The Keeper of Red Horse Pass

BOOKS BY W. C. TUTTLE

Tumbling River Range

Hashknife of Stormy River

The Santa Dolores Stage

Thicker than Water

The Morgan Trail

The Redhead from Sun Dog

The Valley of Twisted Trails

Mystery at the JHC Ranch

The Silver Bar Mystery

Rifled Gold

Henry the Sheriff

Hashknife of the Double Bar 8

Bluffer’s Luck

The Keeper of Red Horse Pass

The Keeper of Red Horse Pass

BY

W. C. Tuttle

BOSTON AND NEW YORK

HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY

1937

PRINTED IN THE U.S.A.

CHAPTER I: TAKE-A-CHANCE KENDALL

Blaze Nolan, otherwise James Blair Nolan, came slowly up the driveway from the big wrought-iron gates, where the moonlight filtered through the flowering eucalyptus trees. The air was redolent of many flowers spread over the spacious sloping lawns of this beautiful Beverly Hills estate.

Ahead of him loomed the huge pile of steel and masonry, which constituted the home of Kendall H. Marsh, capitalist, sheep king, “Take-a-Chance” Kendall, as he had been dubbed. Some said that Kendall didn’t take chances; that he played a cinch game. None would deny that he was cold-blooded in his dealings.

Nolan came up the broad steps and rang the bell, which was answered in a few moments by a dignified butler, who flooded the porch with light before opening the door.

“I’m here to see Marsh,” said Nolan shortly.

“Yes, sir,” nodded the butler. “The name, please?”

“Tell him it’s the man who—the man from Painted Valley. He’ll know who you mean.”

“Yes, sir. This way.”

He led Nolan through the big reception hall and into a wide room, where the dim lights picked out the magnificence of its appointments. He offered Nolan a chair and disappeared through a huge, carved oak door, which opened noiselessly. He was gone but a moment.

“This way, sir,” he said. “Mr. Marsh is at liberty to see you.”

This room was better lighted, except for the rear where huge portieres indicated French doors leading to another room or to a balcony. Marsh was seated at a big, polished desk, littered with papers and books; a tall, slender man, immaculately dressed, gray-haired, and with a face seemingly hewn from granite.

His eyes were level and as hard as agate; he had a slightly arched nose, wide, thin-lipped mouth and a square chin. His jaws bulged just enough at the hinges to give the impression that he spent much of his time with clenched teeth.

Blaze Nolan stopped against the desk, and they looked at each other in silence. Nolan was six feet tall, straight as an arrow, well muscled. It was easy to see where he got his nickname. Even with his close-clipped black hair, the V-shaped notch of snow-white hair in the centre of his forehead shoved plainly, a notch which later on would be a white lock. His eyes were gray, the gray of tempered steel, showing a blue glint in the light. His nose was straight and firm above a tight-lipped mouth.

The lines of his face were deeply graved, lines which might easily change from bulldog tenacity to grin-wrinkles in a moment. Marsh was fifty, Nolan less than thirty, but Marsh seemed the younger.

“It took you quite a while to get here, Nolan,” said Marsh, and his voice had a hard, metallic ring.

Nolan nodded shortly, his eyes still on Marsh’s face.

“It was a long ways,” he said in a soft drawl.

“I sent you fifty dollars, Nolan; you didn’t have to walk.”

The deep, grim lines turned to a slight grin of amusement.

“I got in a poker game,” he said slowly. “I reckon my ability has kinda gone to seed. But I’m here now, Marsh.”

“Sit down, Nolan.”

Nolan sank down in a leather-covered chair and relaxed easily. Marsh shoved a humidor of cigars over to him, but Blaze shook his head and began rolling a cigarette.

“You knew I got you out, didn’t you, Nolan?”

Blaze looked up quickly.

“I wasn’t sure.” He licked the edge of the cigarette paper and fashioned the smoke. “I thought so,” he added. “Needed somebody with a political pull, and I knowed you had one, Marsh. Thank yuh kindly.”

“I had a reason, Nolan.”

Blaze nodded over the match, inhaling.

“Oh, shore, I knew that, Marsh.”

“How did you know it?”

“You have a reason for everythin’ yuh do, Marsh.”

“I don’t know whether that’s a compliment or not, Nolan.”

“No; just a statement. I told myself that Take-a-Chance Marsh pulled the wires to get me out, and that I’d have to probably pay for the job, because Marsh never does anythin’ free.”

Marsh flushed slightly and bit savagely at the end of a fresh cigar.

“You are on parole, you know.”

“Shore. Every thirty days I’ve got to report to an Arizona sheriff and tell him my sins. Ain’t supposed to leave the state. Still, I’m here in California.”

“I arranged that, too, Nolan. I hope you appreciate it.”

Nolan blew a long thin streamer of smoke towards the ceiling, his eyes tightly shut.

“I’ll appreciate it a lot more after I find out what I’ve got to do to pay for the job,” he said reflectively.

