by Noel Loomis
They rode off into the water, angling up to allow for the heavier current, while Ferguson and Ernest rode toward Bill Benson’s cabin.
When they drew up close, Ferguson said, “There’s a horse in the corral.”
“A bay,” said Ernest, “you reckon Mrs. Talbot come over here to look around?”
“I don’t know why she should.”
“Been there some time, looks of the droppings.” Ferguson dismounted and rapped on the door. “Anybody in there?” he called.
There was no answer.
Ferguson frowned and rapped again, then pulled the latchstring and pushed the door in.
“Keep your hands up!” said Keller’s voice.
Ferguson raised his hands slowly while his eyes adjusted to the inside of the dim cabin. Then he saw Mrs. Talbot, lying half-dressed on a buffalo robe on the floor in the corner. In the other corner was George Keller, no longer handsome in his Eastern clothes, but filthy and repulsive, his hair matted like the hair of an animal, his feral eyes glittering with an evil light as he centered a six-shooter on Ferguson’s chest. “What happened here?” asked Ferguson.
Mrs. Talbot suddenly sobbed. Ferguson looked at Keller and saw the mad light in his eyes as he started to pull the trigger. Ferguson threw himself at the floor, and at the same time was aware that for some reason the door slammed violently behind him.
Keller pulled the trigger, and the room blossomed with white smoke. Ferguson rolled against Keller’s legs, and felt the man fall. Then he heard a clank, and looked up to see Sally with both hands on a skillet, raising it to hit Keller again.
But it was not needed. Keller was limp on the floor, and Ferguson’s arms were around Sally, and hers were around him. She began to cry then, and Roy Ernest came through the doorway with a rifle.
Ferguson gently disengaged himself from Sally. “Take him away and tie him so he’ll never get loose,” said Ferguson. “We’ll give him a trial in an hour.”
Ernest took hold of Keller’s shirt in the middle of his back and began to drag him out. “I’ll git a wagon-tongue propped up,” he said with satisfaction.
Ferguson turned to Mrs. Talbot. “What are you doing in this?”
She straightened up, and he thought she had aged twenty years. “I got him out of the well,” she said, “and we hid by the river, but we had to keep moving to keep from being found. We went to your place because he thought you would be gone. He found you in the well, and cut the rope. I wanted to go across the river, but he wouldn’t—and then I found out why. He left this morning to get food, he said, but he brought back Sally.” She began to sob hysterically.
Ferguson found a small bottle of brandy and gave her a nip. The question was on his tongue: “Why did you leave me in the well and cut the rope so I couldn’t get out?” He waited for her to calm down so he could ask, but she continued to sob, and he knew she had been through a terrible experience. He began to understand also why she had cut the rope: because she had offered herself to him, but he had declined and his affection had turned toward Sally. Scorn and jealousy, he decided. Whatever it was, he was glad Sally did not seem harmed.
Finally, Mrs. Talbot began to talk. “He left me in this cabin,” she said, “and then he brought her back. He violated me half a dozen times while he forced her to watch, and finally, just a little while ago, he untied her and told her to start fighting him.” She began to sob again.
Ferguson looked at Sally. “Did he hurt you?”
She shuddered and clung to him. “You were just in time, Mr. Ferguson.”
He looked at Mrs. Talbot. “I’d appreciate it if you would tell the jury what you just told me.”
She nodded, crying, and began to put on her dress. Ferguson turned and went out with Sally at his side. He had never been so shaken, and he wanted to get on his horse before he should fall down.
Mrs. Talbot came out, and Ferguson remembered to go back inside and take a quick look. He found nothing but a small surveyor’s notebook with a few addresses and a couple of double eagles in it.
He put Mrs. Talbot on the bay, and had Sally ride double back to the road-ranch, while he went to the ferry to call in Ackerman and all the men he could find.
The Indians were on the far shore, starting the sheep into the water. Ackerman heard Ferguson’s call, and presently half a dozen men, headed by Ackerman and Simon Hudson, swam back across the river and started for Turner’s road-ranch.
Job Sye presided, and the trial was short. Mrs. Talbot tearfully told her story, and Sally verified it. Mrs. Talbot also testified that she had lured Mr. Benson away from the well to get Keller out in the first place, but that Keller had cut Benson’s throat as soon as he got out.
