# Spawn of the Desert/Chapter 4

pp. 41–56.

### IV

IT CAN’T be beat, friends. The more you put down, the less you take up. Never buck another man’s game, because it was not invented to lose money for its owner. The gent bets five that he can pick the right shell.
“One at a time, gents. This is a one man game, unless you both want to bet on the same shell. Empty again, gents. Where’s the next man who is foolish enough to think he can beat a sure-thing game?”
The Saint’s voice boomed softly as he pocketed the bet and slowly moved the two walnut shells. The yellow light from the Silver Bar windows lit up his white hair and white beard, as he lifted himself to his full height and studied the crowd in the street.
The Saint had secured a small, rough table, which he had placed in the street, using the lights from the saloon to illuminate his game. A big moon, peeping over Ruby Hill, lit up the street in a soft blue haze, broken by the blocky shadows of the rough buildings, and shot here and there by the yellow lights from oil lamp or candle.
The narrow street was thronged with people, for Sunshine Alley moved to the main street at night. Money was plentiful, and the toilers threw it away, living only in the present.
The shell game was new to Calico, and Calico was anxious to welcome something new. Men jostled each other for a chance to place a bet; while the Saint’s voice boomed a warning to each and all.
“It can’t be beat, brother. The hand is quicker than the eye. Another empty shell.”
“Don’t nobody ever win?” asked a miner.
“Nobody, brother. Again I say to you all, it can’t be beaten.”
The crowd laughed. It was unusual for a game-keeper to declare that no one can beat his game. The Saint was deadly serious, and this amused the crowd. Another man, who had watched several bets swept from the table, moved in and tossed several gold pieces beside the shells.
“Pick up your money, friend,” urged the Saint. “You can’t win. Might as well toss your money into the dust and walk away from it. All right, if you insist. Thank you for the present.”
The man turned away and went toward the saloon door. Duke Steele had been watching the game and now he moved in closer to the Saint, who dug into his pocket and handed Duke a fistful of money.
“Take a spin at the wheel, son. I don’t want to take all of Silver Sleed’s business away from him.”
“I reckon Sleed can stand it better than we can,” laughed a miner, who had donated liberally to the elusive black pea.
Duke moved out of the crowd and started for the saloon door, when he came face to face with Sleed’s Luck. The girl was standing on the raised step of the saloon watching the crowd around the Saint, but now she looked straight at Duke, who removed his sombrero slowly. He wanted to speak to her, but turned and started on into the Silver Bar, realizing that he had never met her.
“Wait,” she said softly, and he stopped. Loper came out of the door and walked to the edge of the steps, looking toward the crowd in the street.
“You wanted to speak to me?” asked Duke.
“Yes, I want to speak to you—about—him.” She motioned toward the Saint as she spoke.
“My pardner?” queried Duke.
“Yes. I—I heard him at the graveyard today. Is he a preacher?”
“He can preach,” said Duke slowly.
“He has been educated,” said the girl, as though talking to herself. “He must know a lot of things.”
“Yes’m, he sure does,” nodded Duke, and might have added that the Saint would have been hanged many times for divulging even a part of what he knew.
“I wonder if I could talk to him,” she said quickly. “Not tonight—tomorrow—maybe.”
“Yes’m, I reckon yuh could. We’re livin’ where Preacher Bill used to live.”
Luck nodded. “I saw you there. Preacher Bill was my friend. What is his name?” She motioned toward the Saint.
“Le Saint.”
“Le Saint,” she said softly. “I thought of him that way when I saw him at the graveyard. My father let Preacher Bill teach me things, and I wonder—my father is down at Cactus City tonight.”
“You’ve lived here a long time?” asked Duke.
“Two years.”
“Mighty long time to live here,” observed Duke.
Luck nodded slowly. “A long time—yes. Nothing but heat in the day and this—” She gave a weary gesture toward the street—“at night. I have lived in the North, where the mountains are big and cool; where there are big trees and rivers. It is never cool here. At times it is a dreary cold—then the heat.”
Duke nodded and looked up at the moon, hanging like a great ball only a short distance above the hill. Suddenly an altercation started across the street beyond the crowd around the Saint. A babble of voices, a curse, shrilled in a woman’s voice—a shot.
Duke turned quickly to Luck, but she had disappeared in the crowd. A man elbowed his way across the street, laughing as he reached the door, and spoke to Loper.
“Woman fer a change, Loper. ‘Tejon Mary’ tried to knife a feller, but he was lookin’ fer it and shot her.”
“’S time somebody stopped her,” grunted Loper. “She was loco. Sleed was goin’ t’ ship her out, anyway.”
The crowd around the shell game began to scatter and look for another diversion. Duke went out to the Saint, whose pockets were bulging with money.
“Game is closed,” said the Saint, putting the shells in his pocket and picking up the table, “and again we have a stake.”
He placed the table in the alleyway between the Silver Bar and the adjoining building.
“I was surprised not to have Silver Sleed try to stop my game,” said the Saint, as he joined Duke.