Marsh sank back in his chair, one elbow braced against the broad arm, the other hand on his knee. There was silence for several moments and then, “You were sent up for ten years for second degree murder, Nolan. The jury found you guilty of killing Ben Kelton, but with enough extenuating circumstances to modify the original charge. You found out how many friends you had in Painted Valley.”

Nolan shifted uneasily, his eyes on the desk top.

“I didn’t have many,” he said softly.

“They threw you down, you mean! The only one who stuck to you was Jules Mendoza.”

“Good old Injun Mendoza.”

Nolan’s eyes were soft now, a half smile on his lips.

“But the rest threw you down—even Jim Kelton, the father of the girl you were to marry.”

Nolan’s eyes hardened quickly.

“We won’t talk about that, Marsh.”

“I beg your pardon,” Marsh said quickly. He reached for a button on the desk. “What do you want to drink, Nolan?”

“Nothin’; I’m not drinkin’.”

“Taught you temperance in the penitentiary, eh?”

“They don’t have to teach it, Marsh.”

Marsh laughed shortly, but continued, “I don’t suppose you’ve got any loyalty left for the folks of Painted Valley, have you?”

“Loyalty? I don’t know, Marsh. Does it mean that you’ve got to stick to folks, even after they’ve turned yuh down?”

“That would be the loyalty of a fool.”

“Is friendship one-sided, Marsh?”

“What do you mean?”

“Somethin’ about forgivin’ those who trespass against us.”

“All damned rot! Those people turned you down like a white chip in a no-limit game. They’d run you out of that valley, if you went back, and you know it. Don’t be a fool, Nolan. You acted like a human being, and they turned against you. Never in all my life did I see people so narrow. Suppose you and Ben Kelton did quarrel over Della, that dance-hall girl? Why⸺”

“That’s about all of that subject, Marsh.”

“I beg your pardon, Nolan.”

“I just don’t care to hear about it. God knows, I had plenty of it at that trial. That part hurt worse than any other.”

“I know.” Marsh leaned forward on the desk. “Nolan, I’ll tell you why I got you out, why I had you come here. In the last six months I’ve bought the Medicine Tree Bank, and bought the Triangle X ranch. I tried to buy out the JK and the rest of the damned valley, but they wouldn’t sell.”

“You goin’ into the cow business, Marsh?”

“You know I’m not. I’m going in the sheep business on a bigger scale. I’m the biggest raiser in the West.”

Blaze Nolan took a deep breath, his eyes narrowing. “Marsh, are you thinkin’ of puttin’ sheep in Painted Valley?”

“You hit it square in the eye, Nolan. Every ranch in that valley is mortgaged with that bank; and I own the bank. I can wait. Old Jim Kelton’s mortgage is due this month, and I’ll not renew it. He’s got enough stock in the hills to pay off that mortgage, but it will leave him broke. I want that ranch.”

“Jim Kelton, the keeper of the Red Horse Pass!” muttered Nolan.

“That’s what they call him, Nolan. But just remember that I own the Triangle X and I’ve got my own men on it. Did you ever hear of ‘Butch’ Van Deen? No? He’s from South Texas. The rest of my gang on the Triangle X are from down there, and they follow orders. Butch is foreman.”

Nolan rolled another cigarette, and Marsh waited until he had lighted it.

“I’m going to put sheep in Painted Valley,” he said firmly.

“What’s my job, Marsh?”

Marsh puffed slowly for several moments, his keen eyes scanning Nolan’s face.

“You know the Lost Trail out of Painted Valley,” he said.

Nolan’s face was as expressionless as a wooden Indian’s.

“You found it just before you—your trouble,” said Marsh.

“Well?”

“You’re going to Painted Valley, Nolan. You stay at the Triangle X, and the gang will be under your orders. The people there have a hunch what I’m going to do, and they’ll fight it tooth and nail. I’m going to break that bunch, Nolan. They’ve got nothing but cattle to fight with, and it’s your job to remove the cattle. You get ’em out of the valley, and I’ll attend to the rest.”

“You mean,” said Nolan slowly, “that I’m to rustle their cattle and send ’em over the Lost Trail.”

“That’s exactly what I mean. I’m paying you ten dollars apiece for every head you send over that trail, and you don’t have to split with anybody. Keep under cover all the time. The gang will put the cattle where and when you want ’em. I’ll handle ’em on the other side.”

Nolan laughed harshly.

“That’s how I pay you for gettin’ me out of prison, eh?”

“You’re the only man in the world who knows where that trail starts. The old Apaches knew, but they’re all dead and the trail is forgotten. They made two raids over the trail. I’ve heard that it was made by the cliff dwellers.”

“I dunno,” said Nolan absently. “You’ll have to have the JK outfit, if you ever get sheep over Red Horse Pass. Six men could hold off an army in the south of the pass. The last mile of it is uphill, Marsh, and not over fifty feet wide.”

