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.