THE Mohave Indians have a legend of
the Calico Mountains and their origin.
According to their beliefs, the Great Spirit
finished the big task of making the world at
this spot.
The desert was the final work of the Great
Spirit, and he was much pleased; but in his
arms he held a big jumble of rocks, sand and
pigments, which were left from the great
work. The world was all made and very good
to look upon, so he had no place for this extra
material.
To get rid of it he simply dropped it at his
feet in a mass, and the many-hued pigments
spilled over it until the whole was as a bright-hued
piece of cloth.
Thus, according to the Indians, was formed
these mountains, which are but a jumble of
barren rocks, rising sheer from the level desert;
scourged through the centuries by the
desert sun, wind and sand—an unfading proof
that, unlike man, the Great Spirit painted
deeper than the surface.
But with all their gaudy colors in the sun,
these mountains, at night, are black silhouettes,
which appear to be without breadth or
thickness; or broken into misty, hazy, unreal
piles in the moonlight.
On all sides the desert stretches away to the
haze of nothingness—a land of the mirage;
scenes which the jealous desert steals from
arid lands and holds up to the eyes of desert
men to lure them on. Cities, rivers, lakes,
with cool, nodding palms, rippling brooks,
which seem only a few feet away, then fade
out to show a waste of dust-gray mesquite,
which rattles in the hot winds, Joshua-trees,
with their agonized arms—and sand. Always
the sand.
On a rocky plateau of this painted range
stood a town—one street of adobe shacks,
paved with the solid rock of the mountain.
Even the houses were tinted with fantastic
colors, where the clay had been mixed with
the muck of the silver mines.
At the upper end of the street the cliffs arose
sheer for several hundred feet, like gaudy
drapes of calico. At the lower end was a succession
of broken ledges, which sloped off to
the desert, where the winding trails came in
from the rest of the world.
To the left of the town was a deep, rocky
gorge, so grotesque in formation that it did
not appear to be a work of nature. There
were natural stone bridges, caves, barriers—unreal
in color and design, as though a child-minded
giant had modeled them in colored
clay and left them to harden in the blistering
sun.
This was the residence section of Calico
Town, and was known as Sunshine Alley.
Just below where the Alley opened onto the
desert, on a slight rise of ground, full in the
glare of the sun, and with no protection from
the ever-sifting sand, was the graveyard, which
was known as Hell’s Depot. Not a blade of
grass, not even a spray of sage grew here. The
ground was a mass of small stones, seemingly
laid close together like tiles, but showing patterns
in colors that would put any man-made
mosaic to shame.
One foot deep was the limit of the graves,
as the rock below that depth was glass-like
flint, but what the graves lacked in depth was
made up in height. The mounds of rock were
piled until one might believe that the corpse
had been of gigantic proportions, or that the
sexton wished to preclude any chance of the
dead coming back in material form.
Such was Calico in the early ’fifties, when
men were gold- and silver-mad. A town of
thirty-five hundred population—a population
which lived in caves, hollowed places in Sunshine
Alley, or picked a corner in the rock and
builded a rock barrier around them. This
gave a roofless dwelling, but rain did not come
to Calico, so there was no need for roofs.
Water was worth more than whiskey, and
morals were as scarce as orchids.
Just now a funeral was in progress, or
rather, had been in progress. The corpse was
there in the rough casket; the grave was dug
and the pall-bearers stood aside, reverently
holding their hats in their hands. Clustered
around was a cosmopolitan mining-camp audience.
Frock-coated, tall-hatted gamblers
rubbed elbows with muck-stained miners.
Calico-clad wives of miners, children, dogs,
and even a group of burros poked onto the
flat to add their faces to the mournful proceedings.
Up the desert trail came two men and a
lightly-packed burro; all of them gray with
the dust and heat. The one who led the caravan
was a mighty, weatherbeaten man, with
a long, white beard. In appearance he might
have been a saint. Surely he could not be
a sinner, with the eyes of a dreamer, the nose
of a prophet and the beard of a saint; but nature
does queer things to disappoint students
of physiognomy.
The other man was also tall. His face
showed him to be about thirty years of age—a
face seemingly hewed from stone, although
handsome in its stern mold. His hair was
black and he wore it low between his cheek
and ear. There was the free, easy swing to
his walk, like the half-lope of a desert wolf.
The patriarch halted the caravan on the
trail, just short of the street end, and gazed
across at the funeral. The younger man
glanced over there, with little show of interest.
“Duke,” the old man jerked his head toward
the graveyard, “I reckon they’re plantin’
somebody. Let’s me and you go over.”
They left their burro on the trail and
crossed over, attracting little attention. The
crowd seemed to be waiting for someone.
Two men were standing near the grave, talking
earnestly. Suddenly one of them looked
up and saw the newcomers. He walked abruptly
away from his companion and halted
a few feet from the white-bearded man.
“Podner, by yore whiskers yo’re a preacher;
are yuh?”
The bearded one’s right hand came up and
slowly stroked the white mass of hair, which
hung nearly to his waist-line.
“By my beard,” nodded the old man slowly,
which neither affirmed nor denied in fact,
but seemed to bring joy to the heart of his
questioner, who turned on his heel, facing the
crowd.
“Folks, we’re playin’ in luck. The funeral
will proceed jist like nothin’ happened extraordinary.”
“Just a moment, pardner,” said the bearded
one, “What happens to be the matter?”
“Not a damn thing,” laughed the man. “We
needed a preacher awful bad—you showed
up. There yuh are!”
“Have you no preacher?”
“We did have. Yessir, we shore had a reg’lar
one, and he was plumb tidy and slick on
funerals—yessir. But he forgot himself
complete-like last night when he ’lowed there
wasn’t no honest rules of averages, which
gives him small cards all the time, while ‘Ace’
Ault get nothin’ smaller than kings-up in ten
deals.”
“Hm-m-m,” the white bearded one almost
smiled, “Where is this poker-playin’ preacher
now?”
“Well, hell’s delight!” grunted the other.
“He’s in the casket! We plumb forgot that he
couldn’t say his own oration. That’s where
you comes in handy, like a gun in a boot.”
The patriarch’s head turned slightly and
his eyes flashed to the face of his companion,
who was regarding him with stony countenance,
although the eyes twitched slightly at
the outer corners, a sure sign that Duke Steele
was greatly amused.
The bearded one crossed to the grave and
looked down at the rough coffin, while the
audience moved in closer. A burro brayed
raucously and two more of the long-eared
beasts added their brazen throats to the racket.
A miner heaved a rock against the ribs of the
nearest beast, and the animal clattered away
for a few jumps, looking back solemnly, sadly.
“Friends,” the bearded man’s voice was
deep and musical, as he lifted his bared head
and let his eyes travel around the assemblage,
“friends, I have been asked to say a few words
over the mortal remains of one of God’s
anointed; a man who has labored in this land
of sin and sinners that the Gospel might be
brought home to you all. He was fearless in
his righteousness; a guide, friend and spiritual
counselor.
“He is with you no more, except in spirit,
but his many good works will live long after
his name has been forgotten. I can see him
now—a bulwark of strength to the weak, a
solace to the suffering and a friend to all mankind.
I can see him——”
“Wait a moment, parson,” interrupted the
man who had asked the bearded one to deliver
the sermon. He stepped forward, hat in
hand, clearing his throat apologetically. “I
ain’t no hand to stop a feller from sayin’ what
he thinks; but did you know ‘Preacher Bill’
Bushnell?”
The old man shook his head.
“No, I did not know him, friend.”
“I didn’t reckon yuh did, parson. We did.
I believe in sayin’ everythin’ good yuh can
fer a dead man, but there ain’t no use of yuh
lyin’ to us about Preacher Bill.”
The old man glanced down at the coffin,
lifted his head slowly and nodded.
“If the Lord is willing, I will take back
what I said about him, and start all over
again. Wasn’t he your minister? Did he
not labor among you?”
“He preached,” admitted a bearded miner
seriously, and added, “when he was sober
enough. He owed everybody in Calico, and
if he left any good works he sure had ’em
cached where nobody’ll ever find ’em.”
The bearded man nodded slowly and cleared
his throat.
“Under those conditions, friends, I suppose
I might as well keep away from personalities,
and stick to the ordinary burial service. Has
anyone a Bible?”
The assemblage looked at each other and
back at the bearded one.
“Preacher Bill had one—once,” stated a
frock-coated gambler. “I dunno what he
done with it. If you’re a preacher where is
your Bible?”
The bearded one glanced quickly at the
gambler and held out his hand.
“Let me have a deck of cards, will you?”
“Cards?” queried the gambler, “I have no
cards.”
“Then you are no better heeled than I am,
partner. I have no Bible, you have no cards.”
He leaned down and placed a hand on the
rough casket.
“Preacher Bill, I wish I had known you
well enough to have something to say about
you. No doubt you were a hard drinker, of
very little value to any community, and
showed poor judgment in objecting audibly
against a run of bad poker luck, but no man
can live through childhood and well into life’s
narrow span without doing some good—leaving
somebody better for having known you.
Let him who is without sin cast the first stone.
Good-by, Preacher Bill.”
The bearded man straightened up and
looked at the crowd.
“Friends, I ask you to try and remember
the good things he has done and forget the
bad. We are all children of circumstance.
The Bible says, ‘The son of man goeth as it
is written of him.’
“Whether or not this means that our destiny
is all written out in the good book, I do not
know. Perhaps poor Preacher Bill merely
traveled according to what had been written
of him—powerless to do otherwise. Shall we
say that he was unfit? I think that is all I
can say.”
“Parson,” one of the miners stepped out of
the crowd and held out his hand to the old
man, “if you start a church here, I’ll sure as
hell go to hear yuh preach.”
The old man smiled sadly, shook hands with
several of the miners and turned back to
where Duke Steele stood. They looked
closely at each other, turned and went back to
their burro, without a word; while the mortal
remains of Preacher Bill Bushnell were lowered
one foot deep into Hell’s Depot and piled
high with heavy stones.
“Le Saint,” said Duke Steele, as they plodded
toward the street, “I wonder what will be
said over your remains?”
The old man turned his head and glanced
back toward the group at the cemetery.
“I wonder, Duke. Perhaps I shall be lucky
enough to have my funeral oration spoken by
a man who did not know me any better than I
knew Preacher Bill. Will he say, ‘This is
Paget Le Saint,’ or will he say ‘The Saint?’ I
wonder. Still, what should I care, Duke?”
“Damn little difference it makes, after a
man’s dead,” nodded Duke Steele.
“True as Gospel, Duke. Life is the only
thing that interests me; death I know nothing
about—nor care.”
