## The Project Gutenberg eBook of The curse of the painted cliffs

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Title: The curse of the painted cliffs

Author: W. C. Tuttle

Release date: February 4, 2026 [eBook #77862]

Language: English

Original publication: Garden City, NY: Doubleday, Page & Co, 1923

Credits: Prepared by volunteers at BookCove (bookcove.net)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CURSE OF THE PAINTED CLIFFS ***

# THE CURSE OF THE PAINTED CLIFFS

By W. C. Tuttle
Author of “Spawn of the Desert,” “The Plotters,” etc.

An ore-wagon creaking over a desert road, going at a snail-like pace, heading for a jumble of bright-hued, rock-ribbed hills. The land a desolation of sand, harsh sage, cactus, which rattled like paper in the heat-laden breeze. The sky a brassy dome, almost green in its intensity, out of which flamed a sun.

Far above the hills circled the buzzards, seemingly suspended on invisible wires, for they hung motionless in that thin air—watching, always watching. On all sides stretched the desert, broken here and there in the distance by black peaks, as though at some remote period this country had been a vast mountain range, which had sifted full of sand, until only the peaks remained.

Only the creaking ore-wagon and the rutted road showed the hand of man in this place. A few hours would suffice the desert to reclaim the road; for the desert is jealous of the hand of man, and, like the jungle, it is ever striving to protect its own.

But the ore-wagon creaked on and on toward the painted rocks, which flashed back the sunlight. The two men on the ore-wagon humped dejectedly in the heat, saying nothing. They were black from the wind and sun, colorless of garb, harsh of feature.

Up a rutty, rocky road creaked the wagon, going into the painted hills. One of the men touched the other on the arm and pointed toward a spire of rocks. On a shelf of this spire stood a girl, looking out into the desert. Her black dress threw her into bold relief against the orange tint of the rocks.

She was not beautiful, but there was a sweetness, a wistfulness about her face that made men look at her more than once. Her eyes were a misty-gray; almost black in the strong lights, and her brown hair, with its tint of copper, she wore in a long braid.

“Luck Sleed,” said one of the men in a flat, colorless voice. “She’s always lookin’ out into the desert.”

“What fer?” wondered the other.

“Gawd knows what fer.”

“Ain’t nothin’ to see, except the damn desert. What would anybody look at the desert fer?”

“Whatcha ask me fer?” peevishly. “I ain’t never seen nothin’ out there to look at. Been here a year and I ain’t never seen nothin’ but heat and sand. Gawd, I wonder what green grass and runnin’ water look like.”

“Ain’t none,” wearily. “Fairy tales, Jim; things yuh dream you’ve seen, like castles in Spain. Wonder what Luck Sleed is lookin’ at. Dreams, mebbe?”

“Mebbe. Agin mebbe she’s lookin’ fer a sweetheart to come in out of the desert.” The man laughed bitterly and shook his head. “He’d be a hell of a looker, if he crossed the Mojave.”

“Like me and you, eh? But looks don’t count up here, Jim. Nothin’ much counts, except water and whiskey and bein’ quick with a gun. If yuh got all them along with a heat-proof brain, mebbe you’ll git along. I dunno.”

“Gotta have a sun-proof brain, that’s a cinch. Mine’s fried to a cinder. Cinder brain, that’s me. That’s what we all got. If we didn’t have cinder brains we’d all pull out of here, but a cinder brain won’t let yuh think long enough to git plumb out of the Mojave. Giddap!”

The ore-wagon ground on up to a rock-ribbed flat, the tired horses panting heavily in the heat, leaving behind them the tall spire of rock, beside which stood the black-clad girl, looking out into the desert.

Before them, on the slope, seemingly plastered against the cliffs, was the town of Calico—a one-street huddle of adobe houses, made from adobe clay and colored with muck from the silver mines. No two of the houses were the same color, and at a distance they appeared as colored drawings against the cliffs.

The street was short—not over two hundred yards in length—paved unevenly with the solid rock of the hills. Back of the street the hill sloped sharply to ledges, where a few more adobe houses perched drunkenly, and behind them towered the painted cliffs, which were honeycombed with tunnels.

On the north side of the town was a deep, rock-bound canyon, known as Sunshine Alley. It angled sharply back into the mountain, the sides breaking sheer, and the whole canyon so grotesque in formation that it did not appear to be a work of nature. And on all sides, beyond the slope on which stood the main street, the cliffs heightened in broken ledges, dotted thickly with more tunnels, with wooden chutes extending into the canyon, through which poured streams of silver-laden ore, to ore-wagons or cribs built in the bottom.

And in this Sunshine Alley lived the greater part of the thirty-five hundred population; lived in caves, hollowed places in the cliffs and in homes built into the angle of the canyon. For the most part they were roofless, windowless. Rain did not come to the Calico mountains; so there was little need of a dwelling place, except for semi-privacy. With great frequency one or more of the population would move permanently to Hell’s Depot, the iron-hard graveyard which played a conspicuous part in the life of the town.

In fact, Calico, in the middle of the eighties, was little better than a village of cliff dwellers, as far as habitation was concerned; and morals were as scarce as house-tops.

“Silver” Sleed had been the boss of Calico for a number of years. His Silver Bar was the only saloon and gambling house in the town, a concession which he had jealously guarded, and his death had caused all of his holdings to be inherited by Luck. Her name was Nola, but Sleed, whose good fortune was proverbial, had nicknamed her Sleed’s Luck. To her belonged the Silver Bar, the California saloon and gambling house at Cactus City, and the Lady Slipper and Nola mines, which were two of the largest producers of Calico.

“I don’t sabe Luck,” declared one of the mine owners, following the death of Silver Sleed. “Luck hankers f’r education and wants t’ be a grand lady; so why in hell don’t she sell out and go where she can be them three things? She’s plumb rich now.”

“Don’t have t’ sell out,” declared another. “She can go away and let somebody run them places, can’t she?”

Luck let others run her business places, but still she stayed on. Something seemed to hold her to Calico, although she hated it with all of her young soul. Men had tried to make love to her, but Luck would have none of them.

Just now she came back from the tall spire, where she had stood looking out across the desolation of the Mojave desert. The long, purple shadows of evening were already softening the rough edges of the hills, and from the depths of Sunshine Alley long, thin ribbons of smoke were already reaching upward, as the evening meals were being prepared for the men, who would soon be coming out of the tunnels, ant-like figures, which would wind slowly down the perilous trails or swing carefully down rope ladders.

Then would come the moonlight to make the world a fairyland of the softest of blue; a mystical land, covered by a velvet sky, studded with sky-diamonds, which seemed very close to the earth, and a moon, like a great ball, stereopticon in its contour and fairly transparent in its soft brilliancy.

Luck loved the nights. From the doorway of her home, perched on a narrow slope above the town, she always sat in the moonlight; a solitary figure, drinking in the wonders, while below her gleamed the yellow lights of the town and to her ears came the screeching of a violin, the tin-panny jangle of a piano, the discordant jumble of human voices, or, perhaps, the dull thump of a pistol shot.

Luck came slowly up the street, paying little attention to those who spoke to her, until she came opposite the Silver Bar. A tall, frock-coated man was standing in the doorway, evidently deep in thought. His dark eyes were squinted beneath the brim of his wide, black hat and his white teeth were clenched tightly around a very black cigar.

A thin nose surmounted a sharply waxed mustache, below which jutted a belligerent chin. But the most noticeable thing about this man was his lavish display of jewels. The buttons of his ornate vest, the stick-pin, cufflinks were all made from finely cut sapphires of large size, but the solitaire which gleamed from the third finger of his left hand dwarfed and outshone all the rest.

This man was “Fire” French, a virtuoso of the green cloth. He had been nicknamed “Sapphire,” which had been shortened to Fire.

Contrary to his nickname, he was as cold as ice—a killer; a killer who weighed the odds carefully and spared when the balance was against him. He lifted his eyes and looked across at Luck. His hand swept to his sombrero and he bowed. Luck merely nodded and passed on. Fire French watched her pass on and a smile twisted the corners of his thin mouth. He shook his head, as though he did not understand her. For the first time in his life, Fire French had found a woman who was not at all dazzled by his personality or raiment, and he was piqued.

At the instigation of several friends, she had engaged French to run the Silver Bar. They had argued that it would require a man of great ability, and Fire French was the man. There were only two dissenting voices—those of Mica Cates and Louie Yen.

Mica Cates had stood squarely behind Luck in everything, except hiring Fire French. Mica was a born pessimist, a retailer of news, to which was added dire prophecy, and freely-given advice. He was short of stature, bowed of legs and bearded to the eyes.

Louie Yen was the only Chinaman in Calico; the only oriental that had ever been allowed in the town. He owned the only laundry and minded his own business. He was very old—he did not know how old—with a wrinkled face, the skin of which was parchment-like and seemed to crackle—when he grinned his toothless grin. And Louie Yen was very wise. He had the inherited wisdom of his ancestors, to which he had added his own golden years of experience.

Mica Cates did not like Fire French, and he did not care who knew it. Louie Yen did not like Fire French, but he told it to no man, except himself; because he knew only one man he could trust—himself.

Louie Yen worshiped Luck Sleed. He had watched her bloom into womanhood, and he was forever shaking his head sadly over his ironing-board or washtub. To him she would always be “Li’l gi’l,” just as she was the day that she came to town with Silver Sleed.

Louie was standing in the doorway of his laundry, smoking a long pipe, as Luck came up the street. He could see Fire French looking after her. He had seen Fire French’s courtly bow. Now he removed the pipe from his mouth and grinned pleasantly.

“H’lo, li’l gi’l.”

“Hello, Louie,” Luck stopped, and smiled at him.

“Louie Yen jus’ smile,” he told her seriously. “Too ol’. No can bow, yo’ sabe?”

“Oh!” Luck looked back toward the Silver Bar, but Fire French was not there now.

“Wha’sa matta?” queried Louie. “Yo’ no look please.”

“I want to ask you a question, Louie Yen. Do you remember the day before, or the day that my father was killed?”

Louie nodded quickly.

“There was a poker game, Louie Yen.”

Louie nodded again, but his eyes were blank now. He was trying to forget.

“In that poker game,” continued Luck, “my father lost some money to the man who was called Duke Steele. That money was never paid, Louie Yen. Do you know how much money it was?”

Louie Yen knew, but Louie Yen did not want to tell her that Duke Steele had won forty-six thousand dollars from Silver Sleed, and that he had accepted Sleed’s I. O. U., for this great amount. Duke Steele had disappeared, following the death of Sleed, and no one knew where he had gone.

“How much money, Louie Yen?” persisted Luck.

“No can tell, li’l gi’l. Five men see fo’ sure; fo’ dead, one gone.”

“Why didn’t he come back and collect his money?”

“Ho!” chuckled Louie Yen. “No can tell. Yo’ want find him jus’ fo’ give him money, li’l gi’l?”

Luck flushed slightly and Louie Yen puffed rapidly on his long pipe. He was very wise, was Louie Yen. Luck turned and started up the hill.

“Goo’-by, li’l gi’l,” called Louie softly.

“Good night, Louie Yen.”

The misty moonlight had quickly followed the sunset, and the mountain was bathed in a soft blue haze, making everything indistinct. Men were already coming in over the rim of Sunshine Alley, and the yellow lights of the street threw their shadows in grotesque shapes on the adobe walls.

From the doorway of her home, Luck Sleed looked down at the lighted street and lifted her eyes to the velvety, starlit sky.

“God only made the nights,” she said softly. “Preacher Bill Bushnell told me that. He said that the devil bossed the day-shift until Calico was built and then he worked overtime.”

Luck Sleed’s life had not been laid in pleasant paths; being, as far back as she could remember, one succession of killings. It was little wonder that she looked down upon the reveling Calico and repeated Preacher Bill’s decision that——

“Calico don’t need religion, Luck. You could preach the gospel down there until hell froze over. They don’t sabe what yuh say. Tell it to ’em in hot lead—that’s the language they understand. I ain’t sayin’ a word agin’ your father, but Calico needs a man with high ideals and the ability to shoot hell out of those who are too deaf to hear him curse ’em.”

