Front matter (continued 2)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Got a gun?”

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

“Can yuh shoot straight?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do we have to do that, Steele?”

“No-o-o, we can run away.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“God help Le Moyne!” panted Duke.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“All right, Duke Steele.”

“Can yuh walk, Luck?” asked Mica.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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