marked man
© 0. APPLETON-CENTURY CO. By H. C WIRE WNU SERVICE
THE STORY THUS FAR
Summoned to the C C ranch in central
Nevada, desert-wise Walt Gandy is on
hU way to help his old range partner.
Bill Hollister. Walt Is stopped short by
a girl—who holds a rifle in firing posi
tion. She knows him, tells him how to
get to the ranch, and tells him that
they will meet again. Within a quarter
of a mile from his destination, Walt is
stopped again. This time by a gro
tesque. misshapen man. Bent Lavic, by
name, who tells him to get out and then
tells him the C C crew Is in Emigrant,
the closest town, for an inquest Some
one has been murdered. Riding to the
inquest in Emigrant, Walt leaves his
horse at the livery stable. Walt learns
that Cash Cameron, owner of the C C
ranch, is In trouble. A hard but honest
man. Cash has many enemies. At the
Inquest Walt sees Hollister and the girl
who had stopped him. Chino Drake,
former cook at the C C ranch, has been
murdered and Sheriff Ed Battle is trying
to pin the blame on Cash Cameron.
The girl is called to the stand. She Is
Helen Cameron, Cash's daughter. She
seemingly faints and, as Gandy rushes
to her aid, slips something in his hand.
It is the bullet from Drake's body. Walt
rents a post office box and leaves the
bullet in it. A dark, swarthy man offers
him a job. He draws the mat. out. finds
that he wants to usurp Cameron’s public
range land. Gandy then turns him down
in biting fashion. The man leaps at
Walt, who whips him after a hard battle.
The man is Pete Kelso, foreman of the
77 ranch. Gandy is called to the sheriff’s
office, where he meets Hollister. Battle
tells Hollister that Cameron is through I
Hollister and Gandy return to the C C.
Hollister borrows two hundred dollars
from Gandy. That evening Walt meets
Helen Cameron in the kitchen. From
the first he has been drawn to her.
Then she tells him that Bill Hollister is
one of the finest men she has ever known.
The bawling of cattle that night brought
Walt out to Investigate. Curious, he
•teps into the saddle shed. Then the
shed door opens slowly. It is Helen.
Angry, she leaves, but not until she
warns him to forget the C C.
CHAPTER VII—Continued
"Lavic was a cowman some eight
een, twenty years ago,” Hollister
continued. "He controlled range,
Cameron owned cattle, they were
going to merge into one big outfit
when Lavic had his accident. Got
thrown from a horse and laid in
the snow all of one night before
anyone found him. 1 don't know
what set in because of that, but it
left him in awful shape. And it
did something else.
"You haven’t seen it yet. Lavic
hates Cameron. Jealousy. He hoped
to be the kingpost here, and Cam
eron’s rise to the power he wanted
curdled his gizzard. Watch his face
sometime across the table, you’ll
see. After the accident, Cameron
opened his money bags and bought
Lavic out instead of watching him
lose his range, then told Lavic to
make the ranch his home as long as
he wanted to. Bent stayed—as far
as I know he's never been off the
C C even to go to town. Know why?
Helen.” Hollister shot a sidelong
glance. "What do you think of that
girl?”
“Let’s finish with Lavic first,”
Walt answered.
"Might help,” Hollister grinned
back. It’s like I said. Bent stayed
because of Helen. Her mother had
died, and he raised her; she was
only a little kid then. Lavic kept
the house going, was her watch-dog,
and later on taught her all she
knows of riding and camping out
• • •
“And hitting what she aims a gun
at?” Walt put in.
Tight-reined, Hollister set his
horse back to a sudden stop. "What
do you mean by that?”
Gandy’s palomino took the cue
and halted also. Walt wet his thumbs
and began the rolling of a cigarette.
‘‘Helen Cameron,” he said, ex
haling blue smoke, "strikes me as
being a keen party with a rifle,
that’s all. She has a straight eye
and a steady hand, and I’ll bet
when she handles a gun it’s no fool
ing!”
‘‘Walt, don’t jump up and grab
onto the conclusion that I’m ready
to quit or something. That isn’t it,
and before this thing is over with,
a pack of chop-licking hyenas are
going to find it out. But you’ve sat
in plenty of poker games yourself,
and you know once in a long while
you can read your cards before you
pick them up. It’s more than a
hunch—you know what lies there
j face down.”