Luck smiled over the words of Preacher Bill, who had not lived long afterward. Perhaps he was right, perhaps wrong; she did not know. At any rate, she was tired of bloodshed and the shamelessness of Calico Town. She gazed over the town, out into the misty stillness of the desert. Somewhere out there was a man; a young man, whose face was indelibly stamped upon her memory. He and his little burro had faded out into the desert, carrying an I. O. U. for forty-six thousand dollars, signed by Silver Sleed.

Luck did not know the amount of this I. O. U., but she did know that it was an enormous amount. Did Duke Steele deliberately throw away this amount so that she might have it, or was he crazy, as some declared? Luck shook her head. She was considered wealthy, but this money would never belong to her until that gambling debt was paid. That was why she stayed in Calico—to pay a debt. So she told herself.

It was the following morning that Mica Cates came past Luck’s house, bringing her word of a shooting scrape in the Silver Bar, in which a miner had been killed by Fire French.

“He was a miner in the Lady Slipper, Luck,” explained Mica, “and he had a wife and one kid.”

Luck shut her lips tightly.

“I reckon the boys’ll have t’ take up a collection f’r her and the kid,” observed Mica sadly.

“What started the trouble, Mica?”

“Poker game. This Andy Bowers didn’t take kindly to the way Fire French dealt the draw in a big pot; so he throws down his hand and opines to remove his money, statin’ at the same time that he don’t care t’ play the game thataway.

“French kinda watches him, like a cat watchin’ a mouse, and then he says, ‘You insinuatin’ that this here game ain’t on the square?’

“Andy hauls his money out and gets to his feet, as he says, ‘Nobody ever seen me draw my money out of a pot before, French; so yuh can figure it out for yourself.’

“French gits to his feet, kinda easy-like; not actin’ a bit sore, but before anybody has a chance to say a word, he shoots from his hip and kills Andy too dead t’ skin. Then Fire French explains that he don’t allow no man t’ question his honesty nor honor. I ain’t sayin’ that the game was crooked, Luck; but it don’t ’pear to me that it was sufficient cause t’ kill a man.”

Luck shook her head. “A gambler’s honor! Most of the killings are over honor, Mica Cates. Does taking a life clear a gambler’s honor, I wonder?”

“I s’pose. If a man ever declares ’em crooked, they’re done for, ’less they wipe out the insult with blood.”

“It’s a queer world, Mica Cates.”

“Yes’m, Luck, it sure is queer. What do yuh know about the new saloon and gamblin’ house, the Mojave?”

“Nothing. I only know that the new place is going to open tonight.”

“Silver Sleed wouldn’t ’a’ stood fer it,” declared Mica. “No tin-horn gamblers ever cut in on his town. It sure looks t’ me like they was a-goin’ t’ try and run you out of business, Luck. Them two new places in Cactus City has plumb ruined yore trade down there, and now this here new place will split up business. Killin’ of Andy Bowers ain’t goin’ t’ make Fire French any too pop’lar, y’betcha.”

Luck nodded slowly. It was true that the Sleed fortune was not growing. Both the Lady Slipper and the Nola were not paying expenses now. Luck had twenty thousand dollars in coin hidden away, which had been slowly dribbling away through alleged bad runs of luck in the gambling houses.

“Pete Black still runnin’ the Lady Slipper?” queried Mica Cates.

“Yes—both mines, Mica.”

“Neither one payin’ a cent? I heard it talked about, Luck. Poor old Andy Bowers talked about it last night. He had a few drinks, I reckon. Some of the miners was worryin’ about them two veins peterin’ out and they was talkin’ about it. Andy said it wasn’t poor ore, but it was damn poor minin’. Said they cut right away from the rich ore in the Lady Slipper. Well, Andy’s gone now. Feller ain’t none too secure in this here life. Here t’day, gone t’morrow—and a gambler’s honor saved. S’long, Luck.”

“So-long, Mica Cates.”

She watched him go over the rim into Sunshine Alley; going down to start a collection for the wife and kid of Andy Bowers. Luck turned and went back into the house, where she stopped before a crude mirror and looked at herself closely. A misty-eyed girl stared back at her; a girl with tousled hair and compressed lips.

For a long time she stared into the mirror at herself. Lying on the old-fashioned bureau in front of her was the six-shooter that had belonged to Silver Sleed; the gun he had taught her to shoot.

Suddenly another reflection seemed to fade into the mirror, and she saw Fire French’s grinning lips, waxed mustache, sparkling sapphires.

Swiftly she whirled, with the gun in her hand; but he had stopped midway between the open door and where she stood, and was still smiling at her.

“What do you want?” she asked coldly.

Fire French laughed softly and shook his head. “Did I frighten you, Luck?”

“No!” She shook her head quickly. “But why do you come sneaking into my house, Fire French?”

“I didn’t mean to. The door was open and I seen you admirin’ yourself in the mirror; so I thought I’d help you do a little admirin’, Luck.”

“This house is mine and I don’t allow nobody to come here. I wasn’t admiring myself.”

“You ought to,” smiled French. “You’re pretty. Never seen eyes like you’ve got, Luck. Some folks look at you and think you’re still a kid, but you’re a woman and you’ve got a woman’s charms. Why don’t yuh mix with folks?”

“Like you?” queried Luck.

“Well, why not? Is there anythin’ wrong with me?”

“Yes,” said Luck slowly. “You’re too honest.”

Fire French laughed loudly, thinking that she meant it as a compliment.

“You have too much honor to protect,” added Luck.

“What do you mean?” French came closer to her, but he still respected the unwavering revolver muzzle.

“Killing a man to protect your honor,” said Luck slowly, “a man with a wife and a kid.”

“Oh, hell!” French shrugged his shoulders impatiently, “Do you want it said that a crooked deal is pulled off in the Silver Bar?”

“No, nor a killing.”

French smiled sarcastically. “Silver Sleed wasn’t so particular. You hired me to run that place, and I’m going to run it, Luck—run it like Silver Sleed did.” French glanced around the room and shook his head. “It ain’t right for you to live alone like this. You’re too pretty to spend your time alone.”

“I hired you to run the Silver Bar, but not to run my business,” said Luck coldly. “Get out of here!”

“Why?” queried French, “what’s the idea? You wouldn’t shoot me for just coming in your house, would you?”

“You shot a man to protect your honor,” Luck reminded him in a flat voice, “and I’m as good as any gambler, I hope.”

“You’re hopeless, Luck.” French shrugged his shoulders and turned to the door.

“Maybe I am, but not helpless,” retorted Luck. Fire French laughed shortly and went down the trail, while Luck still leaned against the bureau and stared at the doorway, with the heavy gun hanging limp in her hand.

Came a soft knocking at the door and she turned to see Louie Yen, carrying a small bundle of laundry, which he placed on a chair. The bundle had been carelessly tied—not at all like Louie Yen’s neat work—and Louie Yen was not panting from the walk up the steep hill.

“I bling jus’ li’l bit today,” apologized Louie. “Mo’ bling tomolla, li’l gi’l.”

“Why did you only bring part of it, Louie Yen?”

Louie shifted his feet and stared blankly at her.

“Velly hot today,” he observed. “Mus’ go back now.”

He turned and went out of the door, hurrying away before Luck had a chance to question him further. But Luck knew that Louie Yen had seen Fire French coming up to her house, and she knew that Louie Yen had grabbed part of her laundry and followed Fire French. The few pieces of laundry were only an alibi for Louie Yen to be there in case she needed help.

Cartier Le Moyne was the biggest man in the desert country; the biggest physically, and no weakling mentally. But he did not let the power of his physical being interfere with his dreams of conquest; his plans to make himself the king of the desert.

His plan was to control the mines, the liquor trade and the gambling. The rest of the desert was merely incidental. Le Moyne’s keen mind studied the possibilities for a long time before he began active operations. One of his stumbling blocks had been Silver Sleed, but he was safely out of the way now.

Le Moyne had come to Cactus City as an assayer. To his little shop had come the prospector, trusting in Le Moyne to give him a fair report on assays; but Le Moyne was not in business for any such purpose. If he found a particularly rich sample of ore, and was unable to find out where it was found from the prospector himself, he would have a trusted man to trail the prospector back to his claim.

A rifle shot, another man who did not come back, a location notice filed in the name of the man who fired the shot—it was all so simple. No law to interfere. In a few days the coyotes and buzzards would remove the evidence, and what was left the desert would cover deeply. Then Le Moyne would acquire the prospect legally, and proceed to develop it.

But these prospects required money to develop them, and Le Moyne was shooting at bigger game just now. He still operated the assay office, while from his private office he pulled the strings that were to eventually drag the desert kingdom into his big hands.

Two days before he had sent one of his trusted men to follow a prospector, whose assay sample had run into hundreds of dollars a ton. He sat at his desk, humped in his chair, wondering how large this rich vein might be. His features were massive, seemingly out of proportion to the rest of the man. His skin was greasy, yellow; his hair black and of coarse texture.

His desk was a litter of papers, ore samples, a box of very black cigars. Directly in front of him lay a heavy six-shooter. Le Moyne was not a gunman, but he kept a loaded gun handy. He preferred to let his hirelings do the shooting.

Suddenly his door flew open and a man stepped inside. Le Moyne’s head jerked up quickly at the intrusion, but he did not speak. The intruder was kicking the door shut with his heel, but keeping his dark gray eyes steadily on Le Moyne. He was hardly past thirty years of age, bronzed as an Indian, with black hair, which grew low between his ear and cheek, and with the easy grace of a desert wolf.

Neither of them spoke. Le Moyne scowled slightly, but there was no hint of recognition in his black eyes. The newcomer’s left hand searched inside his belt and with a flip of the wrist tossed a small buckskin sack onto the desk in front of Le Moyne, where it thudded softly.

Le Moyne glanced at the sack and back at the man, taking in his personal appearance. This man wore a faded shirt, wide sombrero, woolen pants, which were tucked into the tops of his boots. His waist was circled by a wide, weather-beaten cartridge belt, heavily studded with cartridges, and the holster, which hung low on his thigh, contained a serviceable-looking six-shooter. Le Moyne also noted that the holster was tied down to the man’s leg.

Le Moyne’s eyes flashed down to the buckskin sack and he shifted in his chair.

“Whatcha want it assayed for?” he asked hoarsely.

“The price of a man’s life,” said the younger man coldly. “Melt her up and see if it’s worth it, Le Moyne.”

“What do yuh mean, stranger?” wonderingly.

“I’m Duke Steele,” said the man softly. “Your hired killer told me a few things and sent that hundred dollars back to you. He said you always paid him in advance.”

Le Moyne licked his lips. He had known who this man was, but had tried to bluff. Now, he knew the bluff was not going to work well at all.

“A quitter, was he?” Le Moyne knew he might as well admit his guilt in the matter.

“Not the way you mean, Le Moyne. When your assay only showed a trace of gold, I knew you lied for a purpose; so I watched my own trail. I had melted some gold and run it into the seams of that sample.”

Le Moyne blinked rapidly. He had been a fool. Why did he not give this man an honest report? The fact of the matter was this: Le Moyne had been too lazy to assay the sample, but knew from outward appearances that it was worth acquiring.

“Well, you can’t prove anything,” declared Le Moyne.

Duke Steele smiled and walked over to the desk, where he picked up Le Moyne’s gun and tossed it aside. Then he sat down on the corner of the desk and smiled down at Le Moyne’s greasy face.

“Goin’ to boss the desert, are yuh, Le Moyne? Yes, your man told me all about it before he cashed in. I reckon he told me a lot of things about you. Seems queer to you that this man should tell me things, but when a man’s dyin’ he has to talk to somebody. Kinda eases his conscience, I reckon. That man had quite a lot of sin on his mind.

“He told me about killin’ off the original locator of the Dancing Jasper mine. He told me how you sent him on the trail of the old crippled Swede that located the Aztec, and how the old Swede squealed when the bullet hit him, and then he told me——”

“Damn your soul, stop that!” Le Moyne’s face had gone ashen. “You can’t prove nothin’! What do you want, Steele?”

“Me?” Steele grinned softly. “I want my part of this big steal you’re going to make, Le Moyne.”

“Oh!” Le Moyne relaxed in his chair and wiped the perspiration off his face. He laughed, but it was without mirth.