The jury found Keller guilty of murder and also of strange and unnatural practices, and Job Sye sentenced him to be hanged. Roy Ernest had used a doubletree to prop up a wagon-tongue high enough to get Keller’s feet off the ground, and a dozen hands pulled down on the rope that went through the eye at the end of the tongue. Keller’s neck was not broken, but he strangled fairly fast, and kicked only a few times.
By that time, it was late afternoon, and Gallagher came up to watch the last of the hanging, and then got Ferguson off to one side and said: “Them Injuns just finished gettin’ all them sheep into Nebrasky.”
Ferguson looked at him and began to smile. “I’m going to collect from Mawson. Anybody want to go along?”
Everybody present shouted, “Me!” and Ferguson mounted the sorrel and set out, followed by the men.
He came upon Mawson and his four sons, herding the new band of sheep, and Ferguson said, “Mawson, I want my money now—nineteen hundred and twenty dollars, according to our bet.”
Mawson looked at the men behind Ferguson, and his bravado was no longer present. “Well, I—”
“Gold or silver, according to the agreement.”
“I didn’t agree to that,” said Mawson.
“Your man did—and he’s hangin’ by his neck back there and can’t testify. But I can. Passage is always gold or silver.”
“I—I don’t think I have that much.”
“You’re supposed to have,” said Ferguson, dismounting, “Or didn’t you expect to pay?”
“I—are you tying to frighten me, Ferguson?”
“You can pay me in sheep,” said Ferguson, “at a dollar and a half a head.”
“That’s robbery! That’s more than I paid for them!”
“They’re worth twice that out here. Give me a bill of sale,” said Ferguson, “for twelve hundred and eighty head.”
“I can’t—”
“Hold your hosses!” said Simon Hudson, climbing down from his horse. He walked up to Mawson and looked into his face. “You consarned tarnation critter! You’re the one that sold me the lots in Logan City, and I said I’d strangle you if I ever saw you. You’re the president of the Happy Valley Townsite Company. I’m goin’ to strangle you!”
And he was at the big man’s throat before Ferguson could stop him.
Mawson backed away, trying to shake him off, but Hudson hung on. Mawson beat him on both sides of the head with his huge fists, but Hudson’s hold did not weaken. Mawson bear-hugged him, but it was Mawson’s face which began to turn purple, and he finally shook him loose by falling on him. Mawson sprang up first, and took aim with his big foot for Simon Hudson’s under jaw.
Ferguson caught him by the arm. Mawson turned in astonishment, and Ferguson uncoiled his long arms and began to hammer him in the face.
The Mawson boys got into it then, but not for long. Ackerman and half a dozen men swarmed over the boys, and in a few minutes they were down.
In the meantime, Ferguson had his hands full with Mawson. The big man was mean and hard, but Ferguson was light on his feet, and his fists landed like chunks of scrap iron. He kept hitting Mawson in the stomach, and Mawson finally bent over, gasping, and Ferguson straightened him with five or six hard blows to the chin. Mawson began to crumple, went down on one knee, and then fel
l on his face in the dirt.
Ferguson stepped back, and Simon Hudson darted in and got the man by the throat.
Ferguson pulled him off. “Wait till he signs that bill of sale,” he said.
Hudson looked up, bright-eyed. “He can sign one for me too, then.”
* * * *
Sally was washing Ferguson’s face and cleaning the wounds from Mawson’s big fists. Her fingers were soft and gentle as she sponged his face with warm water. She put butter on it and a bandage, and held it in place with court plaster.
“There, Mr. Ferguson.” She unexpectedly kissed him on the lips. “I deserve something for a doctor’s fee, don’t I?” she asked.
His arms went around her hungrily, and he kissed her again and again, but finally he said: “Sally, I want to know one thing: why didn’t you and Obie get me out of the well day before yesterday?”
She stared at him for a moment. “Mr. Ferguson, when that Mrs. Talbot come by here and told me she had already let you out, you didn’t think I was going to go up there, did you? And when you was out of sight for a whole day, what was I to think?”
