CHAPTER XVI: BULLETS AND BLAZES
Bad News was in a bitter frame of mind, as they rode back to town. He had been very fond of Buck Gillis. They had ridden the range together long before Buck had been elected sheriff.
“Yo’re the sheriff now,” Cultus told him.
“Yeah, I know it; but I’d rather have Buck. He was a square shooter, Buck was; and if I ever notch a sight on Blaze Nolan—”
Bad News didn’t need to finish his statement. They rode back to town, past the place where they had found Buck, but Bad News didn’t look at it. The town seemed greatly aroused over the murder, and Bad News was being advised on every hand just what to do; and he did just what everybody knew he should do—take a posse and do a lot of foolish riding over the hills.
He took Ole Olsen, Butch Van Deen, Hank North and Archie Lee. They rode back to where Buck had been killed and tried to pick up some kind of a trail, but without avail; so they trusted to luck and went east. Cultus would have advised going west, because of the fact that Blaze would probably head for the Lost Trail, in order to get safely out of the valley, and the Lost Trail must lie to the westward. But Cultus had not been considered in the matter.
Cultus loafed around the town that day. The blacksmith, by way of explaining ancient history, showed him where the killing for which Blaze had been sent to the penitentiary had happened—the place where Ben Kelton had been shot in an alley beside the War Dance Saloon. And Cultus figured out the area across the street where a bullet fired from the alley could possibly strike the side of a building.
It required considerable search before he found the bullet hole. It was in front of a store, the bullet barely buried out of sight in the weathered pine, and he removed it with the point of a heavy knife. Strangely enough the bullet was not badly battered, and to his experienced eye the calibre was evident. He put the bullet in his pocket and went to the general merchandise store, where he leaned on the counter and considered their stock of revolver ammunition.
“Do yuh have much call for .41 calibre stuff?” he asked the clerk, who was also the proprietor. The man looked over the shelf of cartridges and shook his head.
“Ain’t had no call for ’em for a long time,” he said, “and I don’t see any shells on the shelf. Yuh might git some down at Henderson’s place. He carries shells.”
“It ain’t a very popular gun,” admitted Cultus.
“Not around here.” He scratched his nose thoughtfully. “I don’t jist remember who had one of them .41’s; it’s been so long ago that I sold any.”
Cultus went down to Henderson’s store and inquired about them.
“Ain’t had none for months,” he was told by the clerk. “Didja try the Medicine Tree Mercantile?”
“They sent me down here.”
“Uh-huh,” thoughtfully. “Well, we ain’t got none. If I remember rightly, somebody out at the Circle M had a .41. Mebbe it was Mex Skinner. Anyway, it was one of ’em, and I’m sure it wasn’t Mendoza, ’cause he always buys .45’s. Yuh might borrow some shells out there, or I could order yuh some from Broad Arrow. They’d probably have some.”
“No, don’t bother, and thank yuh very much.”
“Yo’re welcome. Come in again.”
Cultus pondered deeply over this information. There did not seem to be any way in the world to connect Mendoza or either of his two men with the killing of Ben Kelton. The bullet was unmistakably a .41. Cultus had owned several of them, and the ammunition was familiar.
He went down and talked with the doctor, who was also the coroner, about the murder of Ben Kelton. The doctor was busy with the remains of Buck Gillis, but he stopped long enough to inform Cultus that Ben Kelton had been killed by two bullets, which had gone entirely through him, and that there was no way to determine the calibre.
“Yes, I remember seeing Kelton’s gun and also the one the sheriff took from Nolan,” he told Cultus. “Both of them were .45’s.”
Cultus thanked him and went away, no wiser than he had been before. Blaze Nolan had told him that he was sure he had heard one of the bullets strike the building across the street, and Cultus had been able to find only one bullet hole in the wall—made by a .41. One thing seemed pretty probable. Three .45 shots had been fired during the Kelton killing, therefore were not the other three shots fired all .41’s?
The posse came in about eight o’clock that night. Cultus went down to Bad News’s office, but the deputy was in bad humour.
“Rode the hoofs off our broncs for nothin’,” he said savagely.
“Didn’t yuh ever stop to think that if Blaze knows where that Lost Trail is located that he’d head for there. It would take him out of the valley.”
Bad News rubbed his dusty nose angrily.
“That’s right! Well, why didn’t yuh mention it before, Collins?”
“Well,” smiled Cultus, “I didn’t think a sheriff needed any advice from me.”
“Yuh didn’t? Well, yo’re all wrong. But it’s too late now, dang the luck!”
“Will they perform an autopsy on Buck Gillis?”
“A what?”
