men have no respect for any girl, Luck. The spawn of the devil work in
these mines.”
An altercation had broken out in the center of the room and the crowd
surged toward that point. Blows were being exchanged, curses hurled
freely. The room became a shoving, shouting mass of men. A table crashed
to the floor. Suddenly a bottle whizzed over their heads--a flash of
glass in the whirling smoke--and Duke Steele flung up his right hand and
knocked it spinning, just as it was about to hit Luck in the face.
The heavy bottle numbed his hand and wrist, but he flung himself
headlong into the mob, like a football player diving into the midst of a
scrimmage. He had seen the man who threw the bottle; caught just a
glimpse of his face in the hazy light.
Three men were in a clinch, struggling, doing little to hurt each other.
One of them was Pete Black and the other two were miners from the Nola
mine. Duke’s rush carried him against them, and like a flash he caught
Black by his big, red beard with both hands and fairly flung him off his
feet into the close-packed mob.
The other two fighting miners drew apart and considered this newcomer.
Neither of them bore any marks of conflict. The crowd howled loudly at
the interruption, but Black scrambled back to his feet, his face
distorted with rage and suffering. Some of his beard still dangled from
Duke Steele’s clenched fists.
Black was the bigger of the two, powerful as a grizzly, but slow to
start. Duke Steele did not wait a moment. As Black surged to his feet,
Duke stepped into him, driving his left fist flush into Black’s face.
The blow was well timed and it set Black back onto his heels. But Black
was no coward. He dropped into a crouch and covered clumsily, as he
advanced slowly. Twice Duke ripped overhand blows to the bridge of
Black’s nose, but the big man only shook his head.
“Look out for his feet!” yelled a voice. “Black’s a kicker!”
The warning came just in time. Quick as a flash, Black kicked straight
for Duke’s midriff, but Duke had sidestepped, set himself for the punch,
and as Black’s kick met only the empty air, which caused him to
momentarily lose his balance, Duke drove a terrific uppercut to his
unprotected jaw.
For several moments, Black pawed at the air, tottered on his legs and
went down in a crumpled heap. The miners shouted with drunken glee and
tried to pick Duke up on their shoulders, but he managed to escape them
and went back to where he had left Luck. She was not there.
Duke drew himself up on the bar and searched the crowd, but there was no
sign of her. The mob still yelped and surged about the room, their
appetite whetted for anything now. Duke dropped down and forced his way
to the doorway.
He gulped in a mouthful of fresh air and went out into the deserted
street. His hands were cut and bleeding, and his right hand and wrist
were swelling from the impact of the heavy bottle.
He wanted to find Luck, and he wondered if she had been frightened and
run home. He knew where she lived, and he mechanically traveled up the
hill toward her home. A dark blotch in the shadow of a building
attracted his attention and he stopped to investigate. It was the
crumpled figure of a man, and when he lifted the face to the moonlight
he looked down into the features of Louie Yen.
There was a great blue welt above his left eye, but he was still
breathing. Duke picked him up in his arms and from the rocky street came
the clank of metal. It was Louie Yen’s knife, which had fallen from his
nerveless hand.
Duke picked up the long knife and glanced at it. The blade was
discolored with blood.
“Got a little action, anyway, Louie Yen,” he muttered, as he crossed the
street, wondering where he could take the wounded Chinaman. Suddenly he
saw Louie’s sign, which dangled before his little shack, and into this
he carried its owner.
There was a smell of wet clothes, strong soap and of many meals. He
placed Louie on a hard bunk, drew down the shade on the only window,
fastened the door and lighted the grimy oil lamp. Louie Yen mumbled to
himself, while Duke bathed his head in lukewarm water from the barrel in
the corner of the room. The blow on the head had knocked the Chinaman
out, but Duke could find no other wounds on him. It appeared to have
been a glancing blow, probably struck with the barrel of a six-shooter,
and intended to smash Louie Yen’s skull.
