Chapter II: Part 2

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.”