Spawn of the Desert/Chapter 6
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.