Read Ebook: Spawn of the Desert by Tuttle W C Wilbur C

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Ebook has 588 lines and 19760 words, and 12 pages

"Then you are no better heeled than I am, partner. I have no Bible, you have no cards." He leaned down and placed a hand on the rough casket.

"Preacher Bill, I wish I had known you well enough to have something to say about you. No doubt you were a hard drinker, of very little value to any community, and showed poor judgment in objecting audibly against a run of bad poker luck, but no man can live through childhood and well into life's narrow span without doing some good--leaving somebody better for having known you. Let him who is without sin cast the first stone. Good-by, Preacher Bill."

The bearded man straightened up and looked at the crowd.

"Friends, I ask you to try and remember the good things he has done and forget the bad. We are all children of circumstance. The Bible says, 'The son of man goeth as it is written of him.'

"Whether or not this means that our destiny is all written out in the good book, I do not know. Perhaps poor Preacher Bill merely traveled according to what had been written of him--powerless to do otherwise. Shall we say that he was unfit? I think that is all I can say."

"Parson," one of the miners stepped out of the crowd and held out his hand to the old man, "if you start a church here, I'll sure as hell go to hear yuh preach."

The old man smiled sadly, shook hands with several of the miners and turned back to where Duke Steele stood. They looked closely at each other, turned and went back to their burro, without a word; while the mortal remains of Preacher Bill Bushnell were lowered one foot deep into Hell's Depot and piled high with heavy stones.

"Le Saint," said Duke Steele, as they plodded toward the street, "I wonder what will be said over your remains?"

The old man turned his head and glanced back toward the group at the cemetery.

"I wonder, Duke. Perhaps I shall be lucky enough to have my funeral oration spoken by a man who did not know me any better than I knew Preacher Bill. Will he say, 'This is Paget Le Saint,' or will he say 'The Saint?' I wonder. Still, what should I care, Duke?"

"Damn little difference it makes, after a man's dead," nodded Duke Steele.

"True as Gospel, Duke. Life is the only thing that interests me; death I know nothing about--nor care."

And the Saint spoke truly, when he said he did not care; for the Saint was a fatalist, a gambler, who staked his life against other men's gold. Just as surely as Kidd and Morgan were pirates of the seas, the Saint was a pirate of the Desert, whose appearance belied his calling. Men seemed to speak softly in his presence, as though awed by the majesty of his face and great white beard. Oaths never passed his lips and no man had ever seen him take a drink of liquor. He censured no man for doing evil, and his open philosophy of life fitted in well with the rough lands of the West.

No man, except Duke Steele, knew the real business of the Saint, and he knew only because they were of a kind. Duke Steele was a gunman, a killer, a gambler, and he, alone, knew that the Saint was all of these. An old wolf in the raiment of a sheep; as resourceful and dangerous as an old wolf, and with the brain of a Solomon.

But no man, not excepting Duke Steele, knew anything more about the Saint than they had observed from contact with him, for he confided in no man. He had wandered much, and at times would mention distant parts of the country.

Names seemed to interest him greatly--names of men. It was as though he was always searching for a certain name, which he could only remember by hearing it spoken. Duke Steele wondered at times if the Saint was not just a trifle insane.

For he was a strange personality at times; given to brooding, violence, turning in a flash to extreme kindness and good humor. He often spoke his own name, as though mocking himself. But of his ancestry, his early life, he made no mention.

Duke Steele had been one of his gang in a raid on the Cohise mines, which had been skilfully planned and executed, and without the loss of a man.

Three weeks before the Saint's outfit had boasted of twelve men. Where the other ten were now could only be told by a bunch of Apaches, who ambushed them beyond the Colorado. The Saint and Duke Steele were the only ones to escape.

The plunder of the Cohise mining camp had been taken by the Indians, and the Saint and Steele were forced to be content with saving their lives and one burro. But Steele was an optimist and the Saint did not care for money. It meant nothing to him.

Men believed him insane, at times, because of his total disregard for wealth. He would nurse a sick man with all the tenderness of a woman, or kill a malcontent with the cold-bloodedness of a tiger. But travel, he must. His eyes ever turned toward the hills, as though he was wondering what was on the other side. A prospector had told them of Calico, and to Calico they had come, with not a drop of water nor a crumb of food left.

"The Lord must be looking out for us," observed Duke Steele, as they herded their burro up the main street.

"Fate," corrected the Saint. "The Lord has nothing to do with this place, Duke. It looks like the devil might have located it, did one or two assessments, and relinquished it on account of the heat."

A man crossed the street ahead of them and the Saint stopped him with the question, "Friend, can you tell us where we may find lodging?"