And the Saint spoke truly, when he said he
did not care; for the Saint was a fatalist, a
gambler, who staked his life against other
men’s gold. Just as surely as Kidd and Morgan
were pirates of the seas, the Saint was a
pirate of the Desert, whose appearance belied
his calling. Men seemed to speak softly in
his presence, as though awed by the majesty
of his face and great white beard. Oaths
never passed his lips and no man had ever seen
him take a drink of liquor. He censured no
man for doing evil, and his open philosophy
of life fitted in well with the rough lands of
the West.
No man, except Duke Steele, knew the real
business of the Saint, and he knew only because
they were of a kind. Duke Steele was
a gunman, a killer, a gambler, and he, alone,
knew that the Saint was all of these. An old
wolf in the raiment of a sheep; as resourceful
and dangerous as an old wolf, and with the
brain of a Solomon.
But no man, not excepting Duke Steele,
knew anything more about the Saint than they
had observed from contact with him, for he
confided in no man. He had wandered much,
and at times would mention distant parts of
the country.
Names seemed to interest him greatly—names
of men. It was as though he was
always searching for a certain name, which
he could only remember by hearing it spoken.
Duke Steele wondered at times if the Saint
was not just a trifle insane.
For he was a strange personality at times;
given to brooding, violence, turning in a flash
to extreme kindness and good humor. He
often spoke his own name, as though mocking
himself. But of his ancestry, his early life,
he made no mention.
Duke Steele had been one of his gang in a
raid on the Cohise mines, which had been
skilfully planned and executed, and without
the loss of a man.
Three weeks before the Saint’s outfit had
boasted of twelve men. Where the other ten
were now could only be told by a bunch of
Apaches, who ambushed them beyond the
Colorado. The Saint and Duke Steele were
the only ones to escape.
The plunder of the Cohise mining camp
had been taken by the Indians, and the Saint
and Steele were forced to be content with saving
their lives and one burro. But Steele was
an optimist and the Saint did not care for
money. It meant nothing to him.
Men believed him insane, at times, because
of his total disregard for wealth. He would
nurse a sick man with all the tenderness of a
woman, or kill a malcontent with the cold-bloodedness
of a tiger. But travel, he must.
His eyes ever turned toward the hills, as
though he was wondering what was on the
other side. A prospector had told them of
Calico, and to Calico they had come, with not
a drop of water nor a crumb of food left.
“The Lord must be looking out for us,” observed
Duke Steele, as they herded their burro
up the main street.
“Fate,” corrected the Saint. “The Lord
has nothing to do with this place, Duke. It
looks like the devil might have located it, did
one or two assessments, and relinquished it on
account of the heat.”
A man crossed the street ahead of them and
the Saint stopped him with the question,
“Friend, can you tell us where we may find
lodging?”
“Lodging?” The man parroted the word.
“There ain’t a hotel in Calico. Better see
Sleed, I reckon. Since Preacher Bill got
killed there’s a vacant hole in Sunshine Alley,
and maybe yuh can rent it from Sleed.”
“And who is Sleed?” asked the Saint.
“Who?” The man looked curiously at
them. “Yuh must be strangers in this part of
the country if yuh don’t know who Sleed is.
He’s the big man around here.
“Owns the Silver Bar saloon over there,
and owns the California at Cactus City. Owns
the Lady Slipper and the Nola mines, which
are the biggest producers here. Sleed was
one of the original locators, and he sure does
own this town, y’betcha.”
“He owns the hole yuh spoke about?” queried
Steele.
“Yep—owns most all of the Alley. You
just ask for Silver Sleed over at the Silver Bar
saloon. ’S funny yuh never heard of Silver
Sleed.”
“No doubt,” nodded the Saint. “Our
sources of information appear very lax in not
apprising us of this great personage. Still,
it is never too late to meet the great. We both
thank you, friend.”
The Saint turned the burro toward the
front of the Silver Bar saloon, while their informant
shuffled his feet in the gravel street
and wondered whether or not the old patriarch
was making fun of him. The Saint was
not over fifty years of age, but looked seventy.
Silver Sleed was a giant of a man, with a
great black beard, which grew almost to his
eyes; eyes that reflected a greenish light, like
the sheen of jade. He wore his hair long,
after the fashion of the time, and his clothes
were a trifle extreme, but befitted his occupation
and position as the richest and most
powerful man in the country. The law had
never penetrated the Calico hills, so Silver
Sleed set himself up as judge and arbiter, from
which there was no appeal. In all cases
which did not directly or indirectly affect
himself or his interests, he was fair in his
decisions.
The Silver Bar saloon was not a pretentious
place, being one story high, built of adobe, but
it was the largest building in Calico. The
floor space was about forty feet wide by sixty
feet deep, which was taken up by a long bar,
gambling layouts and a dance floor. It was
the only saloon in Calico, which was conclusive
evidence that Sleed owned the
town.
Calico spoke many languages, but among
this polyglot of tongues, only one, Louie Yen,
spoke Chinese. Sleed did not like Chinese, so
he limited the camp to Louie Yen, who was
a “velly good laundly—yessum.” Louie was
so old that he claimed to remember the time
when Ruby Hill was nothing but a hole in
the ground; old and very wise, after his own
fashion.
But no man may rule a community without
assistance. Sleed surrounded himself with a
few trusted men, who were paid for doing certain
things without asking the why and wherefore;
men who might be undesirable to a village
of God-fearing folk, but passing unnoticed
in Calico, where, according to the
parlance of Sunshine Alley, everything
went, except the cook-stove and one joint
of pipe.
Just now Sleed was standing with his back
to the bar, in the saloon, his eyes squinted, as
though in deep thought. Beside him stood a
slender, dark-featured man, dressed in the
habiliments of the professional gambler. His
black eyes were sullen and shifty, and his long
fingers moved nervously at his sides, as he
flashed a sidewise glance at Sleed.
“That’s your idea of a square deal, is it,
Sleed?”
Sleed turned his head and looked coldly at
the gambler.
“Ace Ault, this ain’t no deal. You killed
Preacher Bill because—well, not because he
said yuh dealt a crooked game, but because
yuh was jealous.”
“Jealous, hell!” snapped Ault. “He
said——”
“I know what he said,” interrupted Sleed
coldly. “It gave yuh the chance yuh wanted,
Ault. Preacher Bill was a dirty old bum
and his tongue was against him, but he was
educatin’ Luck. He was smart, and he
was learnin’ her a lot of things. She liked
him.”
“And because I protected my honor against
his lying tongue I’ve got to leave the camp,
eh?” queried Ault sarcastically.
“Honor?” Sleed laughed into his beard.
“Honor? Good God, when did a tinhorn like
you get any honor?”
Ault’s face went a trifle darker, and he lifted
his hands to a level with his waist.
“You travel muy pronto ,” snapped Sleed.
“Better go north, Ault, so yuh won’t have any
reason even to pass Calico town again.”
“Think so?” snapped Ault. His right hand
flashed up from under his coat. From across
the room came the jarring thud of a pistol
shot, and Ault jerked back, firing his pistol a
foot over Sleed’s head. For a moment Ault’s
eyes shifted around the room, as he grasped at
the bar for support, half-turned toward the
door and fell sprawling.
One of Sleed’s men came slowly across the
room, pistol in hand, watching Ault closely.
Sleed’s expression had not changed.
“Quick work, Loper,” he said softly. Loper
nodded and shoved his gun back into its
holster.
Just then the Saint and Duke Steele came
into the door. Sleed looked at them indifferently,
and motioned for some more men to
assist in carrying Ault’s body out of the place.
The Saint and Steele stood aside and watched
the men file out.
“Silver Sleed?” asked Steele.
Sleed looked at him for a moment; glanced
toward the door as he nodded. Some of the
men who had been at the graveyard were coming
in, looking curiously back at the men
carrying Ace Ault.
“We’re lookin’ for a place to live in,” said
Steele. “A man told us to see Silver
Sleed.”
“Yeah?” Sleed squinted at the Saint and
back to Steele.
“Whatcha goin’ to do in Calico?”
“You didn’t expect an answer to that, did
yuh?” asked Steele, with a smile.
Sleed grunted softly. One of the men
from the graveyard stepped in and spoke to
Sleed.
“The graybeard’s a preacher, Sleed. He
said a few things for Preacher Bill, and they
was damn well said, after he got put right.”
Sleed looked at the Saint curiously, and
found the Saint looking straight at him.
Something in that glance seemed to bother
Sleed. It was as though this tall, white-bearded,
hawk-eyed man was peering into
things that Sleed did not want anyone to see.
Sleed glanced down at the floor for a moment
and nodded.
“I reckon there’s places to live in. Yuh
can have Preacher Bill’s place or yuh can
have—” Sleed looked up and glanced toward
the door—“I think yuh can have the
place where Ace Ault lived.”
“We both thank you, sir.” The Saint’s
voice boomed like the deep notes of a pipe-organ.
Sleed glanced quickly at him and saw that
the Saint’s eyes were closed, as though he had
shut out material things while he thought
deeply.
“I’ll show ’em the places, Sleed.”
It was the miner who had offered to come
to church in case the Saint would do the
preaching. Sleed nodded and turned back to
the bar, but he watched the three men go out
of the door.
“Loper, who are them two men?” he asked.
“I dunno.” Loper shook his head.
“Find out.”
Sleed turned back to the bar and called for
whiskey. For some unknown reason he was
worried. The killing of Ault amounted to
nothing. He discarded that as a possible
reason for his unrest. Was it the white-bearded
man? Sleed scowled at his glass of
liquor for a moment and placed it back on the
bar untasted.
II
THE Saint and Steele found that there was
little choice between the two dwellings,
but they selected the one made vacant by the
death of Preacher Bill. It was a roofless,
windowless, rock hut about ten feet square,
built in an angle of the canyon which supplied
two of the walls. An open fireplace
was used for cooking, and the utensils were
either placed on rock shelves or on the ground.
Preacher Bill’s blankets were still spread
from his last night’s sleep, but the larder was
empty.
“I reckon yuh can get along,” said their
guide. “I’m Jim Cates, but most everybody
calls me ‘Mica.’ ’S I said before, if yuh start
preachin’, I’m goin’ t’ have a front seat.”
He started away, but turned back.
“Say, if yuh get a call to speak over the remains
of Ace Ault, I can tell yuh a few things
to make yore oration easier. Ault was crooked
as a snake in a cactus patch. He never——”
Mica Cates stopped talking and cleared his
throat. A girl had come up near the doorway
and was looking at them. She was about
twenty years of age, fairly well dressed. A
pair of big, brown eyes, misty with tears,
looked at them from a cameo-like face, which
was framed in a mass of brown hair. Her
cheeks were streaked with tear-marks and her
lips quivered as she looked around. Then she
turned, without a word, and disappeared
around the canyon wall.
