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.”
They walked down to the stable, where Harry gave the roan a feed of oats
before they walked on into the patio, where Collins took off his spurs
and unbuckled his chaps. Then he slipped off his cartridge belt and hung
it across the railing along with his chaps.
“Can I wash out here at the well?” he asked.
“Shore.”
Little José, the Mexican house-boy, was in the doorway.
“Bring the gentleman a towel, José,” ordered Harry. “_Toalla, pronto._”
“_Si, si._”
Collins grinned widely and walked to the well, while Harry went up to
see his father on the upper verandah.
“Who came from the Pass?” asked Jim Kelton. “José saw him from the
roof.”
“Said his name was Collins, dad. You better come down and talk with him.
Came from Marshville, and if he ain’t a character, I’ve never seen one.”
“Marshville, eh? Probably a spy for Kendall Marsh. Yes. I’ll talk with
him. Harry, I’ve got a job for yuh, after this man is gone. I’m goin’ to
hold a meetin’ here soon. The men of this valley must know what we know
about Marsh and Nolan. Help me down the stairs.”
They found Collins in the patio. He shook hands with Jim Kelton, who sat
down on the wide curb of the well.
“The curse of rheumatism,” he said to Collins.
“Sure.”
“Harry tells me that you came from Marshville.”
“Well, that’s the last town I was in. I’m not from Marshville.”
“Been in the sheep business very long, Collins?”
“That,” said Collins smiling, “is a trick question. I’m supposed to
understand that you know I’m in that business. Well, my friend, yo’re a
long way off the mark. I eat lamb chops once in a while, and when I hit
some cold weather, yuh might discover some woollen clothes on my back;
but that’s about as near as I get to the sheep business. I shore seen a
lot of sheep around Marshville. In fact, I was offered a job over
there.”
“Herdin’ sheep?” asked Harry.
“I imagine that was it.”
“Do you know Kendall Marsh?” asked Uncle Jimmy.
“No, I never met the gent, but I heard his name mentioned. I reckon he’s
the big man over in that country, ain’t he? Heard ’em sayin’ that he was
shot a while ago, but his head was so hard that the bullet couldn’t get
in.”
“I didn’t hear about that,” said Uncle Jimmy quickly. “Who shot him,
Collins?”
“I didn’t hear any of the details, but I did happen to hear the date,”
and Collins gave them the exact date, which was about three weeks
before. Uncle Jimmy looked keenly at Harry, who evidently was not
interested in the exact date.
“Is Marsh well known around here?” asked Collins.
“Well enough,” grunted Harry, “to get him a short stay, if he ever shows
up again--him or any of his damn sheep spies.”
“We won’t discuss that, Harry,” said his father. “If Mr. Collins is
ready to eat----”
“Y’betcha, I’m ready,” smiled Collins. Uncle Jimmy walked to the
dining-room with him, and after they had gone in, Jane came out.
“Who is the stranger?” she asked as Harry joined her.
“Says his name is Collins. Dad thinks, and so do I, that he’s one of
Marsh’s men. He told dad about Kendall Marsh gettin’ shot. Said he heard
it in Marshville. And he gave dad the exact date.”
“And we gave dad the date----” Jane faltered. Harry laughed shortly.
“We don’t know anythin’ about it,” he told her. “Marsh don’t know who
shot him. Mebby he thinks Blaze Nolan did it. Anyway, that ’Frisco paper
said that he didn’t know who shot him. Blaze Nolan is the only one who
knows anythin’ about it, Jane; and if he tried any funny work, I’ll stop
him pretty quick.”
Jane’s face was a trifle white and her lips were unsteady, as she said:
“We won’t talk about it, Harry. And Blaze Nolan isn’t the kind of a man
to start what you call ‘funny work.’”
Harry looked closely at her, but she turned away.
“Listen, Jane,” he said, “you--no, you’ve got more sense than to care
for Blaze Nolan. He’s just a dirty killer, with plenty of money and
political pull behind him. Forget him.”
Jane walked into the house, without answering him, and he pursed his
lips in a soundless whistle, as he walked back to the well and began
filling the watering trough with fresh water.