“An autopsy. Find out what killed him.”
“I don’t reckon there’s any doubt what killed him. You didn’t think he passed away from old age, didja?”
“I’d like to see them bullets, Bad News.”
“O-o-oh, yea-a-ah! Shore; I’ll have the Doc cut ’em out for yuh. Well, I’m goin’ to eat. Yuh ain’t et yet, have yuh? Yeah? Well, I’ll see yuh later, Collins. Goin’ to have the inquest to-morrow mornin’. Hell of a lotta good it’ll do. See yuh later.”
Cultus was in the War Dance Saloon, watching a stiff poker game at midnight. None of the posse were there; they were tired enough to go to bed early. A freight brakeman came in to get a glass of beer, and Cultus heard him talking with the night bartender.
“They shore had one big fire in Broad Arrow this evenin’,” the brakeman said. “Burned down one side of a street for three blocks, but they managed to control it. Courthouse, couple saloons, feed store and some vacant buildings. Pretty hot, while it lasted.”
“Burned the old courthouse, eh?” asked the bartender.
“Nothin’ left of it. Nobody hurt.”
“What started it, do you suppose?”
“Nobody seems to know. Them old buildings get pretty dry.”
Cultus smiled thinly. With the papers stolen from the Medicine Tree Bank, and the county courthouse a mass of ruins, there was left no evidences of any cow-ranch mortgages in Painted Valley!
Nearly every one in Painted Valley came to the inquest. Buck Gillis had been known by everybody in the county, and they wanted his murderer punished. Jim Kelton brought Jane to town. He didn’t realise what the burning of the courthouse meant, until he talked with Joe Brown and Sam Harker, who were in the same fix as Kelton. Harker had talked with a lawyer, who assured him that there was not a scrap of paper left to show that the Medicine Tree Bank had ever held a mortgage on the O Bar B.
Jim Kelton didn’t know whether to be glad or not. He was too honest to take advantage of the situation, and talked with John Freeman about it. Freeman was unable to tell him what to do, except that the bank could not hold him for anything, unless the stolen mortgages were recovered.
Kendall Marsh came to Medicine Tree that morning, boiling mad. He knew what it would mean to him, and he fairly stamped the bank floor while he argued with John Freeman over who had done this.
“Don’t try to tell me that the cattlemen didn’t do it,” he raved. “It wouldn’t benefit anybody else, would it? Steal the mortgages from the bank and then burn the records! I tell you, Freeman, the cattlemen of Painted Valley did it. The guilt lies between three men. Perhaps all three of them had a hand in it. One man helped Blaze Nolan rob this bank. Perhaps the same man set fire to the courthouse.
“My God, I’ll have all of them in jail before I get through with them. I’ll start a court action that will make this valley sit up and know who I am. I’ll sue every one of them. Somebody will go to the penitentiary for this.”
“It’s a very regrettable thing,” said Freeman mildly.
“Oh, it is, eh?” sarcastically. “It don’t seem to worry you any. I guess you’re through with this bank, Freeman. You’ve been among these cow-lovers so long that you’re as bad as they are. Draw what you’ve got coming and I’ll lock up the place. No use keeping open, even if the safe wasn’t smashed. These folks wouldn’t do business with my bank, anyway. All I wanted it for was to control those mortgages.”
John Freeman sighed, but did not raise his voice in objections. He felt that it was coming.
“I wouldn’t advise you to stay in town, Mr. Marsh,” he said quietly. “There is quite a feeling about you, and it wouldn’t—”
“I go when I please, Freeman,” coldly. “I could buy this damn’ town and still have plenty of money to build a dozen more.”
“To build a dozen more—perhaps. But the price of this one might be rather steep.”
“I’ll own it before I get through.”
Marsh locked the bank, climbed in his buggy and drove back toward the Triangle X. He didn’t need to consult an attorney to know that he could never collect on those mortgages, unless the ranchers were honest enough to pay, regardless of the mortgages. And Kendall Marsh was wise enough to realise that he had never done anything to cause these three ranchers to stretch their honesty to the breaking point.
Cultus listened to the inquest and heard the jury bring in a verdict charging Blaze Nolan with murdering an officer while in the discharge of his duty. The evidence was purely circumstantial, but who would ask for more? The sheriff served a warrant on Nolan for robbery; the sheriff is found dead beside the road, the warrant in his pocket, and the prisoner flown. The doctor testified as to the nature of the wounds, Ole Olsen testifies to finding the body, the justice who made out the warrant for Kendall Marsh, charging Nolan with robbery, testified to his part in the matter. It was all very simple.
