Cultus Collins might have spent weeks in Painted Valley and never learned much of the local gossip, but when Bad News Buker found out about Cultus knocking Butch Van Deen down and throwing Alden Marsh out of the War Dance Saloon, he immediately made it a point to seek out Cultus.
A stranger was meat and drink to Bad News. It meant an open and fertile field for Bad News to operate on, and he proceeded to regale Cultus with everything that had happened in Painted Valley during the past year. Time permitting, he would go back far beyond that. Cultus was a good listener, and the shady side of the sheriff’s office was a comfortable place to sit and listen to the local historian.
At times Buck Gillis would come from the office and look around the corner, grunt wearily and go back. When Bad News was wound up, he could tick news, scandal and dire prophecy for a week. Bad News’s story of the killing of Ben Kelton, the arrest and conviction of Blaze Nolan, his subsequent release on parole, and the fear of sheep invasion were interesting to Cultus, although he had no interest in the Valley.
For a number of years Cultus had been a freelance of the border, where his name was anathema to those who ran contraband from the land of mañana. Foe of smuggler and hi-jacker alike, his life was forfeit at any time; but still he kept going, a tall man on a gray horse, always unexpected and always unwelcome where men try to evade the law.
The border Mexicans hated and admired him; admired him because of his cold nerve, but hated him because he had an uncanny habit of cutting off their revenues, jailing the men who made it possible for them to make big money, and evading their traps set for his extermination.
But just now Cultus was not thinking of the contrabandista—he wanted that tall gray horse, which had been his closest companion for over two years; the ghost horse who could run like the wind or be as immovable as a statue.
“And this here girl is back,” explained Bad News. “She shore faded out quick, when Blaze was arrested.”
“Maybe she came back, because Nolan is back,” suggested Cultus.
“Mebby.”
“Was he pretty sweet on her?”
“Nolan? Hell, we never seen ’em together. Young Kelton was kinda foolish about her. Him and young Marsh kinda herded together. It was young Marsh who knowed about Blaze bein’ stuck on that girl. He blabbed the whole works, and his father took him down to Los Angeles after the trial, but he came right back. He ain’t no earthly good, Alden Marsh ain’t.”
“What kind of a defence did Blaze Nolan make at the trial?”
“Not much. He jist acted kinda dumb. Oh, we had the deadwood on him right; but they should have given him self-defence. It wasn’t a square deal, accordin’ to my lights on the matter. I tell yuh, it was because he got mixed up with this dance-hall girl, when he was engaged to marry Jane Kelton. That made the jury mad. Old man Kelton wanted to hang him. Funny how folks will change; old man Kelton was Blaze’s best friend before the shootin’.”
“I can understand how Kelton felt,” nodded Cultus.
“Oh, shore. They had a meetin’ out there last night—out at Kelton’s place. I didn’t get much information on it, though. I reckon it had somethin’ to do with Kendall Marsh. You said yuh didn’t know him, didn’t yuh, Collins?”
“No, I never met him. I was over at Marshville before I came here. Marsh is a big man in that country.”
“Yeah, I reckon he is. They call him Take-a-Chance Marsh. Well, he’s takin’ a chance every time he comes over here. He’s had his eye on this valley for a long time. The Marshville range is about sheeped out, and they’ll have to move pretty soon. The law says that the sheep have an equal right with the cattle. At least, that’s how she reads; but if he tries to pour his damned woollies over into Painted Valley, he’s goin’ to find at least one officer who can’t read a danged word. I’ll buy yuh a drink.”
“I’ll take a little water,” said Cultus.
“Well,” sighed Bad News, “you know yourself better than I do, but I’d sure rust away in a few months, if I drank water like you do.”
They went over to the War Dance Saloon and had their drink. The bartender made no objection to serving Cultus with water, and when Cultus drifted back to watch a roulette game, the bartender said:
“That’s the gittenest son-of-a-gun you ever seen, Bad News. He’s mucho malo hombre down on the border. I’ve seen smugglers coil right up and bite themselves when his name’s mentioned.”
“Thasso?” Bad News considered Cultus with interest. “Well, he shore seems pleasant enough.”
“Aw, he ain’t got nothin’ again’ yuh, Bad News. I’ve seen him in action, and he’s shore fast. The way he fixed Butch Van Deen and young Marsh was good for sore eyes. That man’s got a rep.”
Bad News drifted back to his little office, and Cultus spent a few dollars on the roulette. Finally he wandered outside again and was standing in front of the saloon, when a rider came up the street.
Cultus rubbed his eyes and stared wonderingly as the man rode to the War Dance hitchrack and tied his horse. It was Blaze Nolan, riding a tall, gray horse, which limped rather heavily on one front foot. He was uncurried, his mane and tail full of burs. Cultus took a deep breath and leaned against a porch-post, as Blaze came up to him.
“That’s shore a tall horse yo’re ridin’, pardner,” said Cultus.
Blaze gave Cultus a keen glance, turned his head and looked back at the horse.
“Yeah, he is a tall one. Went lame on me a while ago. Don’t know what’s the matter with his leg. I brought him in with a bunch of Circle M horses this mornin’, and he seemed such a friendly cuss that I rode him to town.”
Blaze grinned as he slapped the dust off his hat.
“Mebby I mistook his friendly attitude. Anyway, he shore gave me the worst churnin’ I’ve had in a long time. That bronc knows how to buck. I reckon that’s how he hurt his leg.”
“Tall horses buck kinda hard,” nodded Cultus.
“This one shore did,” replied Blaze, and walked into the saloon.
Cultus rolled a cigarette, his eyes thoughtfully serious. He knew that this man was Blaze Nolan. Bad News had explained how Nolan had received his nickname, and the lock of snow-white hair was plainly evident. After he lighted the cigarette, Cultus strolled out to the hitchrack. At the edge of the sidewalk he whistled a soft note, and the tall gray threw up his head quickly.
“Hello, Amigo,” he said softly. “Know me, eh?”
The gray knew him; there was no doubt of that. Cultus walked around to the right side and studied the brand on the right shoulder. The N had been changed to an M, and the circle burned around it. It was not a neat job, and Cultus decided that it had been done with a running-iron instead of a branding-iron, which usually made a clear-cut mark. And the hot iron had only been run on the animal about two weeks ago.
“Circle M, eh?” muttered Cultus. “That would be the half-breed’s place. The question is this: where did he get the horse? I want the man who brought him here, and if I take the horse now, I’ll never find out. Amigo, I’m goin’ to disown yuh for a while, but when I leave Painted Valley, you’ll be under me, old timer.”
The tall gray nickered softly, as Cultus turned and walked across the street.