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.
“I wish I had heavier guns,” he said.
Allie’s thrill of emotion spent itself in a shudder of realization. Calmly and chivalrously these two strangers had taken a stand against her enemies and with a few cool words and actions had accepted whatever might betide.
“I must tell you—oh, I must!” she whispered, with her hand on Hough’s arm. “I heard you send for Neale and Larry King... It made my heart stop!... Neale—Warren Neale is my sweetheart. See, I wear his ring!... Reddy King is my dearest friend—my brother!...”