"Lodging?" The man parroted the word. "There ain't a hotel in Calico. Better see Sleed, I reckon. Since Preacher Bill got killed there's a vacant hole in Sunshine Alley, and maybe yuh can rent it from Sleed."

"And who is Sleed?" asked the Saint.

"Who?" The man looked curiously at them. "Yuh must be strangers in this part of the country if yuh don't know who Sleed is. He's the big man around here.

"Owns the Silver Bar saloon over there, and owns the California at Cactus City. Owns the Lady Slipper and the Nola mines, which are the biggest producers here. Sleed was one of the original locators, and he sure does own this town, y'betcha."

"He owns the hole yuh spoke about?" queried Steele.

"Yep--owns most all of the Alley. You just ask for Silver Sleed over at the Silver Bar saloon. 'S funny yuh never heard of Silver Sleed."

"No doubt," nodded the Saint. "Our sources of information appear very lax in not apprising us of this great personage. Still, it is never too late to meet the great. We both thank you, friend."

The Saint turned the burro toward the front of the Silver Bar saloon, while their informant shuffled his feet in the gravel street and wondered whether or not the old patriarch was making fun of him. The Saint was not over fifty years of age, but looked seventy.

Silver Sleed was a giant of a man, with a great black beard, which grew almost to his eyes; eyes that reflected a greenish light, like the sheen of jade. He wore his hair long, after the fashion of the time, and his clothes were a trifle extreme, but befitted his occupation and position as the richest and most powerful man in the country. The law had never penetrated the Calico hills, so Silver Sleed set himself up as judge and arbiter, from which there was no appeal. In all cases which did not directly or indirectly affect himself or his interests, he was fair in his decisions.

The Silver Bar saloon was not a pretentious place, being one story high, built of adobe, but it was the largest building in Calico. The floor space was about forty feet wide by sixty feet deep, which was taken up by a long bar, gambling layouts and a dance floor. It was the only saloon in Calico, which was conclusive evidence that Sleed owned the town.

Calico spoke many languages, but among this polyglot of tongues, only one, Louie Yen, spoke Chinese. Sleed did not like Chinese, so he limited the camp to Louie Yen, who was a "velly good laundly--yessum." Louie was so old that he claimed to remember the time when Ruby Hill was nothing but a hole in the ground; old and very wise, after his own fashion.

But no man may rule a community without assistance. Sleed surrounded himself with a few trusted men, who were paid for doing certain things without asking the why and wherefore; men who might be undesirable to a village of God-fearing folk, but passing unnoticed in Calico, where, according to the parlance of Sunshine Alley, everything went, except the cook-stove and one joint of pipe.

Just now Sleed was standing with his back to the bar, in the saloon, his eyes squinted, as though in deep thought. Beside him stood a slender, dark-featured man, dressed in the habiliments of the professional gambler. His black eyes were sullen and shifty, and his long fingers moved nervously at his sides, as he flashed a sidewise glance at Sleed.

"That's your idea of a square deal, is it, Sleed?"

Sleed turned his head and looked coldly at the gambler.

"Ace Ault, this ain't no deal. You killed Preacher Bill because--well, not because he said yuh dealt a crooked game, but because yuh was jealous."

"I know what he said," interrupted Sleed coldly. "It gave yuh the chance yuh wanted, Ault. Preacher Bill was a dirty old bum and his tongue was against him, but he was educatin' Luck. He was smart, and he was learnin' her a lot of things. She liked him."

"And because I protected my honor against his lying tongue I've got to leave the camp, eh?" queried Ault sarcastically.

"Honor?" Sleed laughed into his beard. "Honor? Good God, when did a tinhorn like you get any honor?"

Ault's face went a trifle darker, and he lifted his hands to a level with his waist.

"Think so?" snapped Ault. His right hand flashed up from under his coat. From across the room came the jarring thud of a pistol shot, and Ault jerked back, firing his pistol a foot over Sleed's head. For a moment Ault's eyes shifted around the room, as he grasped at the bar for support, half-turned toward the door and fell sprawling.

One of Sleed's men came slowly across the room, pistol in hand, watching Ault closely. Sleed's expression had not changed.

"Quick work, Loper," he said softly. Loper nodded and shoved his gun back into its holster.

Just then the Saint and Duke Steele came into the door. Sleed looked at them indifferently, and motioned for some more men to assist in carrying Ault's body out of the place. The Saint and Steele stood aside and watched the men file out.

"Silver Sleed?" asked Steele.

Sleed looked at him for a moment; glanced toward the door as he nodded. Some of the men who had been at the graveyard were coming in, looking curiously back at the men carrying Ace Ault.

"We're lookin' for a place to live in," said Steele. "A man told us to see Silver Sleed."

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