“No, I’m not a fool,” assured Duke Steele. “I know what kind of an organization you’ve got. Mebbe they could wipe me off the earth without no trouble. I want to throw in with you, Le Moyne. I sabe that nobody outside of your gang will be able to hold a thing here, and I want mine.”

Le Moyne laughed, and this time with mirth. “I thought you was an honest man, Steele. Ha, ha, ha! You don’t need to be afraid of me and my gang, ’cause you’re one of us. I need a few more men like you—men with cold nerve.”

“I’m not afraid of you and your gang, Le Moyne. Who have yuh got that stacks up as a nervy man?”

Le Moyne smiled and lighted a cigar. “Well, I’ve got Fire French and Pete Black at Calico—been there for quite a while. ‘Slim’ Curlew is there by this time. He’s goin’ to run the Mojave. With Pete Black in charge of the Nola and Lady Slipper, Fire French in charge of the Silver Bar at Calico, and Tex Supelveda runnin’ the California, here in Cactus City, I reckon we kinda stand to put these two towns where we want ’em.”

Duke Steele smiled. “And you’ve got men on every good prospect around here. Where do I fit in? Got any place to put me at Calico?”

Le Moyne licked the wrapper of his cigar thoughtfully before he said, “Why do yuh want to go to Calico, Steele?”

“It was my pardner who killed Silver Sleed, and they ran me out of town.”

Le Moyne straightened in his chair. “Thasso? Say, are you the feller that trimmed Sleed in a poker game?”

Duke nodded. Le Moyne leaned across his desk.

“I heard all about that, Steele. How much did yuh win from him that night?”

“Forty-six thousand.”

“Whew!” Le Moyne whistled softly. “Where is the I. O. U. he gave yuh?”

“Lost it,” lied Duke softly, and his thoughts went back to that night, when he stopped in the desert moonlight and tore into bits that piece of paper. He wanted Luck to have all that money.

“Gawd!” mumbled Le Moyne. “Yuh could collect that money if yuh still had the paper. Didja ever see Sleed’s girl?”

Duke Steele’s eyes softened for a moment, but he did not want Le Moyne to know too much; so he shook his head.

“She owns everythin’ that Sleed owned,” grinned Le Moyne, “but the mines have quit payin’ and the Silver Bar is havin’ a hard run of luck. Mebbe we can buy cheap in a short time. The California ain’t doin’ nothin’ either.”

“Freeze-out, eh?” queried Duke.

“Damn right!” Le Moyne leaned across the table and held out his enormous right hand clenched. “Inside of six months I’ll have the Mojave desert where I can squeeze every dollar out through my fingers, Steele. I’m goin’ to be good to them that help me—to hell with the rest!”

“Where do I go?” queried Duke.

“To Calico. This time they won’t run yuh out, Steele. Fire French can use yuh, I reckon—him and Slim Curlew.”

He tossed the buckskin sack to Duke.

“Go and get some clothes, Steele. If that ain’t enough, send ’em to me for the balance.”

Duke Steele accepted the money and left Le Moyne, who was very glad to realize that things had turned out much better for him than he had expected. It was true that he had lost a hired killer, failed to acquire a rich mine, but a man like Duke Steele was worth winning.

But Le Moyne had no idea of playing fair with Duke. He was only a tool—and Le Moyne needed good tools just now. Later on, when his usefulness was over, Le Moyne knew of many ways to rid himself of those who expected to help him in squeezing the desert.

And Duke Steele knew all this; knew that he would only be a cog in Le Moyne’s machinery—a machine that would be broken into bits after Le Moyne’s position was secured. Others might pride themselves that they would have rich holdings under Le Moyne, but Duke Steele knew that Le Moyne intended to be absolute monarch.

But Duke lost no time in buying new clothes, and when he left the little trading store he was a sartorial triumph. A wide, white sombrero, trimmed in a band of Mexican silver; a many-hued silk shirt, a beaded vest, frock coat and a pair of checked trousers, narrow of knee and broad of bottom, which he tucked into a pair of fancy-stitched, soft-leather boots, with very high heels. He spent the hundred dollars and left a bill of another hundred against Cartier Le Moyne. As a parting present the storekeeper gave him a large scarlet silk handkerchief, which Duke Steele looped about his neck.

The stage was preparing for the sixty-mile night trip to Calico, and Cartier Le Moyne was talking with the driver when Duke came up to them. Le Moyne grinned at Duke, but did not mention the gaudy outfit.

“Ready to leave?” he asked, and Duke nodded.

“Hop on,” grunted the driver. “We’re pullin’ out.”

“The driver will take yuh to French,” said Le Moyne, and went on up the street. Duke watched after him until he went into the California saloon, and then climbed into the stage-coach.

Sixty miles over a desert road was a long way—an almost impossible distance in daylight—so the stage left either terminal at sundown and made the entire distance in the cool of the nights. The natural desert road, untouched by scraper or grader, is as smooth as the best boulevard, and the stage-coach swayed gently to the rhythm of four speeding horses.

Alone inside the coach, Duke Steele relaxed. He was wearing Le Moyne’s clothes, taking Le Moyne’s pay and was now one of an organization that would not hesitate for a moment to kill him if he played them false. Still he smiled softly and thought of a misty-eyed girl. No, Duke Steele was not in love with the girl he had barely known almost a year before. She was only a kid, he remembered, but she had probably saved him from death at the hands of a mob.

It seemed but yesterday to Duke Steele. He had led his burro silently away from Calico, and out on the desert he had destroyed Silver Sleed’s I. O. U. for forty-six thousand dollars. That was a lot of money—more money than Silver Sleed could have paid. It would have taken everything away from Luck.

Duke had expected that Luck would have sold out and gone away long before this. She wanted education; wanted to live in a civilized world. Why did she stay in Calico? Duke shook his head over the question and went to sleep, with his head pillowed in his white sombrero and the scarlet handkerchief across his face to keep out the sifting sand.

The stage drew up at the adobe stage-station and Duke Steele alighted. There had been little change in Calico in a year. Louie Yen was coming up the street and he glanced curiously at Duke. Somehow the face was familiar, but the Chinaman was unable to remember just where he had seen this man before. Duke went straight to the Silver Bar and found Fire French, who had just got out of bed. In a few short words he explained who he was and who had sent him to Calico. French looked him over coldly, until the stage-driver came in and corroborated Duke’s story.

“I don’t know what in hell Le Moyne wanted to send yuh here for,” growled French. “There’s enough of us here to handle this end of it.”

“Yuh might go to Cactus City and ask him,” replied Duke coldly.

“Yeah?” sarcastically. “Did he tell you to take orders from me?”

“He did not.”

“Oh, I suppose you came up here to run things, eh?”

“I’m here because I told Le Moyne I wanted to come here. There wasn’t any argument, French.”

French flicked back his long hair with a jerk of his head and grinned patronizingly at Duke Steele.

“Can that be possible? Pardner, knowin’ Le Moyne like I do, I don’t hesitate to tell you that you’re a——”

Swift as the slash of a panther, Duke Steele’s right hand shot out and an iron fist collided with French’s jutting jaw. Back against the bar went French, rebounding into a left-handed swing that caught him on the opposite side of the jaw, knocking him cold.

As Duke landed his knockout he sprang back across the room, and his heavy six-shooter covered the few people who had witnessed the affair. The two bartenders stared at Duke and seemed to want to look over the top of the bar at the huddled figure of Fire French, but did not want to take too many chances with this quick-moving, hard-eyed young man.

“I reckon he was goin’ to call me a liar,” observed Duke slowly, “which I wasn’t.”

Fire French came slowly back to life and got to his feet. The world was still semi-opaque and he clung to the bar for several moments before his head cleared sufficiently for him to remember what had happened. His teeth seemed to ache collectively and there was a numbness about his jaw-bone.

He looked at Duke Steele dazedly and felt tenderly of his jaw. Fire French had never been knocked down before and he did not like the after-effect. It would cause him to lose caste, but there was nothing he could do—just now.

“I didn’t let yuh finish your declaration,” said Duke seriously, “’cause I don’t like the word you was goin’ to use, French. If you don’t think yuh had an even break in the game, we’ll throw away our guns and settle it now.”

Fire French took this under advisement. Here was a man who wanted to fight, a man who was prepared—and Fire French never fought unless the odds were in his favor.

“Or,” continued Duke, “if you’d rather settle it with a gun, I’m willin’.”

French shook his head slowly. “I reckon I made a mistake, Steele.” His voice was flat.

Duke grinned. “Le Moyne told me he had nervy men up here. I suppose I ought to accept your apology, French, but it wasn’t sincere. You reckon you made a mistake, eh? Yes, you did, but you still think I’m a liar; the mistake you made was in saying such a thing.”

“Well, let’s drop the argument,” said French painfully. His jaw was beginning to hurt badly, and his pride pained him even more than the sore jaw. He knew that argument was not going to get him anywhere with this gaudy young man.

“All right, I’m willin’ to drop it,” agreed Duke. “Never did like arguments. I reckon I’ll go and find myself some breakfast.”

Duke went out the door, but kept one eye on French and the others. French turned to the bar and helped himself to a stiff jolt of liquor. The stage-driver moved in beside him and accepted a free drink.

Then the two men turned toward the door, where Luck Sleed was standing, looking at them. Her face was a trifle pale, for she had spent a sleepless night arriving at a grim resolution concerning Fire French. It was the first time she had ever been in the Silver Bar, and the men stared at her wonderingly, as her eyes traveled from face to face. Then she looked directly at Fire French and her words were very distinct and spaced widely apart:

“French—you—are—fired.”

She flung her hand in an imperious gesture toward the door. “Get—out—of—here. I’m—going—to—run—this—place—myself.”

“You are?” French gasped, and glanced quickly at the others, as though not believing his own ears.

“I am!”

For a moment they were too stunned to do more than stare at her and at each other. Then French laughed loudly.

“Girl, have you gone crazy?” he demanded harshly.

“You can’t do that, Luck,” added Black, quickly.

“Can’t I?” Luck half-smiled, but only with her lips.

“Never heard of such a crazy idea in m’ life,” declared Slim Curlew.

Luck pointed toward the rear of the room. “Take your stuff and get out,” she went on. “I don’t know how many people you have hired since you started working here, but they go with you.”

French snorted sarcastically and spread his hands in a gesture of resignation, “What can yuh do in a case like that?”

“Better think it over, Luck,” advised Black. “You can’t run a place like this. Silver Sleed never let yuh mix into this kind of business—with these kind of folks. You don’t know anythin’ about the business.”

“Oh, let her run it if she wants to,” laughed French. “She won’t last long.”

He turned and went to the rear, where he packed up his few belongings. The bartenders grinned widely and came around to the front of the bar.

“We’re fired, too, are we?” one of them asked.

“If French hired you, yes,” replied Luck firmly.

“You’ll have a sweet time runnin’ this place,” stated Slim Curlew threateningly.

“I expect to,” smiled Luck, “and I’m going to start by asking you to keep out of here.”

“Zasso?” spluttered Curlew. “This is a public place and you’ll have a hell of a time if you try to pick and choose your customers.”

Curlew swaggered out and after a moment Black and the two bartenders followed. French came from the rear room, carrying his belongings. He grinned sarcastically at Luck, but did not speak, as he went out of the door.

The miners had stood apart during the argument, but now they gathered around her.

“I tended bar for yore dad,” said one of them, a youngish sort of miner, “but French fired me and I went to work in the mines.”

“Did you?” queried Luck. “I suppose I will need bartenders, won’t I? Do you want the job?”

“I’ll take it,” he declared, and at that moment Mica Cates came in. He stared at Luck for a moment, and then a wide grin spread across his face.

“Luck, I was in the Mojave a few minutes ago and I heard what you was goin’ to do. Fired the whole works, eh?”

“Hired me already,” grinned the new bartender.

“That’s good,” applauded Mica. “Bud Harvey’s a good bartender. But, Luck, yuh got to have at least three men to run games and one more bartender.”

“Will you work for me, Mica Cates?”

“Gosh, no!” gasped Mica. “I dunno a danged thing about this kinda work, but mebbe I can help yuh pick out some good men.”

“All right,” smiled Luck, “you pick them out for me. I don’t know what to do myself.”

