ing unfathomable and great. Not
the movement of progress as typified by those men who had dreamed of the
railroad, nor the spirit of the unconquerable engineers as typified by
Neale, nor the wildness of wild youth like Larry King, nor the heroic
labor and simplicity and sacrifice of common men, nor the inconceivable
passion of these gamblers for gold, nor the mystery hidden in the mad
laughter of these fallen women, strange and sad on the night wind--not
any of these things nor all of them, wonderful and incalculable as they
were, loomed so great as the spirit that upheld Allie Lee.

When she raised her head again the gambling scene had changed. Only
three men played--Hough, Durade, and another. And even as Allie looked
this third player threw his cards into the deck and with silent gesture
rose from the table to take a position with the other black-garbed
gamblers standing behind Hough. The blackness of their attire contrasted
strongly with the whiteness of their faces. They had lost gold, which
fact meant little to them. But there was something big and significant
in their presence behind Hough. Gamblers leagued against a crooked
gambling-hell! Durade had lost a fortune, yet not all his fortune. He
seemed a haggard, flaming-eyed wreck of the once debonair Durade. His
hair was wet and dishevelled, his collar was open, his hand wavered.
Blood trickled down from his lower lip. He saw nothing except the gold,
the cards, and that steel-nerved, gray-faced, implacable Hough. Behind
him lined up his gang, nervous, strained, frenzied, with eyes on the
gold--hate-filled, murderous eyes.

Allie slipped into her room, leaving the door ajar so she could peep
out, and there she paced the floor, waiting, listening for what she
dared not watch. The gambler Hough would win all that Durade had, and
then stake it against her. That was what Allie believed. She had no
doubts of Hough's winning her, too, but she doubted if he could take her
away. There would be a fight. And if there was a fight, then that must
be the end of Durade. For this gambler, Hough, with his unshakable
nerve, his piercing eyes, his wonderful white hands, swift as light--he
would at the slightest provocation kill Durade.

Suddenly Allie was arrested by a loud, long suspiration--a heave of
heavy breaths in the room of the gamblers. A chair scraped, noisily
breaking the silence, which instantly clamped down again.

"Durade, you're done!" It was the cold, ringing voi