The keeper of Red Horse Pass

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.