marked man
© D. APPLETON-CENTURY CO. By H. C WIRE * WNU SERVICE
THE STORY THUS FAR
Summoned to the C C ranch In central
Nevada, deiert-wlse Walt Gandy Is on
his 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 ia
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 Writ sees Hollister and the girl
who had stopped him. Chino Drake,
former cock 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 man 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!
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
steps 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. Hollister
tells Walt that Cash Cameron, thought
to be worth a fortune, is flat broke.
The murder of Chino Drake may be
his finish. Gandy points out to Hollister
that Ranger Powell, Cameron’s alibi for
Drake’s death, has disappeared. Riding
the range, Hollister and Gandy meet
Pete Kelso and two of his hired men.
CHAPTER XI—Continued
—7—
Kelso apparently had not recog
nized the man between his two
henchmen, until Walt Gandy came
to a stop. He had been chewing to
bacco. His mouth suddenly quit
working. One cupped hand went up
to it and he threw away the cud.
Then his ramrod trunk leaned for
ward a little across the saddle horn,
and a queer smile creased the lines
of his sharp, black face. Still he said
nothing; but sat there, an insolent,
confident man, plainly feeling him
self in control of the situation.
He turned his head and looked at
Hollister. ‘‘Where’d you get him?
Looks green to me. I see you don’t
let him carry a gun, either. That’s
good. Just you C C people keep your
guns shed and stick to the east rims
and everything will go along fine.”
Hollister let him talk.
Kelso went on smoothly, in a
round-about way drawing toward
something which Walt Gandy had
already foreseen. “I’m being wide
open with you, Hollister. Jeff Stod
dard means to winter two thousand
77 animals here in the sink. As his
range boss, I’ll see that he does it.
We’re gathering now and we’ll drive
day after tomorrow."
Interest came into Hollister’s
eyes. "Day after tomorrow? I’ll
make a note of that, Pete. Will
Stoddard be along?”
“Riding point, same as usual,”
Kelso told him. “What of it?”
Hollister said nothing, but Gandy^
watching closely that set face, be
lieved the lank man had concluded
some long line of thinking.
Pete Kelso, too, must have felt
that perhaps in some way he did not
control all destiny, that the game
was slipping out of his hands, al
though he did not see how. His black
eyes glittered. His words quickened.
“It would be a damn bad mistake
for you to show up on that day, Hol
lister.” He jerked his hardening
gaze across to Gandy. “Or any oth
er C C man!”
Behind that look, thinly veiled,
was the thing Walt Gandy had been
expecting.
Pete Kelso had not forgotten the
livery barn fight, nor its oat-bin
ending. He was thinking of it now,
hot-blooded. The tight dark skin of
his face burned; jaw sinews were
corded. With effort his hands re
mained on the saddle horn, away
from the gun in his belt holster.
Gandy twirled his cigarette sack
on the end of a bare forefinger. He
watched Pete Kelso’s hands. Then
he was aware that a look had been
exchanged between the red-faced
guard on his right and the 77 fore
man. Once more, as when first ap
proaching this spot, he was con
scious of being maneuvered.
Hollister, Kelso, and the sheer
cliff wall were directly before him.
Kelso’s two hirelings hemmed him
in right and left. Now the left one
edged forward. On the right, he
of the red face turned in his saddle
and gazed off up the ravine, and
in so turning, his long-backed body
hid the forty-five.
Kelso was speaking again, once
more in his smoothly confident
voice.
“Hollister, you might as well
make up your mind to quit the Emi
grant Bench. The C C is sunk. What
do you want to go down with it
for? You’re only the foreman. Why
don't you get out?”
He paused, then shot home:
“You'd have to sneak, sure. God
knows both you and Cameron are
in a hole as far as the law’s con
cerned. But none of us blames you
for doing away with that cook.”
In a fleeting shift of his glance,
Gandv caught the rock-like control
of Bill Hollister’s face; control cov
ering more smoldering fire than any
man would guess. For good reason
Hollister had ridden today unarmed.
He would have no outbreak until he
himself touched it off. But it was
taking almost more than his iron
will to keep silent under Pete Kel
so’s continued thrusts.
"That’s what I’m saying to you,”
the 77 man finished. "I'm not prom
ising so much for any green hands
you’ve taken on. They’re bound to
get into trouble at a time like this,
whether you give ’em guns to play
with or not!”
