by Noel Loomis
“I know when I’m beat,” he said gruffly. “You talk, and I’ll listen!”
“I’m going to let you play along,” Curly Brown said arrogantly. “You try a sneak, and some of my boys will get you. You’re in this up to your hips, measuring from either end. You had the deck stacked against Fleming and Waggoner, you and your brother Sam. Now you and Snake shag down to the lower end and get ready to start that Utah drive. I’ll take care of Whiskers, and hold down this end!”
Jude Tabor turned and walked to the west end of the long tunnel, followed closely by Snake Hollister. When the echo of their boots had died away, Curly Brown grinned wolfishly at Gospel Cummings.
“You know too much, Parson,” he muttered.
“I am not a parson,” Cummings corrected. “But I am a man of peace, and I abhor the ways of violence. I avoid them whenever I can. Now I ask you to lay my Book down carefully before you do what you have in your evil mind!”
“I believe you have the gift of reading minds,” Brown said with a grin. “So tell me some more about the future, Cummings. Am I going to meet a tall dark stranger, or have I already met this bringer of bad luck?”
“You’ve met him,” Cummings agreed with a strange knowing smile. “He was a stranger, and you took him in. You heaped curses on his defenseless head, meaning that six-shooter of yours. Then you robbed him of a strong potion, not knowing what you were doing.”
“I can carry my liquor,” Brown boasted. “So I stole the jug from your coat-tails. Tell me more, crystal gazer!”
“That was strong drink you quaffed, my erring brother,” Cummings warned. “Perhaps it will prove to be your undoing, but the ways of the transgressor are hard. Before your sin overtakes you, dwell upon these words. Strong drink is raging, and who so ever is deceived thereby is not wise!”
“You seem to thrive on it,” Brown said with a chuckle.
“I made a trivial request,” Cummings reminded him. “I asked you to lay the Book aside before you carried out your diabolical plot!”
Curly Brown grinned and carefully placed the Bible on the floor of the cave behind a pillar. He staggered as he straightened up, and a spasm of pain contorted his thin face. He put out a hand as though to prevent a fall, and then he pulled himself together with an effort. His right hand swept back for a throw, but Gospel Cummings was watching carefully.
Gospel side-stepped and leaped in like an attacking puma. His big right fist caught Curly Brown under the chin and lifted the little outlaw a foot from the floor. Then Curly Brown fell to the stone floor and sprawled out like a worn rope.
Gospel retrieved the Book and tucked it carefully in the left tail of his coat. He took one of the outlaw’s pistols, dragged Brown behind a large pillar and waited as footsteps came from the west end of the tunnel.
“Hey, Curly,” a voice called cautiously.
“Over here,” Cummings called, as he muffled his lips against his sleeve.
Snake Hollister came forward, and Gospel Cummings raised the pistol he had taken from Curly Brown. He swung with all his force as Hollister passed his hiding place, and the segundo dropped with a muffled grunt.
Gospel Cummings leaned over the unconscious man and took his own six-shooter from Hollister’s belt. He replaced it with Curly Brown’s weapon as he smiled sardonically. Then he left the cave and found old Fred grazing near the mouth of the cave.
Gospel Cummings crept into the brush and listened intently as he scanned the lower trail. He smiled with more confidence when he saw a blue jay fly across the high brush. If anything strange had been in the immediate vicinity, the bird would have sounded a raucous warning.
The gaunt plainsman then studied the upper trail, noting each landmark. Satisfied that he was alone, Cummings tightened his saddle cinches. Then he did a strange and unexpected thing.
Gospel Cummings smiled with a trace of guilt as he took the bottle of whiskey from the tail of his coat. He held it up and read the label, and then placed the bottle squarely in the center of the cave opening. A label was pasted over the regular label, and on it was printed a crude skull and crossbones in red ink. There was also some writing in Doc Brady’s shaky scrawl. It read: “For medicinal purposes only. Will produce physic and induce deep sleep!”
Cummings smiled again and mounted his hip-shot sorrel. He rode down the steep trail, reined in off the rocky path, and dismounted. He picked up another bottle he had hidden there on his last stop before riding to the cave with Jude Tabor. He pulled the cork, made a mark with his thumb…
He was nearing the rocky ledge over Lost River when Cummings heard a murmur of voices. He stopped old Fred and dismounted cautiously. Then he sneaked away through the underbrush without making a sound.