Mica Cates considered her for a few moments and scratched his head, as he said, “I dunno either, Luck. If it was me, the first thing I’d do would be to hook m’ fingers around a gun.”

Luck’s right hand came slowly into view, from where she had concealed it in the folds of her skirt, and it was holding a heavy six-shooter.

A man came into the little restaurant, where Duke was eating, and exploded the news to everybody.

“Luck Sleed is goin’ to run the Silver Bar! She’s done fired Fire French and his whole outfit.”

For a few moments the restaurant buzzed with the news. Duke Steele made no comments, but smiled softly to himself, as he paid for his meal and went down the street to the Mojave gambling house.

French was standing at the bar, laughing with the crowd, which was partaking of the Mojave hospitality, but he sobered quickly at the sight of Duke Steele. Slim Curlew sized up the newcomer carefully. He had heard of French’s downfall and was curious to see this young wildcat.

But French, in spite of his previous trouble, was diplomatic enough to drop all reference to it and introduced Duke to Curlew and Pete Black. None of them shook hands, but Curlew drew Duke aside. “Did Le Moyne tell yuh what to do up here?” he asked hoarsely. Curlew had a whiskey voice, which was almost asthmatic in quality.

Duke shook his head. “No, I’m not under orders from anybody.”

“Tha’s funny,” observed Curlew. “Le Moyne ain’t in the habit of doin’ things like that. He usually tells yuh what to do, and he sees that yuh do it, too.”

“Yeah?” Duke seemed amused, and his smile did not set any too well with Curlew.

“You fellers are afraid of Le Moyne, ain’t yuh?” asked Duke.

“I don’t sabe you.” Curlew shook his head, ignoring Duke’s question. He was afraid to talk business to Duke, for fear that Duke might have been sent to Calico on a secret mission.

“Don’t let that bother yuh,” grinned Duke. “Lotsa folks don’t sabe me, Curlew. Le Moyne don’t.”

Curlew nodded and shoved his hands deeply into his pockets. “Heard about the Silver Bar, didn’t yuh, Steele?”

Duke laughed. “I heard a girl was goin’ to run it, if that’s what yuh mean.”

“Yeah. That can’t last, though; Le Moyne will see to that.”

“I reckon so. Got a place where a feller can sleep? I didn’t get much sleep on that stage.”

“Sure, I can fix yuh up, Steele.”

Curlew led the way to a short stairway, which led to the rooms at the rear, and opened the door of his own private room. It was roughly furnished, but the bunk looked good to Duke Steele.

“Won’t nobody bother yuh here,” stated Curlew. “Sleep as long as yuh want to.”

He went back down the stairs and joined French and Black at the bar.

“What do yuh think of him?” queried French.

“Look out for him,” warned Curlew. “I’ve got a hunch that Le Moyne sent him in here to spy on us. He’s too damned independent to just be a helper.”

“Do yuh reckon Le Moyne’s suspicious that we’re——” began Black nervously.

“Shut up!” interrupted French. “If Le Moyne’s suspicious that we’re high-gradin’ his mines or holdin’ out on the gamblin’ money—let him. A big crook like Le Moyne is always suspicious. If this Steele is his spy, go easy. We’ve got to play soft with him, boys. Bumpin’ him off might be easy, but it would start Le Moyne on our trail in no time.”

“He’ll have a hard time provin’ anythin’,” growled Curlew. “Whatcha goin’ to do about the Silver Bar?”

“I’m sendin’ word to Le Moyne tonight,” said French, “and we’ll let things go as they are until we hear from him. He’ll know how to handle it.”

“Then we keep our hands off this Steele, eh?” queried Black.

“If you know what’s good for yuh,” replied French, absently caressing his sore jaw.

The news spread quickly in Calico, and when the stars peeped over the hills, Sunshine Alley spewed its polyglot horde into the main street. The Silver Bar was overcrowded. Never before had the play been as big, nor had liquor flowed in such quantities.

Duke Steele awoke and looked at his watch. It was nine o’clock, and he wondered at the lack of noise from the gambling room. It took him only a moment to dress, and he walked slowly through the big room, paying no attention to the idle attendants. On the sidewalk he met Curlew and French, who were coming to the Mojave.

“The girl is gettin’ a big play, is she?” he asked.

Curlew swore softly and looked back toward the Silver Bar.

“Just somethin’ new,” grunted French. “We’ll have ’em all back tomorrow night.”

Duke walked on and crowded his way inside. The room was a roaring hive of sound; the rattle of poker chips, clinking of glasses, the screech of a fiddle, shuffling of many rough boots and the discord of many tongues.

A solid cloud of tobacco smoke eddied about the low ceiling, fogging the yellow oil lights; swooping down and making faces and forms grotesque and indistinct. Duke elbowed his way to the center of the room. It was like being in the midst of a herd of animals.

Suddenly he saw Luck Sleed. She was standing against the end of the bar, dressed in black. Her face was very white and the misty-yellow lights only seemed to add a copper sheen to her hair. She seemed oddly out of place in there.

A man started to squirm past Duke, but looked into his face and stopped. The man was Mica Cates and he had recognized Duke Steele. Duke remembered him, too, and smiled.

“Well, you came back, eh?” said Mica, and started to say something else, but was shoved away by several more men who were going toward the bar.

Duke shoved past them and worked his way to a place beside Luck. For several moments she did not look his way, and when she did there was no sign of recognition. Her eyes strayed back to the crowd, and Duke smiled softly. It was all so new to her, in spite of the fact that she had lived in Calico for a long time.

“It’s a big night, Miss Luck,” said Duke.

She turned and looked at him, as she might have looked at any of the miners who had spoken to her that night, and nodded. Again she started to turn away, but her eyes came back to his face. For several moments she stared at him.

“You?” she gasped wonderingly. “You?”

“Yes’m, it’s me,” said Duke softly.

She moved in closer, still staring at him, and grasped him by the arm.

“I’ve looked—wondered, I mean,” she stammered, a flush coloring her white cheeks.

“You’ve changed a lot in a year,” said Duke. “Why, you was only a little kid.”

They looked at each other, oblivious of the noise of the room.

“Why did you stay here, Luck?” asked Duke.

“I wanted to see you. I heard about the money you won that night. Nobody would ever tell me how much it was.”

“Shucks, I thought everybody had forgotten that.”

“How much was it?” asked Luck.

“I dunno,” smiled Duke. “It doesn’t matter, anyway.”

“But I want to pay it to you—an honest debt,” insisted Luck. “How much was it?”

Duke shook his head and smiled down at her, but suddenly the smile faded and he took her by the arm, roughly.

“My God, was that why you stayed here? To pay that old gamblin’ debt, Luck?”

Luck looked away from him, as she said, “I knew I’d never see you again if I went away, but I was sure you’d come back here some day.”

Duke looked at her and around at the mass of men. He knew that Luck had stayed in a place she hated, just waiting for him to come back and get that money. And he had come back at last—not to collect a debt, but to help another man deprive her of everything.

Right now she was starting in to buck the most powerful man in the desert country; a man who would show her about as much mercy as a wounded grizzly would show. It was a forlorn hope for the frail girl—bucking a power she did not know about as yet. Duke looked at her and wondered if she would defy Le Moyne, if she knew what he intended to do.

A man had moved in close beside him and he turned to see the little Chinaman looking around, his face as inscrutable as a piece of yellow parchment. Louie Yen had never been in there before. It was no place for an Oriental. He caught Luck’s eye and smiled.

“I come play li’l pokah, li’l gi’l,” he grinned, and then looked at Duke Steele closely.

“I sabe yo’,” he said. “Yo’ come back, eh?”

“I knew he’d come back, Louie Yen,” said Luck.

“Tha’s ve’y nice,” replied Louie. “Long time wish, bimeby come. I go now.”

Louie Yen shuffled away into the crowd, heading toward the door. Duke looked after him, a queer expression in his eyes. Then he turned to Luck.

“He never came in here to gamble.”

“No?” queried Luck.

Duke shook his head and smiled. “That Chinaman had a knife two feet long up his sleeve.”

Luck glanced toward the door and back at Duke.

“Louie Yen is my friend. I haven’t many in Calico.”

“You don’t need many of that kind,” smiled Duke, and then, seriously, “Luck, this is no place for you. You can’t stand this kind of a life.”

“I’ve been told that before, Duke Steele.”

“I wondered if you remembered my name, Luck,” and then softly, “these men have no respect for any girl, Luck. The spawn of the devil work in these mines.”

An altercation had broken out in the center of the room and the crowd surged toward that point. Blows were being exchanged, curses hurled freely. The room became a shoving, shouting mass of men. A table crashed to the floor. Suddenly a bottle whizzed over their heads—a flash of glass in the whirling smoke—and Duke Steele flung up his right hand and knocked it spinning, just as it was about to hit Luck in the face.

The heavy bottle numbed his hand and wrist, but he flung himself headlong into the mob, like a football player diving into the midst of a scrimmage. He had seen the man who threw the bottle; caught just a glimpse of his face in the hazy light.

Three men were in a clinch, struggling, doing little to hurt each other. One of them was Pete Black and the other two were miners from the Nola mine. Duke’s rush carried him against them, and like a flash he caught Black by his big, red beard with both hands and fairly flung him off his feet into the close-packed mob.

The other two fighting miners drew apart and considered this newcomer. Neither of them bore any marks of conflict. The crowd howled loudly at the interruption, but Black scrambled back to his feet, his face distorted with rage and suffering. Some of his beard still dangled from Duke Steele’s clenched fists.

Black was the bigger of the two, powerful as a grizzly, but slow to start. Duke Steele did not wait a moment. As Black surged to his feet, Duke stepped into him, driving his left fist flush into Black’s face. The blow was well timed and it set Black back onto his heels. But Black was no coward. He dropped into a crouch and covered clumsily, as he advanced slowly. Twice Duke ripped overhand blows to the bridge of Black’s nose, but the big man only shook his head.

“Look out for his feet!” yelled a voice. “Black’s a kicker!”

The warning came just in time. Quick as a flash, Black kicked straight for Duke’s midriff, but Duke had sidestepped, set himself for the punch, and as Black’s kick met only the empty air, which caused him to momentarily lose his balance, Duke drove a terrific uppercut to his unprotected jaw.

For several moments, Black pawed at the air, tottered on his legs and went down in a crumpled heap. The miners shouted with drunken glee and tried to pick Duke up on their shoulders, but he managed to escape them and went back to where he had left Luck. She was not there.

Duke drew himself up on the bar and searched the crowd, but there was no sign of her. The mob still yelped and surged about the room, their appetite whetted for anything now. Duke dropped down and forced his way to the doorway.

He gulped in a mouthful of fresh air and went out into the deserted street. His hands were cut and bleeding, and his right hand and wrist were swelling from the impact of the heavy bottle.

He wanted to find Luck, and he wondered if she had been frightened and run home. He knew where she lived, and he mechanically traveled up the hill toward her home. A dark blotch in the shadow of a building attracted his attention and he stopped to investigate. It was the crumpled figure of a man, and when he lifted the face to the moonlight he looked down into the features of Louie Yen.

There was a great blue welt above his left eye, but he was still breathing. Duke picked him up in his arms and from the rocky street came the clank of metal. It was Louie Yen’s knife, which had fallen from his nerveless hand.

Duke picked up the long knife and glanced at it. The blade was discolored with blood.

“Got a little action, anyway, Louie Yen,” he muttered, as he crossed the street, wondering where he could take the wounded Chinaman. Suddenly he saw Louie’s sign, which dangled before his little shack, and into this he carried its owner.

There was a smell of wet clothes, strong soap and of many meals. He placed Louie on a hard bunk, drew down the shade on the only window, fastened the door and lighted the grimy oil lamp. Louie Yen mumbled to himself, while Duke bathed his head in lukewarm water from the barrel in the corner of the room. The blow on the head had knocked the Chinaman out, but Duke could find no other wounds on him. It appeared to have been a glancing blow, probably struck with the barrel of a six-shooter, and intended to smash Louie Yen’s skull.

Then Louie’s eyes opened and he stared up at Duke. He turned his head and looked around the room and then tried to sit up. Duke had placed the knife on a rough table near the bunk, and now Louie looked keenly at it.