“Sleed’s daughter,” said Cates softly. “Her
name is Nola, but Sleed said she was his luck
so many times that everybody calls her Luck.”
“Been cryin’,” said Steele wonderingly.
“Uh-huh. Mebbe yuh didn’t see her down
to Hell’s Depot. She was there. I reckon
she was the only one to care about Preacher
Bill. Yuh see, she ain’t had no chance to
learn book teachin’s, until Preacher Bill took
to learnin’ her. He was eddicated a lot, and
she sure wanted to learn.”
Steele nodded. “She’s a mighty pretty girl,
Cates.”
“And ’nother thing,” said Cates softly, “yuh
don’t want to have nothin’ t’ do with her.
Sleed’s a killer, where Luck’s concerned.
Mebbe that’s one reason why Ault got a ticket
for the Depot. Jist let her alone and don’t
cross Silver Sleed, and you’ll git along here.
What did yuh say yore names was?”
The Saint held out his hand and Cates
shook hands with him, flinching from the
crushing grip of the Saint’s hand.
“We both thank you, Mica Cates,” boomed
the Saint. “If I preach in Calico town I
shall deem it a pleasure to see you in the front
row.”
Mica Cates bobbed his head and hurried
away. He flexed his right hand and shook
his head.
“My Gawd, I never knowed a preacher
with a grip like that—nossir! I didn’t find
out their names and I’m danged if I’d ever
ask any man twice.”
Cates climbed back up the rocky trail to
the street, where he met Loper.
“Where did they hole up?” asked Loper.
“Preacher Bill’s place.”
“Ask ’em their names, Mica?”
“Y’betcha, I did.”
“What names did they give yuh?”
Mica Cates glanced back down the trail,
wiped the perspiration off his brow with the
back of his hand.
“Y’betcha, I did. Mebbe they didn’t hear
me—I dunno.”
Loper hitched up his belt and strode back
to the street. It was very hot and he had no
desire to climb down into Sunshine Alley and
argue about names.
III
“WE’VE got a home,” said Duke Steele
dubiously, as he leaned against the
rough stone doorway, squinting in the reflected
light from the desert sun; “but when
we got there the cupboard was bare.”
“Yes,” nodded the Saint, “but how long
have we fasted, Duke? Since breakfast.”
He pointed at the hills above them, dotted
with tunnels, where a host of men drove into
the bowels of the earth. Came the dull jar
of blasting, the rattle of falling rock from the
ever-growing dumps.
“Men are toiling up there, Duke; while
down on the street another group of non-toilers
are planning to get the fruits of that
labor, without toil. You and I do not toil;
therefore we must use our brains to devise ways
and means to get the necessary provender.”
“Just about how?” queried Duke.
The Saint unrolled some of his meager belongings
on the stone floor, and in the center
of it all was a small package. The Saint
picked this up and got to his feet.
“Duke, it has been seldom that I have had
to stoop to their use, but when I am forced
to such an extremity they never fail.”
“Meaning what?” smiled Duke.
The Saint unrolled the small package and
held in his hand two halves of a walnut; empty
of all meat, and polished to a mahogany finish.
In one of the halves was a polished black object,
about the size of a garden pea.
“The tools of a cheap gambler,” said the
Saint, studying Duke’s dubious expression.
“Yet one must be dexterous and have the
courage of his calling.”
“Where does the game come in?” asked
Duke.
The Saint knelt down on a blanket,
smoothed it out and placed the two shells
open side down. He slipped the black pea
under one of the shells, and with a rapid twist
of his hand and fingers, shuffled the shells for
a moment.
“Which one is it under, Duke?” he asked.
Duke indicated the one and the Saint lifted
the shell. There was no pea under it. The
Saint repeated the process slower this time,
and Duke Steele was willing to bet his neck
on picking the right shell, but he was mistaken.
“Is it under the other shell, Saint?” he
asked.
“That is hardly a fair question, Duke. Just
supposing I had opened my game, and a bettor
had picked the other shell. Would it be
good policy to have the pea under that shell?
In our financial condition we cannot afford
to take any great chances, and I know of no
smaller chances of losing than by operating
the two little walnut shells.”
Duke nodded shortly. “I reckon that’s
right, Saint. Looks to me like Sleed has this
place under his thumb. I suppose he’s got
every gunman working for him, which makes
it a poor place for us.”
The Saint placed the two shells in his
pocket and came to the doorway. The setting
sun slanted against the expanse of Ruby Hill,
bringing out a myriad of colors, until the
whole land seemed to be a vast drop-curtain
of fantastic shades. The voices of men drifted
down to them as clear cut as the tinkling of
bells. The rasp of a pick, the clank of hammer
on steel seemed to come from the air
above them and at no great distance.
And like the dimming of a great light the
sun moved its rays swiftly up the side of the
mountain, leaving in its track a misty softness,
almost as blue as moonlight. Blast after
blast seemed to jar the world, as the last shots
of the afternoon were fired. A few moments
later, like ants coming from their burrows,
the men came from their tunnels and down the
steep hillside, while from Sunshine Alley the
supper fires sent up long, straight streamers
of smoke to signal them home.
“Men will always toil,” said the Saint, as
though talking to himself. “Toil day after
day until their span of life is done, and after
them their sons will take up the toil and carry
it on. And what does it all mean? Will the
work that these men are doing amount to anything
in the final scheme of things? Will the
sweat of their brows and the callouses on
their hands mean anything?”
“Is there a reason for things, I wonder,
Duke?” He turned and put his hand on
Steele’s shoulder. “I have no conscience, no
morals. I have killed, like the wolf kills,
and yet I have no fear of death—only wonder.
“I have studied men from the frozen North
to the tropics. I know their different breeds,
languages, customs. I have seen a Cree chief
die, and I have seen the passing of a Yaqui
brave. I have seen the mystery of the unknown
come into the eyes of a learned man,
and I have held the wrist of a dying degenerate.
They all die alike, Duke. Never have
I seen a man who did not fight against the
death, and I have never seen one pass into the
borderland with a smile of welcome. Always
that mystery.
“Sometimes I wonder if death is a punishment.
The fear of death is punishment to
most men, no matter who they are. A minister
of the Gospel fights against the hand of
death as strongly as the worst sinner ever
bred, and why? The hereafter is a mystery—life
is just as great a mystery.”
Duke nodded, solemnly. “I reckon you’re
right, Saint. I kinda feel sorry for Sleed’s
girl.”
The Saint looked down at the rocky floor
and smiled in his great beard.
“Life is no mystery to youth, and you are
only thirty years of age, Duke. But don’t
feel sorry for Sleed’s girl. In the first place,
she is Sleed’s girl; in the second place, you are
Duke Steele.”
Duke swung away from the doorway and
looked up the hill toward the town. He
turned and looked at the Saint.
“I—I reckon you’re right, Saint. I kinda
forgot.”
IV
“IT CAN’T be beat, friends. The more you
put down, the less you take up. Never
buck another man’s game, because it was not
invented to lose money for its owner. The
gent bets five that he can pick the right shell.
“One at a time, gents. This is a one man
game, unless you both want to bet on the same
shell. Empty again, gents. Where’s the
next man who is foolish enough to think he
can beat a sure-thing game?”
The Saint’s voice boomed softly as he pocketed
the bet and slowly moved the two walnut
shells. The yellow light from the Silver Bar
windows lit up his white hair and white beard,
as he lifted himself to his full height and
studied the crowd in the street.
The Saint had secured a small, rough table,
which he had placed in the street, using the
lights from the saloon to illuminate his game.
A big moon, peeping over Ruby Hill, lit up
the street in a soft blue haze, broken by the
blocky shadows of the rough buildings, and
shot here and there by the yellow lights from
oil lamp or candle.
The narrow street was thronged with people,
for Sunshine Alley moved to the main
street at night. Money was plentiful, and the
toilers threw it away, living only in the present.
The shell game was new to Calico, and
Calico was anxious to welcome something
new. Men jostled each other for a chance to
place a bet; while the Saint’s voice boomed a
warning to each and all.
“It can’t be beat, brother. The hand is
quicker than the eye. Another empty shell.”
“Don’t nobody ever win?” asked a miner.
“Nobody, brother. Again I say to you all,
it can’t be beaten.”
The crowd laughed. It was unusual for a
game-keeper to declare that no one can beat
his game. The Saint was deadly serious, and
this amused the crowd. Another man, who
had watched several bets swept from the table,
moved in and tossed several gold pieces beside
the shells.
“Pick up your money, friend,” urged the
Saint. “You can’t win. Might as well toss
your money into the dust and walk away from
it. All right, if you insist. Thank you for
the present.”
The man turned away and went toward the
saloon door. Duke Steele had been watching
the game and now he moved in closer to the
Saint, who dug into his pocket and handed
Duke a fistful of money.
“Take a spin at the wheel, son. I don’t
want to take all of Silver Sleed’s business
away from him.”
“I reckon Sleed can stand it better than we
can,” laughed a miner, who had donated liberally
to the elusive black pea.
Duke moved out of the crowd and started
for the saloon door, when he came face to
face with Sleed’s Luck. The girl was standing
on the raised step of the saloon watching
the crowd around the Saint, but now she
looked straight at Duke, who removed his
sombrero slowly. He wanted to speak to her,
but turned and started on into the Silver Bar,
realizing that he had never met her.
“Wait,” she said softly, and he stopped.
Loper came out of the door and walked to the
edge of the steps, looking toward the crowd
in the street.
“You wanted to speak to me?” asked Duke.
“Yes, I want to speak to you—about—him.”
She motioned toward the Saint as she spoke.
“My pardner?” queried Duke.
“Yes. I—I heard him at the graveyard today.
Is he a preacher?”
“He can preach,” said Duke slowly.
“He has been educated,” said the girl, as
though talking to herself. “He must know a
lot of things.”
“Yes’m, he sure does,” nodded Duke, and
might have added that the Saint would have
been hanged many times for divulging even a
part of what he knew.
“I wonder if I could talk to him,” she said
quickly. “Not tonight—tomorrow—maybe.”
“Yes’m, I reckon yuh could. We’re livin’
where Preacher Bill used to live.”
Luck nodded. “I saw you there. Preacher
Bill was my friend. What is his name?” She
motioned toward the Saint.
“Le Saint.”
“Le Saint,” she said softly. “I thought of
him that way when I saw him at the graveyard.