Then Louie’s eyes opened and he stared up at Duke. He turned his head
and looked around the room and then tried to sit up. Duke had placed the
knife on a rough table near the bunk, and now Louie looked keenly at it.
“Better take it easy,” advised Duke, but Louie sat up and his slant eyes
seemed to fairly blaze in his yellow face, as he pointed a claw-like
hand toward the door. For a moment his tongue seemed paralyzed, but when
the words did come they were like the crackle of pistol shots.
“Yo’ go ’way from here!”
“Loco,” thought Duke instantly.
Louie spat something in the Chinese tongue, which might have been a
terrible curse, so earnestly was it spoken.
“How does your head feel?” asked Duke.
Louie shook his head vehemently, still pointing at the door. “I sabe
yo’! Yo’ go quick now!”
There was no doubt that Louie was deadly serious and not at all insane.
Duke grinned and nodded, “All right, old-timer. Don’t get all heated
up.”
But Duke backed toward the door. He was not taking any chances on Louie
Yen, who was leaning forward off the bed, his slant eyes watching Duke
with blazing hatred. Duke reached the door, unbarred it and started to
go out; as Louie Yen flung himself forward to the table. His arm jerked
up and backward; a silvery flash of light across the room, and the long
knife tore a splinter of wood from the door casing and was caught tight
as the door slammed shut behind Duke Steele.
Duke whirled and looked at the knife blade. The throw had been almost
perfect, but Louie had delayed too long. Duke shuddered, as he walked
back down the street. Louie’s act had been so quick that it would have
been almost impossible for Duke to have drawn a gun and stopped Louie
ahead of the throw.
“Now, what made him do that?” wondered Duke. “Why did he try to kill
me? He wasn’t crazy, not a bit.”
Duke stopped in the shadow of a building and tried to figure it out.
Suddenly he realized that he was not wearing a hat. He had lost it in
the Silver Bar, and he wondered grimly if there was anything left of his
costly sombrero.
He went back to the Silver Bar, but was unable to make any search on
account of the mob. Again he looked for Luck, but she was nowhere in
sight. Black was not there either, but in a few minutes he saw Slim
Curlew at a roulette table.
Someone spoke to him and he turned to see Fire French grinning at him.
French invited him to have a drink, but Duke refused.
“Seen anythin’ of our fair gamblin’-hall maiden?” asked French.
Duke shook his head.
“Where’s your hat?” asked French, grinning.
“Lost it in a fight,” replied Duke coldly, “and I reckon it’s been
tromped plumb to bed-rock by this time.”
“Fight?” French was interested.
“With your friend, Black.”
“Oh!” French squinted closely at Duke. He knew that Black was a bad man
in a fight, and he wondered how it could be that Duke Steele still had
his being. Black usually put the boots to his victims, but Duke Steele
did not seem to be suffering.
“Just a conversational battle?”
Duke lifted a swollen and cut pair of hands. “Look like it was, French?
I reckon I made a soup-eater out of Black. The son-of-a-jackass tried to
kick me, but I was lookin’ for it. I hate a kicker.”
“Yeah?” marveled French. “And then what?”
“Nothin’. He just stayed down, thassall.”
“Thassall, eh?” French shook his head. “Steele, you can’t do things like
that here. Black is one of Le Moyne’s best men. Didn’t yuh know that?”
“Then Le Moyne is a damn poor judge of men,” retorted Duke. “The more I
hear about Le Moyne the more I think he’s a big, greasy bluffer. If Pete
Black is the type of men that Le Moyne is usin’ in his big game, Le
Moyne is due to lose. They say that a chain is only as strong as its
weakest link, French; Le Moyne’s chain has got a lot of weak links. He
made a mistake in hirin’ tin-horn crooks to sit in a big game.”
French’s jaw muscles tightened and his eyes twitched, but he managed to
control himself. A burning hatred of this cold-eyed young man seared his
soul, but he was afraid. Then, without a word, he turned and went out of
the Silver Bar.
