a deadly snake and then left to itself; in the mean time she could do nothing but wait.  Shudderingly, mournfully, she resigned herself to the feeling that she must stay under Durade’s control until a dominance stronger than his should release her.  Neale seemed suddenly to have retreated far into the past, to have gone out of the realm of her consciousness.  And yet the sound of his voice, the sight of his face, would make instantly that spirit of hers—­his spirit—­to leap like a tigress in her defense.  But where was Neale?  The habits of life were all powerful; and all her habits had been formed under Durade’s magnetic eye.  Neale retreated and so did spirit, courage, hope.  Love remained, despairing, yet unquenchable.

Allie’s resignation established a return to normal feelings.  She ate and grew stronger; she slept and was refreshed.

The caravan moved on about twenty-five miles a day.  At the next camp Allie tried walking again, to find her feet were bruised, her legs cramped, and action awkward and painful.  But she persevered, and the tingling of revived circulation was like needles pricking her flesh.  She limped from one camp-fire to another; and all the rough men had a kind word or question or glance for her.  Allie did not believe they were all honest men.  Durade had employed a large force, and apparently he had taken on every one who applied.  Miners, hunters, scouts, and men of no hall-mark except that of wildness composed the mixed caravan.  It spoke much for Durade that they were under control.  Allie well remembered hearing her mother say that he had a genius for drawing men to him and managing them.

Once during her walk, when every one appeared busy, a big fellow with hulking shoulders and bandaged head stepped beside her.

“Girl,” he whispered, “if you want a knife slipped into Durade, tell him about me!”

Allie recognized the whisper before she did the heated, red face with its crooked nose and bold eyes and ugly mouth.  Fresno!  He must have escaped from the Sioux and fallen in with Durade.

Allie shrunk from him.  Durade, compared with this kind of ruffian, was a haven of refuge.  She passed on without a sign.  But Fresno was safe from her.  This meeting made her aware of an impulse to run back to Durade, instinctively, just as she had when a child.  He had ruined her mother; he had meant to make a lure of her, the daughter; he had showed what his vengeance would be upon that mother, just as he had showed Allie her doom should she betray him.  But notwithstanding all this, Durade was not Fresno, nor like any of those men whose eyes seemed to burn her.