It was this horror
of Benton that he feared.
He walked the street, up and down, up and down, until the hour was
late and he was tired. All the halls and saloons were blazing in
full blast. Once he heard low, hoarse cries and pistol-shots--and
then again quick, dull, booming guns. How strange they should make
him shiver! But all seemed strange. From these sounds he turned
away, not knowing what to do or where to go, since sleep or rest was
impossible. Finally he went into a gambling-den and found a welcome
among players whose faces he knew.
It was Benton's last night, and there was something in the air,
menacing, terrible.
Neale gave himself up to the spirit of the hour and the game. He had
almost forgotten himself when a white, jeweled hand flashed over his
shoulder, to touch it softly. He heard his name whispered. Looking
up, he saw the flushed and singularly radiant face of Beauty
Stanton.
25
The afternoon and night of pay-day in Benton, during which Allie Lee
was barred in her room, were hideous, sleepless, dreadful hours. Her
ears were filled with Benton's roar--whispers and wails and laughs;
thick shouts of drunken men; the cold voices of gamblers; clink of
gold and clink of glasses; a ceaseless tramp and shuffle of boots;
pistol-shots muffled and far away, pistol-shots ringing and near at
hand; the angry hum of brawling men; and strangest of all this
dreadful roar were the high-pitched, piercing voices of women, in
songs without soul, in laughter without mirth, in cries wild and
terrible and mournful.
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