Duke grinned softly. He knew that French was afraid of him. Calico was
going to be an unhealthy place for him, he knew. Somewhere was Pete
Black, minus several teeth and much prestige. Miners are quick to back a
fighter, but, like the rest of humanity, are quick to lose confidence in
a man after he has been whipped.
Duke left the Silver Bar and went to the Mojave. A few miners were in
there, but the Mojave was far from being a lively place. He went back to
Curlew’s room, barred the door and went to bed, wondering what had
become of Luck Sleed, wondering why the Chinaman had spat at him and
threw the long knife at his back.
* * * * *
Cartier Le Moyne was an early riser. Long before the first tints of dawn
painted the desert sky he could be found in his office, poring over
smelter reports, planning further conquests. The smelter belonged to Le
Moyne, but no one, except Le Moyne and the general manager, knew this.
This morning Le Moyne’s face was drawn in a deep scowl, as he looked
over the reports and read the name of “Telluride” Taylor. Opposite his
name was a credit of five hundred dollars. Each monthly report showed a
big net for Taylor. His ore was the richest in the desert.
Time after time had Le Moyne’s men tried to trail Taylor to his mine,
but he always managed to fade away into the desert, leaving them
baffled. Then, silently herding his pack-train of burros, he would
appear in Cactus City and unload at the smelter.
Le Moyne had grown to hate Taylor, although he admired his skill in
covering the trail. If one man, working alone, with only a few burros
for transportation, could bring in such wealth, what could Le Moyne do
with a force of men?
Le Moyne tossed the reports into a drawer, got to his feet and went back
to his stable, where he kept a horse. He was too unsettled to work; so
he saddled the horse and rode away into the desert, going out the Calico
road.
Far away in the distance the sun was striking the black peaks, making
them appear as golden cones on an ebony base. A few minutes later the
light changed to a violet hue, shot with gold, changing suddenly to a
deep amber, shot with cobalt streaks. It was like the fading out of one
tint and the fading in of another on a motion picture screen.
Then the world seemed to grow brighter as the harsh light of morning
drove away the soft-hued tints, and the desert stood out in its true
colors.
Le Moyne rode slowly, looking out upon the desert, as a baron of old
might have looked upon a land he intended to conquer. It was not a fair
land in the light of day, but to Le Moyne it meant wealth and power.
He left the road and rode slowly to a brushy hillock, where a group of
Joshua-palms, the “Dancing Jaspers” of the desert, grew thickly. A
jack-rabbit scooted from in front of him and bounced like a gray shadow
up the slope, and a coyote, as gray as the desert brush, gave him one
glance and limped away into the heavy cover.
Near the top of the hillock Le Moyne drew rein. Far down the road came
the stage from Calico, a thin cloud of dust blowing away from it in the
slight breeze. To Le Moyne’s ears came the faint tinkle of a bell.
He moved further into the cover of the palms and watched the stage
coming swiftly. To his ears came the tinkle, tinkle of a bell again, and
it seemed to be on the far side of the hill. He watched the stage until
it was near enough to be hidden from his sight.
Minute after minute passed, still the stage did not come into sight.
There was no reason for the delay. Then he turned his horse and rode
around the side of the hill, seeking to find why the stage had stopped,
but before he reached the point of the hill the stage drove past him and
went on toward Cactus City.
Le Moyne lit a cigar and watched the stage fade out in a haze of dust.
The sun was already growing hot, so he turned and rode down the hill.
Again he heard the tiny tinkle of the bell, but this time the sound of
it was continuous, as though the animal wearing it was traveling
steadily.
He turned and rode around the point of the hill, where he met a herd of
five burros, heavily laden with sacks of ore, and behind them came a
weather-beaten prospector carrying a rifle over his shoulder.
It was Telluride Taylor, with his shipment of rich silver ore, heading
toward the smelter. Le Moyne did not wait to meet him, but turned and
rode back toward Cactus City.