“Better take it easy,” advised Duke, but Louie sat up and his slant eyes seemed to fairly blaze in his yellow face, as he pointed a claw-like hand toward the door. For a moment his tongue seemed paralyzed, but when the words did come they were like the crackle of pistol shots.

“Yo’ go ’way from here!”

“Loco,” thought Duke instantly.

Louie spat something in the Chinese tongue, which might have been a terrible curse, so earnestly was it spoken.

“How does your head feel?” asked Duke.

Louie shook his head vehemently, still pointing at the door. “I sabe yo’! Yo’ go quick now!”

There was no doubt that Louie was deadly serious and not at all insane. Duke grinned and nodded, “All right, old-timer. Don’t get all heated up.”

But Duke backed toward the door. He was not taking any chances on Louie Yen, who was leaning forward off the bed, his slant eyes watching Duke with blazing hatred. Duke reached the door, unbarred it and started to go out; as Louie Yen flung himself forward to the table. His arm jerked up and backward; a silvery flash of light across the room, and the long knife tore a splinter of wood from the door casing and was caught tight as the door slammed shut behind Duke Steele.

Duke whirled and looked at the knife blade. The throw had been almost perfect, but Louie had delayed too long. Duke shuddered, as he walked back down the street. Louie’s act had been so quick that it would have been almost impossible for Duke to have drawn a gun and stopped Louie ahead of the throw.

“Now, what made him do that?” wondered Duke. “Why did he try to kill me? He wasn’t crazy, not a bit.”

Duke stopped in the shadow of a building and tried to figure it out. Suddenly he realized that he was not wearing a hat. He had lost it in the Silver Bar, and he wondered grimly if there was anything left of his costly sombrero.

He went back to the Silver Bar, but was unable to make any search on account of the mob. Again he looked for Luck, but she was nowhere in sight. Black was not there either, but in a few minutes he saw Slim Curlew at a roulette table.

Someone spoke to him and he turned to see Fire French grinning at him. French invited him to have a drink, but Duke refused.

“Seen anythin’ of our fair gamblin’-hall maiden?” asked French.

Duke shook his head.

“Where’s your hat?” asked French, grinning.

“Lost it in a fight,” replied Duke coldly, “and I reckon it’s been tromped plumb to bed-rock by this time.”

“Fight?” French was interested.

“With your friend, Black.”

“Oh!” French squinted closely at Duke. He knew that Black was a bad man in a fight, and he wondered how it could be that Duke Steele still had his being. Black usually put the boots to his victims, but Duke Steele did not seem to be suffering.

“Just a conversational battle?”

Duke lifted a swollen and cut pair of hands. “Look like it was, French? I reckon I made a soup-eater out of Black. The son-of-a-jackass tried to kick me, but I was lookin’ for it. I hate a kicker.”

“Yeah?” marveled French. “And then what?”

“Nothin’. He just stayed down, thassall.”

“Thassall, eh?” French shook his head. “Steele, you can’t do things like that here. Black is one of Le Moyne’s best men. Didn’t yuh know that?”

“Then Le Moyne is a damn poor judge of men,” retorted Duke. “The more I hear about Le Moyne the more I think he’s a big, greasy bluffer. If Pete Black is the type of men that Le Moyne is usin’ in his big game, Le Moyne is due to lose. They say that a chain is only as strong as its weakest link, French; Le Moyne’s chain has got a lot of weak links. He made a mistake in hirin’ tin-horn crooks to sit in a big game.”

French’s jaw muscles tightened and his eyes twitched, but he managed to control himself. A burning hatred of this cold-eyed young man seared his soul, but he was afraid. Then, without a word, he turned and went out of the Silver Bar.

Duke grinned softly. He knew that French was afraid of him. Calico was going to be an unhealthy place for him, he knew. Somewhere was Pete Black, minus several teeth and much prestige. Miners are quick to back a fighter, but, like the rest of humanity, are quick to lose confidence in a man after he has been whipped.

Duke left the Silver Bar and went to the Mojave. A few miners were in there, but the Mojave was far from being a lively place. He went back to Curlew’s room, barred the door and went to bed, wondering what had become of Luck Sleed, wondering why the Chinaman had spat at him and threw the long knife at his back.

Cartier Le Moyne was an early riser. Long before the first tints of dawn painted the desert sky he could be found in his office, poring over smelter reports, planning further conquests. The smelter belonged to Le Moyne, but no one, except Le Moyne and the general manager, knew this.

This morning Le Moyne’s face was drawn in a deep scowl, as he looked over the reports and read the name of “Telluride” Taylor. Opposite his name was a credit of five hundred dollars. Each monthly report showed a big net for Taylor. His ore was the richest in the desert.

Time after time had Le Moyne’s men tried to trail Taylor to his mine, but he always managed to fade away into the desert, leaving them baffled. Then, silently herding his pack-train of burros, he would appear in Cactus City and unload at the smelter.

Le Moyne had grown to hate Taylor, although he admired his skill in covering the trail. If one man, working alone, with only a few burros for transportation, could bring in such wealth, what could Le Moyne do with a force of men?

Le Moyne tossed the reports into a drawer, got to his feet and went back to his stable, where he kept a horse. He was too unsettled to work; so he saddled the horse and rode away into the desert, going out the Calico road.

Far away in the distance the sun was striking the black peaks, making them appear as golden cones on an ebony base. A few minutes later the light changed to a violet hue, shot with gold, changing suddenly to a deep amber, shot with cobalt streaks. It was like the fading out of one tint and the fading in of another on a motion picture screen.

Then the world seemed to grow brighter as the harsh light of morning drove away the soft-hued tints, and the desert stood out in its true colors.

Le Moyne rode slowly, looking out upon the desert, as a baron of old might have looked upon a land he intended to conquer. It was not a fair land in the light of day, but to Le Moyne it meant wealth and power.

He left the road and rode slowly to a brushy hillock, where a group of Joshua-palms, the “Dancing Jaspers” of the desert, grew thickly. A jack-rabbit scooted from in front of him and bounced like a gray shadow up the slope, and a coyote, as gray as the desert brush, gave him one glance and limped away into the heavy cover.

Near the top of the hillock Le Moyne drew rein. Far down the road came the stage from Calico, a thin cloud of dust blowing away from it in the slight breeze. To Le Moyne’s ears came the faint tinkle of a bell.

He moved further into the cover of the palms and watched the stage coming swiftly. To his ears came the tinkle, tinkle of a bell again, and it seemed to be on the far side of the hill. He watched the stage until it was near enough to be hidden from his sight.

Minute after minute passed, still the stage did not come into sight. There was no reason for the delay. Then he turned his horse and rode around the side of the hill, seeking to find why the stage had stopped, but before he reached the point of the hill the stage drove past him and went on toward Cactus City.

Le Moyne lit a cigar and watched the stage fade out in a haze of dust. The sun was already growing hot, so he turned and rode down the hill. Again he heard the tiny tinkle of the bell, but this time the sound of it was continuous, as though the animal wearing it was traveling steadily.

He turned and rode around the point of the hill, where he met a herd of five burros, heavily laden with sacks of ore, and behind them came a weather-beaten prospector carrying a rifle over his shoulder.

It was Telluride Taylor, with his shipment of rich silver ore, heading toward the smelter. Le Moyne did not wait to meet him, but turned and rode back toward Cactus City.

Suddenly he drew rein and his eyes narrowed in thought. Something had just occurred to him; something that burned into his soul like a white-hot brand. Had the stage stopped there to unload those sacks of high-grade silver ore? Was Telluride Taylor waiting there to receive the stolen ore?

These thoughts caused Le Moyne to straighten up in his saddle and curse witheringly. If that was a fact, it was easy to see why his hired men had never been able to trail Telluride to his treasure mine. They were in partnership to beat him. Right now they were laughing at Le Moyne; stealing from him, while they took his pay.

In a haze of anger he rode back and stabled his horse. He was too wise to shout his knowledge to the four winds, and there was no trace of anger in him when he met the stage-driver and received the report from Fire French. The written report read:

> Let us know what you expect of Steele. Do not know where to use him. Acts like he owned the town and seems to be looking for trouble. Will not take orders from anyone. Luck Sleed fired me and all the gang from the Silver Bar and is going to try to run it herself. Tell us what you want done. Black says everything is going good.

> French.

Le Moyne read the message carefully. Things were not going at all well with him, but he smiled at the reference to Duke Steele looking for trouble.

“I dunno what got into that danged girl,” said the driver. “She ain’t showin’ much sense.”

Le Moyne looked coldly at him, as he folded up the message and said, “I’ll go to Calico with you tonight.”

“All right,” said the driver slowly. “Mebbe that’ll help some.

“I think it will,” meaningly, “in more ways than one.”

Le Moyne turned and crossed the street just ahead of Telluride Taylor’s string of burros, but did not even look at Telluride. The driver watched him go into his office and squinted thoughtfully.

“In more ways than one, eh?” he muttered. “Jist what in hell did he mean by that, do yuh suppose?”

As there was no one there to answer the question, the driver shook his head and went seeking a bed.

Mica Cates had also spent a bad night. Somehow he felt responsible for Luck, wanted to help her, but she was nowhere to be found. A miner had told him about the big fight between Black and the newcomer, and he had gone back to the Silver Bar, but could not find anybody who knew what had become of Luck.

One of the bartenders remembered seeing her talking with Duke Steele, but had not seen her after the fight. Nearly all night Mica had sat on Luck’s doorstep, waiting for her, wondering what had happened to her. It was after daylight when he came down the street to Louie Yen’s laundry. The door was closed, but Mica opened it and peered inside.

Louie Yen was humped up on a box beside his ironing board, his head swathed in bandages. He was smoking a long pipe, while he slowly whetted his long knife with a tiny hone.

“Hyah, Louie,” greeted Mica, coming inside. “Seen anythin’ of Luck?”

Louie stopped honing and stared at Mica. His old face seemed to have aged years in one night.

“Yo’ no find?” he asked softly.

“Dang it all—no!” Mica was very positive. “I’ve looked all over for her, Louie. What happened to you?”

Louie’s hand went to his bandage and he shook his head.

“You don’t know?” asked Mica.

“I know,” nodded Louie. “Mebbe know too much; yo’ sabe?”

“Thasso? Whatcha mean, Louie?”

“Know too much, mebbe die,” ominously.

“Aw, shucks! What’s got into yuh?” Louie picked up his hone and knife and began to put a razor edge on the long knife. The room was silent, but for the keen, wheen, wheen, of the hone against fine steel.

“Yuh make me nervous,” complained Mica, “I asked yuh if yuh knew where Luck Sleed is, but yuh never said.”

“No can do,” Louie shook his head, but did not look up. “I hear two men talk in dark las’ night. Louie Yen ki’p very quiet.”

He tested the blade on the ball of his thumb and began honing again, while he continued in a sing-song tone, “One man say want li’l gi’l and other man say why wait fo’ big man say what to do? Yo’ takum now. One man say we fixum scheme. They go ’way. Louie Yen no can go to see. Louie Yen bimeby gonsee li’l gi’l and fin’ li’l gi’l talk to one man.

“Louie Yen go outside, see what can fin’. Bimeby big fight. Louie Yen see two men in dark, carry li’l gi’l. She scream, but no can make hear. Louie Yen hear. Louie Yen try catch li’l gi’l. No can do.”

Louie pointed to the bandage on his head and again he tested the edge of his knife.

“Somebody steal her?” gasped Mica, getting to his feet.

Louie nodded slowly and the lines deepened in his old yellow face.

“Louie,” Mica’s voice quavered, “Louie, do yuh know who it was?”

“No can do,” Louie shook his head. “One man wear big hat—w’ite hat; yo’ sabe?”

“With silver trimmin’?” asked Mica quickly.

“Yes-s-s,” answered Louie. “Yo’ sabe now?”

Mica nodded quickly. He knew that Duke Steele was the only man in Calico who wore that kind of headgear.

“No sabe?” Louie shook his head. “W’y he steal li’l gi’l? Long time she look fo’ him. Plenty glad fo’ see him.”

“I don’t sabe it either, Louie. Who do yuh reckon they meant when they spoke about the big man? Who is he?”

