Spawn of the Desert/Chapter 5
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.”
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.”