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?”