Suddenly he drew rein and his eyes narrowed in thought. Something had
just occurred to him; something that burned into his soul like a
white-hot brand. Had the stage stopped there to unload those sacks of
high-grade silver ore? Was Telluride Taylor waiting there to receive the
stolen ore?
These thoughts caused Le Moyne to straighten up in his saddle and curse
witheringly. If that was a fact, it was easy to see why his hired men
had never been able to trail Telluride to his treasure mine. They were
in partnership to beat him. Right now they were laughing at Le Moyne;
stealing from him, while they took his pay.
In a haze of anger he rode back and stabled his horse. He was too wise
to shout his knowledge to the four winds, and there was no trace of
anger in him when he met the stage-driver and received the report from
Fire French. The written report read:
Let us know what you expect of Steele. Do not know where to use
him. Acts like he owned the town and seems to be looking for
trouble. Will not take orders from anyone. Luck Sleed fired
me and all the gang from the Silver Bar and is going to try
to run it herself. Tell us what you want done. Black says
everything is going good.
French.
Le Moyne read the message carefully. Things were not going at all well
with him, but he smiled at the reference to Duke Steele looking for
trouble.
“I dunno what got into that danged girl,” said the driver. “She ain’t
showin’ much sense.”
Le Moyne looked coldly at him, as he folded up the message and said,
“I’ll go to Calico with you tonight.”
“All right,” said the driver slowly. “Mebbe that’ll help some.
“I think it will,” meaningly, “in more ways than one.”
Le Moyne turned and crossed the street just ahead of Telluride Taylor’s
string of burros, but did not even look at Telluride. The driver watched
him go into his office and squinted thoughtfully.
“In more ways than one, eh?” he muttered. “Jist what in hell did he mean
by that, do yuh suppose?”
As there was no one there to answer the question, the driver shook his
head and went seeking a bed.
* * * * *
Mica Cates had also spent a bad night. Somehow he felt responsible for
Luck, wanted to help her, but she was nowhere to be found. A miner had
told him about the big fight between Black and the newcomer, and he had
gone back to the Silver Bar, but could not find anybody who knew what
had become of Luck.
One of the bartenders remembered seeing her talking with Duke Steele,
but had not seen her after the fight. Nearly all night Mica had sat on
Luck’s doorstep, waiting for her, wondering what had happened to her. It
was after daylight when he came down the street to Louie Yen’s laundry.
The door was closed, but Mica opened it and peered inside.
Louie Yen was humped up on a box beside his ironing board, his head
swathed in bandages. He was smoking a long pipe, while he slowly whetted
his long knife with a tiny hone.
“Hyah, Louie,” greeted Mica, coming inside. “Seen anythin’ of Luck?”
Louie stopped honing and stared at Mica. His old face seemed to have
aged years in one night.
“Yo’ no find?” he asked softly.
“Dang it all--no!” Mica was very positive. “I’ve looked all over for
her, Louie. What happened to you?”
Louie’s hand went to his bandage and he shook his head.
“You don’t know?” asked Mica.
“I know,” nodded Louie. “Mebbe know too much; yo’ sabe?”
“Thasso? Whatcha mean, Louie?”
“Know too much, mebbe die,” ominously.
“Aw, shucks! What’s got into yuh?” Louie picked up his hone and knife
and began to put a razor edge on the long knife. The room was silent,
but for the keen, wheen, wheen, of the hone against fine steel.
“Yuh make me nervous,” complained Mica, “I asked yuh if yuh knew where
Luck Sleed is, but yuh never said.”
“No can do,” Louie shook his head, but did not look up. “I hear two men
talk in dark las’ night. Louie Yen ki’p very quiet.”
He tested the blade on the ball of his thumb and began honing again,
while he continued in a sing-song tone, “One man say want li’l gi’l and
other man say why wait fo’ big man say what to do? Yo’ takum now. One
man say we fixum scheme. They go ’way. Louie Yen no can go to see. Louie
Yen bimeby gonsee li’l gi’l and fin’ li’l gi’l talk to one man.