Lazily, Walt Gandy stretched in
his saddle. He was not watching
Kelso now, but out of his eye-cor
ners kept the red-faced man on his
right fixed in view. He had caught
the note of a cue speech in that last
talk of Kelso’s, as if this act had
been planned and rehearsed.
The man left of him had edged
forward far enough so that the rump
of his horse was even with Sun
spot’s shoulder. The palomino lay
back angry ears. And now in a
heavy half minute, Walt Gandy saw
the play that was coming. There
would be a sudden lashing out of
hind hoofs from the animal edged
forward, a crowding and mix-up of
horses to the right, a gun discharged
and someone killed in the accident
fellow named Gandy.
He stopped twirling the tobacco
sack and thrust it in under his coat
to his shirt pocket And then the
play came.
For some reason the red-faced
killer did not wait for the mix-up of
crowding horses to give excuse. His
hidden right hand jerked suddenly.
It was quick, but Hollister’s warning
shout was a second quicker.
A gun ripped the ravine silence
in a single jarring crash. Upon
the red face came a look of stupid
surprise. The man lurched forward,
grabbing his saddle horn. An ugly
wound ran up along his right wrist.
He had dropped his gun.
Smoke drifted in a gray flag over
Walt Gandy’s palomino. "Try that
again,” said Gandy, "and I’ll put
the next one where you won’t ever
feel it!"
He covered all three with a short
swing of the thirty-eight. Under the
sheepskin coat his shoulder holster
lay exposed, snugged beneath his
left armpit and near the shirt pock
et holding his tobacco. He turned
cold eyes upon the 77 boss.
“Did anyone ever tell you the dif
ference between green and yellow?
You all keep your hands up. Bill,
to make it safe for awhile, dump
their guns out, will you?”
There was a time of steel objects
thudding upon the ravine sand.
“Now,” said Gandy, “travel! And
don’t come back to get this stuff
too soon.”
As Pete Kelso lowered his hands,
the queer smile that had been there
once before today, creased his
swarthy face. Without a word he
led off across the flat sink, the oth
ers following. But out of earshot he
stopped, spoke quickly, then swung
north alone, jumping his horse at
once into a lope.
North meant to town. Puzzled,
Walt Gandy watched him go.
“God help you now, Walt!” Hol
lister’s voice broke in. “But come
on, we’d better look up the rest of
our people.”
CHAPTER XII
LJ OLLISTER and Walt swung in
* '* along the curving bluff where
an arm of the sink cut back into
the bench. Pete Kelso’s figure was
a dark speck northward Twisting
in his saddle Gandy saw the two
henchmen circling out on the flat
and knew they would not be long
in returning to pick up their guns.
They'd be harmless for the rest of
this day. All their shells were in
Hollister’s saddle pockets.
Farther out on the sink, C C cat
tle were grazing in scattered herds,
peaceful, stupid brutes, unable to
know of the war that men were plan
ning in order to keep their paunches
full of grass. Or was it the men
that were stupid? Irrelevantly. Walt
Gandy wondered
Half a mile ahead the arm nar
rowed. and he could make out the
notch of a trail leading upward onto
the bench top. A small bunch of
half a dozen cows were near at
hand. Suddenly Bill Hollister swore.
A range doss can ten nis own ani
mals before reading their brands;
but it took a closer view for Gandy
to be sure these were 77's, and not
C C’s. As he started to say some
thing about this enemy run-in, a rid
erless horse trotted into sight where
the Sink arm narrowed to a point.
He bit his words off.
Hollister had seen the horse too,
and in unison his black and Gandy's
palomino were lifted into a run. The
mount was Cash Cameron’s tall
gray. They drove it back, swept
onto a tongue of grass from seepage
water, and then, passing a cabin
size chunk of rock, slid to a stop
next instant beside a spring.
Cameron stood there, water plas
tering the white hair close to his
head, his hat on the ground. He
pivoted groggily, recognized the two
C C men, stooped- and splashed
more water on his face.
Hollister swung down. 'Where’s
Helen?”
’’The girl went back an hour ago,”
Cameron said, rising.
‘‘Alone? Lord, Cash, the 77 is
loose all over here!”
"Don t I know it! The old man
bent and recovered his hat, sourly
examining a hole high up the crown.