It dawned on him then. “Sally,” he said earnestly, “I was not with Mrs. Talbot—not even for a moment. She didn’t help me out of the well at all.”
“How’d you git out, then?”
“That’s a long story,” he said, “but not with her help.”
She only half-believed him. “Mr. Ferguson, if I ever find out you been quizzin’ me, I’ll make all kinds of trouble for you.”
“You won’t.”
“She said—and I thought—” Sally stopped for a moment, then she told him soberly: “Whatever happened, Mr. Ferguson, you got to know one thing: I’m a woman now. I’m not a girl, and I won’t stand for my man to look very long at any other woman, and you can’t blame me too much fer not gittin’ you out of the well, because I thought—well, I’m a woman now, Mr. Ferguson, and—”
He kissed her soundly.
“You sure are,” he said.
BOOTHILL GOSPEL, by Chuck Martin
Copyright © 1952 by Arcadia House.
Chapter 1
Gospel Cummings shook his head sadly as the funeral cortege passed his little cabin at the edge of the Devil’s Graveyard. The tall bearded gunman was a man of sorrow; he was also the custodian of Hell’s Half Acre. From his open door he could see row after row of headstones in the primitive burying ground. Under these rested the mortal remains of men who died by the gun…with their boots on.
Gospel Cummings was a man with a dual personality. He wore a long coat of rusty black, and the pockets of those coat-tails told the story of his dual personality. The good man of his nature lived on the left side, where his heart was. In the left tail of his coat, he carried a well-thumbed copy of Holy Writ.
The bad man of his nature lived on the right side. It was there he carried a balanced Colt .45 six-shooter thonged low on his powerful right leg. In the right tail of his long coat, he carried a quart of Three Daisies Whiskey, the token of his besetting sin.
Cummings stood erect, his hands trembling. The funeral procession moved slowly through the volcanic rocks which marked the dead; Gospel Cummings had performed this office for all who slept in Hell’s Half Acre.
His bearded face twisted with emotion for a moment. Then a long-fingered right hand dipped swiftly into the right tail of the long black coat, and emerged clasping the quart of whiskey. Strong teeth removed the cork, and Cummings made a mark on the bottle with his thumb. His arm rose as his head went back, and Gospel drank…past the mark. He stoppered the bottle, replaced it in the pocket, wiped his silky beard and placed his battered black Stetson firmly on his head.
The left hand dipped deep and came out holding the worn Bible. His high-heeled boots were neatly polished for the occasion, the black string tie making a contrast with the white shirt he saved for his semi-professional duties. Then Gospel Cummings left his humble abode and strode with purposeful tread into the place of forgotten men who had shot second.
Boot Hill Crandall waited at his black wagon which stood beside an open grave. Crandall owned the furniture store in Vaca town; he was also the undertaker, and picked up a few odd dollars chiseling the names and dates of departure on the crude volcanic headstones. Six cowboys stood by the wagon, their horses tethered to the front wheels. All six drew riding pay from the Wagon Wheel outfit to the east of town, and all were geared for war. Heavy six-shooters rode on warped legs with the tie-backs fastened low.
Tod Ballard had been their saddle pard, and Tod Ballard was dead.
A crowd of townsfolk had ridden out to the graveyard to pay their final respects to the deceased. Gospel Cummings broke stride when he saw two women. One was Ma Ballard, mother of the victim. The other was Molly Ballard who sang in the Casino, a tall dark-haired beauty with the face of an angel and the figure of a Venus. Tod had been her only brother, and she had worshipped the handsome cowboy.
Gospel Cummings saw something else, and his stern face hardened briefly. Four roughly dressed cowmen stood a little apart from the group about the open grave, all heavily armed, and intent on trouble. Six-shooter trouble, with bulky Sam Tabor wearing a brace of matched .45s.
Sam Tabor was brother to Jude, and they owned the Rafter T spread adjoining the Wagon Wheel. There had been an argument on the open range about a long yearling calf which Tod Ballard had roped and branded, and which Jude Tabor had claimed for the Rafter T. Ballard had been bending over his branding iron, which might have accounted for the fact that he had shot…second.
Gospel Cummings took his place at the head of the grave and spoke sternly. “Gentlemen, you will uncover out of respect for the deceased!”
