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.