“Oh, I know all about that. But when I get through with that outfit in there, where will they find six men to hold the Pass? I tell you, Nolan,” Marsh struck the desk-top with a clenched fist, standing up and leaning across toward Nolan, “I’m going to loot that valley, and then I’m going to⸺”

But his sentence was never finished. From behind Nolan, back behind those heavy portieres, came the thudding report of a revolver. Marsh threw up one hand, as though to ward off a blow from his head and pitched forward across his desk, the crimson spreading across the white papers.

Blaze Nolan sprang to his feet, staring at Marsh. Then he turned and went swiftly back to the portieres, jerking them aside. There was sort of a sun parlour behind them, a huge bank of ferns in one end, where a fountain trickled softly. The air was redolent of powder smoke. One of the big glass windows was open.

Blaze ran over quickly. Outside was a small balcony, only a few feet from the ground, with heavy shrubbery almost against the wall of the house. A sound caused him to whirl quickly, and he found himself face to face with a tall, slender girl, whose face was white in the dim light.

“You!” he said hoarsely. “What are you doin’ here?”

She shook her head, as though afraid to speak. His foot struck something, and he picked it up. It was a pearl-handled Colt revolver of a rather small calibre. He handed it to her.

“You dropped yore gun,” he said softly.

She took it without a word. He turned and looked past the portieres. The butler had come in, and gave a sharp cry of alarm when he saw Marsh. Blaze saw him run back toward the door, and he knew the alarm would be given quickly.

He pointed out at the balcony.

“Get goin’,” he whispered, and she went out ahead of him. She did not hesitate to drop to the ground, and he followed her. She seemed to know the way out through the garden, and in a few moments they were on a back street.

Without a word they hurried on. It seemed miles to a street car track, but they did not meet any one. The downtown car was still several blocks distant when they stopped, breathing heavily.

“The police will be there by this time,” said Blaze as they waited. “Yo’re safe enough, unless the butler knowed you was there. He didn’t see you come in, did he?”

“No,” she panted. “I—I came in the same way.”

“Good. I’m the man they’re after. Go home, Jane, and forget it all. I don’t blame yuh.”

“Is he dead?” she asked.

“I think so, but I didn’t take time to examine him. Here’s yore car. Good-bye and good luck, Jane.”

He turned and walked swiftly away before the car arrived, but he saw her board it and ride away. Blaze Nolan knew that he was in a dangerous position. He realised that Marsh had no doubt told the butler who he was; and if Marsh was dead, the law would give short shrift to an ex-convict, who was merely out on parole.

But even with the tragedy so close behind him, and the danger of arrest ahead of him, he stopped to roll a cigarette and smile grimly at the irony of fate. The girl was Jane Kelton of Painted Valley, the girl who was to have married Blaze Nolan, and for whose brother’s death he had been sentenced to hard labour for ten years.

“I reckon I better start walkin’,” he told himself. “They’ll watch every exit out of this town, that’s a cinch. I’ll head for San Berdoo, and if nothin’ goes wrong, I can grab a boxcar down to Yuma. I’m in a sweet position for a parolled convict. If I don’t report, they’ll send me back, and if I do report, I’ll get arrested for shootin’ Marsh. But I’ll take a chance and go back to Painted Valley, if they don’t stop me.”

As he started across the street he heard the wailing of a siren. Stepping back in the shadow of a tree, he watched a police automobile, red lighted, sounding its weird warning, careening along toward the Marsh estate.

“Well, there’s one nice thing about them policemen,” he said. “They shore don’t sneak up on yuh. Me for the sagebrush and mesquite.”

But Kendall H. Marsh was not dead. The bullet had struck him over the right temple and cut a furrow around the side of his head about five inches long, and he was still unconscious when the ambulance arrived.

The very discreet butler knew nothing. As far as the police were able to learn from him, Marsh was alone and had been alone all the evening. The butler had heard the shot fired, found Marsh sprawled across the desk, but no one else in the room.

The police found cigarette butts in an ash tray, the ends still moist.

“Did your boss roll his own cigarettes?” asked the sergeant.

“Possibly,” replied the butler. “Mr. Marsh has spent many years on the ranges, where men most invariably roll their own cigarettes.”

“There was two or three other persons in this room to-night,” declared a detective, who had been investigating beneath the balcony and had climbed in through the open window. “There’s three sets of tracks in the wet ground down there; a woman’s, one man who wore high heel shoes or boots, and another who wore ordinary shoes.”

“You’ve been with Mr. Marsh a long time, haven’t you?”

The sergeant directed his question at the butler.

“Six years, sir.”

“And in that length of time you have learned to keep your mouth shut, eh?”

“Quite likely, sir.”

“I thought so. That’s all. Marsh may be able to throw a little light on the subject, when he recovers.”

“Any orders, sir?” asked the butler stiffly.

The sergeant looked steadily at him for a few moments.

“I guess not. By the way, I noticed that Mr. Marsh was wearing a gun in a shoulder holster.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Was that merely a precaution for this evening, or⸺”

“Mr. Marsh spends much of his time on the range, and⸺”

“I see. Where men roll their own cigarettes and carry guns, eh?”

“Yes, sir.”