“Louie Yen go outside, see what can fin’. Bimeby big fight. Louie Yen
see two men in dark, carry li’l gi’l. She scream, but no can make hear.
Louie Yen hear. Louie Yen try catch li’l gi’l. No can do.”
Louie pointed to the bandage on his head and again he tested the edge of
his knife.
“Somebody steal her?” gasped Mica, getting to his feet.
Louie nodded slowly and the lines deepened in his old yellow face.
“Louie,” Mica’s voice quavered, “Louie, do yuh know who it was?”
“No can do,” Louie shook his head. “One man wear big hat--w’ite hat; yo’
sabe?”
“With silver trimmin’?” asked Mica quickly.
“Yes-s-s,” answered Louie. “Yo’ sabe now?”
Mica nodded quickly. He knew that Duke Steele was the only man in Calico
who wore that kind of headgear.
“No sabe?” Louie shook his head. “W’y he steal li’l gi’l? Long time she
look fo’ him. Plenty glad fo’ see him.”
“I don’t sabe it either, Louie. Who do yuh reckon they meant when they
spoke about the big man? Who is he?”
“No can tell, Mica. He say not wait fo’ big man. Bimeby we fin’ out.
Ah-h-h-h!” Louie’s gnarled thumb tested the edge of the knife and had
found it perfect. He picked up his pipe and began smoking.
“Well, ain’t we goin’ look for her?” demanded Mica impatiently.
“No can do,” Louie shook his head. “Hunt now, never fin’; yo’ sabe? Li’l
gi’l plenty safe now. Too much look, mebbe almos’ fin’--no safe.”
“You reckon they can’t afford to let us find her?”
“Um-m-m. Eyes no good fo’ hunt now. Somebody talk bimeby.”
“All right, Louie, but I sure want to git m’ hands on the dirty coyotes
that stole her.”
“Plenty time; yo’ wait,” advised Louie softly.
Mica nodded and went outside. It was blistering hot and not even a dog
was in sight on the street. He went slowly down past the Silver Bar and
into the Mojave. Duke Steele was sitting at a card table, playing
solitaire.
He smiled and nodded at Mica, who sat down at the table. Mica noticed
that Duke was not wearing a hat and there was no sign of the hat on the
table nor on any of the chairs. Neither of the men spoke. It was
stifling hot in there and finally Duke threw the cards aside and leaned
back in his chair.
“This country ain’t cooled off none since I was here a year ago,”
observed Duke. He had placed his hands on the table, and Mica could see
that they were swollen and bruised. Duke noticed Mica’s glance and
grinned.
“Compliments of Pete Black,” he remarked, indicating his hands. “Have
yuh seen him today?”
Mica shook his head. He had heard of the fight.
Duke studied Mica Cates for a while and then leaned across the table
toward him, as he asked softly, “Do you know where Luck Sleed is,
Cates?”
Mica shook his head. “No, do you?”
Duke smiled and shook his head, “No, but I’d sure like to, y’betcha.”
Mica could not help feeling that Duke was in earnest. Either that, or he
was a good actor and wanted to find out how much Mica Cates knew.
“When did yuh see her last?” queried Mica.
“Just before I fought with Pete Black. I was talkin’ with her when the
fight started and I took a hand in it. When the fight was over she had
disappeared.”
Mica blinked over this information, but he was not going to let Duke
Steele know his suspicions. Then, before he thought, he blurted the
question, “Steele, who is the big man you’re workin’ for?”
Duke stared closely at Mica and leaned slowly back in his chair. “Big
man?” he asked. “What do yuh mean, Cates?”
“You know what I mean, Steele.”
“Do I?” Duke smiled at Mica’s anxious face.
“Listen,” said Mica, “I ain’t sayin’ I ain’t afraid of you, Steele.