My father let Preacher Bill teach me
things, and I wonder—my father is down at
Cactus City tonight.”
“You’ve lived here a long time?” asked
Duke.
“Two years.”
“Mighty long time to live here,” observed
Duke.
Luck nodded slowly. “A long time—yes.
Nothing but heat in the day and this—” She
gave a weary gesture toward the street—“at
night. I have lived in the North, where the
mountains are big and cool; where there
are big trees and rivers. It is never cool
here. At times it is a dreary cold—then
the heat.”
Duke nodded and looked up at the moon,
hanging like a great ball only a short distance
above the hill. Suddenly an altercation
started across the street beyond the crowd
around the Saint. A babble of voices, a curse,
shrilled in a woman’s voice—a shot.
Duke turned quickly to Luck, but she had
disappeared in the crowd. A man elbowed
his way across the street, laughing as he
reached the door, and spoke to Loper.
“Woman fer a change, Loper. ‘Tejon
Mary’ tried to knife a feller, but he was lookin’
fer it and shot her.”
“’S time somebody stopped her,” grunted
Loper. “She was loco. Sleed was goin’ t’
ship her out, anyway.”
The crowd around the shell game began to
scatter and look for another diversion. Duke
went out to the Saint, whose pockets were
bulging with money.
“Game is closed,” said the Saint, putting the
shells in his pocket and picking up the table,
“and again we have a stake.”
He placed the table in the alleyway between
the Silver Bar and the adjoining building.
“I was surprised not to have Silver Sleed
try to stop my game,” said the Saint, as he
joined Duke.
“He’s in Cactus City tonight, Saint. I had
a talk with his daughter.”
“Sleed’s Luck?”
“Yeah.”
“Son, it is none of my business—” began
the Saint, but Duke stopped him, and the
Saint listened closely while Duke told him
what the girl had said.
He shook his white beard slowly when
Duke finished.
“I reckon,” said Duke slowly, “I reckon
you’ve just about got to start in where
Preacher Bill left off.”
“Tomorrow,” mused the Saint. “Tonight I
would refuse to consider it; tomorrow is another
day. A man is a fool to declare his intentions
more than one minute into the future.
Let us procure food, Duke Steele, after that
we will sleep. It has been a long day.”
From within the saloon came the squeak of
a fiddle, the tinpanny rattle of a piano, the
scrape of boots. The dance had begun. Several
men were going down the street, carrying
a blanketed figure which had been Tejon
Mary—who was loco. From far out in the
barren hills a coyote yapped dismally.
Sleed came back from Cactus City the
next day; came back like a sore-headed
grizzly looking for trouble. He had drunk
heavily, played poker all night, and the
heat of the day had ground his temper to
a razor edge.
Men kept away from Silver Sleed when he
was in this humor, but he soon heard of the
shell game, which had held the attention of
the crowd the night before, and his face purpled
with rage. He cursed everyone in sight
and sent for Loper, who was almost as sore-headed
as his master.
Sleed took him to the rear of the room, sat
him down at a table and demanded an explanation.
“How could I stop him?” demanded Loper.
“I ain’t Sleed. The crowd liked his game,
’cause he told ’em all that it can’t be beat.”
“How much did he win?” growled Sleed.
“I dunno. Prob’ly about two hundred
dollars. Tejon Mary got shot, and that kinda
busted up the crowd.”
Sleed leaned back and licked the edge of a
frayed cigar, while he waited for Loper to
explain more.
“I seen Luck talkin’ to the other fellow.”
Sleed snapped the cigar aside and leaned
across the table.
“Luck was talkin’ to this old man’s pardner?”
“Yeah.”
“What about?”
“I dunno all they talked about, Sleed. I
didn’t want to move in too close, but I know
she was askin’ him about the old man.”
“About the old man,” parroted Sleed.
“What did she want to know about him?”
“I dunno.”
“You dunno,” mimicked Sleed. “Is there
anythin’ you do know? Wasn’t your ears
workin’?”
“I told yuh I didn’t want to move in close,
Sleed. I heard some of it and——”
“Oh, you heard some of it, did yuh?” Sleed
got ponderously to his feet and leaned both
hands on the table, as he snarled down at
Loper. “You heard some of it, but you don’t
know what they talked about.”
Loper licked his lips and wished that the
interview was over.
“Luck asked him what the old man’s name
was and——”
“What was it?” snapped Sleed.
“Le Saint.”
Silver Sleed stared down at Loper; stared
curiously, vacantly. He lifted one hand and
brushed it across his lips, while his fixed gaze
seemed to look through Loper and beyond.
Loper shifted nervously, but Sleed continued
to stare.
Suddenly he jerked, like a man awaking
from sleep, and sat down slowly in a chair.
“Le Saint,” he muttered softly.
“Funny first name,” said Loper slowly.
“Paget, I think he called it. Must be a furriner.”
Silver Sleed did not seem to hear him.
“I dunno what the other feller’s name is,
but he sure looks like he could take care of
himself. Packs a gun that looks like it had
been used a-plenty; and he’s got the walk of
a cat. The old man’s gun ain’t no ornyment
either. Mebbe he’s a preacher—I dunno.”
Sleed continued to stare at the table-top.
“Want me to pack a talk to him?” asked
Loper. “I can tell him to put out of here, or
that he can’t run no game in Calico.”
“No.” Sleed shook his head slowly and
leaned closer to Loper. “Do yuh know anythin’
about that shell game?”
“Only that it can’t be beat.”
“Of course it can’t,” admitted Sleed
hoarsely. “That pea ain’t under either shell.
Suppose that you bet a lot of money on the pea
bein’ under one of them shells, and it wasn’t
there, and yuh grabbed the other one and
found it empty?” Sleed grinned wolfishly.
“What would yuh do, Loper?”
“That’s it, eh?” grunted Loper. “I reckon
I’d take my money back.”
“Which might start trouble.”
“Thasall right,” grunted Loper. “I’d be
lookin’ for trouble.”
Sleed got to his feet and jerked his head toward
the bar, as an invitation to have a drink.
“Let this man set up his game tonight, if he
wants to. I reckon you know what to do,
Loper.”
Loper nodded. “Uh-huh. But have somebody
watchin’ this other feller, Sleed; he’s
dangerous, y’betcha.”
“Some of the boys will take care of him.
Maybe I’ll watch him myself.”
Sleed spilled his liquor in the pouring, but
filled his glass to the brim, while Loper wondered
what had happened to Steed’s iron
nerve. He wondered if his boss were losing
his nerve, or if it were only the effects of too
much liquor and loss of sleep.
“Got any more orders for today?” asked
Loper.
Sleed shook his head, splashing the liquor
from his glass into his beard. Then he tossed
the half-empty glass over the bar and walked
out of the door.
“Guess that whisky don’t set well on his
stummick today,” observed the bartender,
kicking the broken glass aside.
“Somethin’ don’t,” admitted Loper seriously.
“He’s drinkin’ too much, I reckon.”
“You better mention it to him,” grinned
Loper. “He’s in good shape for a temp’rance
lecture right now.”
“’F he ever gets snakes——”
“It’ll be hell on the snakes,” finished Loper.
V
LONG strings of mules, driven with a jerk-line,
and hauling heavy, clumsy ore wagons,
drifted out of Sunshine Alley, hauling
great loads of silver ore to the mills at Cactus
City, fifteen miles away. It was a hard
journey across the desert to Cactus City, but
water was necessary for the handling of the ore—and
Calico had none. Many of the wagons
brought back great casks of water to supply
Calico. There was no ice. The cool of the
evening lowered the temperature of the water
a trifle, but a cold drink was unknown in
Calico town in summer.
Duke Steele and the Saint had stocked their
larder from one of the stores and had secured
several badly-needed blankets. A passing
wagon had sold them a small cask of water at
a large price, but they were willing to pay.
The burro had joined forces with several more
of its kind, which were trying to eke out a
living in the Alley by devouring anything and
everything from an old newspaper to a much-boiled
bone. At times, as though by signal,
they would all bray together, their raucous
voices echoing brazenly from the cliffs.
Mica Cates came down the road and
stopped at sight of Duke and the Saint.
“They took Ault and Tejon Mary to Cactus
City,” he announced. “Ault had some friends
in Cactus, and Sleed didn’t want Mary buried
here.” Cates laughed and added, “Mebbe
Sleed was afraid Mary’s ghost might not be
welcome among so many good ones.”
“Is Cactus City any better than Calico?”
asked Duke.
“Better morals,” nodded Mica. “They
don’t have a killin’ down there more’n once a
week. You stay here and you’ll find a-plenty
of funerals to work on. Ain’t no money in it
as far as I can see, but Preacher Bill had a
system. He orated at funerals fer nothin’
quite a while, and one day he whittled out a
cross and fastened it to a headstone. She
looked kinda pious. A gambler, who was
religious as hell, saw him put up this here
cross, so the gambler takes up a collection fer
old Bill. I reckon he got a hundred dollars
fer him, and after that old Bill packs a cross
with him all the time and hopes for a killin’.”
Cates grinned and went on up the road. He
was like a daily paper to Calico, and spent
most of his time retailing news, picking up
new items at each stop and telling hearsay as
personal experience.
Duke Steele turned from watching Cates
and saw Luck coming slowly down the trail
toward their adobe. The Saint glanced up
at the girl and back at Duke, who was smiling
at her. She came shyly up to them and
Duke introduced her to the Saint. She was
even prettier in the harsh light of day than in
the dim lights of the night before.
“I—I wanted to talk to you,” she faltered,
looking at the Saint. She traced a pattern
with her toe in the sand and seemed undecided
just what else to say.
“I think I understand,” nodded the Saint.
“You want to learn and you think I am capable
of teaching you. Is that it?”
“Yes,” eagerly. “Preacher Bill taught me—some.
But he’s gone now—and I—I wondered.
He wasn’t a good man like you, but
he wanted to help me. You see, I have never
been to a regular school.”
The Saint turned his head slowly and looked
at Duke Steele. Somehow it did not seem
funny to them. The Saint turned back to her
and said, “And why do you think I am better
than Preacher Bill?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted softly, “I don’t
know how I know you are—but I do.
Preacher Bill had a Bible, with pictures in it,
and you look like one of them. Preacher
Bill said it was the picture of a saint.”
The Saint lifted his head and stared up
the Alley, shutting his eyes against the
glare of the reflected light, while the girl
watched him eagerly. He turned and looked
at her.
“Why don’t your father send you where
there are schools? He can afford it.”
Luck shook her head.