“That’s all,” said the sergeant dryly.

CHAPTER II: SHEEP-FLOOD

The origin of Medicine Tree was rather clouded. It was there when the oldest inhabitant arrived, according to local history, a half-adobe, half-frame town, with no structure over two stories high, narrow streets, picturesque, in a way. If there ever had been a Medicine Tree, not even the roots remained.

Thirty miles south was the town of Broad Arrow, the county seat, on the main line of a railroad, from which a branch road served Painted Valley; a branch thirty miles long, running an intermittent mixed-train service—one combination parlour car, smoker and baggage car, the rest cattle cars. The rolling stock of this branch, except for the cattle cars, was nothing to brag about, but it was better than bumping over a rutty road on a four-horse stage for thirty miles.

But Painted Valley didn’t appreciate the railroad. The old cowmen swore that the “enjine scared the cows and set brush fires,” which it probably did. Painted Valley was a tight corporation. Not counting the Lost Trail, which Marsh had talked about to Blaze Nolan, there were just two ways to get in and out of the valley.

Red Horse Pass was the northern route, which led northwest to the sheep country, where the town of Marshville, named after Kendall H. Marsh, was the sheepmen’s headquarters. To the southward the valley opened to the wide sweeps of the desert. The sheep were no menace from that direction; the lack of water and feed precluded any chance of invasion from that end.

Broad Arrow, the county seat, an incorporated city, was in the hands of reformers, who had closed gambling houses and the red light district, thereby causing Medicine Tree to expand in that respect, causing increased passenger traffic over the branch line railroad.

At the western end of Red Horse Pass was the JK ranch, the ranch buildings set back almost against the cliffs. For years Jim Kelton had been known as the Keeper of the Pass, with his huddle of adobe ranch buildings, primitive in architecture, the adobe walls coloured by nature almost to blend in with the vermilion and cobalt of the background. The flagged patios, bullet-scarred walls, half-covered with a profusion of climbing roses, gnarled old oaks, shading the deep well in the main patio, the jingle of spurs as a chap-clad cowboy led his horse to the deep trough beside the well, or the tinkling of a guitar, as little Jose puzzled over the intricate notes of a fandango, it was all part of the JK ranch.

Here Jim Kelton had raised his flock of three, Ben, Harry and Jane. Ben was twenty-eight years of age a few days before he was killed in the War Dance Saloon at Medicine Tree. Harry was twenty-six; Jane twenty-one. Their mother had died when Jane was ten. Jane had been sent to school at Phoenix, after several terms at the little Medicine Tree school, but Ben and Harry did not want this advantage.

For several years the going had been tough for the cattlemen of Painted Valley. Drought, low prices for beef and high prices for transportation had conspired to drag them down. Money was scarce, but with the innate optimism of cattlemen they carried on without complaint.

Jim Kelton was growing old. Rheumatism had crippled him, sapped his vitality, and the killing of Ben had added years to his age. He spent much of his time on the cool upper verandah of the ranch-house, smoking his pipe and looking out over the blue haze of Painted Valley, his gray beard sunk on his chest.

No one knew, except Jim Kelton, that he was struggling against hate, which burned deep in his soul—a hate against Take-a-Chance Marsh and Blaze Nolan. He knew that Marsh’s plans were deep laid to flood Painted Valley with sheep. He could sit there and see the gray flood sweeping down through Red Horse Pass, spreading out over the valley he had loved so long.

The cattle would be gone then. There would be no rollicking cowboys, with their gaudy shirts, singing their songs to the moon. Painted Valley would be a dust heap, its walls echoing to the bleating of sheep, the streams and springs trampled—and Jim Kelton would be broke. He was already heavily mortgaged with the bank. He could sell off every head of stock he owned and just about satisfy the mortgage, but if he could hold off for better prices, he might still pull out ahead of the game. So much for Kendall H. Marsh.

Jim Kelton had known Blaze Nolan for years, and when Blaze had asked him for Jane he had patted Blaze on the shoulder and told him he was pleased. Blaze was foreman of the Triangle X, hard-bitted, forceful, capable, making good with the owners and saving money for his own herd.

Marsh’s own son, Alden, worked for the Triangle X, learning the business. At least he was supposed to be learning the cattle game, while in reality he was spending a great part of his time around the War Dance Saloon with a tough gang who appreciated Alden’s money, his monthly allowance from his father exceeding the pay-roll of the Triangle X.

Ben Kelton was also of a wild disposition, but limited as to funds. Alden Marsh, barely twenty-one, plunged heavily, while Ben played piker bets. There was no friendship between them.

Kendall Marsh was in Medicine Tree when the big smash suddenly came. A splatter of revolver shots in an alley adjoining the War Dance Saloon one night, Blaze Nolan found kneeling down beside the body of Ben Kelton, two empty shells in the revolver the sheriff took from his hand; a half-drunk Alden Marsh babbling about a quarrel between Nolan and Kelton over a dance-hall girl.

