# Spawn of the Desert/Chapter 1

pp. 1–29
SPAWN OF THE DESERT

### I

THE Mohave Indians have a legend of the Calico Mountains and their origin. According to their beliefs, the Great Spirit finished the big task of making the world at this spot.
The desert was the final work of the Great Spirit, and he was much pleased; but in his arms he held a big jumble of rocks, sand and pigments, which were left from the great work. The world was all made and very good to look upon, so he had no place for this extra material.
To get rid of it he simply dropped it at his feet in a mass, and the many-hued pigments spilled over it until the whole was as a bright-hued piece of cloth.
Thus, according to the Indians, was formed these mountains, which are but a jumble of barren rocks, rising sheer from the level desert; scourged through the centuries by the desert sun, wind and sand—an unfading proof that, unlike man, the Great Spirit painted deeper than the surface.
But with all their gaudy colors in the sun, these mountains, at night, are black silhouettes, which appear to be without breadth or thickness; or broken into misty, hazy, unreal piles in the moonlight.
On all sides the desert stretches away to the haze of nothingness—a land of the mirage; scenes which the jealous desert steals from arid lands and holds up to the eyes of desert men to lure them on. Cities, rivers, lakes, with cool, nodding palms, rippling brooks, which seem only a few feet away, then fade out to show a waste of dust-gray mesquite, which rattles in the hot winds, Joshua-trees, with their agonized arms—and sand. Always the sand.
On a rocky plateau of this painted range stood a town—one street of adobe shacks, paved with the solid rock of the mountain. Even the houses were tinted with fantastic colors, where the clay had been mixed with the muck of the silver mines.
At the upper end of the street the cliffs arose sheer for several hundred feet, like gaudy drapes of calico. At the lower end was a succession of broken ledges, which sloped off to the desert, where the winding trails came in from the rest of the world.
To the left of the town was a deep, rocky gorge, so grotesque in formation that it did not appear to be a work of nature. There were natural stone bridges, caves, barriers—unreal in color and design, as though a child-minded giant had modeled them in colored clay and left them to harden in the blistering sun.
This was the residence section of Calico Town, and was known as Sunshine Alley. Just below where the Alley opened onto the desert, on a slight rise of ground, full in the glare of the sun, and with no protection from the ever-sifting sand, was the graveyard, which was known as Hell’s Depot. Not a blade of grass, not even a spray of sage grew here. The ground was a mass of small stones, seemingly laid close together like tiles, but showing patterns in colors that would put any man-made mosaic to shame.
One foot deep was the limit of the graves, as the rock below that depth was glass-like flint, but what the graves lacked in depth was made up in height. The mounds of rock were piled until one might believe that the corpse had been of gigantic proportions, or that the sexton wished to preclude any chance of the dead coming back in material form.
Such was Calico in the early ’fifties, when men were gold- and silver-mad. A town of thirty-five hundred population—a population which lived in caves, hollowed places in Sunshine Alley, or picked a corner in the rock and builded a rock barrier around them. This gave a roofless dwelling, but rain did not come to Calico, so there was no need for roofs. Water was worth more than whiskey, and morals were as scarce as orchids.
Just now a funeral was in progress, or rather, had been in progress. The corpse was there in the rough casket; the grave was dug and the pall-bearers stood aside, reverently holding their hats in their hands. Clustered around was a cosmopolitan mining-camp audience. Frock-coated, tall-hatted gamblers rubbed elbows with muck-stained miners. Calico-clad wives of miners, children, dogs, and even a group of burros poked onto the flat to add their faces to the mournful proceedings.
Up the desert trail came two men and a lightly-packed burro; all of them gray with the dust and heat. The one who led the caravan was a mighty, weatherbeaten man, with a long, white beard. In appearance he might have been a saint. Surely he could not be a sinner, with the eyes of a dreamer, the nose of a prophet and the beard of a saint; but nature does queer things to disappoint students of physiognomy.
