Spawn of the Desert/Chapter 7
VI
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.
“But I didn’t come home—then,” she continued, after a moment’s pause. “I heard them say they were going to hang you both.”
“We’re sure obliged to yuh, Miss Luck,” said Duke slowly. “We’ll get out of here before they find yuh out.”
Came a dull knock on the heavy door. Duke drew his gun and stepped in closer to the wall, snuffing out one of the candles.
“I’ll open it,” he whispered, but Luck motioned him to stop.
“Who is it?” she called.
“Me—Mica Cates,” answered a muffled voice. “You paw asked me to find out if yuh was home.”
“I’m all right,” said Luck.
“I’ll tell him. They ain’t found them fellers yet, Luck; but they’re still huntin’. Your dad is willin’ to pay big for the man what gets ’em. Loper’s dead. Mendez and Fane are kinda bad, but mebbe they’ll live.”
For a moment there was silence, and then Cates said, “’Member what I said about them buzzards? It sure is hard to fool a buzzard. G’d-night.”
Luck turned to Duke, her face white in the flickering light of the one candle.
“My dad,” she said slowly, “is offering money for your lives.”
Duke thought of the I. O. U. in his pocket. Forty-six thousand dollars. No wonder Silver Sleed was willing to pay well to stop collection on that piece of paper. It would break Sleed to pay that bet; strip him of his unearned wealth.
“I reckon your dad’s got the wrong idea of us,” said Duke slowly. He did not want her to know why Silver Sleed wanted to kill him.
“I’ll get your burro and things,” she said, and slipped out through the back entrance before he could stop her. The Saint lifted his gory head and stared at her as she went past him. He started to get up, but sank back in his chair, muttering softly, wonderingly.
He looked at Duke closely, without a sign of recognition in his eyes.
“How do yuh feel, Saint?” asked Duke.
“How do I feel?” parroted the Saint. “Why do you ask me that? Where am I?”
“Don’t yuh remember, Saint? You’re in Silver Sleed’s home right now.”
“Sleed’s home?” The Saint got slowly out of his chair and looked around, as though an inspection of the four walls would corroborate his statement.
“Sleed’s home?” he repeated, as though to himself and then to Duke. “I don’t understand—I—can’t.”
“Don’t yuh remember the shootin’ in the street? One of Sleed’s men shot yuh, Saint; but he paid damn well for it.”
“One of Sleed’s men? What men do you mean?”
It was not the voice of the old Saint. Gone was the deep, organ-like tone, and in its place was a harsh, rasping enunciation, toneless, colorless.
“You take it easy, old timer,” advised Duke. “We’ll get out of here first and talk afterwards.”
The Saint heard this indifferently, as his hand ran slowly through his great white beard, now streaked and clotted with blood. Across the room was a mirror in a rough frame, and his eyes traveled to this. He staggered over to it and peered at himself for several long moments.
He turned away and staggered against the wall, where he stared at Duke, wide-eyed.
“Who am I?” he breathed. “My God, who am I?”
His voice was almost a scream, and his hands clutched against the 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
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.