“I know what you're going to
say,” scoffed Gandy.
“All right,” Hollister insisted,
“it’s a fact. I can see it coming.
And that,” he emphasized, “is why
you’re here.”
Walt Gandy grinned. “The black
boy is in ’em, huh?”
He tried to make light of this
thing that Hollister was predicting;
but a cold chill played leapfrog up
and down his backbone, for he
knew Bill Hollister, and he knew
also the too frequently proved fact
that if a man is marked in a coun
try like this, the day will come
sometime when a horse trots back
to the home ranch with stirrups flap
ping and the saddle empty. It takes
only one bullet, and that bullet can
be met at any turn of the trail; any
clump of cedar or benchland coulee
can hide its sender.
The murder? Something rotten?
Under that dark mood of his Bill
Hollister had a temper. Chino Drake
had been shot in the back. No man
would admit that, even to a part
ner Walt Gandy scowled and threw
away his cigarette.
“What are the cards in this hand
you’ve read face down?” he asked.
“Turn ’em up! If I’m sitting in on
this game, I don’t play anything
blind.”
To face him, Hollister shifted onto
one leg, his hard hands reaching
for support on saddle horn and can
tie. “All right. I’ll show you. How’s
this: Cash Cameron is broke!”
There was flat finality In the way
Hollister said the word. "Lord!”
breathed Gandy; and his gaze swept
out over the miles of C C domain,
along the benches that stepped down
from the high Emigrant Mountains,
swung north following the curve ot
the range, west into the long basin
of the sink, and then, hardly aware
of it, he was staring on still farther
west to the wide prairie that marked
the 77. So Cash Cameron was bust
ed!
"Flat," Bill Hollister was saying.
“No one knows it, not even Helen.
The bench knows he is in a hole,
and that it might break him, later;
but the fact is I’ve been carrying the
C C for more than a year. I’m sup
posed to be only part owner. Walt,
I own darn near the whole thing!”
"War and all,” said Gandy.
"Yes, that’s right. If these hy
enas had kncwn what condition the
C C was in, they wouldn’t have wait
ed for something to tie us up be
fore they started jumping our grass.
They still think we have the al
mighty Cameron dollars behind us.
Well, we haven’t.
"Here’s another card. We use
public domain for winter grazing,
and national forest in the summer,
making us all around dependent
upon public good humor for our
grass. Now what’s happening? First
thing is we’ve got to have that na
tional forest privilege—but it’s being
cut away from us. Each year our
allotment of how many cows we can
send up into the mountains is be
ing decreased. C C stuff has been
penalized for breaking beyond the
drift fence, and our summer crews
have been charged with setting
fires, such stuff as that, until it
looks like someone has got the For
est Service by the ear and is talk
ing in low tones. That's what Cam
eron and Ranger Powell have wran
gled about lately.” •
Walt Gandy sat flicking a loose
rein end against his chap’s leg.
"Powell," he mused, “was Cash
Cameron’s alibi at the Inquest,
wasn’t he?"
Hollister’s heavy brows gathered.
"Well?”
“This Powell was the alibi,” Gan
dy amended, “only the alibi didn’t
show up.” His non-committal brown
gaze narrowed off over the valley.
“He was perhaps just taking a ride
and couldn’t be got held of that day.
Huh?”
“Look here, Walt! What do you
know?" Hollister’s voice suddenly
had a lash in it. Gandy looked
around. At last something had
brought a rise out of the man. Mus
cles of Hollister’s lean jaw knotted
and his black eyes blazed. “Are you
telling me something?” he demand
ed. “Or was that talk?”
There came to him again the
feeling that the C C people were
covering up, not uncovering. So he
said: “I only know that Ranger
Powell hasn’t been seen since the
day your Chino Drake cook was
killed.”
"Sure, well,” and Hollister visi
bly let down, “nothing unusual in
that. Sam Powell always takes a
long circle around his district be
fore winter sets in.”
“Let’s see the rest of your cards.”
said Gandy.
