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”.
Page 86: “VI” changed to “VII”.
Page 99: “What men do you men” changed to “What men do you mean”.