“No can tell, Mica. He say not wait fo’ big man. Bimeby we fin’ out. Ah-h-h-h!” Louie’s gnarled thumb tested the edge of the knife and had found it perfect. He picked up his pipe and began smoking.

“Well, ain’t we goin’ look for her?” demanded Mica impatiently.

“No can do,” Louie shook his head. “Hunt now, never fin’; yo’ sabe? Li’l gi’l plenty safe now. Too much look, mebbe almos’ fin’—no safe.”

“You reckon they can’t afford to let us find her?”

“Um-m-m. Eyes no good fo’ hunt now. Somebody talk bimeby.”

“All right, Louie, but I sure want to git m’ hands on the dirty coyotes that stole her.”

“Plenty time; yo’ wait,” advised Louie softly.

Mica nodded and went outside. It was blistering hot and not even a dog was in sight on the street. He went slowly down past the Silver Bar and into the Mojave. Duke Steele was sitting at a card table, playing solitaire.

He smiled and nodded at Mica, who sat down at the table. Mica noticed that Duke was not wearing a hat and there was no sign of the hat on the table nor on any of the chairs. Neither of the men spoke. It was stifling hot in there and finally Duke threw the cards aside and leaned back in his chair.

“This country ain’t cooled off none since I was here a year ago,” observed Duke. He had placed his hands on the table, and Mica could see that they were swollen and bruised. Duke noticed Mica’s glance and grinned.

“Compliments of Pete Black,” he remarked, indicating his hands. “Have yuh seen him today?”

Mica shook his head. He had heard of the fight.

Duke studied Mica Cates for a while and then leaned across the table toward him, as he asked softly, “Do you know where Luck Sleed is, Cates?”

Mica shook his head. “No, do you?”

Duke smiled and shook his head, “No, but I’d sure like to, y’betcha.”

Mica could not help feeling that Duke was in earnest. Either that, or he was a good actor and wanted to find out how much Mica Cates knew.

“When did yuh see her last?” queried Mica.

“Just before I fought with Pete Black. I was talkin’ with her when the fight started and I took a hand in it. When the fight was over she had disappeared.”

Mica blinked over this information, but he was not going to let Duke Steele know his suspicions. Then, before he thought, he blurted the question, “Steele, who is the big man you’re workin’ for?”

Duke stared closely at Mica and leaned slowly back in his chair. “Big man?” he asked. “What do yuh mean, Cates?”

“You know what I mean, Steele.”

“Do I?” Duke smiled at Mica’s anxious face.

“Listen,” said Mica, “I ain’t sayin’ I ain’t afraid of you, Steele. You’ve licked two good men with your hands since you came here, and I sabe what you can do with a gun, but,” Mica stopped and leaned closer, “but jist the same I’m askin’ yuh what yuh done with Luck Sleed?”

“What I done with her?” Duke’s smile was gone now and his voice was hard. “Would I be lookin’ for her, if I knew where she is, Cates?”

Cates shook his head, but was unconvinced.

“What do yuh mean by ‘big man’?” demanded Duke.

Mica licked his lips slowly, but decided to try and bluff it through.

“You and another man talked about a big man last night, Steele; and it sounds like you was workin’ for him. One of yuh wanted Luck Sleed and decided to steal her. That fight was jist a blind to steal her out of the crowd.”

Duke squinted closely at Mica, whose face was beaded with perspiration, and a glimmer of understanding came to him.

“Did you hear me talkin’ to another man?” demanded Duke. Mica shook his head.

“Then how do yuh figure it was me?”

“One of the men that stole Luck Sleed was wearin’ a big, white sombrero, with silver trimmin’s, Steele. Where is your hat?”

Duke shook his head. “Pardner, I reckon the verdict is easy to read. I’m much obliged to yuh, just the same.”

He leaned over and picked up the cards, paying no attention to Mica, who got to his feet and went back to the street. At the doorway he looked back at Duke, who was building another solitaire layout.

Mica scratched his head and tried to review just what Duke Steele had said. He had not told who the big man was, nor had he admitted stealing Luck Sleed. Somehow, Mica felt that Duke Steele had had nothing to do with it. He had thanked Mica for some information, but Mica was not aware that he had explained anything to him.

That night, French, Black and Curlew met in Curlew’s room at the rear of the Mojave. Black’s lips were puffed and discolored, one eye was as purple as a plum and all of his front teeth were missing. He had not been able to eat solid food that day and whiskey was a torture to his sore lips and mouth.

French was in sympathy with Black, because his own jaw was still sore from Duke Steele’s fist, but Curlew was rather amused at both of them.

“I’ll kill him, if it’s the last thing I ever do,” declared Black. “I don’t care a damn what Le Moyne says.”

“If I was goin’ to kill him, I’d hire it done,” said Curlew. “After seein’ what he done to both of you fellers, I’m workin’ shy of that hombre. Is he such a hell of a fighter, or are you jaspers overrated?”

French and Black made no reply. Curlew knew that both of them were well known as fighters, and he was only joking them about their recent defeats.

“He’s a gunman, too,” said French, as though admitting that Steele was a good fighter with his fists. “A year ago he kinda cleaned up around here.”

“Whatcha tryin’ to do, scare yourself or us?” demanded Black.

“I’m tellin’ yuh some history, Black.”

“History don’t repeat itself, French. I ain’t a danged bit scared of this hard-headed fool, even if you are.”

“Still, yuh don’t know him and Le Moyne are hooked up,” said French. “I’d advise layin’ off him until we hear from Le Moyne and see where this feller stands.”

Came a knock on the door, but before anyone could speak, a man came into the room. He was grimy from the desert and his face was brick-red from the intense heat.

“Just got in,” he informed them huskily. “Damn horse went down on me about three miles down the road and I had to walk the rest of the way.”

“What’s the idea, Pell?” asked French nervously.

The newcomer picked up a bottle of liquor from the table and took a long drink.

“Plumb dried out inside,” he explained, sitting down on the bunk and half-removing his boots before he continued.

“Telluride sent me in. Said that he got the ore, but that he saw Le Moyne about a minute after he got loaded, and he’s plumb scared that Le Moyne saw them. He went over and woke up the stage-driver and he said that Le Moyne was comin’ to Calico with him t’night.”

“Hell!” exploded French, getting nervously to his feet.

“Hang onto yourself!” snapped Curlew.

“You’re as nervous as an old lady, French. Mebbe he didn’t see nothin’.”

“And if he did?” said Black ominously. “Are we goin’ to eat dirt for Le Moyne? You’d think he was the devil himself.”

The man called Pell helped himself to more liquor, while the other three men pondered deeply.

“If yuh want my advice,” said Black, “I’d say that we better get rid of this Steele right away. Yuh know damn well that he’s sweet on Luck Sleed, French.”

“Lot of good it’s doin’ him,” grinned French.

“If trouble started in the Silver Bar tonight, and Steele happened to be there,” suggested Curlew meaningly, “Le Moyne never hired us to take care of Steele.”

French got to his feet again and paced the length of the room several times. He stopped at the table and looked at Black and Curlew, who had been watching him.

“Black is right,” declared French. “Why should we eat dirt for Le Moyne? Is he any better than we are? Let’s take Calico for ourselves, and to hell with Le Moyne! I’m tired of taking orders from him. When he shows up here he’s as helpless as any other man, ain’t he? How about it?”

“That’s the idea,” applauded Black. “We won’t only set into the big game, but we’ll run it, eh?”

“And take the rakeoff for ourselves,” nodded Curlew.

Pell finished the bottle and went back into the saloon, where he got a couple of more drinks and went out. Duke Steele was in the room. He had seen Pell enter the room, and knew that Black, Curlew and French were in there.

Pell was just a trifle unsteady on his legs, as he went out into the street, and Duke had no difficulty in shadowing him. Several times Pell stopped and looked back, but Duke kept to the heavy shadows. Down near where the road sloped sharply off into the desert, Pell stopped and spoke a word. A moment later another man joined him and Duke heard the husky voice of Le Moyne, as he talked to Pell.

Duke was unable to get close enough to find out what the conversation was about, but he heard Le Moyne tell Pell to stable the horses where no one would see them, and a few moments later Le Moyne passed Duke’s hiding-place, going slowly toward the lighted street.

As soon as he was safely past, Duke circled back to the upper end of the street. He was curious to know just why Le Moyne had come secretly to Calico. Something had gone wrong with his plans, that much was sure, and Duke thought it might concern the disappearance of Luck Sleed.

He felt sure, after what he had learned from Mica Cates, that French and Curlew were the ones that had kidnapped Luck. There was no question in his mind but what the fight had been started to attract the attention of the crowd, and that Black had thrown the bottle to draw him away from Luck. Of course, Black had not expected it to turn out so badly for him.

Duke had lost his hat, which was not part of their plans, but one of them had worn it, possibly on the chance that they might shift the blame in case they were seen by anyone on the street. It was fairly clear to Duke now, the reasons for Louie Yen’s hatred. “No doubt,” thought Duke, “the Chinaman recognized me by the hat, because there was not another hat like it in Calico.”

Duke had come in beside Louie Yen’s laundry and now he stopped near the corner. A man was coming toward him, and Duke thought that this might possibly be Le Moyne. As he drew back into the deeper shadows something descended upon his head, knocking him flat on his face.

Dimly he heard voices and felt someone dragging him into the house. In a hazy way he felt them binding his hands, but was unable to prevent them. Gradually the roaring noise died out of his ears and he came back to almost full consciousness, but he did not open his eyes nor try to move.

His nose informed him that he was inside of Louie Yen’s laundry and that Louie was talking to someone in his own peculiar pidgin-English.

“Bimeby he talk now, yo’ sabe? Louie Yen fin’ out.”

“That’s a damn heathen way of doin’ things,” replied Mica Cates’ voice. “I wouldn’t do it, Louie.”

“I watch him,” stated Louie. “He walk after man, who meet one man. One man ve’y big, yo’ sabe?”

“Thasso?” Mica was interested. “And then you trailed Steele up here and hit him on the head.”

“Yes-s-s, like yo’ see. Bimeby this man tell where is li’l gi’l, yo’ sabe?”

“How hot do yuh have to git them irons?” asked Mica.

“Plenty hot.”

Louie got up and shuffled softly into the rear room. Duke’s eyes flashed open. He was lying in the middle of the floor, flat on his back, with both hands tied behind him. Mica Cates was standing near him, watching him closely.

“Cates,” Duke whispered softly, “does that Chinaman think I know where Luck Sleed is hidden?”

Mica glanced swiftly toward the rear, dropped on his hands and knees and with a swift motion of a knife, cut Duke’s hands loose.

“Gun’s on the table,” he breathed.

But Duke did not move. Louie Yen was coming in from the rear room, carrying a flat-iron, the handle of which was heavily wrapped in rags. There was a smell of burning cloth, as Louie Yen knelt at the feet of Duke Steele and placed the hot iron on the floor.

Duke had drawn up his feet, and as Louie took hold of one of his boots Duke shoved him violently aside, sprang to his feet, grasped the six-shooter and whirled to look down at the little old Chinaman, sprawled on the floor.

Louie Yen was not looking at Duke, but at the strands of rope on the floor; strands which had been cut with a very sharp knife. Then he got slowly to his feet, shook his head sadly and sat down on a box; a very sorrowful looking old Chinaman.

“I had t’ do it, Louie Yen,” said Mica softly. “He’s a white man.”

Duke studied the two of them, pitied them in their puny efforts to get information of Luck Sleed.

“Yuh don’t need to feel bad about it, Louie,” said Duke consolingly. “Burnin’ my feet wouldn’t make me tell where that girl is, ’cause I don’t know. I lost my hat in the fight and somebody stole it. I found you out there in the street.”

Louie Yen’s beady eyes studied Duke’s face for a while, unblinking.

“Yo’ don’ know where is li’l gi’l?”

“No,” Duke shook his head. “Not any more than you do.”

“No can fin’,” Louie shook his head, while the hot iron sent up a vile odor of burning cloth. Duke kicked the iron aside and felt of the lump on his head. It was very sore, but there was little blood. Louie noticed Duke’s actions and shook his head sadly.

“Ve’y solly,” he muttered. “Louie Yen plenty damn fool; yo’ sabe?”