Kendall Marsh led his son away, while the sheriff took Blaze to jail. Ben’s gun had been fired once, which was the one thing that saved Blaze from the rope. Ben had been shot twice. The evidence showed that Ben was very drunk, while Nolan was cold sober. So the jury decided that Blaze Nolan might have taken an unfair advantage, and they made it second degree murder instead of self-defence. Perhaps the jury was influenced by the fact that Blaze fought over a dance-hall girl while he was engaged to marry Jane Kelton. But the dance-hall girl did not testify, because they were never able to locate her. She had faded out of the picture.

CHAPTER III: THE MORTGAGED VALLEY

It was about two weeks after the shooting of Kendall Marsh, when Blaze Nolan rode into Medicine Tree, astride one of Jules Mendoza’s pinto horses, riding the saddle he had given to Mendoza. Blaze had managed to get out of Southern California without being apprehended, but up to the present time he did not know whether Kendall Marsh was alive or dead. He had managed to accumulate some cowboy clothes, and looked considerably like the Blaze Nolan of Painted Valley before his arrest.

He tied his pinto in front of the War Dance Saloon, but did not go in. A lean, lanky cowboy, with a long, sad face was standing on the opposite side of the street, watching him, and after hitching his horse Blaze went across. The lanky, sad-faced one, was “Bad News” Burke, deputy sheriff to Buck Gillis of Broad Arrow.

Bad News shoved his sombrero back on his head and shut one eye. Then he shut the other eye, as though taking a careful aim at Blaze Nolan, who stopped a few feet away.

“Nossir,” said Bad News. “I tried it out with both eyes at the same time, and then I used each eye separately, but they all showed the same thing. Either I’m cock-eyed, or yo’re Blaze Nolan.”

“I’m Blaze Nolan, Bad News.”

“Well, sir, that’s fine. I ain’t never had no eye trouble, but yuh never can tell when it might come sneakin’ in on yuh. When I seen yuh ridin’ up there, I says to m’self, ‘Bad News, yore eyes are terrible. That’s prob’ly Sam Hawker on a bay horse!’ You know Sam weighs over two hundred and he ain’t much over five feet high. But I kept on seein’ that pinto, and I kept on seein’ you, Blaze, and I says to myself, ‘Bad News, use one eye at a time. Git that pinto idea out of yore haid.’ How are yuh, Blaze?”

Bad News quit mumbling and shoved out a long, lean, powerful hand.

“I ain’t askin’ nothin’, Blaze,” he said as they shook hands.

“It’s all right,” smiled Blaze. “I’m out on parole.”

“Yea-a-ah? Parole, eh?”

“You know what that means, don’t yuh?”

“Got an idea what it is, Blaze. How are yuh?”

“All right. What’s new since I left?”

“Country’s gone to hell,” seriously. “Fact. Reformers got their hooks set in Broad Arrow. Ruined the place. Me and Buck opened an office up here, and I run it. Gotta foller crime, says Buck. Ain’t no crime in Broad Arrow no more.”

“Any crime up here?” asked Blaze.

“Plenty, accordin’ to Broad Arrow. C’mon down to my office, Blaze.”

As they sauntered down the street, two men came from a store just ahead of them. One was Alden Marsh, half drunk, and the other was Butch Van Deen, the new foreman of the Triangle X. Young Alden Marsh was good-looking, in a dissipated way, rather tall, slender, slightly over-dressed.

Butch Van Deen was a man of about thirty-five, a couple of inches less than six feet tall, heavily built, square-faced, with high cheekbones, round blue eyes and stringy blond hair. The eyes were slightly too close together, and his mouth sagged a little at the corners above a belligerent jaw.

Alden Marsh stared at Blaze Nolan. It was evident that Marsh didn’t know Blaze was out of prison. He shifted his eyes toward the deputy, as though seeking an explanation, which was not forthcoming; so he shifted back to Blaze and shoved out his right hand rather uncertainly.

“Huh-hellow, Nolan,” he said rather thickly. “I didn’t know you was back.”

Blaze ignored the extended hand and Marsh flushed angrily. It was rather embarrassing to have an ex-convict refuse to shake hands with the son of Kendall Marsh. Butch Van Deen noticed it, and the corners of his mouth twisted slightly as he eyed Blaze closely.

“Damn you!” said Marsh pettishly. “You don’t have to shake hands with me, if you don’t want to, Nolan!”

“I’m glad yuh recognise my rights,” drawled Blaze easily.

“Your⸺” Marsh tried to assume a superior air, but failed. He had imbibed too many drinks.

“C’mon, kid,” said Van Deen. “Don’t be a damn fool.”

“Oh, all right, Butch. But for you⸺” He turned and glared at Blaze.

“Just what for me?” asked Blaze coldly.

“Drop it, Marsh!” snapped Butch. “Let’s go and get a drink.”

“All right,” and Marsh followed Butch across the street, where they entered the War Dance Saloon.

