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.”