You’ve licked two good men with your hands since you came here, and I
sabe what you can do with a gun, but,” Mica stopped and leaned closer,
“but jist the same I’m askin’ yuh what yuh done with Luck Sleed?”
“What I done with her?” Duke’s smile was gone now and his voice was
hard. “Would I be lookin’ for her, if I knew where she is, Cates?”
Cates shook his head, but was unconvinced.
“What do yuh mean by ‘big man’?” demanded Duke.
Mica licked his lips slowly, but decided to try and bluff it through.
“You and another man talked about a big man last night, Steele; and it
sounds like you was workin’ for him. One of yuh wanted Luck Sleed and
decided to steal her. That fight was jist a blind to steal her out of
the crowd.”
Duke squinted closely at Mica, whose face was beaded with perspiration,
and a glimmer of understanding came to him.
“Did you hear me talkin’ to another man?” demanded Duke. Mica shook his
head.
“Then how do yuh figure it was me?”
“One of the men that stole Luck Sleed was wearin’ a big, white sombrero,
with silver trimmin’s, Steele. Where is your hat?”
Duke shook his head. “Pardner, I reckon the verdict is easy to read. I’m
much obliged to yuh, just the same.”
He leaned over and picked up the cards, paying no attention to Mica, who
got to his feet and went back to the street. At the doorway he looked
back at Duke, who was building another solitaire layout.
Mica scratched his head and tried to review just what Duke Steele had
said. He had not told who the big man was, nor had he admitted stealing
Luck Sleed. Somehow, Mica felt that Duke Steele had had nothing to do
with it. He had thanked Mica for some information, but Mica was not
aware that he had explained anything to him.
* * * * *
That night, French, Black and Curlew met in Curlew’s room at the rear of
the Mojave. Black’s lips were puffed and discolored, one eye was as
purple as a plum and all of his front teeth were missing. He had not
been able to eat solid food that day and whiskey was a torture to his
sore lips and mouth.
French was in sympathy with Black, because his own jaw was still sore
from Duke Steele’s fist, but Curlew was rather amused at both of them.
“I’ll kill him, if it’s the last thing I ever do,” declared Black. “I
don’t care a damn what Le Moyne says.”
“If I was goin’ to kill him, I’d hire it done,” said Curlew. “After
seein’ what he done to both of you fellers, I’m workin’ shy of that
hombre. Is he such a hell of a fighter, or are you jaspers overrated?”
French and Black made no reply. Curlew knew that both of them were well
known as fighters, and he was only joking them about their recent
defeats.
“He’s a gunman, too,” said French, as though admitting that Steele was a
good fighter with his fists. “A year ago he kinda cleaned up around
here.”
“Whatcha tryin’ to do, scare yourself or us?” demanded Black.
“I’m tellin’ yuh some history, Black.”
“History don’t repeat itself, French. I ain’t a danged bit scared of
this hard-headed fool, even if you are.”
“Still, yuh don’t know him and Le Moyne are hooked up,” said French.
“I’d advise layin’ off him until we hear from Le Moyne and see where
this feller stands.”
Came a knock on the door, but before anyone could speak, a man came into
the room. He was grimy from the desert and his face was brick-red from
the intense heat.
“Just got in,” he informed them huskily. “Damn horse went down on me
about three miles down the road and I had to walk the rest of the way.”
“What’s the idea, Pell?” asked French nervously.
The newcomer picked up a bottle of liquor from the table and took a long
drink.
“Plumb dried out inside,” he explained, sitting down on the bunk and
half-removing his boots before he continued.
“Telluride sent me in. Said that he got the ore, but that he saw Le
Moyne about a minute after he got loaded, and he’s plumb scared that Le
Moyne saw them. He went over and woke up the stage-driver and he said
that Le Moyne was comin’ to Calico with him t’night.”
“Hell!” exploded French, getting nervously to his feet.
“Hang onto yourself!” snapped Curlew.
“You’re as nervous as an old lady, French. Mebbe he didn’t see nothin’.”