When the inquest was over, all the male spectators and principals adjourned to the War Dance for refreshments, while the women and children went shopping or piled into their respective rigs to await the pleasure of their lords and masters.
Jane didn’t go to the inquest, and Cultus found her sitting in the JK buckboard, waiting for her father. She seemed very downcast; so he stopped to talk with her. Her eyes clouded when she heard the verdict of the coroner’s jury, and Cultus had the feeling that she still cared for Blaze Nolan more than any one thought.
“Do you believe he did these things, Mr. Collins?” she asked.
Cultus smiled grimly.
“He sure left plenty evidence, ma’am.”
Jane shook her head, her lips compressed tightly. Then: “He came here to work for Kendall Marsh. His interests were with Kendall Marsh; so why would he rob his employer? Not to benefit the cattlemen, surely. He would have no cause to do that.”
“It don’t look quite right, that’s a fact,” admitted Cultus. “I’ve got pretty well acquainted with Nolan, and he don’t strike me as a bad sort of a person. I’ve never heard him say a word against anybody around here—and I don’t think he cared much for Kendall Marsh, if what we heard that night out there was true, and I reckon it was.”
“Then you were out there?” quickly.
“I was the one who popped the shotgun man over the head.”
“Oh, I thought you were, but I wasn’t sure. But how did you know I was there?”
“I followed yuh, ma’am.”
Jane took a deep breath.
“Oh, I’m glad you did, Mr. Collins!”
“It worked out pretty good. And then Blaze Nolan brought you to town.”
“But he didn’t know it,” said Jane, colouring quickly.
“He does know it now. At that time he thought you was that woman they call Della.”
“I know it. She is the woman that Blaze fought my brother over.”
“The woman they say caused the killin’, ma’am.”
“Don’t you believe it?”
“Do you?”
“Oh, I don’t know.”
“Ma’am”—Cultus leaned on the wheel and looked at her closely—“what would you give to have Blaze Nolan exonerated of all these charges?”
She stared at him wonderingly.
“Exonerated? Oh, that would be impossible. But I’d give”—she stared blankly at Cultus—“I’d give ’most anything. But there’s too many things against him—too many things to explain away.”
“There’s quite a lot,” he admitted slowly.
“And he ran away, you know.”
“Yeah—he’s gone.”
Jim Kelton was coming down the sidewalk, hobbling along with the aid of his cane. He smiled at Cultus, who offered to untie the team for him.
“You were there when they found Blaze Nolan at the back of the bank, weren’t you, Collins?” asked Kelton.
“Yeah, I was there,” smiled Cultus.
“What was yore impression of it? Do yuh suppose somebody knew that Blaze was goin’ to rob the bank, laid for him, knocked him down, but missed findin’ the money, when Blaze fell across it?”
“That’s a plumb new theory,” smiled Cultus. “Got the papers, but missed the money, eh? Worth thinkin’ about.”
“And what about Marsh’s son bein’ in the bank, minus his pants?”
Cultus laughed softly, but shook his head.
“I’d like to know, myself. But here’s another little theory. Suppose Blaze Nolan knew that somebody else was goin’ to rob the bank, tries to stop it, but gets knocked out, after he took the money away from him?”
Jim Kelton shook his head quickly.
“If Blaze Nolan wasn’t guilty, why did he shoot Buck Gillis?”
“Button, button, who’s got the button?” smiled Cultus. “Theories are of no value, Mr. Kelton. Friends will always find one to fit their particular views, while enemies will always find one to fit their views.”
“Are you Blaze Nolan’s friend?”
“Not yet; I haven’t known him long enough.”
“Huh!” snorted Jim Kelton, gathering up his lines. Jane shot Cultus a grateful glance, as they drove away, leaving him with a smile on his lean face. Finally he turned and walked down to Bad News’s office, where he found the lanky, sad-faced deputy seated at a table, making meaningless marks on a sheet of paper with a stubby pencil.
“I wish I knowed where Blaze Nolan is,” he said mournfully. “I’ve sent telegrams to every darned sheriff in the world, I reckon. Somebody ort to pick him up. I hope he resists. It’s a hangin’ job, and I don’t want no chore like that. The county is going to offer a thousand dollars reward for him, dead or alive. The bank is closed and Freeman has been fired. Kendall Marsh was here a while ago, and I reckon he was awful mad. I reckon his plans have kinda gone haywire lately.”
“I guess they have,” smiled Cultus. “In more ways than one. What will be yore first move in locating Blaze Nolan?”