“Somebody’s goin’ to knock his horns off some day,” declared Bad News. “Gits worse every day. I dunno what his old man thinks about, lettin’ him run wild around here. I heard that he had to git him out of the city. Stays out at the Triangle X, along with Butch Van Deen and his gang, which won’t help his morals much.”

“That was Van Deen with him, wasn’t it?”

“Oh, shore. Bad man from South Texas. Blaze, that Triangle X gang are shore salty. There’s Hank North, Mac Rawls, Terry Ione and Butch, along with Alden Marsh and a Chink they call Chihuahua. Prob’ly smuggled him across the line from Mexico to do their cookin’; I’ve heard that Kendall Marsh bought the Triangle X. Ain’t it hell? When a sheepman buys into a cow country? And I’ll tell you another thing,” said Bad News, lowering his voice, “I heard that Kendall Marsh owns the bank.”

“What if he does?” queried Blaze.

“Don’tcha understand, Blaze? Why, half of this danged valley is mortgaged to the bank, and Kendall Marsh will close ’em out just as sure as fate.”

Blaze nodded slowly. He had already heard this from Marsh’s own lips; so it was not news to him.

“How do the folks feel about it?”

“What can they do?” countered Bad News. “Jim Kelton says he’ll stick until they’re cuttin’ ice in Death Valley; but that’s bluff. Old Jim has had plenty hard luck. Right now, if he sold every danged head of stock he owns, he’d jist about pay his mortgage. But he says he’ll do it, rather than to let Kendall Marsh get control of the Red Horse Pass.”

“He’s a fighter,” said Blaze thoughtfully.

“Shore he is. But it takes money to fight money, Blaze. I seen Jane and Harry the other day in Broad Arrow. They came in on the train from the west, but I dunno where they’ve been. The old man ain’t very well. Rheumatism, I reckon. Old Joe Brown and his gang at the Bar Anchor are all fine. I seen Sam Hawker the other day. He said the O Bar B was as good as even a horse doctor could expect. I reckon that’s all the news, except Jules Mendoza, and I see yo’re ridin’ one of his painted hawses.”

“I’m stayin’ out at his place,” smiled Blaze. “He’s my friend.”

“He’s all right,” nodded Bad News. “White Injun, Blaze. Lotsa folk don’t like him, but he’s no quitter on a friend. How’s Tony Gibbs and Mex Skinner?”

“Same as ever.”

“Uh-huh. Say! Buck Gillis will be glad to see yuh, Blaze. He speaks about yuh real often. Says you was the best prisoner he ever had.”

“And he still owes me six-bits,” grinned Blaze. “I won that last game of pitch we played in jail, and set him twice. How is old Buck these days anyway?”

“Sorrowful. Election is next fall, and he’s scared that the reform element will beat him. I understand they’re groomin’ a Baptist preacher for sheriff. Oh, I tell yuh, Broad Arrow shore is lily-white. Buck’s supposed to make every puncher leave his gun at the office, but he ain’t enforcin’ it. He jist asks ’em to hang the gun where it won’t show.”

“The reform never hit Medicine Tree, did it?” asked Blaze.

“Nossir, it ain’t yet; but it will. I hope I meet a bad man who is quicker on the draw than I am, before that happens. Oncet, I was arrested in Los Angeles for spittin’ on the sidewalk, and since then I’ve been agin’ reform.”

Blaze laughed with Bad News and got to his feet.

“I reckon I’ll be driftin’ back, as soon as I stock up on some tobacco. If yuh see Buck Gillis⸺”

“Here come Buck now,” said Bad News, as they walked to the door.

The sheriff was dismounting at the doorway, a short, pudgy individual, wide of beam, with a moon-like countenance. He cocked his head on one side and studied Blaze critically. Finally he came over to the doorway and looked Blaze over at closer range.

“Yessir, it’s you,” he said in a high-pitched voice. “I dunno how you done it, pardner, but yuh did. Shake hands with me?”

“I’d shore like to, Buck.”

“Grab a-holt, feller!”

They shook hands solemnly. Buck shut one eye and considered Bad News.

“I don’t reckon there’s anythin’ left to tell yuh about Painted Valley, Blaze,” he said slowly. “Bad News looks all talked out.”

“We’ve conversed,” nodded Bad News seriously.

“I’ll betcha. Well, set down, Blaze.”

“I was just leavin’,” grinned Blaze. “Me and the gang out at the Circle M were all out of smokin’ tobacco. They’re probably cussin’ me now for takin’ so long. Was yuh surprised to see me, Buck?”

“Nope. Oh, I was surprised, shore. But I’d been prepared for it.”

He reached down in his chaps pocket and pulled out a yellow telegram, which was handed to Blaze. It was directed to Buck Gillis, at Broad Arrow, and read:

“If Blaze Nolan is in that country tell him to communicate with me at once.

“Kendall H. Marsh.”

“Did he know you was out of the pen?” asked Bad News.

“Looks as though he did,” grunted Buck. “My Gawd, you do ask the craziest questions, Bad News.”

Blaze folded up the telegram and gave it back to the sheriff.

“I’m out on parole, Buck,” he said.