Hollister again studied the fork
of his black’s ears. He hesitated,
spoke tight-jawed when he said
then:
“Chino Drake and Helen. That
cook was a low cross-breed between
an Indian buck and a Chinese wom
an. and bad. He watched Cam
eron once and stole money from a
post-hole bank. Cash used to puil
out a fence post, drop a money bag
in and put the post back. We nev
er did get what Drake took and al
ways thought he had it hidden on
the place. He was a yellow devil!
Ought to have been run off the
benches, but Cameron gave him a
chance.”
While Hollister talked ot Chino
Drake, a black mood grew upon
him, and he finished now with a sav
age snap. “Then I caught him aft
er Helen!"
In that moment the case of Chino
Drake seemed clear.
“So you killed him. huh?” Walt
asked.
Hollister’s head Jerked around.
"Suppose I did, then what?”
“Shot him in the back like that?”
“Yes.”
“Well,” said Walt, "nothing much.
Only I’d be through here. I wasn’t
brought up in that school.”
Hollister laughed. "You sure
would and I know it!” He shifted
upright in his saddle. “Let’s get
along.”
This time it was Walt Gandy who
held back. “There’s a special card.
Bill, that I want to see. A high one
you haven’t turned up. What about
the queen of hearts?”
The short burst of laughter died
in Hollister’s mouth. “Helen? You
mean that girl?”
“I sure do,” Walt said. “It gripes
me a lot to hear a man talk about
playing to a marked deck when he
holds a trump like that to back up
any bet he makes! There you are.
You asked me a while ago what I
thought of her. That’s it. You fool!
we’U go right ahead and clean this
range of whatever has happened
here, then you marry the girl! What
do you say?”
Walt Gandy finished, grinning, but
was cut short next instant by Hol
lister’s look. It was as if he had
reached out and struck the man’s
face with a whip lash. It was set,
lined, and hard. Hollister's power
ful hands had a vice hold on the
saddle horn, and for a full minute
he sat staring straight ahead, until
the savage thing that had gripped
him passed, and turned with only a
smoldering of it In his drilling eyes.
“You don’t know what you’re talk
ing about, Walt. I’ll never marry
Helen Cameron!”
He put spurs to his horse and they
loped on, covering miles and say
ing nothing. Bill Hollister had
showed his cards—almost There
was one, Walt Gandy knew, still
face down.
CHAPTER XI
IT TOOK him a couple of hours to
become dead certain of that last
down card. Meanwhile there was
work.
Five white-faced steers jumped
from a coulee and fled toward the
mountains. He and Hollister cir
cled them, picked up more in a
palo-verde brake and returned to
the bench flat
The herd of strays grew. When a
deeper ravine cut the bench and
“What are the cards in this hand
you’ve read face down?”
struck down due west to the rims
of the sink, Hollister said, “I’ll push
this bunch along. You can go as far
as Willow Spring.” He raised a
gloved hand, pointing, “It’s ...”
"I know,” said Walt.
The leveled arm dropped. "How
come you do? Didn’t you- strike
across the mountains getting onto
this Emigrant Bench?”
"No; came in sort of wandering
around the south tip,” Walt told
him, and wondered why Bill Hollis
ter seemed disturbed. “I just hap
pened onto this spring of yours—
some willows in the bend.”
Hollister frowned. “That’s the
place. Well, anyway, you won’t find
but a handful of cows there. Bring
’em along one of these coulees that
fans into this ravine here, and I'll
meet you say a mile back from the
rims. Don’t you go shoving into
the sink alone.”
“Figuring to meet competition?”
“Bound to.” said Hollister. “Soon
er or later. The joker against this
hand I’m holding is a close combi
nation named Pete Kelso and Jeff
Stoddard. Pete's foreman and Jeff’s
the owner of the 77 ” He faced
west “You can see the rims from
here. Looks like the bench contin
ues and flats out onto all that prairie
yonder, but in that low part there’s
a break, a straight jump several
hundred feet to the bottoms The
sink is exactly halfway between the
C C and the 77, but we developed
the water-holes. So it’s ours.”
“To hang onto,” Gandy put in,
grinning broadly. “Nice little keg
of dynamite! Anyway, this brings us
down to facts What are we going
to do. Bill, smash into this 77 be
fore they get set to smash us? Or
are we going to wait around and
wonder what’ll happen?”
