couldn’t see all of it. There was only one shot fired, and I think Black
lost his gun. Did Louie get killed, Mica?”
“Yeah, I guess so, Luck,” sadly. “There’s been hell raised in Calico
tonight, but it’s too long to explain it to yuh now. Me and Steele got
away from ’em. I dunno what we’re goin’ to do now.”
“We’re goin’ to take Miss Luck back to her home,” said Duke, “and we’re
goin’ to see what we’ll see, Mica. Anyway, we just wanted to find her,
didn’t we? What matters after that, old pardner?”
“Don’t say that,” begged Luck. “I’m sorry I thought that you----”
“Thassall right, Luck. We’ll get yuh home.”
“But I don’t want you to--oh, I don’t know what to say. I’ve tried to
think that you would do this, but I couldn’t convince myself. Don’t you
believe me, Duke Steele?”
“Yes, I do, Luck. Mebbe you’ll have to trust me a lot for a while now.
If Calico ain’t right, it’s the desert for all of us, little girl. So
yuh see you’ve got to trust me a lot.”
“All right, Duke Steele.”
“Can yuh walk, Luck?” asked Mica.
“Not very fast, but I--I guess I can walk a little.”
Walking was a painful experience, after being bound tightly for so long,
but Luck was game.
Back into the sloping tunnel they went, feeling their way along,
expecting momentarily to find the body of Louie Yen, but it was not
there.
“Where’d he go?” complained Mica. “I ask yuh, where did he go, Steele?”
“Mebbe he wasn’t dead,” suggested Duke. “Chinamen have as many lives as
a cat.”
They came out on the ledge at the mouth of the tunnel. Below them lay
the town; dark save for the lights at the front of the Silver Bar. They
could hear muffled cheers, yells; exultation rather than anger. There
was no sign of pursuit.
Mica led the way down to Luck’s cabin, but she would not go in.
“I’m going with you,” she declared firmly. “That Silver Bar belongs to
me and I’m going down there.”
And without a word of further protest, Duke led the way down the street.
There was no one in sight, but the Silver Bar was a roar of voices, the
cheering of drunken men.
Straight in through the mass of humanity they went, until they reached
the fringe of a huge circle, where a queer sight met their gaze. Le
Moyne, only half-conscious, his face and head bruised and cut badly and
his clothes mere strips of rags, was slouched in a chair in the center
of the circle.
Around his big shoulders was tied a dirty Mexican serape of flaming red,
and in his bleeding hand had been thrust a broken whiskey bottle. Fire
French, bruised and battered, was assisting Curlew in arranging this
mockery, while the crowd cheered wildly.
“The king of Mojave!” yelped the crowd. “Long live the king!”
The place was a bedlam. Men were drinking toasts from broken-necked
bottles; men who were bleeding, ragged and sweat-grimed from the battle.
A man came shoving through the crowd from the rear, carrying something
in a blanket, which he placed on a table.
“For the king!” shrilled French. “A crown for the king of the desert!”
Grasping the piece of blanket in both hands, he up-ended it on top of Le
Moyne’s massive head and yanked the blanket away. It had contained a
number of great cacti, which dug their spines into Le Moyne’s head. He
swayed his head, like a wounded buffalo, but was too weak to shake them
off.
“The king is crowned!” yelled the crowd. “A crown for the king of Mojave
desert! Long live the king!”
French tore a bottle from the hands of a drunken miner and knocked the
top off against his boot-heel. Lifting his hand above Le Moyne’s head,
he started to pour out the liquor. Duke was watching him closely and saw
that French was staring toward the door. He dropped the bottle, which
caromed off Le Moyne’s head and fell to the floor.
Pete Black was coming slowly through the room, and the crowd stood aside
to let him to the center. He had met Louie Yen’s long knife in the
battle in the tunnel and the effect was awful to behold. He kept his
arms wrapped about his middle, as though fearful of what might happen if
he released them.
French and Curlew stared at him, as he stumbled up and almost fell into
Le Moyne’s lap.
“Look out!” croaked Black. “They--found--her. That--damn--Chink----”
Black swayed and tried to straighten up, as he turned toward the door,
and a whimper of fear came from his lips. Duke grasped Luck by the arm
and tried to draw her back. Louie Yen was coming through the room, his
old face set and almost white with suffering. In his right hand he
carried the long-bladed knife.
Black stared at him for a moment, whirled and tried to run, but fell
over the feet of Le Moyne, and sprawled on his face, his arms
wide-flung.
“You yellow snake!” French fairly shrieked as he whipped out his gun.
But Duke was looking for such a move and fired a fraction of a second
ahead of French, whose bullet tore into the floor. French groped blindly
for the table and fell on his knees.
Curlew did not make a move. He seemed paralyzed for a moment, and only
stared at Duke, as he walked up and took Curlew’s gun from his
unresisting hand. The crowd seemed shocked to inaction, and Duke turned
quickly on them.
“You fools! Do you want to wreck the town to satisfy the greed of some
tin-horn gamblers? Curlew is the last one of them left; the last of the
crooks that tried to plunder Calico. You all know Luck Sleed. They
kidnapped her and hid her in the Lady Slipper, where we found her
tonight.
“Black and his gang have been high-grading on her, while French and his
gang have stolen everything from the Silver Bar. If you are men, if you
have any decency about you at all, tomorrow will not see one of Black’s
men, nor Slim Curlew, in Calico town.”
Swiftly the temper of the crowd changed. Duke’s words were words that
they understood. Men were dodging out of the door, as a group of drunken
miners grasped the unlucky Curlew and hurled him out of the place.
Duke stepped over and removed the cactus from the head of Le Moyne. He
looked at Duke, but there was only a glimmer of intelligence in his
eyes. He had been mortally wounded during the fight, and the mockery he
had undergone meant nothing to him now.
“Le Moyne, do yuh know me?” asked Duke.
“Steele? Yes, I know--you. It was a--good--fight.”
“I brought the girl, Le Moyne. You remember the girl I told you
about--Luck Sleed.”
“Yes--Steele. Why don’t somebody light the lamps?”
“Listen, Le Moyne,” Duke was talking swiftly against time, “you said
she’d get what belonged to her.” Le Moyne seemed to rouse up and his
eyes were a little clearer. Several of the miners were standing close,
listening, and Le Moyne spoke to them.
“Come in--closer--and--listen. No--time--to--write.” Le Moyne licked
his bloody lips and drew a deep breath. “Everything I’ve got
belongs to--Duke--Steele. Do you hear--that? Everything. I will
it--to--him--and--I--want--you--to--witness.”
“But, Le Moyne, I don’t want it for myself,” explained Duke. “I want it
for Luck Sleed.”
“You’re a--man--can--hold--it,” mumbled Le Moyne thickly. “I--I think
you’ll--share--things--together--now. Pay back what you can--Steele.
No--lights here----”
“The passing of a king,” said Duke softly. “I hope he won’t be
misjudged.”
“What did he mean?” whispered Luck. “He said that we would share things
together, Duke.”
Louie Yen had been hanging onto the back of a chair and now he grinned
softly, as he said, “Yo’ takum, li’l gi’l. Yo’ need stlong man--Calico
need stlong man, yo’ sabe?”
Duke held out his hand to her, and together they went out into the
desert night, while behind them huddled the dead figure of a man who
aspired to a desert crown, and gazed with unseeing eyes as a crippled
miner clasped hands with a crippled and very old Chinaman, and limped
out of the door after them.
[Transcriber’s note: This story appeared in the January 25, 1923 issue
of _Short Stories_ magazine.]