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.”