He had told no one of his own
brush with the 77 foreman, back
there in the Emigrant livery barn
"Well,” he urged, as Hollister sat
silent. "What are we going to do?
Wait?”
"Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because, Walt," said Hollister
flatly, “we’ve got to! Let's get on
with the work!”
Willow Spring proved only a round
puddle of muddy water, with the
pipe line taking off its fresh supply
from a crevice between two boul
ders. The puddle made a disc about
ten feet across, chopped at the edge
by hoofs of cattle come to drink,
and stirred to constant brackish
ness by their wading.
Gandy’s Sunspot minced away
from the mud, arched his pale gold
neck and snorted at the water. Walt
drew in, slid over in his saddle,
resting one leg, and for a little
while let his imagination scout
around.
He was figuring on Helen Cam
eron, for the girl, he knew, was
the one card that Bill Hollister had
not turned face up.
His pondering gaze considered the
muddy pool What had brought her
here secretly that day ot the In
quest? What could have brought
her! Meeting someone? There
flicked across his mind a suspicion
of treachery. This spring was out
toward the 77 range: only one 77
man had showed up in Emigrant
that day. The others? Was'Helen
having secret dealings with the en
emy camp? But then he could not
bring that charge against the girl.
A thing was beginning to come
clear. In all her acts, in question
ing him last night, then being so
evasive and suspicious, what was
the girl afraid of? Was it altogether
the motive, which by her very na
ture, had appeared instantly the
most probable one?
Until this minute he had been
working on the idea that Helen Cam
eron was shielding somebody on the
C C. Now suddenly Gandy sat rig
id. She wasn’t! They were shield
ing her!
In the light of this, the reason
for keeping him in the dark ever
since his arrival here was plain
enough. They couldn’t talk. Every
thing was being covered. Even Hol
lister had not wanted to tell him the
truth of what had happened. Helen
had killed Chino Drake.
In slow deliberation Gandy drew
tobacco sack and paper book from
his left shirt pocket and rolled a
smoke. There was just one hole.
From what he had gathered, there
was cause aplenty for the breed
cook getting a bullet The girl could
have been acquitted. No jury in this
country would have hung anything
onto her. Then why hadn’t the
C C come out with it flat-footed?
He lighted his cigarette and took
a deep drag. It was a hole, he had
to admit that » fair-sized mule
could jump through. Still his belief
remained.
Hollister’s bunch had already
passed. Tracks in the wash sand
showed that Gandy prodded up his
white-faces, and in a rising dust fog
they swung along in their stiff
backed gallop, seeming to be famil
iar now with the way to the sink.
He knew it could not be far, for
the sheer flanking cliffs of the ra
vine shouldered up some three hun
dred feet on either side and had
begun to bear apart
There was a bend ahead. His cat
tle turned on the run; plowed next
instant to a bawling stop before
another herd coming back. They
were C C’s, Hollister’s strays. But
Hollister? Gandy lashed in, milled
the combined bunches, got them
headed down again, and then with
unexpected abruptness the ravine
ended, and the seven-mile width of
the sink was before him.
Freed, his cattle plunged onto the
flat and scattered, but he suddenly
pulled down, tight-muscled, as two
riders darted from behind a shoul
der of the cliff and raced to cut him
off.
The fleece collar of his sheepskin
coat had been turned up against the
biting fall air and salt dust stirred
by the cattle. Now he turned it
down, sliding one hand along the
metal fastenings until the front lay
open at his throat and chest.
By this time he had located Bill
Hollister, sitting his black horse
over against the cliff, and a third
member of the well-mounted group
was with him. It was this third
one who put the deliberation in Walt
Gandy’s movements, for in another
few minutes he and Pete Kelso, the
77 foreman, were going to have their
first meeting since that fight in the
Emigrant livery barn. It was apt
to be. Gandy realized, considerable
of a meeting.
The two riders coming to cut him
off were close in front now.
“Howdy?” he said, gravely polite.
“Could you boys give me the time?
Or maybe not; don’t bother. Let’s
go over and ask your boss. Kelso,
isn’t it? Old friend of mine.”
He picked up his reins, the un
opened tobacco sack still in his right
hand. “Come on. Or were you two
going some place?”
One crowded in on his right side,
red-faced. "You’re a smart talker,
huh? One of them kind!”