The six pall-bearers removed their Stetsons with their left hands. The townsmen did likewise. It was different with the Rafter T men. They scowled and remained immobile.
“Get on with the doings!” Sam Tabor said gruffly. “We didn’t have no respect for the deceased!”
“In the midst of life, we are in death,” Cummings said in a full deep voice. “You Rafter T men will uncover!”
“Yore job is to bust sin!” Sam Tabor argued stubbornly. “Say the words that will help that cow thief over the Great Divide, and pay no mind to our manners!” Gospel Cummings shifted the Bible to his left hand. His dark eyes held a strangely luminous glow, and his bearded face was stern with threatening promise.
“I am not bending over a hog-tied calf, Sam Tabor,” he said very quietly. “You will observe the proper customs of this hallowed spot, or you will answer to me!”
“Why, you sodden old sin buster!” Sam Tabor sneered, and his two beefy hands were taloned over the brace of matched guns on his thick thighs. “I never thought you were as fast as some said, and you can do all you have to do with your left hand!”
Without warning, his two hands plunged down to the balanced .45‘s in the moulded holsters, tilted out for a fast draw. Clutching fingers wrapped around smooth cedar handles, but gun metal hissed against oiled leather as Gospel Cummings made his pass with his fast right hand.
The old black .45 leaped from his leg and bellowed thunderously to beat Sam Tabor to the shot, and then the old single-action hog-leg belched an encore just as Tabor’s twin sixes cleared leather, and dropped into the open grave at his feet.
Gospel Cummings faced the Rafter T riders with his smoking gun in his right hand, the open Bible in his left. Now his dark eyes were blazing with the light of righteous anger, and his voice was stern and uncompromising when he spoke.
“You Rafter T rannies will uncover. You, Snake Hollister, remove Sam Tabor’s hat before I shoot it off!”
“You’ll start a war right here in this skull orchard if you do,” Hollister promised grimly. “You can’t get all us Rafter T hands, and you’ll only get one shot away!”
“One will be enough,” Cummings said softly. “Who wants to be that first man? Who among you wants to make the supreme sacrifice for his friends?”
“Holster up
and draw me evens,” Hollister whispered hoarsely. “I’ll take a chance!”
“You never took a chance in all your sinful life,” the bearded custodian said scornfully. “I mean to help preserve the law and order, and to maintain a fitting respect for those who have been called to another and better life!”
“You ain’t no part of the law,” Snake Hollister argued sullenly, in an effort to change the subject. “And you’ve got no legal right to tell me about my manners!”
“It’s your lack of manners which desecrates this hallowed spot,” Gospel Cummings corrected gently.
Swift and righteous anger again flamed in his dark eyes as he gripped his pistol with the muzzle pointing toward the ground. Gospel Cummings glared at the offender and spoke a trifle louder.
“You’ve had your chance to get along in peace. Remove your hat, or get ready for war!”
Snake Hollister was a tall lean cowhand in his early thirties. His little eyes promised murder at some future date, but a man didn’t argue with a smoking gun. He reached up and removed Sam Tabor’s hat with his left hand, his own with his right, and Gospel Cummings told him to: “Hold it so!”
With a hat in each hand, Snake Hollister was as good as handcuffed. The other two Rafter T men slowly uncovered their tousled heads. Gospel Cummings shook his head and his hat dropped to the side. He replaced the smoke-grimed gun in his buscadero holster, fingered his black string tie, and cleared his throat.
“I’m bleeding out,” Sam Tabor whispered hoarsely. “I’ve taken a slug in each shoulder!”
A little man moved out from the crowd; he carried a black bag in his left hand. Doc Brady was an old-timer in Vaca, and his gray hair was thinning at the crown. He spoke softly as he glanced at Cummings.
“I’ll lead Sam away and stop the bleeding, Gospel. It won’t interrupt your work!”
“We are gathered to pay tribute to an honest man,” Gospel Cummings began slowly. “A man whose life was like the open book I hold in my hand.”
He watched Snake Hollister as he gave a brief eulogy for the departed cowboy at his feet, and then Cummings began to read from the Book. The old story of Cain and Abel.
