Chapter I: Part 1

THE CURSE OF THE PAINTED CLIFFS

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

Calico Town

A sky of brass, the sun a flame,
And the land no place to dwell;
The only spot that God forgot,
A hunk of earth, so doggone hot
That it still belongs to Hell.

Descriptive of Calico Town.

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.”