“Preacher Bill wanted him to send me
away, but he only laughs and says he can’t
afford to lose his luck. He says I bring him
luck. I guess he believes this. He talks
about it so much that nobody ever calls me
Nola any more.”
“Where is your mother, child?” asked the
Saint.
Luck shook her head.
“I don’t know. Dad never talks about her,
and when I ask him he gets angry. I don’t
remember her. I remember that we lived in
the North, where it gets cold, and where there
are big mountains. Since then we have traveled
all over the country—Dad and I.”
“You ain’t had much of life, that’s a cinch,”
muttered Duke. “Feller hadn’t ought to
drag a girl over the country like that. Bad
enough for a boy.”
Luck shut her lips tightly for a moment, and
then, “I guess I can stand it. Dad says he is
going to get me some books. Ace Ault wanted
to get me some, but Dad put a damper on that
idea. Dad didn’t like Ace.”
“Perhaps your dad won’t like me,” suggested
the Saint.
“Well—” Luck hesitated a moment, “I’ll
tell him about you, and—will you teach me, if
he don’t mind?”
The Saint looked quizzically at her, and
his eyes shifted to a far-away look, as though
he were undecided. Then he nodded.
“Yes, child—if he don’t mind.”
Luck turned quickly and ran up the trail,
as though she was going to lose no time in
finding out. Duke smiled after her and looked
at the Saint, who was staring down at the
ground, his hands clenched at his sides. The
face of a saint was gone now, and in its stead
was the grinning snarl of an old wolf. He
lifted his face and looked at Duke Steele, who
was staring at the change in the old man’s
face and manner.
“Duke Steele—” the Saint’s voice was thin,
almost a whine—“I’ve lived to kill—kill, do
you hear me? Now, I’ve promised—God,
why did I——?”
He swung his head as though in pain, and
walked away. Duke watched him going
slowly down the road, his shoulders hunched,
as though the weight of the world rested on
his back.
Whom did he live to kill? Why did
his promise to Luck change his whole being?
Duke frowned and tried to gather
some reason for the old man’s feelings, but
in vain. The Saint left the road and climbed
the hill to a pinnacle of rock, where he
sat and stared down the canyon, chin in
hands, like a great, white-headed eagle watching
for its prey.
It was an hour later that the Saint came
back. He seemed older, whiter and very
tired. Duke made no mention of what had
passed between them, and the Saint did not
open the subject. He sat down in the doorway
and examined his revolver—an old single-action
Colt .45, scarred and polished from
much usage. His long, lean fingers seemed
to caress the old gun lovingly. There were
no notches on the butt of this old gun, but
Duke Steele knew that its muzzle had spouted
death many times.
Suddenly Duke spoke.
“Saint, what made you old before your
time?”
“Old? Before—my—time?” The Saint
turned his head and looked at Duke.
“Uh-huh. You ain’t over fifty, are yuh?
You ain’t got no right to wear long white hair
and whiskers and make folks think you’re as
old as the hills.”
The Saint ran his hand under his beard
and lifted it in range of his eyes. For several
moments he peered at it, as though he had
never seen it before.
“Duke, what would I look like without this
beard?”
“I ain’t got the slightest idea, Saint. It
sure does cover your face and head.”
“And that,” said Saint slowly, “is your answer,
son.”
VI
LUCK found her father at home asleep, but
her news was of such importance that she
awoke him. He snarled an answer to her call
before he realized who had called him.
“I’ve got a new teacher,” she announced,
when she had recovered from the effects of
his snarling answer.
“Teacher, eh? Who?”
“The old man, with the white beard—Le
Saint.”
“Le—” Sleed sat up on the bed and stared
at her.
Luck nodded. “Le Saint. He looks like
one of the old men in the Bible. He is going to teach me,
if you will let him.”
Sleed stared down at the floor, with unseeing
eyes, while Luck’s words seemed to run in a
meaningless jumble through his mind.
“We need a preacher here,” said Luck
softly, “and he is very good and kind. Will
you let him teach me, Daddy?”
Sleed roused from his stupor and got heavily
to his feet.
“Don’t you feel good?” asked Luck. “Your
face is so white and your eyes——”
“No, I’m all right!” grunted Sleed thickly.
“I—I lost a lot of sleep, and this blasted
heat—” He wiped his brow with the sleeve
of his shirt.
“Are we going to live here always?” asked
Luck.
“Always?” Sleed tried to smile. “Always
is a long time, Luck.”
Sleed picked up his hat and started for the
door, but Luck took him by the arm.
“You did not say about my teacher.”
Sleed did not look at her as he said, “When
is he goin’ to start teachin’, Luck?”
“Tomorrow,” eagerly.
“Oh, tomorrow. I reckon that’ll be all
right—tomorrow.”
Sleed went out of the door and Luck
watched him go down the rocky trail to the
street, but he did not turn and wave at her as
he usually did.
Suddenly he stopped, turned and came
slowly back up the trail to the doorway.
“Luck, I wish you’d stay off the street tonight,”
he said.
“Why?” she asked. It was the first time
he had ever requested her to keep away from
the street.
“I’m afraid yuh might get hurt. There’s a
bunch comin’ up from Cactus City tonight,
and they might get rough. I can’t afford to
have anything happen to my Luck.”
“They all know me,” said Luck quickly.
“Nothing will harm me.”
Sleed shook his head.
“I—I dunno about that, Luck. If trouble
started, nobody knows where bullets will
hit.”
Luck brushed the hair away from her eyes
and glanced down toward the quiet street.
“Everybody says that you own Calico, Dad.
If you do, why don’t you stop the trouble?
Does there have to be somebody killed every
day? Isn’t there some way to stop men from
fighting and killing each other?”
Silver Sleed shook his head.
“No, I don’t reckon there is, not now. Maybe
some day the wolf blood will thin out, I
dunno.”
And without gaining Luck’s promise to
keep off the street that night, Sleed turned
and went back down the trail. Luck watched
him disappear and turned to see Mica Cates
coming down past the house, on his way from
the Ruby Hill trail.
He took off his hat and mopped his brow.
“Howdy, Miss Luck. Hot, ain’t it? I
been circ’latin’ around quite a bit. Wes
Marks jist run into a two-inch vein of durned-near
pure silver. Could almost mint dollars
out of the raw stuff. Two miners from the
Nola had a devil of a fight and one’s got a
busted head.
“Didja notice how many buzzards has been
floatin’ around t’day? Been a whole flock of
’em circlin’ Calico fer two hours. That old
white-bearded hombre was settin’ on a rock
fer a long time, like he was thinkin’ a heap,
and then I seen him oilin’ his six-gun. Mebbe
he’s a preacher; I dunno.”
Mica Cates stopped for breath and glanced
up at the sky, where a flock of buzzards circled
slowly, and without visible effort. Cates
lowered his eyes and glanced at Luck.
“’S hard to fool a buzzard,” he said, and
went on down the trail. He had fulfilled his
duty and added a prophecy to boot.
Luck’s eyes followed the buzzards for a
while, as they circled slowly on an even plane,
as though suspended by invisible wires, and
went back into the house. There was something
ominous in the atmosphere, and Luck
had not given her word to keep off the street.
Loper had passed the word to Bill Fane
and “Pecos” Mendez as to what Silver Sleed
expected, and the three of them met in the
Silver Bar saloon. Fane was a tall, cadaverous
person, with a crooked mouth, which gave
him a perpetual leer. Mendez was a half-breed,
whose mentality was hardly up to par,
but whose pistol ability and cold-blooded
nerve were seldom equaled.
“We tak’ care of de yong man, eh?” queried
Mendez, his voice like the purring of a
cat. “Dat be easy, eh, Beel?”
Fane nodded absently.
“No killin’ is easy,” objected Loper. “This
young man packs a gun like he knowed how
to use it, and he’s got a face that backs up the
looks of his gun. You two better figure that
this ain’t goin’t’ be no picnic.”
“What does Sleed want ’em killed fer?”
asked Fane.
“’Cause he don’t ’low nobody to cut in on
his gamblin’ in Calico,” replied Loper.
“He ain’t never told ’em they can’t run a
game here, has he?”
“That’s none of your business—nor mine,”
said Loper. “Silver Sleed pays yuh, don’t
he?”
“Yeah,” admitted Fane slowly, “he pays.
But I’m gittin’ tired of bein’ hired to shoot
folks. I ain’t no danged milk eater, Loper,
but I believe in lettin’ a man have a even
break.”
“You better not let Sleed hear yuh talk
thataway,” cautioned Loper. “He ain’t got
no use for that kind of arguments.”
Fane grinned crookedly and put his hand
on Loper’s arm.
“Loper, who are we to let Silver Sleed hire
us to do his dirty work? Why are we afraid
of him? What did he ever do to make us
afraid of him? Either one of us could bump
him off with a gun. Are we afraid of his
damn money?
“I got to lookin’ him over today and wonderin’
why we’re afraid to speak out loud
about him. You tell me not to let him hear
me talk thataway. Why should I be any more
afraid to let him hear it than you and Mendez?”
Loper drew away from Fane, but the question
had found root in his brain.
“Money,” said Mendez, “Just money. I
jus’ so good as Sleed, but Sleed has de money.
Man got to live.”
“I reckon that’s it,” nodded Loper. “I
never thought much about it before, Bill. I
reckon any of us could more than hold his own
against Sleed in a gun-fight, but he’s got the
money. Anyway, I told him we’d take care
of this for him.”
The three of them strolled to the doorway.
Far out on the desert was a strip of gold,
marking the last of the sunset, but Calico was
already hazy with the evening light. The
Saint and Duke Steele came out of the Alley
and into the street, walking slowly toward the
Silver Bar saloon.
“Them is the ones,” grunted Loper. “I
dunno what Sleed wants done in case they
don’t open that game.”
“He’s doin’ this ’cause he wants to stop ’em
from gamblin’, ain’t he?” queried Fane.
Loper nodded.
Mica Cates came thumping down the street
and up to the saloon door, where he turned
and looked up at the sky. He shaded his eyes
for a moment and turned to the three men.
“Did yuh notice how the buzzards been
hangin’ around here all day?”
“What’s that got to do with us?” grunted
Loper.
“I dunno,” admitted Cates. “I never said
who it concerned. They’ve circled Calico all
day, and sometimes they come down awful
low, with their wattled heads turnin’ from
side to side—kinda lookin’.” Cates shook his
head and started into the saloon, but stopped
and glanced at the sky again.
“’S hard to fool a buzzard, y’betcha.”
“Croakin’ old pup,” growled Loper, and
the three of them went back into the saloon.
The Saint secured his little table again and
set it up in the street. Several dogs went out
and investigated, and started a fight, as though
there was a serious difference of opinion over
the reasons for a table in the street.
