Part 3

Luck turned quickly and ran up the trail, as though she was going to lose no time in finding out. Duke smiled after her and looked at the Saint, who was staring down at the ground, his hands clenched at his sides. The face of a saint was gone now, and in its stead was the grinning snarl of an old wolf. He lifted his face and looked at Duke Steele, who was staring at the change in the old man’s face and manner.

“Duke Steele--” the Saint’s voice was thin, almost a whine--“I’ve lived to kill--kill, do you hear me? Now, I’ve promised--God, why did I----?”

He swung his head as though in pain, and walked away. Duke watched him going slowly down the road, his shoulders hunched, as though the weight of the world rested on his back.

Whom did he live to kill? Why did his promise to Luck change his whole being? Duke frowned and tried to gather some reason for the old man’s feelings, but in vain. The Saint left the road and climbed the hill to a pinnacle of rock, where he sat and stared down the canyon, chin in hands, like a great, white-headed eagle watching for its prey.

It was an hour later that the Saint came back. He seemed older, whiter and very tired. Duke made no mention of what had passed between them, and the Saint did not open the subject. He sat down in the doorway and examined his revolver--an old single-action Colt .45, scarred and polished from much usage. His long, lean fingers seemed to caress the old gun lovingly. There were no notches on the butt of this old gun, but Duke Steele knew that its muzzle had spouted death many times.

Suddenly Duke spoke.

“Saint, what made you old before your time?”

“Old? Before--my--time?” The Saint turned his head and looked at Duke.

“Uh-huh. You ain’t over fifty, are yuh? You ain’t got no right to wear long white hair and whiskers and make folks think you’re as old as the hills.”

The Saint ran his hand under his beard and lifted it in range of his eyes. For several moments he peered at it, as though he had never seen it before.

“Duke, what would I look like without this beard?”

“I ain’t got the slightest idea, Saint. It sure does cover your face and head.”

“And that,” said Saint slowly, “is your answer, son.”

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.