Gandy said nothing, watching him.
"You’ll shut up soon enough!” the
red face growled.
Hollister and Pete Kelso were just
ahead. Walt Gandy knew he was
being maneuvered into place. He
held his palomino back. The two
flanking him crowded against his
legs.
"What’s the idea?” the red-faced
one snapped. He seemed to be lead
er here, probably next under Pete
Kelso.
When they halted, Gandy was still
flanked right and left, and now with
Hollister and Kelso a horse length
before him. He whipped a look at
Hollister and met direct communi
cation from the deep-set eyes.
Whatever had happened up to this
point, there had been no open clash.
Hollister wanted none; that was his
message.
A short space of time before the
meeting began allowed comparison
between these two who were fore
men of the biggest outfits on the
Emigrant range: Bill Hollister, with
that studious look upon his face,
bushy-browed, seeming even now
to be figuring on something a long
way ahead, while beside him Pete
Kelso sat rigidly alert, tiger-like,
playing for the present moment.
(TO BE CONTINUED)
Springtime Is Season of Joy
And Zest for Wild Creatures
With Nature in Her Gayest Mood, Animals
Enjoy Their Own Games and Frolics.
CPRINGTIME in the wilds is
^ playtime. The majority of our
mammals have their young in the
early months of the year, and in
April and May it is possible to
watch the most delightful games
among the puppies of the fields.
Badger, fox and otter cubs are
very playful little creatures. The
otter and badger appear to have
a certain amount of method in
their games, but fox cubs simply
romp among themselves in a wild
abandon.
On a sloping sand cliff near my
home seven fox cubs came out of
a large hole; on the ledge just
outside they played with a round
stone, pushing it with their feet,
tossing it in the air and allowing
it to run down the slope.
When tired of this they played
a game which resembled “Follow
the Leader.” One would run for
ward, dodge and leap over all
kinds of imaginary obstacles, and
the others would follow in its
tracks; then all would roll togeth
er in a rough and tumble, in which
their small teeth would tug at the
fur of their companions.
Bouncing Badgers.
Young badgers are among the
most amusing cubs to watch at
play. With their bold black and
white markings they are quaint
looking little creatures, and rath
er clumsy, but there is no doubt
that they thoroughly enjoy life, and
their play is exuberant and stren
uous.
First they poke their noses in
the ground, searching for hidden
grubs; then, without any warning,
all stiffen their fur, making it
stand upright, and now they look
twice their size. With their short
legs also stiffened they bounce
round one another like footballs,
then leap in, grip a mouthful of
fur, and roll over and over. They
break apart, and again play the
bouncing game, and just as sud
denly as they started to play they
cease, and the next moment all
are diligently searching for more
food.
Fun in the Water.
Many young otters are born at
an awkward time, that is at the
beginning of winter, but they are
hardy little creatures and appear
to be able to stand any amount of
cold. Otters, more than any other
wild creatures, show us that they
thoroughly enjoy life; a plentiful
supply of food makes them con
tented, and both parents and young
play the most delightful games.
What appeared to be a large
brown ball was floating gently
down stream, hardly making a
Wise and Otherwise
'T'HE hardest tumble a man
can take is to fall over his
own bluff.
Consistency is a jewel which pawn
brokers refuse tc recognize.
We should be kind to poor
old worn-out horses. There
are some men who put their
shirts on them.
Intelligence test (for girl):
Can she refuse a kiss without
being deprived of it?
No, a grass widow is not a
woman whose husband died of
hay fever.
Some girls are called gold
diggers, but they are faithful
to the last fiver.
ripple as it swept along. Suddenly
the ball seemed to burst open with
a loud splash, and four excited ot
ters with their bright, eager eyes
well above the water, started
swimming round one another. One
leaped right out of the stream and
over its companions to dive on the
other side, and as they floated
along this acrobat made circles
around them, those below trying to
grip it as it passed over. Then
they all joined up again, and
seemed to be having a struggle as
to which could pull the others un
der the surface, a sort of spirited
ducking game.
They continue to play until all
are tired. Then the parents lead
their young off to a well-hidden
lair, where they all sleep until
hunger and high spirits call again.
—Oliver G. Pike in London Tit
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