“I thought yuh was. But how in the devil didja get out?”

“And what does Kendall Marsh want of yuh?” added Bad News.

“I’ll answer the telegram, Buck,” ignoring the questions. “See yuh later, I hope.”

“What’s it all about?” queried the sheriff, after Blaze had gone up the street. “What did he say, Bad News?”

“He didn’t say.”

“You prob’ly never gave him a chance to say anythin’. What do you reckon Marsh wants of him? Did Marsh git him out?”

“He never mentioned Marsh. But why would Marsh get him out. My Gosh, Marsh was against him at the trial. It’s a cinch Blaze ain’t no friend to young Marsh. Me and Blaze met Marsh and Van Deen on the street, and Blaze refused to shake hands with Marsh. I thought there was going to be trouble. What do you make of it, Buck?”

“Nothin’,” wearily. “I wish Broad Arrow had more horse thieves and fewer Ladies’ Aid Societies. I guess mebby I’ll move up here and let you run the office down there.”

“If yuh do, I’ll quit yuh, Buck.”

“I suppose. Well, I’ll stay as long as I can, and then shoot myself loose. Let’s go over and git a shot of hooch. I hate tea.”

CHAPTER IV: CULTUS COMES TRAILING

Old Jim Kelton, familiarly known as “Uncle Jimmy” by every one in Painted Valley, sat in the cool shade of the upper verandah of the JK ranch-house. He was sagged forward, an elbow on the arm of his chair, his chin resting in the palm of his hand, his eyes half closed. In his other hand he held a sheet of writing paper, which had been folded to fit an envelope.

A closer inspection would have revealed a letter, which read:

“Dear Uncle Jimmy:

“Just to let you know that Kendall Marsh has pulled enough wires to get Blaze Nolan out on parole, and Nolan is to report at once to Marsh in Los Angeles. You are welcome to this information, if it is of any value. Best regards to you and all the family.

“Sincerely your old friend,

“Lew.”

The letter was dated the preceding month. Lew Miller was an old friend of the Kelton family, employed as assistant warden at the state penitentiary. Uncle Jimmy had received the letter about a week previous to the time Nolan had kept his appointment with Kendall Marsh.

Jane Kelton leaned against one of the arches of the veranda, dressed in a cool, white garment, looking off across the valley, where the heat waves danced in the afternoon sun.

“Harry tells me that Nolan is stayin’ out at the Circle M,” said the old ranchman.

Jane nodded, but did not look at her father.

“I’m goin’ to call a meetin’ of the Painted Valley folks,” said her father slowly. “They got to know what you heard Marsh tell Nolan that night in Marsh’s home, Jane. They’ve got to know that Blaze Nolan knows where the Lost Trail leaves this valley. We know now that Marsh aims to loot the valley, and that Nolan is his man.”

Jane shook her head quickly.

“We don’t know that, Dad,” she said. “We know what Marsh intends to do, but we don’t know what Blaze Nolan will do.”

“We know that Nolan will do as Marsh directs. Marsh got him out of the penitentiary, the damned murderer!”

Jane winced visibly.

“He could have held me for the police,” she said. “He thought Kendall Marsh was dead.”

“Scared of his own skin, Jane. The police don’t believe the word of a parolled murderer. I’ll send out word for the meeting, and we’ll decide what to do. And I believe,” the old man’s eyes hardened, “that when Painted Valley knows the truth about Blaze Nolan bein’ out on parole—it won’t be healthy for Mr. Nolan.”

“But, daddy,” she turned appealingly to him, “we don’t know that Blaze Nolan accepted Marsh’s proposition. Marsh did all the talking. Do you imagine that Kendall Marsh or anybody else could drive Blaze Nolan into doing a thing he didn’t want to do?”

“Would you protect Blaze Nolan, Jane?” harshly.

“If he is innocent, yes, daddy.”

“He killed your brother.”

“That is what the jury decided. The law was satisfied with the penalty.”

“I’m not! That man shot my son. For what he did to you personally, I don’t see how you can even speak a word for him, Jane. He don’t deserve any consideration. Marsh, the dirty sneak, pulled his wires and got Nolan free to help him break all of us. Satisfied! My God, I don’t understand you. You don’t mean to say that you still care for Blaze Nolan!”

“It isn’t that, daddy. The past is buried deep, as far as Blaze and myself are concerned. But I don’t believe Blaze would ever carry out Kendall Marsh’s orders, not even to keep out of prison. He knew I had heard everything that was said that night between him and Marsh. He knew that in a short time everybody in Painted Valley would know it. And still he came back here.”

“Brazen nerve, I tell yuh, Jane.”

“Yes, he has nerve, daddy.”

“He shore has. But Painted Valley will deal with him. And we’ll deal with Kendall Marsh, too. Wait until Painted Valley finds out that Marsh intends to rustle our cattle. By God, we’ll hang ’em all on the same rope! So he intends to steal my cattle and force me to the wall on that mortgage, eh?”

“Why not sell your cattle now, daddy?”