His gray face tightened. "And I've
got to take a thing like this!”
"What happened?” Hollister
asked.
“I was cleaning rock from the
pool here and saw some cows. Them
yonder." Cameron pointed to the 77
bunch. “Went out to have a look.
Five men were up a draw, waiting
for just such a move, I figure, but
I didn’t see them till one put a bul
let at me. My fool scarehead horse
bucked, and I didn't stick.”
Hollister scanned the high rim,
then the sink bottom. "Which way’d
they go, Cash?”
"West. They were 77 all right,
but too far off for me to get a good
look. Using rifles.”
Worried, Hollister thrust his boot
toe in the stirrup and mounted, say
ing, “We'd better get on back and
see about Horsethief Fisher and
Paul.” He made no mention then of
his own meeting with part of the
77 crew.
They climbed a narrow steep
slanting trail single file and topped
out on the bench. There, holding in
to let the horses draw wind, he stat
ed flatly what had happened, mak
ing no comment.
"Pete Kelso,” he said, “made a
pass at turning back my bunch of
strays. Gandy drilled one of hi§
men in the wrist—brought his thirty
eight along today in a shoulder hol
ster."
"Gandy did!” Cash Cameron
jerked himself around in his saddle,
as near to flaring up as Walt had
seen so far. "Look here. There
wasn’t to be any gunning on the
C C! Now what have you done?”
“Cameron,” said Gandy, "that
was sort of personal between Pete
Kelso and me, only he shoved the
job onto one of his killers.” He bent
toward the old man, doubled left
fist propped upon his thigh. "But
damned if I see what you’re driving
Still he said nothing; but sat
there, an insolent, confident man.
at! Now that the first gun's fired,
why don't we call it an opening shot
and go ahead?
"C C cattle are all there in the
sink, settled for tha winter. Are
you going to hold it, or is the 77
going to crowd their stuff in and
run yours out? Why don’t we meet
that drive before it ever reaches
the west rims?”
"Well, boy," said Cameron pa
tiently, "you’re right. It's what
ought to be done, except the C C is
straddling a keg of dynamite, re
member that. It isn’t only the 77
we've gut to consider every
Emigrant Bench outfit is primed and
ready to blow us off the public do
main. A ranch needing as much
of that as we do, is always in a
ticklish position Right now we’ve
got thf law and the people against
us; we don't dare have any more
killings charged against the C C un
til we come clear of what has al
ready happened Understand that,
don't you? So I'll ask you to keep
that gun of yours out of action.”
Gandy shook his head, his eyes
hardening to a dark and stubborn
bronze. "I don’t get it! You mean,"
he asked, unbelieving, “that you’ll
let the 77 drive come in?”
Cash Cameron looked at Hollister.
Then his steady blue gaze came
back. "Yes," he said, "I might."
It was after three by the time
they had pushed across the bench
top and were loping slantwise up the
timbered mountain skirt. In deep
ening forest shadow they reached
the home ranch trail, had just
passed the section corner where the
fence began, when from ahead came
a moaning of cattle.
Walt Gandy chilled with recogni
tion. Beside him, Cameron and Hol
lister exchanged a sudden eye to
eye look. Wordless, they moved on
The cattle were off on their left,
and had gone into that fenced sec
tion where a panel of barbed wire
had either been let down, or had
not been put up in Bent Lavic's
recent mending. They were in thin
timber, near another fence that en
closed the garden patch.
tll.iric.n .viii
BILL HOLLISTER was the first to
take his eyes from the mutilat
ed, khaki-clad body of Ranger Pow
ell. Cash Cameron sat stunned. Hol
lister spoke quietly to Gandy: “Pull
off a little, will you, Walt?”
Gandy neck-reined his palomino
around and rode back among the
pine trunks out of hearing. Hollis
ter, he knew, had something to say
that was for the old man alone.
Too plainly in one blow all his
props had been struck away. There
was his alibi in the Chino Drake
killing, dead. More than that, there
was the federal ranger he had been
wrangling with over forest grass.
When Walt turned to look again.
Bill Hollister was coming through
the trees toward him, his face set
and bleak as granite, telling noth
ing.
“I’m going over the mountain,”
he said. “Taking Cash with me. This
puts him in an awful hole."
“It sure does," Gandy agreed.
“I’d hate to see Sheriff Battle or
any of the Emigrant hot-heads get
hold of him now!"