“He’s in Cactus City tonight, Saint. I had a talk with his daughter.”
“Sleed’s Luck?”
“Yeah.”
“Son, it is none of my business—” began the Saint, but Duke stopped him, and the Saint listened closely while Duke told him what the girl had said.
He shook his white beard slowly when Duke finished.
“I reckon,” said Duke slowly, “I reckon you’ve just about got to start in where Preacher Bill left off.”
“Tomorrow,” mused the Saint. “Tonight I would refuse to consider it; tomorrow is another day. A man is a fool to declare his intentions more than one minute into the future. Let us procure food, Duke Steele, after that we will sleep. It has been a long day.”
From within the saloon came the squeak of a fiddle, the tinpanny rattle of a piano, the scrape of boots. The dance had begun. Several men were going down the street, carrying a blanketed figure which had been Tejon Mary—who was loco. From far out in the barren hills a coyote yapped dismally.
Sleed came back from Cactus City the next day; came back like a sore-headed grizzly looking for trouble. He had drunk heavily, played poker all night, and the heat of the day had ground his temper to a razor edge.
Men kept away from Silver Sleed when he was in this humor, but he soon heard of the shell game, which had held the attention of the crowd the night before, and his face purpled with rage. He cursed everyone in sight and sent for Loper, who was almost as sore-headed as his master.
Sleed took him to the rear of the room, sat him down at a table and demanded an explanation.
“How could I stop him?” demanded Loper. “I ain’t Sleed. The crowd liked his game, ’cause he told ’em all that it can’t be beat.”
“How much did he win?” growled Sleed.
“I dunno. Prob’ly about two hundred dollars. Tejon Mary got shot, and that kinda busted up the crowd.”
Sleed leaned back and licked the edge of a frayed cigar, while he waited for Loper to explain more.
“I seen Luck talkin’ to the other fellow.”
Sleed snapped the cigar aside and leaned across the table.
“Luck was talkin’ to this old man’s pardner?”
“Yeah.”
“What about?”
“I dunno all they talked about, Sleed. I didn’t want to move in too close, but I know she was askin’ him about the old man.”
“About the old man,” parroted Sleed. “What did she want to know about him?”
“I dunno.”
“You dunno,” mimicked Sleed. “Is there anythin’ you do know? Wasn’t your ears workin’?”
“I told yuh I didn’t want to move in close, Sleed. I heard some of it and——”
“Oh, you heard some of it, did yuh?” Sleed got ponderously to his feet and leaned both hands on the table, as he snarled down at Loper. “You heard some of it, but you don’t know what they talked about.”
Loper licked his lips and wished that the interview was over.
“Luck asked him what the old man’s name was and——”
“What was it?” snapped Sleed.
“Le Saint.”
Silver Sleed stared down at Loper; stared curiously, vacantly. He lifted one hand and brushed it across his lips, while his fixed gaze seemed to look through Loper and beyond. Loper shifted nervously, but Sleed continued to stare.
Suddenly he jerked, like a man awaking from sleep, and sat down slowly in a chair.
“Le Saint,” he muttered softly.
“Funny first name,” said Loper slowly. “Paget, I think he called it. Must be a furriner.”
Silver Sleed did not seem to hear him.
“I dunno what the other feller’s name is, but he sure looks like he could take care of himself. Packs a gun that looks like it had been used a-plenty; and he’s got the walk of a cat. The old man’s gun ain’t no ornyment either. Mebbe he’s a preacher—I dunno.”
Sleed continued to stare at the table-top.
“Want me to pack a talk to him?” asked Loper. “I can tell him to put out of here, or that he can’t run no game in Calico.”
“No.” Sleed shook his head slowly and leaned closer to Loper. “Do yuh know anythin’ about that shell game?”
“Only that it can’t be beat.”
“Of course it can’t,” admitted Sleed hoarsely. “That pea ain’t under either shell. Suppose that you bet a lot of money on the pea bein’ under one of them shells, and it wasn’t there, and yuh grabbed the other one and found it empty?” Sleed grinned wolfishly. “What would yuh do, Loper?”
“That’s it, eh?” grunted Loper. “I reckon I’d take my money back.”
“Which might start trouble.”
“Thasall right,” grunted Loper. “I’d be lookin’ for trouble.”
Sleed got to his feet and jerked his head toward the bar, as an invitation to have a drink.
“Let this man set up his game tonight, if he wants to. I reckon you know what to do, Loper.”
Loper nodded. “Uh-huh. But have somebody watchin’ this other feller, Sleed; he’s dangerous, y’betcha.”
“Some of the boys will take care of him. Maybe I’ll watch him myself.”
Sleed spilled his liquor in the pouring, but filled his glass to the brim, while Loper wondered what had happened to Steed’s iron nerve. He wondered if his boss were losing his nerve, or if it were only the effects of too much liquor and loss of sleep.
“Got any more orders for today?” asked Loper.
Sleed shook his head, splashing the liquor from his glass into his beard. Then he tossed the half-empty glass over the bar and walked out of the door.
“Guess that whisky don’t set well on his stummick today,” observed the bartender, kicking the broken glass aside.
“Somethin’ don’t,” admitted Loper seriously.
“He’s drinkin’ too much, I reckon.”
“You better mention it to him,” grinned Loper. “He’s in good shape for a temp’rance lecture right now.”
“’F he ever gets snakes——”
“It’ll be hell on the snakes,” finished Loper.