Duke Steele watched the Saint with misgivings.
He was sure that Silver Sleed would
object strenuously to such a proceeding, but
the Saint gave no heed to his warnings. For
the last hour the Saint had seemed another
person; entirely different from the philosophical
old man. His mop of white hair seemed
to lift aggressively, and the hawk-like nose
seemed more like an eagle’s beak.
He had put his extra cartridges in his pocket
and shoved his six-shooter inside the waistband
of his pants, where he could get it without
reaching under his coat. Duke had noted
these preparations silently, but had looked to
his own gun and ammunition. He was willing
to follow the Saint’s lead and he wanted
to be prepared for anything.
Duke went into the saloon and sat down at
a poker table, where Sleed was dealing a game
of stud. Sleed studied Duke from under the
brim of his hat, as he slid a stack of chips
across the table to him.
“The limit?” queried Duke.
“The sky,” replied Sleed.
The Saint had split his winnings with Duke,
and now Duke shoved the rest of the bills
over to Sleed, taking chips in exchange. It
was a small betting game, and the pots were
uninteresting. Sleed covered a yawn with
his hand, and Duke nodded, as though at a
spoken word.
Duke smiled grimly as Sleed dealt the
first card to each man. He shoved in part
of a stack of chips, and Sleed covered the bet,
wondering why Duke made such a bet on a
hole-card. The two miners passed, leaving
Sleed and Duke to fight it out. Duke drew
a king and Sleed a jack.
“King-high bets,” intoned Sleed.
Duke shoved in all of his chips. Sleed
glanced sharply at him, but covered the bet,
and dealt the rest of the hand. The result
showed a pair of kings for Duke and a pair of
jacks for Sleed.
The next deal doubled Duke’s money again,
and he bet half of it on his hole-card. Again
he won. Sleed shifted nervously in his chair,
while miners crowded in around to watch the
play. Sleed knew that there was no chance
for a crooked play, and he trusted to luck to
win.
Pot after pot went to Duke Steele, doubling
his money on each hand, until the onlookers
gasped at the wonderful run of luck. Duke
was plunging; betting a fortune on his first
card. And Sleed’s prestige in the town demanded
that he follow suit, although it broke
him.
Sleed called for another rack of chips, new
cards, whiskey, praying that something would
happen to break the devilish luck of this hard-eyed
gambler.
Another deal, and Duke bet two thousand
dollars on his first card. Sleed glanced at the
bet and doubled the size of it.
“Feel it comin’ on?” queried Duke. It was
the first word Duke had spoken since he had
inquired about the limit.
Sleed’s eyes narrowed at the question, but
he did not reply. Duke shoved in the extra
two thousand, and with it went every chip in
front of him. Stacks of blue and red, at five
and ten dollars for each chip—a king’s ransom.
Sleed licked his lips and studied the pot.
“Your luck or mine,” said Duke softly.
“You’re rich, Sleed, but are yuh game? It’s
a man-sized pot.”
From out on the street came the voice of the
Saint:
“It can’t be beat, folks. The more you lay
down, the less you pick up. The hand is
quicker than the eye, and this game was designed
to prove it to you. Don’t bet, unless
you want to lose.”
Duke watched Sleed closely, as he stared
down at the pot.
“It’s luck that wins, Sleed; and you’re losin’
your luck.”
“What do you mean?” snapped Sleed, sitting
up straight in his chair. “What do you
mean?”
“She’s leavin’ you, Sleed. You know it,
too. Shove in your money and prove it with
the cards. It’s luck now. I’ll show you my
card.”
Duke flipped his hole-card, disclosing a
deuce of hearts.
“The little thin card, Sleed. Your card
must be as good as mine; but my luck—my
medicine—is stronger than yours. Your luck
has left you.”
“Like hell it has!” croaked Sleed, and
turned his card, the ace of spades, face up on
the table. Nervously he shoved in chips, calling
for another rack to match Duke’s bet.
“Deal ’em face-up,” said Duke softly.
“Give the crowd a little entertainment, Sleed.”
“Another empty shell,” came the Saint’s
voice. “This is not a luck game, folks; it is a
cinch for the dealer.”
Sleed’s hand shook as he started to deal.
Duke got an ace, while Sleed’s card showed
the five of hearts. Slowly the next two fell to
the table; a five of clubs to Duke and the
deuce of diamonds to Sleed.
“Ace, five, deuce,” said Duke softly. “Luck
is laughing at you, Sleed.”
Sleed tossed the next two, and the crowd
gasped. Each man drew a king.
“Matched cards,” said Duke, laughing
softly. “One more card, Sleed, one more.
This one proves that luck has left you.”
Slowly Sleed moved the top card and
tossed it across at Duke. It was the deuce
of clubs, making a pair of deuces for Duke
Steele. An ace, king, or a five would win for
Sleed.
“Friend, you are out of luck.” The Saint’s
voice seemed to be directed at Silver Sleed.
“I told you that this game cannot be beat, but
you——”
Sleed spun his card in the air and it fell
face-up on the pile of chips.
The trey of spades!
Staring down at the card, Sleed half-slumped
forward in his chair, as he tried to
estimate his loss. It was more money than he
dared estimate. He looked up at Duke, who
was rolling a cigarette.
“Count the chips, Sleed,” said Duke, “and
give me your I. O. U. for it. I’ll take your
count.”
Duke got to his feet and brushed the crumbs
of tobacco off the folds of his shirt, while
Sleed stared up at him. His I. O. U.! Sleed’s
eyes shifted and he saw Loper looking at him
inquiringly. Swiftly Sleed counted the chips,
stacking them in rows across the table.
“Forty-six thousand dollars,” he said
hoarsely.
“Write it out,” said Duke indifferently.
Sleed got to his feet and walked to the bar,
where he secured writing material. Laboriously
he wrote out the I. O. U. and scrawled
his signature at the bottom. Without looking
at it, Duke pocketed it and went out of the
door.
Loper and Fane had moved in close to the
bar, and as Duke went out of the door, Sleed
nodded to Loper and indicated for him to go
ahead. Men were talking softly about the
big game, the size of Sleed’s loss, the cold
nerve of this stranger. A rumble of it came
to Sleed’s ears and he grinned behind his
beard. He was sure that he would never have
to pay that I. O. U.
Voices came from the street arguing, laughing,
quarreling. Sleed had turned away, as
though to go toward the back of the room, but
he swung around and walked to the door,
drawn irresistibly by the drama he knew was
about to be played.
VII
THE Saint was standing at his little table,
in the center of a crowd, advising them
not to play his game; taking their money,
when they insisted. Duke Steele had elbowed
his way to a point just beyond the Saint, and
was watching the crowd.
Loper shoved men aside and stepped in
front of the table, looking curiously down at
the two shells. Duke had seen Sleed signal
Loper in the saloon, and he knew that Loper
was the one who had killed Ace Ault. Loper
was Sleed’s man, and this was their first move
against the Saint.
“Don’t waste your money, friend,” warned
the Saint, as Loper took out some gold. “You
can’t win.”
“Can, if I pick the right shell, can’t I?”
“That’s the trick, friend, but it can’t be
done.”
The Saint rolled the little black pea on the
table, covered it with a shell and shuffled the
shells slowly.
“Fifty dollars,” declared Loper.
“Pick your shell,” said the Saint. “Fifty is
a lot of money to give away.”
Loper studied the shells for a moment and
made his choice. The pea was not there.
With a swift movement of his hand he upset
the other shell and found it empty.
He stepped back angrily.
“That’s a crooked game!” he roared. “You
just stole my money——”
Loper drew his gun as he rasped out his
accusation, which was never finished. The
Saint’s hand flashed to his waist; a downward
and upward movement, so fast that it seemed
to be one short snap, and his pistol spouted fire
a second before Loper shot.
Loper jerked back as though struck by a
mighty blow and his bullet sped harmlessly
over the Saint’s head. For an instant the
crowd was silent. Loper had half caught his
balance, but it was only an instant before he
fell forward on his face.
Into the startled crowd came Luck, running
swiftly to the Saint.
“Look out, Saint!” yelled Duke. “It’s a
trick to kill you.”
Another pistol thudded from nearer the
saloon, and the Saint staggered sideways from
the shock of the bullet. It was Mendez shooting
from the sidewalk. Duke sprang into a
cleared spot and fired twice at Mendez, who
tried to run, but seemed to collapse half-way
in the saloon door, at the feet of Silver Sleed.
The street cleared as though by magic, and
Duke could see the Saint on his hands and
knees beside his little table, trying to pull himself
up. A woman screamed and a man cursed
wonderingly in a high-pitched voice.
As Duke started for the Saint, he felt a
bullet yank at his shoulder, and the crash of a
gun came from behind him. He turned
quickly to see Bill Fane coming toward him.
Fane shot again before Duke realized that
here was another opponent, and the bullet
seared a furrow across his cheek.
Duke’s hand swung up and he fired quickly.
Fane stumbled, but came on, trying to lift his
gun, which seemed too heavy. Again Duke
fired—and again. Fane’s gun fell to the
ground. He seemed to be looking for it,
searching carefully. His knees bent slowly
and he sprawled in the street.
Duke turned around. The Saint had got
to his feet and was holding to the table with
both hands. Men were looking out of the
saloon door, standing far back from the doorway,
as though afraid to get closer to the
street.
Loper was sprawled on his face just in front
of the Saint, and had not moved. Duke went
past him and took the Saint by the arm. His
white hair and beard were covered with
blood, and his eyes were closed tightly.
“Come on, Saint,” said Duke. “Aw, this
is a hell of a mess, ain’t it? Are yuh hurt
bad?”
The Saint mumbled something in his beard,
but let Duke lead him off the street, between
two of the buildings. Behind them came the
sound of voices, as the people came back into
the street. Duke led the Saint around the
rear of the buildings, until he struck the trail
into the Alley. His face was bleeding and a
dull pain in his shoulder apprised him of the
fact that the first bullet had torn through the
flesh.
The Saint mumbled incoherent sentences,
but led the way to their shack, where he sat
down on a rock and held his head in his hands.
Duke tried to examine the Saint’s injuries, but
the old man shoved him away, mumbling a
curse.
Duke squinted closely at him. It was the
first time he had ever heard the Saint curse.
“You sure got hit hard, pardner,” observed
Duke. “I don’t reckon yuh never swore because
yuh didn’t know how.”
From the street came the sound of voices,
as though the crowd had separated and was
searching; scattered voices yelling instructions,
with one group closer than the rest.