The other man was also tall. His face showed him to be about thirty years of age—a face seemingly hewed from stone, although handsome in its stern mold. His hair was black and he wore it low between his cheek and ear. There was the free, easy swing to his walk, like the half-lope of a desert wolf.
The patriarch halted the caravan on the trail, just short of the street end, and gazed across at the funeral. The younger man glanced over there, with little show of interest.
“Duke,” the old man jerked his head toward the graveyard, “I reckon they’re plantin’ somebody. Let’s me and you go over.”
They left their burro on the trail and crossed over, attracting little attention. The crowd seemed to be waiting for someone. Two men were standing near the grave, talking earnestly. Suddenly one of them looked up and saw the newcomers. He walked abruptly away from his companion and halted a few feet from the white-bearded man.
“Podner, by yore whiskers yo’re a preacher; are yuh?”
The bearded one’s right hand came up and slowly stroked the white mass of hair, which hung nearly to his waist-line.
“By my beard,” nodded the old man slowly, which neither affirmed nor denied in fact, but seemed to bring joy to the heart of his questioner, who turned on his heel, facing the crowd.
“Folks, we’re playin’ in luck. The funeral will proceed jist like nothin’ happened extraordinary.”
“Just a moment, pardner,” said the bearded one, “What happens to be the matter?”
“Not a damn thing,” laughed the man. “We needed a preacher awful bad—you showed up. There yuh are!”
“Have you no preacher?”
“We did have. Yessir, we shore had a reg’lar one, and he was plumb tidy and slick on funerals—yessir. But he forgot himself complete-like last night when he ’lowed there wasn’t no honest rules of averages, which gives him small cards all the time, while ‘Ace’ Ault get nothin’ smaller than kings-up in ten deals.”
“Hm-m-m,” the white bearded one almost smiled, “Where is this poker-playin’ preacher now?”
“Well, hell’s delight!” grunted the other. “He’s in the casket! We plumb forgot that he couldn’t say his own oration. That’s where you comes in handy, like a gun in a boot.”
The patriarch’s head turned slightly and his eyes flashed to the face of his companion, who was regarding him with stony countenance, although the eyes twitched slightly at the outer corners, a sure sign that Duke Steele was greatly amused.
The bearded one crossed to the grave and looked down at the rough coffin, while the audience moved in closer. A burro brayed raucously and two more of the long-eared beasts added their brazen throats to the racket. A miner heaved a rock against the ribs of the nearest beast, and the animal clattered away for a few jumps, looking back solemnly, sadly.
“Friends,” the bearded man’s voice was deep and musical, as he lifted his bared head and let his eyes travel around the assemblage, “friends, I have been asked to say a few words over the mortal remains of one of God’s anointed; a man who has labored in this land of sin and sinners that the Gospel might be brought home to you all. He was fearless in his righteousness; a guide, friend and spiritual counselor.
“He is with you no more, except in spirit, but his many good works will live long after his name has been forgotten. I can see him now—a bulwark of strength to the weak, a solace to the suffering and a friend to all mankind. I can see him——”
“Wait a moment, parson,” interrupted the man who had asked the bearded one to deliver the sermon. He stepped forward, hat in hand, clearing his throat apologetically. “I ain’t no hand to stop a feller from sayin’ what he thinks; but did you know ‘Preacher Bill’ Bushnell?”
The old man shook his head.
“No, I did not know him, friend.”
“I didn’t reckon yuh did, parson. We did. I believe in sayin’ everythin’ good yuh can fer a dead man, but there ain’t no use of yuh lyin’ to us about Preacher Bill.”
The old man glanced down at the coffin, lifted his head slowly and nodded.
“If the Lord is willing, I will take back what I said about him, and start all over again. Wasn’t he your minister? Did he not labor among you?”
“He preached,” admitted a bearded miner seriously, and added, “when he was sober enough. He owed everybody in Calico, and if he left any good works he sure had ’em cached where nobody’ll ever find ’em.”
