“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.