“Never mind me,” grinned Duke, “I’ve got a hard head, and, I’ve got an idea. Will you two jaspers help me work it out?”

“Tell it,” grunted Mica Cates. “We’ve tried everythin’ else.”

“Here’s what yuh got to do,” explained Duke. “One of yuh watch the rear door and the other the front door of the Silver Bar, while I go inside. Watch for Pete Black, French or Slim Curlew. If any of them come out, follow ’em and find out where they go. Do yuh understand?”

“Mo’ bettah,” nodded Louie Yen, getting to his feet.

“And look out,” warned Duke. “Hell is due to bust loose in Calico tonight, unless I can’t read signs, and we’re liable to get singed a little.”

“Let her bust,” replied Mica.

Duke turned to the door. “You fellers wait a minute, ’cause I don’t want to be seen with yuh.”

Duke went down the street and into the Silver Bar. There was a fair sized crowd inside, but the place was orderly. Pete Black was at a poker-table, French was at a roulette layout, and Curlew was standing at the bar, talking to the man named Pell, who had brought the message to them from Telluride Taylor.

Bud Harvey was one of the bartenders, and he nodded pleasantly to Duke, who stepped in beside Curlew and Pell.

“Miss Luck ain’t got here yet, has she?” asked Duke.

Bud Harvey shook his head. “No, I ain’t seen her today and I was wonderin’ if she wasn’t comin’ down tonight. None of the boys has seen her today.”

“She’s been away,” said Duke casually, “but she ought to be here pretty quick.”

Duke felt that Curlew had turned and was looking at him, but he calmly poured out his drink and paid for it. Then he sauntered toward the rear of the room and moved in beside a faro layout, where he could turn, facing the room.

Curlew walked part way to the door with Pell, but left him and went straight to the poker game and spoke to Pete Black, who got out of his chair. Only a word was exchanged, and Black turned to cash in his chips.

Duke glanced at French, who was watching Black and Curlew. Curlew signaled cautiously to French and walked slowly back to the bar, followed in a moment by Black. None of them looked toward Duke, but he knew that three pairs of eyes were watching him.

To anyone else it would seem that these three men were having a friendly drink, but Duke felt that this conference might mean a lot to him. They finished their drink and all walked over to the roulette layout, laughing. Duke walked toward the rear of the room, where the two-piece orchestra was screeching out a discordant tune, and when he turned and looked toward the roulette game, Pete Black was not there. In fact he was not in the Silver Bar. Duke grinned and sauntered down the room until he stood near French and Curlew. A half-drunk miner came in the door and stumbled toward the bar.

“Wha’s matter with the Mojave?” he asked loudly. “Has she gone out of business?”

Several people looked at him curiously, and he seemed to realize that he was the center of interest, so he continued:

“Locked up tight, zat’s what she is. Whazza matter, eh?”

French strode over to the man and grasped him by the arm.

“What do yuh mean?” he demanded.

“Mojave’s closed,” insisted the drunk. “Lights all out and a padlock on the door.”

“What the hell does that mean?” queried Curlew. “Who would do that?”

French whirled toward the door and Curlew almost trod on his heels in his hurry to get out and see what had happened. Duke grinned, as he realized that this was Le Moyne’s first move, but he did not know just what it meant. Duke did not know that Black, French and Curlew had announced their intentions to double-cross Le Moyne, and that Le Moyne knew this.

Duke turned and went out the back door, where he called softly, and was joined by Mica Cates.

“Black went out the front door,” said Duke.

“Then Louie Yen is on his trail,” grinned Mica, “and that danged Chink could trail a buzzard and never be seen.”

“And that ain’t no lie,” replied Duke. “I know it.”

As they started around the corner a bulky figure almost ran into them. Quick as a flash, Duke whipped out his gun and covered the man, who backed against the wall; the face of him showing clear in the moonlight.

It was Le Moyne, dangerous as a cornered wolf, who snarled at Duke, “You, too, eh? Well, damn you—shoot!”

Duke shook his head, but kept the muzzle of the big six-shooter leveled at Le Moyne’s waistline.

“Not unless I have to, Le Moyne,” replied Duke.

“Better take my advice,” said Le Moyne coldly. “You’ll never have a better chance.”

“Never want a better one,” smiled Duke. “Meet my friend Mica Cates, Mr. Le Moyne.”

“Aw, hell!” exploded Le Moyne. “What’s the use of all this, Steele?”

“Courtesy,” replied Steele. “You fellers ain’t never met,’ and then to Mica, “this is the big man yuh heard about, Mica.”

“You’re takin’ chances on not pullin’ that trigger,” reminded Le Moyne coldly.

Duke laughed. “You don’t scare me, Le Moyne. You told me that you had some good men up here, but I whipped two of them and am willin’ to try the other one. I’ve lost all faith in you, big feller. You picked some fine scorpions to handle this end of the big game.

“I’ve found that out,” agreed Le Moyne warmly, “and that is why I’m up here tonight. How much have they promised you, Steele?”

“A spot in Hell’s Depot,” grinned Duke.

“What do you mean, Steele?”

“Just what I said. I didn’t like this gang and I had to whip French a few minutes after I landed here. Last night I fought Pete Black and moved most of his teeth. I ain’t had no chance to mix with Curlew yet.”

Le Moyne laughed harshly. “I wish I had seen it. Now, the question is this—are you still with me, Steele?”

“Nope,” Duke shook his head, but added, “I’m not against yuh, Le Moyne, except in one thing. You can take the Mojave desert and everythin’ in the danged spot, except Luck Sleed’s property.”

“Yeah? Got stuck on the girl, did yuh, Steele?”

“I’m squeezin’ the trigger,” said Duke softly, “and another remark like that finishes the deal for you. Your hired tin-horns stole her last night, Le Moyne.”

“Not on my orders,” defended Le Moyne quickly. “Mine was a freeze-out game—not a kidnapping. I might beat her out of what she owns, but I’m damned if I’d injure her.”

“You’ve got a lot of control over your men, ain’t yuh?”

“I will have when I’m through with ’em,” retorted Le Moyne hotly. “That’s why I’m up here, They don’t look for me until mornin’, but I choked the truth out of the stage-driver. They’ve been stealin’ from me all the time, Steele. I sent a man I could trust to tell ’em that I was comin’ on the night stage, and they talked too much before him. They’re goin’ to try and shove me out of Calico.”

“And you’ve only got that one man with yuh?” queried Duke. “A drunk! Do yuh realize what you’re up against? There’s Black, French, Curlew, a handful of gamblers and all of Black’s men from both mines. They’re all gettin’ their share of the loot. What can one man do against that crowd?”

“By God, I’ll show ’em what Le Moyne can do!”

“You’re a big-headed fool!” snapped Duke. “You’ve dreamed about ownin’ the desert until it’s gone to your head, Le Moyne. Wake up for a minute and figure out just who you are. One man! Are yuh bullet-proof? Can yuh shoot so fast that yuh can buck an army? This job will take a lot of brains, which you ain’t got.”

Le Moyne was silent for several moments, as this seemed to percolate through his mind. No man had ever talked like that to him before; no man had dared to talk like that to Le Moyne. He shrugged his big shoulders and leaned back against the building.

“Well, Steele, I never thought about it—like—that. I guess—probably—I’ve got the—wrong—idea.”

“You ain’t exactly brainless,” remarked Duke.

“Almost,” Le Moyne smiled crookedly. “What would you do, if you was in my place, Steele?”

“I wouldn’t try to fool myself into thinkin’ that I was all-powerful, Le Moyne.”

“All right.” Le Moyne’s tone was almost meek.

“Got a gun?”

Le Moyne threw his coat open, disclosing a cartridge belt and two heavy guns.

“Can yuh shoot straight?”

“No.” Le Moyne was honest. “I never was a good shot.”

“It’s a wonder yuh ever come this close to bein’ a king of the desert,” declared Duke.

“I hired my shootin’ done,” said Le Moyne, half-humorously, half-bitterly.

“Well, yuh ain’t got money enough to hire a trigger-finger tonight,” declared Duke, “so yuh better forget ownin’ the desert and concentrate on shootin’.”

“You won’t lose nothin’ by stickin’ to me,” assured Le Moyne, “neither one of you.”

“Aw, forget the pay,” grunted Duke. “Why did yuh close up the Mojave?”

“I scared the devil out of that gang in there,” Le Moyne laughed nervously. “They all know me. I wanted to get that bunch all together in one place; so I cleaned out the Mojave and locked the door.”

“And by now every one of your hired crooks know that you are in Calico. Le Moyne, you’ve got a fine chance to never leave Calico alive. There’s only one hope left, and that hinges on the fact that you hired a bunch of tin-horns to run your business. How much nerve have you got?”

“Why do you ask me that?” queried Le Moyne.

“Have you got nerve enough to walk into that gang and start shootin’?”

“Do we have to do that, Steele?”

“No-o-o, we can run away.”

“Feller can’t die but once.” Thus Mica Cates, speaking for the first time since they met Le Moyne.

“I’m a poor runner,” said Le Moyne, “and there’s plenty of time to run when we’re scared, Steele.”

“And Luck Sleed won’t lose?” queried Duke.

“Not even what Black’s gang stole,” said Le Moyne. “I’ve got the smelter lists to check back on it, Steele.”

“You may never be a king,” observed Duke, “but you are a couple of notches above bein’ a knave. Come on.”

French and Curlew found the Mojave padlocked and the lights out. Several of the miners who were in the pay of Pete Black followed them. One of the bartenders and a man who had run a roulette outfit for Curlew were in front of the place.

“What in hell is goin’ on here?” demanded Curlew.

“Hell is right,” agreed the gambler. “Le Moyne closed the place a few minutes ago.”

“Le Moyne!” gasped French. “Is he here?”

“He sure is,” grunted the bartender. “He’s here like a wolf, French.”

“But he wasn’t due here until mornin’,” said Curlew in a half-whisper. “Why did he——”

“Pell,” French’s voice broke thinly. “Pell came with him, Slim! He heard what we said about takin’ Calico for ourselves. Le Moyne knows now where Telluride’s rich ore comes from, and he’s up here——”

“With only Pell behind him!” snapped Curlew. “Two men, and one of them drunk! Get the gangs from both mines. Black will be back in a few minutes.”

“Where’s Steele?” queried French nervously. “Damn him, he’s a spy of Le Moyne’s.”

“I’ll get the gang,” said one of the miners, and ran heavily toward the rim of Sunshine Alley.

“Get back in the shadows,” advised Curlew. “We’ll wait for the miners and Black.”

Calico was strangely silent now. Only the yellow lights of the Silver Bar made a greenish glow in the blue haze of moonlighted street. It was a land of blocky, grotesque shadows, high-lighted by a moon, like a huge globe suspended but a short distance away from the earth.

Then, from far down in Sunshine Alley came the thin, indistinct notes of a violin; from out in the desert came the eerie wail of a half-starved coyote. A man in the doorway of the Silver Bar laughed drunkenly and began singing in a hoarse voice.

French cursed audibly. Men were coming up over the rim of Sunshine Alley now, and hurrying toward the Mojave. The notes of the violin had ceased. The man in the doorway of the Silver Bar stopped singing and went back inside. It was Pell, the Le Moyne spy; singing to keep up his courage.

Duke Steele heard him singing, as he opened the rear door of the Silver Bar and led Le Moyne and Mica Cates inside. The games were still running and men were at the bar, drinking, but a silence had seemed to settle over the room. A man cursed at Pell, who turned and came back to the bar.

Several men glanced curiously at Le Moyne. He was so big that he towered like a giant in the low-ceilinged room. Men were coming in both front and rear doors now; big, hulking miners, with the colored muck of the silver mines on their clothes.

“Look out!” called Duke at Le Moyne. “These are all Black’s men. Hell’s due to take a recess in a minute!”

A big miner lurched into Le Moyne, staggering him. It might have been unintentional, but Le Moyne smashed the man full in the face with a terrific blow and the big miner spun like a top into a roulette table, crashing it down like a mass of kindling.

A woman screamed, breaking the momentary silence after the crash; just outside the door, from somewhere in that mass of men, came the smack of a pistol shot. Pell, who was backed against the bar, with arms outspread, flung his arms across his face, as though to protect himself, and plunged headlong into the crowd.