The bearded man nodded slowly and cleared his throat.
“Under those conditions, friends, I suppose I might as well keep away from personalities, and stick to the ordinary burial service. Has anyone a Bible?”
The assemblage looked at each other and back at the bearded one.
“Preacher Bill had one—once,” stated a frock-coated gambler. “I dunno what he done with it. If you’re a preacher where is your Bible?”
The bearded one glanced quickly at the gambler and held out his hand.
“Let me have a deck of cards, will you?”
“Cards?” queried the gambler, “I have no cards.”
“Then you are no better heeled than I am, partner. I have no Bible, you have no cards.” He leaned down and placed a hand on the rough casket.
“Preacher Bill, I wish I had known you well enough to have something to say about you. No doubt you were a hard drinker, of very little value to any community, and showed poor judgment in objecting audibly against a run of bad poker luck, but no man can live through childhood and well into life’s narrow span without doing some good—leaving somebody better for having known you. Let him who is without sin cast the first stone. Good-by, Preacher Bill.”
The bearded man straightened up and looked at the crowd.
“Friends, I ask you to try and remember the good things he has done and forget the bad. We are all children of circumstance. The Bible says, ‘The son of man goeth as it is written of him.’
“Whether or not this means that our destiny is all written out in the good book, I do not know. Perhaps poor Preacher Bill merely traveled according to what had been written of him—powerless to do otherwise. Shall we say that he was unfit? I think that is all I can say.”
“Parson,” one of the miners stepped out of the crowd and held out his hand to the old man, “if you start a church here, I’ll sure as hell go to hear yuh preach.”
The old man smiled sadly, shook hands with several of the miners and turned back to where Duke Steele stood. They looked closely at each other, turned and went back to their burro, without a word; while the mortal remains of Preacher Bill Bushnell were lowered one foot deep into Hell’s Depot and piled high with heavy stones.
“Le Saint,” said Duke Steele, as they plodded toward the street, “I wonder what will be said over your remains?”
The old man turned his head and glanced back toward the group at the cemetery.
“I wonder, Duke. Perhaps I shall be lucky enough to have my funeral oration spoken by a man who did not know me any better than I knew Preacher Bill. Will he say, ‘This is Paget Le Saint,’ or will he say ‘The Saint?’ I wonder. Still, what should I care, Duke?”
“Damn little difference it makes, after a man’s dead,” nodded Duke Steele.
“True as Gospel, Duke. Life is the only thing that interests me; death I know nothing about—nor care.”
And the Saint spoke truly, when he said he did not care; for the Saint was a fatalist, a gambler, who staked his life against other men’s gold. Just as surely as Kidd and Morgan were pirates of the seas, the Saint was a pirate of the Desert, whose appearance belied his calling. Men seemed to speak softly in his presence, as though awed by the majesty of his face and great white beard. Oaths never passed his lips and no man had ever seen him take a drink of liquor. He censured no man for doing evil, and his open philosophy of life fitted in well with the rough lands of the West.
No man, except Duke Steele, knew the real business of the Saint, and he knew only because they were of a kind. Duke Steele was a gunman, a killer, a gambler, and he, alone, knew that the Saint was all of these. An old wolf in the raiment of a sheep; as resourceful and dangerous as an old wolf, and with the brain of a Solomon.
But no man, not excepting Duke Steele, knew anything more about the Saint than they had observed from contact with him, for he confided in no man. He had wandered much, and at times would mention distant parts of the country.
Names seemed to interest him greatly—names of men. It was as though he was always searching for a certain name, which he could only remember by hearing it spoken. Duke Steele wondered at times if the Saint was not just a trifle insane.
For he was a strange personality at times; given to brooding, violence, turning in a flash to extreme kindness and good humor. He often spoke his own name, as though mocking himself. But of his ancestry, his early life, he made no mention.
Duke Steele had been one of his gang in a raid on the Cohise mines, which had been skilfully planned and executed, and without the loss of a man.
