The keeper of Red Horse Pass

by W. C. Tuttle

The origin of Medicine Tree was rather clouded. It was there when the oldest inhabitant arrived, according to local history, a half-adobe, half-frame town, with no structure over two stories high, narrow streets, picturesque, in a way. If there ever had been a Medicine Tree, not even the roots remained.

Thirty miles south was the town of Broad Arrow, the county seat, on the main line of a railroad, from which a branch road served Painted Valley; a branch thirty miles long, running an intermittent mixed-train service—one combination parlour car, smoker and baggage car, the rest cattle cars. The rolling stock of this branch, except for the cattle cars, was nothing to brag about, but it was better than bumping over a rutty road on a four-horse stage for thirty miles.

But Painted Valley didn’t appreciate the railroad. The old cowmen swore that the “enjine scared the cows and set brush fires,” which it probably did. Painted Valley was a tight corporation. Not counting the Lost Trail, which Marsh had talked about to Blaze Nolan, there were just two ways to get in and out of the valley.

Red Horse Pass was the northern route, which led northwest to the sheep country, where the town of Marshville, named after Kendall H. Marsh, was the sheepmen’s headquarters. To the southward the valley opened to the wide sweeps of the desert. The sheep were no menace from that direction; the lack of water and feed precluded any chance of invasion from that end.

Broad Arrow, the county seat, an incorporated city, was in the hands of reformers, who had closed gambling houses and the red light district, thereby causing Medicine Tree to expand in that respect, causing increased passenger traffic over the branch line railroad.

At the western end of Red Horse Pass was the JK ranch, the ranch buildings set back almost against the cliffs. For years Jim Kelton had been known as the Keeper of the Pass, with his huddle of adobe ranch buildings, primitive in architecture, the adobe walls coloured by nature almost to blend in with the vermilion and cobalt of the background. The flagged patios, bullet-scarred walls, half-covered with a profusion of climbing roses, gnarled old oaks, shading the deep well in the main patio, the jingle of spurs as a chap-clad cowboy led his horse to the deep trough beside the well, or the tinkling of a guitar, as little Jose puzzled over the intricate notes of a fandango, it was all part of the JK ranch.

Here Jim Kelton had raised his flock of three, Ben, Harry and Jane. Ben was twenty-eight years of age a few days before he was killed in the War Dance Saloon at Medicine Tree. Harry was twenty-six; Jane twenty-one. Their mother had died when Jane was ten. Jane had been sent to school at Phoenix, after several terms at the little Medicine Tree school, but Ben and Harry did not want this advantage.

For several years the going had been tough for the cattlemen of Painted Valley. Drought, low prices for beef and high prices for transportation had conspired to drag them down. Money was scarce, but with the innate optimism of cattlemen they carried on without complaint.

Jim Kelton was growing old. Rheumatism had crippled him, sapped his vitality, and the killing of Ben had added years to his age. He spent much of his time on the cool upper verandah of the ranch-house, smoking his pipe and looking out over the blue haze of Painted Valley, his gray beard sunk on his chest.

No one knew, except Jim Kelton, that he was struggling against hate, which burned deep in his soul—a hate against Take-a-Chance Marsh and Blaze Nolan. He knew that Marsh’s plans were deep laid to flood Painted Valley with sheep. He could sit there and see the gray flood sweeping down through Red Horse Pass, spreading out over the valley he had loved so long.