“You might not come out alive, Jim,” a girl’s voice said tearfully.
“Old Gospel did this for us,” Cummings heard Jim Waggoner answer. “It’s the least I can do for him. I’m glad you remembered the trail back here, and now I want you to know how much I love you, Molly.”
“I know, Jim,” Molly answered, and Cummings heard the unmistakable sound of a kiss.
“If Jude Tabor has hurt Gospel, I’ll kill him like I would a snake!” Jim Waggoner promised. “That goes for Curly Brown!”
“I’d have sworn he was dead,” Molly whispered. “Both guns exploded, and then Curly Brown staggered and fell!”
“And all the time old Gospel was watching the whole play,” Waggoner said slowly. “You never can tell just when that old settler will show up!”
“I wish he would show up now,” Molly said fretfully. “He never thinks about himself, Jim. It was the same way with Sandra. Gospel came closer to killing when he rescued Sandra, but that was before Ace Fleming married her. And to think that he was watching over me all the time I was in that cave with those outlaws!”
She shuddered violently, and Jim Waggoner held her tightly for a moment.
“I’d have killed Curly Brown,” he muttered. “I wouldn’t throw off my shots!”
“You know what Gospel would say,” Molly responded. “I somehow have the feeling that he is close to us right now!”
Gospel Cummings retreated slowly and mounted his horse. Then he sent old Fred clattering across the stone ledge, knowing that the hidden pair would hear his approach. He simulated surprise when Jim Waggoner rode into the trail, and Cummings quickly holstered his drawn pistol.
“What are you doing back here, Jim?” he asked sharply.
“Came back to give you a hand,” Waggoner answered promptly. “I don’t trust Jude Tabor, and I trust Curly Brown even less!”
“Who’s that with you?” Gospel asked, and he smiled when Molly Ballard rode into the trail. “Howdy, Molly,” he greeted the girl, and touched the brim of his old hat.
“Gospel! I’m so glad you are safe,” the girl told him earnestly. “Did you meet Curly Brown?”
“I met his ghost,” Cummings said with a smile. “But let’s ride away from here before we talk too much.”
He lifted his sorrel to a fast lope and rode through the badlands in the lead. Molly and Jim followed him, and Cummings pulled up near the creek to let old Fred blow. Jim Waggoner rode close and stared at the gaunt plainsman’s face.
“You mean Brown is dead?” he asked, and then he glanced down at Gospel’s holstered six-shooter. “Your gun has not been fired,” he answered himself.
“I’ve got a headache,” Cummings said acidly. “Curly Brown was hiding behind one of those limestone pillars, and he belted me to sleep with his cutter.”
“I don’t savvy,” Waggoner murmured. “If Brown knocked you out, he would have taken your six-shooter!”
“He took it,” Cummings said wryly. “For a time I thought him and Jude Tabor would really put on the fight they rehearsed for in front of Molly.”
“Tell us how you got away, Gospel,” Waggoner pleaded. “I still can’t believe you escaped!”
Cummings told his story simply, omitting the part about the powerful medicine Curly Brow
n had imbibed. That could wait until he and Jim were alone.
“Did you get your men ready for that ride tonight?” he asked Waggoner.
“They’ve already started,” Waggoner answered. “Ace Fleming is rodding both crews, and I told him I’d join him later.”
Cummings was about to gig his horse into the trail when he heard the clop of hooves, and the rattle of horns. He held up his hand for silence, and stared when a Circle F steer came through the brush. The steer was followed by several more, and they were being hazed along by a lanky cowboy swinging the end of his catch rope.
“That’s Ned Tolliver on a Rafter T horse,” Jim Waggoner whispered hoarsely, and he slapped for his six-shooter.
The Rafter T man jerked up his head and dug frantically for his holstered gun. Waggoner triggered a shot away, and Tolliver fell backward over the cantle of his saddle and thudded to the grass. Gospel Cummings spurred his horse and loped into the brush. He was kneeling beside the wounded man when Jim Waggoner and Molly rode in.