Three weeks before the Saint’s outfit had boasted of twelve men. Where the other ten were now could only be told by a bunch of Apaches, who ambushed them beyond the Colorado. The Saint and Duke Steele were the only ones to escape.
The plunder of the Cohise mining camp had been taken by the Indians, and the Saint and Steele were forced to be content with saving their lives and one burro. But Steele was an optimist and the Saint did not care for money. It meant nothing to him.
Men believed him insane, at times, because of his total disregard for wealth. He would nurse a sick man with all the tenderness of a woman, or kill a malcontent with the cold-bloodedness of a tiger. But travel, he must. His eyes ever turned toward the hills, as though he was wondering what was on the other side. A prospector had told them of Calico, and to Calico they had come, with not a drop of water nor a crumb of food left.
“The Lord must be looking out for us,” observed Duke Steele, as they herded their burro up the main street.
“Fate,” corrected the Saint. “The Lord has nothing to do with this place, Duke. It looks like the devil might have located it, did one or two assessments, and relinquished it on account of the heat.”
A man crossed the street ahead of them and the Saint stopped him with the question, “Friend, can you tell us where we may find lodging?”
“Lodging?” The man parroted the word. “There ain’t a hotel in Calico. Better see Sleed, I reckon. Since Preacher Bill got killed there’s a vacant hole in Sunshine Alley, and maybe yuh can rent it from Sleed.”
“And who is Sleed?” asked the Saint.
“Who?” The man looked curiously at them. “Yuh must be strangers in this part of the country if yuh don’t know who Sleed is. He’s the big man around here.
“Owns the Silver Bar saloon over there, and owns the California at Cactus City. Owns the Lady Slipper and the Nola mines, which are the biggest producers here. Sleed was one of the original locators, and he sure does own this town, y’betcha.”
“He owns the hole yuh spoke about?” queried Steele.
“Yep—owns most all of the Alley. You just ask for Silver Sleed over at the Silver Bar saloon. ’S funny yuh never heard of Silver Sleed.”
“No doubt,” nodded the Saint. “Our sources of information appear very lax in not apprising us of this great personage. Still, it is never too late to meet the great. We both thank you, friend.”
The Saint turned the burro toward the front of the Silver Bar saloon, while their informant shuffled his feet in the gravel street and wondered whether or not the old patriarch was making fun of him. The Saint was not over fifty years of age, but looked seventy.
Silver Sleed was a giant of a man, with a great black beard, which grew almost to his eyes; eyes that reflected a greenish light, like the sheen of jade. He wore his hair long, after the fashion of the time, and his clothes were a trifle extreme, but befitted his occupation and position as the richest and most powerful man in the country. The law had never penetrated the Calico hills, so Silver Sleed set himself up as judge and arbiter, from which there was no appeal. In all cases which did not directly or indirectly affect himself or his interests, he was fair in his decisions.
The Silver Bar saloon was not a pretentious place, being one story high, built of adobe, but it was the largest building in Calico. The floor space was about forty feet wide by sixty feet deep, which was taken up by a long bar, gambling layouts and a dance floor. It was the only saloon in Calico, which was conclusive evidence that Sleed owned the town.
Calico spoke many languages, but among this polyglot of tongues, only one, Louie Yen, spoke Chinese. Sleed did not like Chinese, so he limited the camp to Louie Yen, who was a “velly good laundly—yessum.” Louie was so old that he claimed to remember the time when Ruby Hill was nothing but a hole in the ground; old and very wise, after his own fashion.
But no man may rule a community without assistance. Sleed surrounded himself with a few trusted men, who were paid for doing certain things without asking the why and wherefore; men who might be undesirable to a village of God-fearing folk, but passing unnoticed in Calico, where, according to the parlance of Sunshine Alley, everything went, except the cook-stove and one joint of pipe.
