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SPAWN OF THE DESERT
by
W. C. TUTTLE
[Illustration: (Colophon)]
Garden City New York
Garden City Publishing Co., Inc.
1924
Copyright, 1922, by
Doubleday, Page & Company
All Rights Reserved
Printed in the United States
at
The Country Life Press, Garden City, N. Y.
SPAWN OF THE DESERT
CONTENTS
Chapter Page
I 1
II 30
III 35
IV 42
V 57
VI 67
VII 86
SPAWN OF THE DESERT
I
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.
“They ain’t givin’ away names, I reckon.”
“Yuh asked ’em, didn’t yuh?” snapped Loper angrily.
“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.”