“You could have throwed off your shot, Jim,” Cummings said accusingly. “He won’t live too long!”
“He’s already lived too long,” Waggoner said harshly. “That jasper made his boast that he never throws off his shots, and I didn’t have too much time!”
“Got him just above the heart,” Cummings whispered, and he leaned across the Rafter T man. “You want to say anything, Tolliver?” he asked in a gentle voice.
Ned Tolliver slowly opened his eyes. “Yeah,” he murmured weakly. “Plant me close to Joe Slade and Tom Cox. And save one for Curly Brown; Jude means to tally for that lobo!”
Silence for a moment, and then Tolliver half-opened his eyes. “You see Jude, tell him I’ll see him…in hell!” Molly shuddered and drew away. Gospel Cummings leaned forward and closed the sightless eyes. He covered the face of Ned Tolliver with the cowboy’s old Stetson, and stretched to his lean six feet and a bit.
The three rode to the Circle F, and Molly said she would tell Sandra Fleming to set two more places for supper. Waggoner and Cummings stripped their saddle gear and stabled their horses. They roped fresh mounts from the horse corral, washed at the basins behind the bunk house, and went to the big ranch house. Sandra Fleming greeted Gospel with a kiss as she held the gaunt plainsman close.
“I’m so glad you are safe, Gospel,” she whispered. “You’re the only father I have.”
“I only wish I were your real father,” Cummings murmured. “Yes, I’m safe, Sandra honey. The Devil takes care of his own!”
“Don’t you talk like that about one of the men I love,” Sandra scolded. “You brought me to Vaca, and you introduced me to Ace. I’ve never been happier in all my life!”
“When do we eat, on account of Jim and I have quite a fast ride to make tonight?” Cummings spoke lightly.
“Tonight, Gospel?” Sandra Fleming repeated. “Has it something to do with Ace and his crew riding out?”
“Everything,” Cummings answered honestly. “Tabor means to move some of the rustled beef tonight, and we mean to stop that rustling if we can.”
“Grub pile ready, Missee,” a voice interrupted, and Gospel Cummings turned to face an aged Chinaman.
“Howdy, Wing Loo, you old heathen,” Cummings greeted the Oriental cordially. “Long time no see.”
“Ah yes,” Wing Loo answered with a broad smile. “My folks all good. You?”
“Never better,” Cummings answered. “Seeing that Sandra is all the folks I’ve got. You take good care of her, Wing!”
“Me do,” Wing Loo answered politely. “You eat now, revered one?”
Wing Loo bowed and hurried to the kitchen.
“He worships you, Gospel,” Sandra smiled at the embarrassed plainsman. “Wing says he’s a heathen, but if he goes to his ancestors first, he wants you to say his service.”
“Do you think there will be trouble tonight?” Molly asked anxiously.
“Trouble for those rustlers,” Waggoner answered grimly.
“You can throw off your shots, Jim,” Gospel said hopefully, and Jim Waggoner shook his head stubbornly.
“That’s something that neither Ace or I ever learned to do,” he stated doggedly. “All of my boys feel the same way, and so does the Circle F crew!”
“How many men is Ace rodding?” Cummings asked.
“Fourteen,” Sandra answered. “Cole Brighton sent over five, and Singin’ Saunders went along. That left us two men to guard headquarters, and two on the Wagon Wheel. Do be careful, Gospel!”
“Yes’m,” Gospel answered, and took his place at the table after seating Sandra. Jim Waggoner sat down next to Molly, and for a moment his young face was grim.
“All I want is one chance at Jude Tabor,” he muttered.
“Jim, eat your supper,” Molly said quickly, but Sandra had taken her cue.
“And Ace wants one look at Snake Hollister,” she said with a frown.
“Snake won’t be here tonight,” Gospel Cummings said positively. “Neither will Curly Brown or Jude Tabor. Those three will be busy watching each other back in Lost River tunnel.”
“What’s it like back there?” Sandra asked, and then she bit her lip as Molly shuddered.
“It’s gloomy,” Cummings answered. “Lost River runs through the cave, but it’s about one hundred feet straight down. I’ve an idea there will be plenty of action in the cave before this thing is settled. I wouldn’t want to be Jude Tabor, with Curly Brown and Snake Hollister waiting for a chance to smoke him down.”