Duke reloaded his pistol and shook the Saint’s
shoulder.
“Get up, Saint! There’s men comin’, and
we don’t know whether they’re friends or not.”
But the Saint mumbled thickly and shook
his head. Came a scraping noise at the doorway,
and Duke lifted his head to see Luck
leaning inside.
“Come out!” she panted excitedly. “They
are coming to hang you both! Hurry!”
Duke yanked the Saint to his feet and shoved
him out of the doorway. The silhouetted figures
of men were coming over the rim of the
Alley toward them.
“Follow me!” whispered Luck. “It’s your
only chance.”
The Saint mumbled thickly and tried to
protest, but Duke hustled him along in the
heavy shadow of the rock ledges, while behind
them came the clamor of voices, like a
pack of hounds casting for a scent.
Luck led them angling up the side of the
hill, over ledges where Duke had to fairly
carry the Saint, until they came out over the
rim. Below them shone the yellow lights of
the street, which seemed to be deserted now.
From down in Sunshine Alley came the faint
voices of the searchers, calling to each other;
voices that echoed strangely from that black
cleft in the mountain.
Luck took them straight to her own home.
The Saint sat down on the door-step and held
his head in his hands, while he began his incoherent
mumble again.
“Whose place is this?” asked Duke.
“Mine,” panted Luck. “Bring him inside.”
“Your home? Silver Sleed’s place?”
“Yes. Don’t you see it’s the only place
where they won’t search?”
“But suppose they do,” argued Duke.
“What will they think of you, Miss Luck?”
“They won’t come here. Help him inside,
please. They will think you hid in the rocks
tonight. I know a trail that leads around
Ruby Hill and you can go out that way into
the desert. Nobody will ever think of watching
that trail.
“I’ll get your burro and the stuff from your
shack. Bring him in before some of them
pass here. They may search the hill tonight.”
Duke helped the Saint to his feet and shoved
him into the doorway. Luck dropped the
heavy blanket curtain over the front window
and lit some candles, while Duke guided the
Saint to a chair.
The old man’s hair and beard were a clotted
mass of red and white now, and his eyes
blinked painfully in the candle-light. He
tried to get to his feet, but Duke put a hand
on his shoulder.
“The traps,” mumbled the Saint, “I’m going
to take up the traps, Jim.”
“What does he mean?” whispered Luck.
“Out of his head,” said Duke. “That bullet
must have cracked his skull.”
The Saint looked curiously at Duke.
“Are you from St. Pierre?” he asked.
“He don’t know you,” whispered Luck.
The Saint bowed his head for a moment
and then looked back at Duke.
“Did they find her?” he whispered hoarsely.
“Did they?”
“Take it easy, pardner,” soothed Duke.
“I’ll have to get yuh out of here ahead of a
rope. They ain’t lookin’ for her; they’re
lookin’ for us.”
“My father sent me home,” explained Luck.
“I ran out of the street when the shooting began
and he grabbed me. He was very angry
and made me come home. The—the men
who got shot were friends of my father.
“But I didn’t come home—then,” she continued,
after a moment’s pause. “I heard
them say they were going to hang you both.”
“We’re sure obliged to yuh, Miss Luck,”
said Duke slowly. “We’ll get out of here
before they find yuh out.”
Came a dull knock on the heavy door.
Duke drew his gun and stepped in closer to
the wall, snuffing out one of the candles.
“I’ll open it,” he whispered, but Luck motioned
him to stop.
“Who is it?” she called.
“Me—Mica Cates,” answered a muffled
voice. “You paw asked me to find out if yuh
was home.”
“I’m all right,” said Luck.
“I’ll tell him. They ain’t found them fellers
yet, Luck; but they’re still huntin’. Your
dad is willin’ to pay big for the man what
gets ’em. Loper’s dead. Mendez and Fane
are kinda bad, but mebbe they’ll live.”
For a moment there was silence, and then
Cates said, “’Member what I said about them
buzzards? It sure is hard to fool a buzzard.
G’d-night.”
Luck turned to Duke, her face white in the
flickering light of the one candle.
“My dad,” she said slowly, “is offering
money for your lives.”
Duke thought of the I. O. U. in his pocket.
Forty-six thousand dollars. No wonder
Silver Sleed was willing to pay well to stop
collection on that piece of paper. It would
break Sleed to pay that bet; strip him of his
unearned wealth.
“I reckon your dad’s got the wrong idea of
us,” said Duke slowly. He did not want her
to know why Silver Sleed wanted to kill him.
“I’ll get your burro and things,” she said,
and slipped out through the back entrance before
he could stop her. The Saint lifted his
gory head and stared at her as she went past
him. He started to get up, but sank back in
his chair, muttering softly, wonderingly.
He looked at Duke closely, without a sign
of recognition in his eyes.
“How do yuh feel, Saint?” asked Duke.
“How do I feel?” parroted the Saint. “Why
do you ask me that? Where am I?”
“Don’t yuh remember, Saint? You’re in
Silver Sleed’s home right now.”
“Sleed’s home?” The Saint got slowly out
of his chair and looked around, as though an
inspection of the four walls would corroborate
his statement.
“Sleed’s home?” he repeated, as though to
himself and then to Duke. “I don’t
understand—I—can’t.”
“Don’t yuh remember the shootin’ in the
street? One of Sleed’s men shot yuh, Saint;
but he paid damn well for it.”
“One of Sleed’s men? What men do you mean?”
It was not the voice of the old Saint. Gone
was the deep, organ-like tone, and in its place
was a harsh, rasping enunciation, toneless,
colorless.
“You take it easy, old timer,” advised Duke.
“We’ll get out of here first and talk afterwards.”
The Saint heard this indifferently, as his
hand ran slowly through his great white
beard, now streaked and clotted with blood.
Across the room was a mirror in a rough
frame, and his eyes traveled to this. He staggered
over to it and peered at himself for several
long moments.
He turned away and staggered against the
wall, where he stared at Duke, wide-eyed.
“Who am I?” he breathed. “My God,
who am I?”
His voice was almost a scream, and his
hands clutched against the rough wall. There
was no doubt in Duke’s mind but that the
Saint had gone insane from his wound.
“Easy, pardner,” soothed Duke. “You’ll
remember who yuh are. Set down and take
it easy.”
“Who am I?” whined the Saint, paying no
heed to Duke’s advice. “Don’t you know
whom I am?”
“Le Saint,” answered Duke.
“Yes, that’s my name—Le Saint.”
He stared at Duke for several moments,
shaking his head as though in pain or perplexity.
Then he said, “I don’t know you,
but your face is familiar. Who are you?”
“Duke Steele.”
“Yes,” nodded the Saint, “that is the name,
but I don’t remember you very well. You
heard what happened to me, didn’t you?”
The question was child-like in its simplicity,
and the Saint smiled wistfully as he spoke.
“What happened to you?” queried Duke.
“I thought everyone knew. The factor at
Norway Lake told everyone—I—thought.”
“Where’s Norway Lake?”
The Saint smiled and shook his head.
“I forgot that you were a stranger. It is
north of here. I am a trapper; a free trader,
they call me. There were three of us on
Moose River—no, four. But there were only
three of us went in there. The baby was born
that winter.
“The fur was plentiful and our catch was
large. My wife—” The Saint stopped and
stared at the floor, as though unable to continue.
“It was a hard life for a woman, away from
her own kind. I trusted my partner.” The
Saint’s manner seemed to change, and he
cursed witheringly in a mixture of English,
French and another language, which Duke
had never heard. It seemed to relieve him,
for he continued:
“The fur was ready to take out in the spring,
and my partner was to make the voyage alone.
On the day he left, I was going to take up a
few traps which had not been lifted. Somehow,
my wife seemed nervous, and I questioned
her. She confessed that she was afraid
of my partner.
“I laughed. My friend, it seemed a huge
joke. The load of furs was launched and my
partner waved adieu. I watched him pole
away and went to my wife, laughing at her
grave expression.
“‘He is gone,’ I said, ‘and anyway it is
foolish of you to feel as you do about him.
Has he ever been anything except a good
friend to us?’
“‘I do not know,’ she replied, as she hugged
the baby and went into the cabin. I laughed
and went on the trail. But a man’s mind is
the devil’s garden, where seeds of suspicion
take root easily, and I grew uneasy. I would
go back to the little cabin and stay with my
wife until she was no longer afraid.
“I reached the cabin just in time to see my
partner, who had returned, forcing my wife
into the canoe. He had come back, evidently
with the intention of stealing my wife along
with the furs.
“I shouted at him as I ran down the shore,
and I saw him throw my baby bodily into the
canoe with my wife, who had fainted from her
struggle. And then he shoved off from the
shore, just as I reached there, but not soon
enough to escape.”
The Saint drew his hand across his eyes, as
though striving to shut out that sight.
“We fought,” he continued slowly, “fought
like beasts, and I whipped him, but just before
he went down under a powerful blow he
managed to fall against the canoe and shove
it into the current, where the water gains
speed for the white rapids below.”
The Saint shook his head slowly.
“I never found them—never. I forgot the
man who was responsible for my loss, and he
escaped. I have sworn to kill him, my friend.
The Indians found the overturned canoe—empty.”
“For God’s sake!” breathed Duke, as the
Saint bowed his head over a loss sustained
twenty years before. It seemed utterly impossible—yet
true.
“What was your partner’s name?” asked
Duke.
“Martin,” replied the Saint evenly, through
clenched teeth.
Duke shook his head. He knew no one by
the name. He knew little about the loss of
memory, but felt sure that the bullet, which
had scored the Saint’s head, had shocked him
back twenty years, and he shuddered as he
wondered what must be the Saint’s feeling
when he realized that he had lost twenty years
of his life.
From below the cabin came the hoarse yelling
of a man, like the leader of a wolf-pack
sounding a view hello to his comrades when he
scents the trail anew. Shouts answered him.
Suddenly the back door crashed open and
Luck half-fell inside, panting painfully.
“They know where you are!” she panted.
“I got your burro and blankets, but they found
me and took them away. Someone made a
guess that you were at my house, and my
father struck him down for the suggestion,
but they are coming to find out.”
“I reckon we’ll meet ’em here,” said Duke
slowly, and nodded toward the Saint.
“He’s gone crazy, Luck.”
As Luck looked toward the Saint he raised
his head and looked straight at Duke, as he
said, “Who has gone crazy, Duke?”
It was the booming voice of the old Saint
again. He got to his feet and shook his head,
as though to clear his befogged memory.
“They’re cornerin’ us, Saint,” said Duke,
“and it kinda looks like the end of the
trail.”