“Gosh, I dunno! None, I reckon. What can I do? This is a hell of a big country to look for one man in. Nossir, I’m jist goin’ to set here and wait until somebody else sees him. I may be a fool, but I’m not goin’ to be a tired fool. I’ll tell yuh that. Some folks seem to think that the burnin’ of the courthouse at Broad Arrow had some connection with the bank robbery here.”
“They’re not blamin’ that on Nolan, are they?”
“I s’pose. Why, they’d blame him for a change in the weather. And,” sighed Bad News, “he’d prob’ly be to blame. The part that hurts the worst is the fact that before Blaze had any trouble around here, him and Buck Gillis was the best of friends. And then for Blaze to up and kill Buck! Well, yuh never can tell which way a dill pickle will squirt. I suppose he was willin’ to do anythin’ to keep from goin’ back to the pen again. Buck didn’t want to serve that warrant. He was mad about it. But he couldn’t help doin’ it, after Marsh swore it out. Gosh, I’m sorry I didn’t go with Buck. I wanted to, but Buck said he didn’t need me. And I didn’t think he did. Well, that’s the way it goes, Collins.”
“Didja ask the coroner to find them two bullets that killed Buck?”
“Shore. He said he would.”
“Who shoots a .41 sixgun around here, Bad News?”
“Nobody that I know about. Why?”
“I was just wonderin’.”
“Uh-huh,” thoughtfully. “Didja think Buck was shot with one?”
“No, I didn’t suppose he was, but I was a little curious.”
“Let’s go down and see the doctor; he might have ’em by now.”
They walked down to the office, and the doctor produced both bullets from an old china cup he had on a shelf. Bad News handled them gingerly. One was rather badly battered, but the other was almost perfect in shape.
“Forty-five,” said Bad News.
Cultus didn’t deny it, but asked the doctor if he had a pair of pliers, which were quickly produced. After considerable difficulty, Cultus managed to draw a bullet from one of his own cartridges, while the other two men watched him curiously. Then he inserted the bullet which had been removed from the body. It fit loosely.
“By golly, that’s a .44!” exclaimed Bad News. “I thought Blaze wore a .45.”
“I guess he shot a .44 this time,” said Cultus, as he handed the bullets to Bad News. “Lock these up, will yuh? We might need ’em.”
“What is your theory?” asked the doctor curiously.
“Of no value at all,” replied Cultus softly. “Yuh see, I liked him.”
“That’s the worst of bein’ a sheriff,” complained Bad News. “Yuh always find folks who are friendly to the criminal.”
“I thought you liked Blaze Nolan,” said Cultus.
“I do. That’s the hell of it.”
Later on that afternoon Cultus found Jules Mendoza and Tony Gibbs in Henderson’s store, but neither of them had much to say. They were purchasing a small bill of goods, and Cultus noted that Mendoza bought several boxes of .44 revolver cartridges. He wanted to ask Mendoza if any of his outfit used a .41, but decided not to, as there were several other men in the store.
It was about ten o’clock when Cultus decided to go to bed, and as he came in the little lobby of the hotel the proprietor handed him a sealed envelope, which was grimy from handling. On it was pencilled the name Collins.
“I dunno where it came from,” explained the man. “The first I seen of it, it was here on my desk. There ain’t no other Collins in this town; so it must be for you.”
Cultus thanked him and took it to his room. The enclosed sheet of paper was rather interesting. It read:
“Collins,—Come to the mouth of Padre Canyon to-morrow. Can’t trust anybody else. Can tell you something you might like to know. Destroy this note at once, and come alone.
“Nolan.”
Cultus lighted a cigarette over the chimney of his lamp and studied the pencilled note, wondering what it was all about. The writing was clean-cut, no words misspelt.
“If that note is from Blaze Nolan, it shore ruins some of my pet theories,” he told himself. “It could have been left on the desk by Jules or Tony. And where is Padre Canyon, I wonder? I reckon I’ll find out if that’s Blaze Nolan’s handwritin’, before I poke my nose into any traps.”
He folded the note, shoved it deep in his pocket, kicked off his boots and blew out the lamp before he opened the window. Across the street was the War Dance Saloon, going at full blast, the strains of a fiddle and a jangling piano playing a rag-time; two cowboys trying to harmonise “Sweet Adeline” on the sidewalk below his window; blue moonlight and the deep shadows where a group of horses dozed at a hitchrack, and far to the west, where the stars seemed to be tumbling down, was Red Horse Pass etched clearly against the sky.
“The moonlight does knock off the rough edges,” muttered Cultus. “Sometimes I wonder why folks live in a place like this.”
And, as though in answer, came the voices of the two cowboys singing an old Southwest refrain:
“I reckon that’s the answer,” said Cultus softly to himself.