“It’ll break me, Jane. The price is so low that I might, if I was lucky, get enough to take up that mortgage. But we’d be broke. No, I’ll take a chance; wait for a higher price. I’m not fighting in the dark now. Marsh has showed his cards. Nolan was his ace-in-the-hole, but we know what he’s got now. Tell Harry to come up here as soon as he comes, Jane; I want to see him; we’ve waited long enough.”

Jane went down the stairs and out to the patio, where she sat down on the well curb, wondering if she did care for Blaze Nolan any more. It was difficult for her to believe that Blaze ever cared for a dance-hall girl. He was intensely human, but she did not believe this of him. She believed that he had killed her brother. Ben was a wild, hard-drinking young man, altogether too prone to use a gun, and the killing had not surprised her, except that Blaze Nolan had done it. Ben had been riding for a fall for a long time.

Kendall Marsh had shown a decided interest in the trial, and as far as Jane had been able to learn, had favoured the prosecution. Alden Marsh had been the chief witness for the prosecution. Just why Marsh had done all in his power to convict Blaze she did not know, but she realised that Blaze’s knowledge of the Lost Trail would prove of extreme value to Marsh’s interests; so it was not difficult to see why Marsh had used his political influence to get Blaze out on parole.

Jane was still sitting on the old well curb when Harry rode in. He had the same fine features as his sister, but there was a hardness about his eyes and mouth which she did not have. He was of medium height and looked as wiry as a manzanita stalk. He dropped off his horse and let the animal bury its nose in the watering trough.

“I seen Blaze Nolan to-day,” he told her. “Came past the Circle M, and dropped in. Blaze was there alone, and I tried to pump him about what happened at Marsh’s place that night, but he was as tight as a clam.”

“Dad wants to see you, Harry,” she told him.

“What does he want?”

“He didn’t tell me what he wanted, Harry.”

“No? Huh! What are you moonin’ about out here? Look as though you’d lost yore last friend. I’m hungry. Was goin’ to stop at the restaurant in Medicine Tree, but I seen Alden Marsh and Butch Van Deen in there; so I came on home. Marsh is drinkin’ a lot lately, and he’s usually lookin’ for a fight. Some day I’ll give him what he’s lookin’ for.”

“Did Blaze have much to say, Harry?” she asked.

“Not much. Oh, he was pleasant enough, as far as that goes. He always was that way. But he was a fool to come back to this country, after what he knows you heard that night at Marsh’s place.”

“Let’s not talk about that, Harry.”

“Oh, all right. I’ll go up and talk to dad as soon as I put up my horse.”

Harry led his horse back through a wide archway in the patio wall, where the climbing roses almost hid the contour of the arch. He stabled his horse and came outside. A lone rider had just appeared out of the mouth of Red Horse Pass, and was coming slowly down to the big gate, which was always kept securely locked. It was the only way out. There was one more locked gate between that and the JK stable.

Few riders ever came through the Red Horse Pass; and none without the consent of the Kelton family. Harry walked back to the first gate, unlocked it, and went on to the gate where the strange rider waited.

He was rather an odd-looking person, this stranger. About six feet three inches in height, with a long, thin face, high cheekbones, a long nose, not entirely straight, a wide gash of a mouth. His once-blue shirt seemed moulded to his torso, the wrinkles of long duration, and around his neck, which was long and thin, was a well-worn scarlet muffler. His bat-wing chaps were scored from many a mesquite encounter, and the wide cartridge belt and handmade holster from which protruded the butt of a heavy Colt gun had been patched many times. Atop his head perched a wide Stetson, almost shapeless now.

“How do-o-o-o,” he drawled lazily as Harry came up to the gate, and a smile sent a hundred wrinkles dancing across his lean face.

Harry looked at him critically.

“Where’d you come from?” he asked, rather unethically for that country.

“That would prob’ly take a long time in the tellin’,” smiled the stranger. “All my life I’ve been comin’ from some place and goin’ to another. Ain’t this Painted Valley?”

“Yeah, this is Painted Valley.”

The stranger turned in his saddle and looked back at the Pass.

“She’s a long ways through that place,” he said. “Some of them sheepherders are awful liars when it comes to distance. But then yuh can’t expect too much intelligence, I s’pose. If they knew a mile from a rod they wouldn’t be herdin’ sheep. The last meal I had was in Marshville. My name’s Collins.”

“My name’s Kelton,” said Harry as he unlocked the gate. “And we might scare yuh up a little food down at the house.”

The tall man dismounted and led his roan mare through the gateway. She was a small animal, hardly a fit mount for a man the size of her rider.

“I thought I saw a town, ’way down there,” he said, pointing a lean forefinger towards Medicine Tree.

Harry nodded as he unlocked the gate.

“That’s Medicine Tree,” he said.

“Well, shucks, I’ll jist ride down there and nourish m’self.”

“You’ll stop at the ranch,” said Harry. He wanted more information about this man who rode from Marshville.

“Well, that’s nice of yuh, Kelton; if it ain’t too much trouble.”