“We can take it to them later,” Waggoner said sullenly. “Tod was like a brother to me!”
“Thank goodness for Wing,” declared Sandra. “I always feel perfectly safe with him in the house.”
“Keep the doors locked regardless,” Waggoner urged. “We won’t be back until daylight, and with those three wolves up there in Lost River tunnel, you never can tell. Especially after what happened to Ned Tolliver!”
“And he was barely more than a boy,” Molly murmured. “I wonder what kind of a home he had before he joined up with Tabor?”
“He was a drifter from New York,” Jim Waggoner spoke up. “He wasn’t more than seventeen when he first came to Vaca. That was about five years ago, and he worked for Dad before he joined up with the Rafter T.”
“I remember him,” Sandra said. “He always was wild, especially when he was drinking in town.”
Gospel Cummings frowned and stared down at his plate. Sandra Fleming appeared distressed, and she reached over and patted the plainsman’s brown hand.
“I love you, Gospel,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“You never have,” Cummings answered with a smile. “I’m about finished, and Jim and I better get the horses ready.”
They left the table and used what light was left to gear their fresh Circle F horses. Sandra brought a box of .45 cartridges and handed them to Cummings.
“Take these for extras, you and Jim,” she said quietly. Then she rose on her tiptoes and kissed Gospel on the cheek. “Take care of yourself, Gospel,” she whispered.
Gospel Cummings turned in the saddle and nodded to his younger companion. Then he trapped his lips tight and left the Circle F yard at a fast trot.
Chapter 14
Jim Waggoner glanced at his older companion as the two rode at a high lope across the west end of Circle F range in the slanting shadows of the early night. Gospel Cummings was a man of unusual self-control except when pushed too hard. Now he was well-fed, had the blessing of Sandra Fleming who, except for the accident of birth, might have been his daughter.
Jim Waggoner knew that with Sandra safe and well-guarded, Gospel Cummings would more than ever be a man of peace. With Sandra in danger, things would be different. The young Wagon Wheel boss was turning an idea over in his mind, and reserving it for later use.
“I hope the boys temper justice with mercy out yonder tonight,” Cummings said hopefully. “We should recover most of the lost shipping beef, and w
e know that the three ringleaders will not be leading their crews.”
“We’ll know where to find those three when we want them,” Waggoner remarked.
“Or whoever is left among them,” Cummings qualified. “From watching all three, I’d say the last man left of that trio would be Curly Brown. He’s small, smart as a whip, and deadly!”
“Curly wouldn’t need much of a trial,” Waggoner said grimly. “He’s an admitted killer, with a price on his head. It’s always open season on lobos.”
Gospel Cummings frowned. He knew the futility of trying to convert Jim Waggoner to his point of view, and the Wagon Wheel cowboy proved his point when he again spoke.
“Trials are expensive,” Waggoner said doggedly. “And there will be quite a few judges riding after those long-loopers tonight.”
“Name one!” Cummings challenged sternly.
“I’ll name more than a dozen, all with the same last name,” Waggoner accepted the challenge. “Old Judge Colt!”
Gospel Cummings sighed heavily. “I was afraid of that,” he admitted. “The boys will shoot first, and ask questions later!”
“That’s right,” Waggoner agreed. “If the law is good enough for Jude Tabor and his killers, it’s good enough for honest cattlemen!”
Cummings remained silent and distributed his weight to get the most out of his running horse. They came to Wild Cat Creek and reined in to allow the horses to blow. Just across the creek the lava badlands began, and Cummings said he knew a short-cut through the wasteland which would save several miles and put them right on the Saint George trail.
“I wish it had been me back in Lost River tunnel either one of those two times,” Waggoner said savagely. “I’d have settled for at least two of those three ringleaders!”
“I get to thinking about my own shortcomings,” Cummings told Jim Waggoner in a gentle voice. “I reckon I wouldn’t make a very good judge, Jim. A man showed any signs of repentance, I’d like as not give him another chance.”
“To kill some more of your kinfolks and friends,” Waggoner stated bluntly. “And either one of those three will do it!”