Hollister nodded. “That’s it. He’s
got to stay under cover, give us
time to work out something. I’ll
be back tonight, late."
He seemed not to be considering
any hole that he too might be in.
Gandy watched him narrowly, of
fering, “Suppose I phone Battle
from the house? Let him think I
found the body. How’s that?”
The deep-set eyes stared out In
their drilling look. "You believe
Cameron actually did this? Or I
did?"
“I’m doing my believing private,”
said Gandy. “Only it’s dead sure
something has got to be done. You
go on. I’ll ride in and call the sher
iff.” Under knee pressure his palo
mino was already sidestepping
away.
A twisted figure scuttled from the
kitchen door, as coming in by the
rear lot, he approached the ranch
home. Bent Lavic went dragging
down toward the bunk shacks. Gan
dy swung off on the stone step,
leaving the pony’s reins up. No one
was in the kitchen when he entered
a minute later.
Standing at the wall telephone, he
cranked for Emigrant, and when
the operator answered, said, “Sher
iff’s office."
As the connection was made and
a thick voice rumbled in his ear, he
asked, “Battle?’/ Then, “This is
Gandy at the C C. You’d better
come out here; there’s been a body
found. Yes. Ranger Powell.”
Walt hung up, and was aware then
that by some miraculous means Hel
en Cameron had appeared behind
him. He pivoted, looking at her.
She stood near a table; but all at
once, with the blood gone from her
face, she dropped upon a bench and
stared back at him, speechless.
She had overheard his telephone
conversation, yet even as Walt Gan
dy took a step toward the girl, he
realized that what he had told Sher
iff Battle was not news to her. The
shock now registered upon her face
was something else.
Her first words seemed to prove
it, for she did not question what
had happened. Hoarsely from a
tightening throat she asked, "Where
is my father?” And before he could
answer; "Why did you call Battle?
Why did you!”
Unanswering, Walt Gandy let
himself down upon a bench opposite.
He took off his hat and laid it at his
side. His weight creaked the floor
boards and there was a clink of
spurs under the table as his legs
shifted uneasily: he’d give anything
to have Helen Cameron out of this!
But she wasn't.
In a flat statement he said, “So
you knew Ranger Powell had been
killed. I suppose it isn't any use
asking how you knew that?”
"No " The girl’s slim straight
hands clenched on the table top.
| "What have you done? Where is my
j father?”
‘‘He won’t be in for awhile.”
“But where is he? What . .
Her tone had risen, sharp and ring
ing. With a startled look she broke
off and sat rigid, staring at him but
somehow strangely through him.
And then her words began again,
quietly, with more self-control and
determination than he had ever
heard in a girl's voice:
“Walt Gandy, you have got to
leave this ranch It was a mistake
for you to come. It will be a greater
mistake for you to stay any longer.
You've got to go.” Very evenly the
speech was given, but toward the
end a little catch came into that
determined tone.
Leave the ranch. Walt Gandy
turned his head away, looking out of
a window into the fading afternoon.
Did she know what she was ask
ing? He did.
It was not a feeling of the mo
ment, aroused because she was so
plainly in desperate trouble, but one
that had grown steadily since the
first instant of their meeting—he
wanted to be with this girl always;
Helen Cameron meant more to him
than anything else in the world.
‘‘But first,” she was saying, “I
want you to give me something. I
want the bullet I passed to you at
the inquest the other day.”
(TO BE CONTINUED)
High Schools A1 SO Turn
Out ‘Vocational’ Grads
New York City’s Board of Education does not confine its high
school students to the study of languages and mathematics. On the
contrary, there is an 11-story building, right in the heart of the gar
ment center, wherein high school students receive the vital training
necessary to those who would enter the trades. In the Central High
School of Needle Trades, every trade, from retail merchandising
and selling, to hand-made shoe manufacturing, is taught to girls
and boys later to follow those pursuits in the commercial world.
Above we see girls in the class of draping of original patterns
and costume designing at work in that department.
These two boys are engaged in the fur-working class, putting
finishing touches to fur jackets. Vocational work such as this is of
greatest value in fitting students for jobs after graduation.
There are tieo retail shops
on the ground floor of the
school. In the stores stu
dents receive training in
that line of endeavor. Here
is a womens wear shop in
which a student-clerk sells
student-goods.
