Part 2

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.”