The place was a bedlam now. Duke saw French and Curlew near the door, but was unable to use his gun in that crush of humanity. Le Moyne was fighting like a great grizzly, using his hands instead of his guns. Mica Cates was lost in the confusion, but Duke felt that the little bow-legged man was giving a good account of himself.

Duke managed to get his gun loose and was using it as a club. He had no desire to kill the miners, but he did want to come to close quarters with either Curlew or French. He was dazed and shaken from blows, which seemed to rain on him from every direction. A flying bottle cut his cheek and the blood ran into his mouth, a salty stream.

Blindly he reversed his gun and shot straight ahead, trying to clear a path to the door. It was a case of three against thirty, and Duke knew that it was only a question of time until the thirty would win.

He went to his knees from a smashing blow on the back of his head, but managed to hang onto his gun. Men walked on him, fell over him, but he surged to his feet and found himself near the door.

The bloody face of Fire French leered at him and he smashed at it with his gun barrel and French went backward. A bullet seared his neck and the powder burned his chin, but he whirled and tried to shoot Curlew, but a big miner fell into him, knocking him outside the door.

The lamps went out and the fight continued in the dark. French and Curlew were screaming orders; trying to tell their men that part of the quarry had escaped. A blaze sprang up from a smashed lamp, as Duke staggered into the street, trying to fill his lungs with air and to shake the haze from his brain.

He staggered over a huddled figure, which fired a gun, the bullet missing him by a yard. Duke saw the man’s face and yanked him to his feet. It was Mica Cates, sobbing, cursing.

Men were coming out of the Silver Bar, and they seemed to be still fighting. An orange-colored flash pointed toward Duke and Mica, and a bullet screamed off the rocks at their feet.

Duke grasped Mica by the arm and hurried him toward the rim of Sunshine Alley. Both of them staggered, and Duke smiled grimly to think that it was a case of the blind leading the blind.

“Not into the Alley!” wailed Mica. “They’ll find us too easy. The tunnels, Steele! Climb the hill—past—Luck’s place.”

“You know this place better than I do, Mica,” agreed Duke, “so you lead the way.”

Both men were reeling, dizzy from their injuries, but they climbed the steep trails up the cliffs, while behind them came the howling of the mob, growing fainter all the time.

“God help Le Moyne!” panted Duke.

“They’ll kill him,” choked Mica, “but we couldn’t help him none. Thank God, they’re not on our trail yet.”

Mica led the way into a tunnel, which was so dark that they were forced to travel slowly, feeling their way along. It seemed to Duke that they had gone miles, when Mica drew him at right angles and into another tunnel, which sloped sharply upward.

“Goin’ into the Lady Slipper,” panted Mica. “They won’t look for us in there, and if they don’t guard the bottom we can go down on ropes to the trails below.”

Then the tunnel floor leveled out, and Duke knew that they were on the Lady Slipper level. Suddenly he stumbled and sprawled against the side of the drift. Mica Cates was swearing and floundering around.

“Got a match?” wheezed Mica. Duke found one and scratched it on the wall. Lying in the center of the tunnel was the crumpled body of Louie Yen, and the match-light flickered on the long-bladed knife beside him.

“Black got him!” croaked Mica, steadying himself with both hands, while he peered down at Louie Yen. “Look out for Black.”

They stumbled on, going more cautiously now. The tunnel grew lighter now, as though they were approaching daylight. Then it widened into a big stope. To the left was the mouth of a tunnel, like the bore of a giant cannon, and silhouetted against the moonlight, crawling toward the opening, was a huge, animal-like figure.

As they stopped they could hear it whimpering, like an animal that had been whipped severely.

“My God, it’s Black!” croaked Mica hoarsely.

The figure had reached the edge, and now it seemed to grasp a rope, swing over the rim and disappear.

Duke started for the opening, but Mica grasped him by the arm. “Luck must be here, Steele! To hell with Black!”

They turned and staggered back through the stope, where they found Luck Sleed, bound with ropes and lying against a pile of broken rock. Her face was like a white mask in the dim light, and she did not speak while Duke cut the ropes from her.

Lying beside her was a big, white sombrero, with Mexican silver trimmings. Duke picked it up and put it on his head. Luck was watching him closely and now she tried to get to her feet, but she had been bound for so long that her arms and legs were paralyzed. Duke started to pick her up, but she stopped him.

“Don’t touch me,” she begged him. “Why did you do this to me? Why, I thought I could trust you.”

“Hol’ on, Luck,” wailed Mica. “Me and Louie thought the same thing, but Steele never done it. Don’t yuh remember that he was fightin’ Black when they grabbed you?”

“Someone hit my head,” said Luck painfully. “I don’t remember anything after that until I woke up here. That hat was there on the rocks. Black laughed at me.”

“Well, Steele never harmed yuh, Luck. He had Louie Yen follow Black so as to find yuh.”

“They fought,” said Luck in a flat voice. “It seemed like hours. I couldn’t see all of it. There was only one shot fired, and I think Black lost his gun. Did Louie get killed, Mica?”

“Yeah, I guess so, Luck,” sadly. “There’s been hell raised in Calico tonight, but it’s too long to explain it to yuh now. Me and Steele got away from ’em. I dunno what we’re goin’ to do now.”

“We’re goin’ to take Miss Luck back to her home,” said Duke, “and we’re goin’ to see what we’ll see, Mica. Anyway, we just wanted to find her, didn’t we? What matters after that, old pardner?”

“Don’t say that,” begged Luck. “I’m sorry I thought that you——”

“Thassall right, Luck. We’ll get yuh home.”

“But I don’t want you to—oh, I don’t know what to say. I’ve tried to think that you would do this, but I couldn’t convince myself. Don’t you believe me, Duke Steele?”

“Yes, I do, Luck. Mebbe you’ll have to trust me a lot for a while now. If Calico ain’t right, it’s the desert for all of us, little girl. So yuh see you’ve got to trust me a lot.”

“All right, Duke Steele.”

“Can yuh walk, Luck?” asked Mica.

“Not very fast, but I—I guess I can walk a little.”

Walking was a painful experience, after being bound tightly for so long, but Luck was game.

Back into the sloping tunnel they went, feeling their way along, expecting momentarily to find the body of Louie Yen, but it was not there.

“Where’d he go?” complained Mica. “I ask yuh, where did he go, Steele?”

“Mebbe he wasn’t dead,” suggested Duke. “Chinamen have as many lives as a cat.”

They came out on the ledge at the mouth of the tunnel. Below them lay the town; dark save for the lights at the front of the Silver Bar. They could hear muffled cheers, yells; exultation rather than anger. There was no sign of pursuit.

Mica led the way down to Luck’s cabin, but she would not go in.

“I’m going with you,” she declared firmly. “That Silver Bar belongs to me and I’m going down there.”

And without a word of further protest, Duke led the way down the street. There was no one in sight, but the Silver Bar was a roar of voices, the cheering of drunken men.

Straight in through the mass of humanity they went, until they reached the fringe of a huge circle, where a queer sight met their gaze. Le Moyne, only half-conscious, his face and head bruised and cut badly and his clothes mere strips of rags, was slouched in a chair in the center of the circle.

Around his big shoulders was tied a dirty Mexican serape of flaming red, and in his bleeding hand had been thrust a broken whiskey bottle. Fire French, bruised and battered, was assisting Curlew in arranging this mockery, while the crowd cheered wildly.

“The king of Mojave!” yelped the crowd. “Long live the king!”

The place was a bedlam. Men were drinking toasts from broken-necked bottles; men who were bleeding, ragged and sweat-grimed from the battle.

A man came shoving through the crowd from the rear, carrying something in a blanket, which he placed on a table.

“For the king!” shrilled French. “A crown for the king of the desert!”

Grasping the piece of blanket in both hands, he up-ended it on top of Le Moyne’s massive head and yanked the blanket away. It had contained a number of great cacti, which dug their spines into Le Moyne’s head. He swayed his head, like a wounded buffalo, but was too weak to shake them off.

“The king is crowned!” yelled the crowd. “A crown for the king of Mojave desert! Long live the king!”

French tore a bottle from the hands of a drunken miner and knocked the top off against his boot-heel. Lifting his hand above Le Moyne’s head, he started to pour out the liquor. Duke was watching him closely and saw that French was staring toward the door. He dropped the bottle, which caromed off Le Moyne’s head and fell to the floor.

Pete Black was coming slowly through the room, and the crowd stood aside to let him to the center. He had met Louie Yen’s long knife in the battle in the tunnel and the effect was awful to behold. He kept his arms wrapped about his middle, as though fearful of what might happen if he released them.

French and Curlew stared at him, as he stumbled up and almost fell into Le Moyne’s lap.

“Look out!” croaked Black. “They—found—her. That—damn—Chink——”

Black swayed and tried to straighten up, as he turned toward the door, and a whimper of fear came from his lips. Duke grasped Luck by the arm and tried to draw her back. Louie Yen was coming through the room, his old face set and almost white with suffering. In his right hand he carried the long-bladed knife.

Black stared at him for a moment, whirled and tried to run, but fell over the feet of Le Moyne, and sprawled on his face, his arms wide-flung.

“You yellow snake!” French fairly shrieked as he whipped out his gun. But Duke was looking for such a move and fired a fraction of a second ahead of French, whose bullet tore into the floor. French groped blindly for the table and fell on his knees.

Curlew did not make a move. He seemed paralyzed for a moment, and only stared at Duke, as he walked up and took Curlew’s gun from his unresisting hand. The crowd seemed shocked to inaction, and Duke turned quickly on them.

“You fools! Do you want to wreck the town to satisfy the greed of some tin-horn gamblers? Curlew is the last one of them left; the last of the crooks that tried to plunder Calico. You all know Luck Sleed. They kidnapped her and hid her in the Lady Slipper, where we found her tonight.

“Black and his gang have been high-grading on her, while French and his gang have stolen everything from the Silver Bar. If you are men, if you have any decency about you at all, tomorrow will not see one of Black’s men, nor Slim Curlew, in Calico town.”

Swiftly the temper of the crowd changed. Duke’s words were words that they understood. Men were dodging out of the door, as a group of drunken miners grasped the unlucky Curlew and hurled him out of the place.

Duke stepped over and removed the cactus from the head of Le Moyne. He looked at Duke, but there was only a glimmer of intelligence in his eyes. He had been mortally wounded during the fight, and the mockery he had undergone meant nothing to him now.

“Le Moyne, do yuh know me?” asked Duke.

“Steele? Yes, I know—you. It was a—good—fight.”

“I brought the girl, Le Moyne. You remember the girl I told you about—Luck Sleed.”

“Yes—Steele. Why don’t somebody light the lamps?”

“Listen, Le Moyne,” Duke was talking swiftly against time, “you said she’d get what belonged to her.” Le Moyne seemed to rouse up and his eyes were a little clearer. Several of the miners were standing close, listening, and Le Moyne spoke to them.

“Come in—closer—and—listen. No—time—to—write.” Le Moyne licked his bloody lips and drew a deep breath. “Everything I’ve got belongs to—Duke—Steele. Do you hear—that? Everything. I will it—to—him—and—I—want—you—to—witness.”

“But, Le Moyne, I don’t want it for myself,” explained Duke. “I want it for Luck Sleed.”

“You’re a—man—can—hold—it,” mumbled Le Moyne thickly. “I—I think you’ll—share—things—together—now. Pay back what you can—Steele. No—lights here——”

“The passing of a king,” said Duke softly. “I hope he won’t be misjudged.”

“What did he mean?” whispered Luck. “He said that we would share things together, Duke.”

Louie Yen had been hanging onto the back of a chair and now he grinned softly, as he said, “Yo’ takum, li’l gi’l. Yo’ need stlong man—Calico need stlong man, yo’ sabe?”

Duke held out his hand to her, and together they went out into the desert night, while behind them huddled the dead figure of a man who aspired to a desert crown, and gazed with unseeing eyes as a crippled miner clasped hands with a crippled and very old Chinaman, and limped out of the door after them.

Transcriber’s note: This story appeared in the January 25, 1923 issue of Short Stories magazine.
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