“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.