Just now Sleed was standing with his back to the bar, in the saloon, his eyes squinted, as though in deep thought. Beside him stood a slender, dark-featured man, dressed in the habiliments of the professional gambler. His black eyes were sullen and shifty, and his long fingers moved nervously at his sides, as he flashed a sidewise glance at Sleed.
“That’s your idea of a square deal, is it, Sleed?”
Sleed turned his head and looked coldly at the gambler.
“Ace Ault, this ain’t no deal. You killed Preacher Bill because—well, not because he said yuh dealt a crooked game, but because yuh was jealous.”
“Jealous, hell!” snapped Ault. “He said——”
“I know what he said,” interrupted Sleed coldly. “It gave yuh the chance yuh wanted, Ault. Preacher Bill was a dirty old bum and his tongue was against him, but he was educatin’ Luck. He was smart, and he was learnin’ her a lot of things. She liked him.”
“And because I protected my honor against his lying tongue I’ve got to leave the camp, eh?” queried Ault sarcastically.
“Honor?” Sleed laughed into his beard. “Honor? Good God, when did a tinhorn like you get any honor?”
Ault’s face went a trifle darker, and he lifted his hands to a level with his waist.
“You travel muy pronto,” snapped Sleed. “Better go north, Ault, so yuh won’t have any reason even to pass Calico town again.”
“Think so?” snapped Ault. His right hand flashed up from under his coat. From across the room came the jarring thud of a pistol shot, and Ault jerked back, firing his pistol a foot over Sleed’s head. For a moment Ault’s eyes shifted around the room, as he grasped at the bar for support, half-turned toward the door and fell sprawling.
One of Sleed’s men came slowly across the room, pistol in hand, watching Ault closely. Sleed’s expression had not changed.
“Quick work, Loper,” he said softly. Loper nodded and shoved his gun back into its holster.
Just then the Saint and Duke Steele came into the door. Sleed looked at them indifferently, and motioned for some more men to assist in carrying Ault’s body out of the place. The Saint and Steele stood aside and watched the men file out.
“Silver Sleed?” asked Steele.
Sleed looked at him for a moment; glanced toward the door as he nodded. Some of the men who had been at the graveyard were coming in, looking curiously back at the men carrying Ace Ault.
“We’re lookin’ for a place to live in,” said Steele. “A man told us to see Silver Sleed.”
“Yeah?” Sleed squinted at the Saint and back to Steele.
“Whatcha goin’ to do in Calico?”
“You didn’t expect an answer to that, did yuh?” asked Steele, with a smile.
Sleed grunted softly. One of the men from the graveyard stepped in and spoke to Sleed.
“The graybeard’s a preacher, Sleed. He said a few things for Preacher Bill, and they was damn well said, after he got put right.”
Sleed looked at the Saint curiously, and found the Saint looking straight at him. Something in that glance seemed to bother Sleed. It was as though this tall, white-bearded, hawk-eyed man was peering into things that Sleed did not want anyone to see. Sleed glanced down at the floor for a moment and nodded.
“I reckon there’s places to live in. Yuh can have Preacher Bill’s place or yuh can have—” Sleed looked up and glanced toward the door—“I think yuh can have the place where Ace Ault lived.”
“We both thank you, sir.” The Saint’s voice boomed like the deep notes of a pipe-organ.
Sleed glanced quickly at him and saw that the Saint’s eyes were closed, as though he had shut out material things while he thought deeply.
“I’ll show ’em the places, Sleed.”
It was the miner who had offered to come to church in case the Saint would do the preaching. Sleed nodded and turned back to the bar, but he watched the three men go out of the door.
“Loper, who are them two men?” he asked.
“I dunno.” Loper shook his head.
“Find out.”
Sleed turned back to the bar and called for whiskey. For some unknown reason he was worried. The killing of Ault amounted to nothing. He discarded that as a possible reason for his unrest. Was it the white-bearded man? Sleed scowled at his glass of liquor for a moment and placed it back on the bar untasted.