“Come out this way—quick!” urged Luck,
starting for the rear door, which opened on
to a rocky slope, leading on a steep grade up
the side of Ruby Hill. The Saint stumbled
out of the door, with Duke close behind him,
and they went up the hill, winding their way
around the tall spires, dodging from shadow
to shadow to escape the moonlight, which
lighted the world like a mighty blue-tinted,
incandescent lamp.
Behind them came the voices of the mob,
the crashing of the front door of the cabin,
hollow, muffled voices, as those inside shouted
the information that their quarry had escaped
from the rear.
“The tunnels!” panted Luck. “The hill is
full of them.”
They stopped for a breathing spell and
watched the crowd below them climbing the
hill, their voices plainly audible in the thin
atmosphere.
“They’re headin’ for the tunnels!” shouted
Silver Sleed’s voice. “We’ll get ’em now!”
Duke turned and followed Luck, climbing
higher and higher over the barren rocks,
while below them came the redoubled shouts
of the crowd, as they saw the flitting figures
far up on the cliffs.
“The Saint!” exclaimed Duke suddenly.
“Where is he?”
Luck, panting against a rock, looked back.
She and Duke were alone. Breathlessly they
scanned the world below them, and watched
the crowd coming; black figures in that
ghostly light.
All danger to themselves was forgotten.
What had become of the Saint?
“He’s crazy,” muttered Duke. “That bullet
knocked him crazy, but he’s my pardner
and I’m going back, Luck.”
“They kill you!” panted Luck. “My
father——”
But Duke Steele was going back down the
hill, calling softly the Saint’s name and Luck
followed him. There was no sign of him in
the path of the coming crowd, so Duke and
Luck swung wide, peering into the shadows,
until they were almost past the mob, which
had not seen them return.
“Gawd!” muttered Duke. “If we could
find him now we could double back on
them.”
Suddenly the clamoring crowd went silent.
It was uncanny. Duke led the way swiftly
around the base of a broken ledge and they
found themselves just at the rear of the halted
mob, a mob as silent as the dead.
Just beyond and above them stood the Saint,
a huge figure, back-lighted in the moonlight
until it seemed that a halo encircled his great,
white head. Silently, like a prophet of old;
he reared his huge bulk in their path, as
though rebuking them for their evil actions.
Duke caught his breath. It was so unreal,
weird.
“Kill him!” grunted Silver Sleed’s voice,
but the crowd did not move. It was as though
the Saint held a strange power over them.
Duke gripped his gun tightly and waited.
There was nothing he could do to help the
Saint now.
Then, slowly, the Saint began his descent
toward the crowd, which parted to let him
through. Miners, hardened gamblers, killers,
the riff-raff of the new West, drew aside in
wonderment or fear of this man.
Slowly he came among them, peering into
their faces, as though seeking someone, while
they silently stared at him.
“Blood!” muttered Mica Cates, who was
near Duke and the girl. “Blood and buzzards.”
Suddenly the Saint stopped. He was looking
straight at Silver Sleed now, and Silver
Sleed’s right hand held a cocked pistol at his
hip, tensed, ready to fire. Then the Saint
spoke:
“The trail ends here, Sleed Martin. It has
been full of shadows, and I have only a memory—just
a memory. I want you, whom
men call Silver Sleed. It may only be a
nightmare, Martin, but it is real to me—now!”
As the Saint spoke he sprang, like a tiger.
Silver Sleed fired, but his bullet smashed into
the cliff behind the Saint, and before he could
shoot again, the Saint was upon him.
Both of them were giant men, and they
crashed together like two grizzlies, while the
crowd backed away to give them room, knowing
nothing of the reasons for the fight. Luck
had started ahead, but Duke drew her back
against the rock.
“My God, he’s stronger than Sleed!”
gasped a man. “Look at him, will yuh?”
The rest of the crowd watched silently the
stranger battle. Silver Sleed was battling for
his life while the old Saint, insane with the
stored-up hate of years, and with the super-human
strength of a madman, battered and
crushed Silver Sleed without mercy.
The thudding of mighty blows, the crash
of clinches, scraping of feet on the barren
rock; but no sound from the mob. For all
the movement about them, they might as well
have been fighting alone on the mountain
top.
Suddenly they drew apart, only to crash together
again, but this time Silver Sleed went
down, striking the back of his head against the
rock. The Saint stood over him, hunched,
with arms bent, like the wings of an eagle
about to strike, then his arms swept down
around Silver Sleed and swung up, with Sleed
in his arms. With a mighty heave he swung
the unconscious man across his shoulder,
turned and lumbered away around the side of
the cliffs.
“Stop him!” screamed a man.
“Stop him!” echoed the crowd, suddenly
realizing that they had voices. After him
they went, but the chase was slow. It was
only a narrow trail, which broke off to the
sharp cliffs below it. Beyond them went the
Saint, with the sure-footedness of a mountain
goat, traveling at a pace that none dared imitate.
Duke and Luck followed closely. Duke
had forgotten that he was also being hunted
by the crowd, and it is doubtful if any of the
crowd knew or cared about him now.
“He’s got to go into the Silver Shell tunnel!”
yelled a man. “That’s the end of the trail.”
Beyond this tunnel was a wide crevice in
the cliffs, which extended back into the mountain.
It was impossible to go beyond the
tunnel, either up or down. The Saint had
trapped himself. Stumbling along this trail
came the crowd, or as many as dared to trust
this narrow pathway in the tricky moonlight
until they reached the wide ledge which constituted
the mouth of the Silver Shell.
“He’s bottled up,” cried a miner, “but it
ain’t goin’ to help Sleed none!”
“There’s a cross-cut tunnel into the Kalura,”
panted a newcomer. “He’ll find that. Watch
the mouth of the Kalura, I tell yuh!”
The crowd ran back along the trail, until
they could look up and beyond the crevice,
where the Kalura workings opened out onto a
much higher ledge. From this spot it was
five hundred feet straight down into Sunshine
Alley.
A man cocked his rifle and leaned back
against the rocky wall, but another jerked the
gun away from him.
“You fool! Killin’ the old man won’t
save Sleed, and you can’t be sure in this
light.”
Suddenly two figures appeared on this ledge,
silhouetted against the moon. Sleed had recovered
from his injury and was fighting
again. They clashed together, blending into
one figure. Then the Saint picked Sleed up
in his arms, balanced him for a second, and
hurled him far out over the abyss.
The man with the rifle dropped it and flung
his hands to his eyes, and a hoarse gasp went
up from the crowd as Sleed’s body faded out
into the depths, falling like a plummet.
The Saint was standing near the edge of the
rock, with his arms high above his head as he
gazed into space. Then his laughter came
down to them, the choking cackle of a maniac.
It was the first time that Duke Steele had ever
heard the Saint laugh aloud.
Luck was leaning back against the rock, her
face as white as snow and with her eyes shut.
For a moment Duke thought she had fainted,
but her eyes opened and she stared back at the
old Saint atop the ledge, still cackling in his
glee.
As he lowered his arms and turned, as
though to go back into the tunnel, he slipped,
fell sidewise, clawing at the rock, which slid
away with him. For a moment he seemed to
hang, half-off the cliff, but the edge of the
rock seemed to crumble away under his
weight, and he shot sidewise into space to join
Silver Sleed.
Duke had started forward, as though to try
and help the Saint, and when he turned back,
Luck was gone. Silently the crowd filed past
him, wordless from the tragedy they had just
seen, forgetting that he was one of the men
they had been hunting.
Duke gazed for a long time into the silvered
depths of the Alley. From far away came the
eerie, wailing cry of a desert coyote. Duke
shook his head. Perhaps it was better for the
Saint. Memory had only half returned to
him; the balancing point which might mean
insanity. He had achieved his purpose after
twenty years; twenty years of another personality,
which urged him on to hunt down the
man who had ruined his life. Suddenly Duke
realized that Luck was the daughter of the
Saint. She had been the lost baby. Sleed
was Sleed Martin, the trapping partner of the
Saint.
“Twenty years another person,” muttered
Duke. “My Gawd! No wonder he looked
in that glass and asked me who he was!”
Duke turned and went slowly down the hill
toward Sleed’s cabin. A gray burro crossed
into the moonlight; Duke’s burro. It was
half-packed and dragging a blanket. The
pack-sacks were still intact, half-filled with
food, and a small keg of water was tied between
the saddle-posts. Luck had made good
as far as she was able.
Duke caught the animal and led it down the
hill behind him. He did not know where he
was going now. Near the corner of Sleed’s
home he stopped. Someone was talking, and
Duke recognized Mica Cates’s voice. Duke
edged in closer.
Luck was sitting on the rough steps, with
her head buried in her hands, while Mica
Cates and another man stood near her.
“It shore was hard luck,” said Mica
softly, “but I knowed somethin’ was due to
happen.”
“But why?” sobbed Luck. “Why did that
man do it?”
“Crazy,” grunted Mica.
“He called him Martin. My daddy’s name
was Sleed.”
“He wa’n’t responsible, Luck,” said the
other man. “He was jist plumb crazy,
thasall.”
“Don’t yuh worry,” soothed Cates. “Calico’ll
take care of yuh. Why, yo’re rich,
Luck. Everythin’ yore dad had belongs to
you. You can git eddicated and have silk
dresses, and—” Mica Cates seemed to expand—“and
you won’t have t’ live in Calico.”
“What become of that other feller?” queried
the other man. “I reckon we plum forgot
him. Sleed wanted him especially. I wonder
if he wasn’t crazy, too?”
Luck looked up quickly.
“Don’t say that. He—he wasn’t crazy.”
Duke turned away and picked up the lead-rope
of his burro, and went softly around the
house and down past the lighted town, which
was strangely silent for Calico.
A few miles out on the desert he stopped
and looked back at the lights of Calico, which
were now only a tiny flicker against the dead
black of the hills. Slowly he drew out a
folded paper from his pocket and looked at
the scrawl thereon:
I owe you forty-six thousand dollars.
$46,000.00 Silver Sleed.
Duke glanced back at Calico as he slowly
tore the paper into bits and scattered them to
the wind. He picked up the lead-rope and
spoke softly to the burro.
“One man wondered if I was crazy, and she
denied it. Forty-six thousand dollars. I
wonder which was right?”
And he turned and went into the misty
spaces of the desert—alone.
Transcriber’s Note
The Table of Contents at the beginning of the book was created by the
transcriber.
Minor punctuation and spelling errors have been silently corrected
and, except for those changes noted below, all misspellings in the
text, especially in dialogue, and inconsistent or archaic usage, have
been retained.
Page 67: “He is going to teach men,” changed to “He is going to teach me”.