Here the boys in the shoe-cutting department carve the making
of shoes from leather, by hand. These shoes later arc sold in the
retail shops located on the ground floor of the school.
In this picture we peek into the classroom where girls are
taught to work on sewing machines. The advantages of such train
ing can hardly he overestimated, whether the girls intend to enter
the commercial world or not.
Brooklyn students learn the correct way to cook and serve meals.
WHO’S
NEWS
THIS
WEEK
By LEMUEL F. PARTON
(Consolidated Features—WNU Service.)
NEW YORK. — Most airplane
makers who expressed an opin
ion about Henry Ford’s offer to
make 1,000 planes a day were doubt
, , . ir, n about Mr.
Industry Can Do Ford’s ability
Anything’ in Our to deliver.
Defense Effort Young
energetic
Sherman M. Fairchild, president of
the Fairchild Engine and Airplane
corporation, thought “anything
would be possible" provided suf
ficient money, materials and person
nel were available. He was re
assuring as to the industry’s capaci
ties in tooling, plants and other re
quirements for a quick shift to mass
production.
Mr. Fairchild is, himself, re
assuring in exemplifying the
tradition of Yankee inventive
ness. His ' father, the late
George Winthrop Fairchild, once
chairman of the International
Business Machines corporation,
was the inventor of the dial tele
phone, the computing machine
and finally the adding machine,
to keep track of his mounting
millions—about 10 of which went
to his son. He had begun his
business career at $8 a week.
“Anything is possible" seems to
have been a sort of family
slogan.
As a youth, Sherman M. Fairchild
was mainly interested in cameras.
His father had tapped him for
junior executive of his company.
When the young man stuck to
cameras, this interest later shading
into airplanes, his family was indul
gent. They thought the boy was
just having a “wanderjahr” and
would round up at a desk when the
time came. But the camera obses
sion wasn’t just monkey business.
At 21, he had invented an unique
flashlight camera and several years
later brought through a radial aerial
camera, organized the Fairchild
Aerial Surveys and caught attention
with a trail-blazing aerial survey of
New York. This led to plane-build
ing. In 1927, he corralled several
companies, set Igor Slgorsky build
ing planes and turned out the
cabin monoplane in the United
States.
SINCE chivalry is not inseparable
from patriotism, this writer
asked Norman H. Davis, chairman
of the American Red Cross, to send
Red Cross Chief
Lauds Response paragraphs
Given to Appeal •bout the
work of the
Red Cross in its greatest endeavor.
He responded as follows:
“Anyone attempting to bring ma
terial assistance to the millions of
homeless and miserable war refu
gees is inevitably seized with a
sense of futility. There is so much
that needs doing immediately, and
there are so many obstacles to over
come that the burden of responsibil
ity becomes almost overwhelming.
“These moods of futility I can
dispel by concentrating my
thoughts on the splendid sup
port received by the American
Red Cross from all over the
country. When I think of the
350,000 volunteers sewing band
ages and knitting garments, or
of the millions of Americans in
every walk of life who are con
tributing to the Red Cross war
relief fund, my spirits are im
mediately buoyed. Pride in the
generous and patriotic response
of the public gives each Red
Cross worker new courage to
carry out his tasks.
“The war-relief funds are going
to work for humanity almost as fast
as they come in. Relief supplies are
being distributed, hospital supplies
are on the way and ambulances have
been ordered. Clothing and surgical
dressings are being shipped to the
stricken areas, in huge quantities.
Our activities are rapidly being
geared to greatly increased needs
as the toll of invasion continues to
mount. I have an abiding faith that
the people of this country will help
the Red Cross keep pace with its
increasing obligations.
Mr. Davis is a Southerner by
birth, and therefore fundamen
tally humane; as a successful
business man and financier, he
is effective, and as a European
ambassador at large under five
Presidents, he is discreet.
In the dark depths of the rear seat
of his town car, one night two years
ago, I had a talk with him about
power politics in Europe. He was,
indeed, discreet, but I gained an
impression of his shrewd awareness
of the deeper realities of the Euro
pean impasse, as now tragically re
vealed. When, later, he was ap
pointed chairman of the Red Cross,
it seemed to me that our greatest
humane tradition had been fortu
nately personalized, in a man with
both a touch of homespun and the
sophistication of one accustomed to
getting things done.