by Noel Loomis
“Cain was the first cowboy in recorded history,” Cummings stated soberly. “He was also the first to carry the mark of the killer; the terrible mark of Cain, even as the killer of Tod Ballard wears that brand. ‘Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord.’ I plead with you all to let the Law take its course!”
“We ain’t afraid of John Saint John!” Snake Hollister interrupted viciously. “That nosy deputy better stay away from the Rafter T if he knows what’s good for him!”
“Silence!” Cummings roared savagely. “You desecrate this service one more time, you will answer to me personally!”
He glared at Hollister until the gunman lowered his blazing, slitted eyes. Gospel Cummings sighed and resumed reading from his worn Book. At last he leaned forward and picked up a clod of earth. Holding it in his hand, he nodded at the six pall-bearers.
The Wagon Wheel men slipped catch-ropes under the coffin and lowered it into the grave. Gospel Cummings tossed the bit of earth on the casket and spoke sadly.
“Dust to dust, and ashes to ashes. Vaya con Dios!”
“Go thou with God,” Boot Hill Crandall repeated in English.
Gospel Cummings turned abruptly and walked rapidly through the burying ground. He did not glance to right or left, but hurried through the portals of volcanic rock and entered his cabin. He shut the door hurriedly, laid the Book on the deal table, turned his back, and his right hand fumbled in the tail of his long coat…
Gospel Cummings had seldom talked about his past. He was neither old or young as years go, but the old-timers of Vaca remembered that the tall, gaunt plainsman had ridden into town on the tail of the Big Freeze, about a dozen years before. As the long years had passed, Cummings had grown a trifle grizzled at the temples, and had kept more and more to himself.
The cabin at Hell’s Half Acre had been the drifter’s own idea. He had built it laboriously with his own hands, sleeping under the stars until the shake roof had been finished. The materials had been purchased slowly; there had not been so many graves in Boot Hill during those first few years.
The citizens of Vaca had become accustomed to the tall, gaunt man who had little to say in ordinary conversation. He minded his own business, treated everyone with friendly respect, and demanded the same in return. He was a peaceful man, except when aroused to anger by some member of the lawless clan. Gospel Cummings would turn the other cheek to a personal affront, but he was loyal to his friends.
The mourners were leaving the graveyard when Cummings walked to the door of his cabin. They knew of his besetting sin, and most of them respected the tall, gaunt plainsman who had so much of good in his make-up. Cummings frowned when he saw Sam Tabor riding in the hearse with Boot Hill Crandall who would take the wounded man to Doc Brady’s office for further treatment.
Jim Waggoner of the Wagon Wheel rode up and dismounted at the tie-rail. His five companions waited, and Waggoner handed Cummings an envelope.
“For the service, old friend,” the cowman said in a hushed voice. “Please don’t argue; the boys all chipped in. They said it was the last thing they could do for poor Tod. He was our saddle pard, and you did noble!”
He thrust the envelope in Gospel’s hand, mounted his horse, and the six rode away at a dead run. Gospel Cummings tucked the envelope in the left tail of his coat just as a buggy drove up and stopped. Ma Ballard and Molly Ballard alighted, and the older woman spoke through her tears. She pressed an envelope into Cummings’ hand.
“For taking care of my boy, Gospel, old friend,” she said chokingly. “He was shot by a coward, but he died like a man!”
“Amen,” Cummings said quietly. “Howdy, Miss Molly.”
“Thanks, old friend,” the girl said, her rich voice throaty and low. “And please be watchful for Snake Hollister. He wears those diamondback rattles on his hat, but Snake is a side-winder at heart. He’ll strike without warning. Stop and see Fat Farrel when you pass the Casino. I left a package with him for you.”
“Miss Molly, you shouldn’t have done it,” Cummings remonstrated hesitantly. “I am a simple man with simple tastes, and I have always had enough of the necessities of life.”
“Perhaps it will serve a purpose next week, or the week after,” the girl said quietly. “You are a marked man now, Gospel,” she warned, and her pretty face showed a frown of worry. “But you did it for Tod, and I won’t ever forget!”
“Just a moment, Molly,” Cummings said gruffly. “Tod was an upright and honest man. If it is humanly possible, his friends will clear his name. I thought you’d want to know!”
“Thank you, Gospel, but please don’t get into any more trouble,” Molly pleaded. “Now I must go; Mother is waiting for me.”
The two women drove away, and Gospel Cummings returned to his cabin. This was a morning of unusual activity, and he sought recourse from a source of unfailing solace. As he was wiping his lips with the back of his hand, a running horse slid to a stop at the rail and heavy boots thudded to the ground. Cummings faced the door in a crouch, and then he relaxed when an incredibly tall man strode toward him.
“Howdy, Saint,” he greeted the rangy deputy sheriff. “You do any good for the law this morning?”
“Nary,” John Saint John answered with patent disgust. “Jude Tabor’s taken to the badlands, and looked like he was heading for Utah. What was the trouble down here?”
“No trouble,” Cummings answered with a shrug. “But Sam Tabor won’t be handling a gun with either hand for quite a spell.”
“Look, Gospel,” the deputy said soothingly. “You stick to the work you get paid to do, and leave the law work to me. You savvy?”
“I do the work that comes to my hand,” Cummings answered testily. “And I never asked you for any help!”
“Six-shooter trouble is my work,” the tall deputy argued hotly. “I won’t read any Scriptures over outlaws and such, and you leave the powder-smoke trouble to me!”
“Then you better make a point of being there when smoke begins to curl up,” Cummings retorted acidly.
“A man can’t be in two places at the same time!” Saint John snapped. “You got a drop of snake-bite?”
Gospel Cummings produced his bottle and handed it to the deputy.
“Speaking of snakes, you want to watch out for Hollister,” the deputy warned. “He made his brags that he’ll get you for what you did to Sam.”
“Sometimes a soft answer turneth away wrath,” Cummings said with a shrug. “But thanks for nothing at all I didn’t know, Saint. I got business in town, and I’ll ride to Vaca with you.”
Chapter 2
John Saint John cuffed his hat to the back of his head as he rode away from the Devil’s Graveyard with Gospel Cummings. Both were tall and hard-bitten, weathered by storm and wind, with the common virtue of self-confidence. Neither was ashamed to ask for help if circumstances indicated that help was needed.
“There will be trouble with the Tabor outfit,” Saint John remarked thoughtfully. “Sam Tabor won’t stand still for what you did to him this morning, and that Snake Hollister never plays to lose.”
“Neither does Ace Fleming,” Cummings said gruffly, and then he jerked his head as though he would rather have allowed his thoughts to go unspoken.
“What’s Ace got to do with it?” the deputy asked sharply.
“Nothing,” Cummings answered evasively. “Except that he was a friend of Tod Ballard’s, and his wife is fond of Molly.”
“Naw you don’t, Gospel,” Saint John refused to be put off. “I can read sign, and Ace Fleming is a gambler. We were saying that Hollister seldom takes a chance, and it all adds up. I’m waiting for the answer!”
“Find it for yourself,” Cummings muttered crossly. “You said you could read sign, and that’s all I’ve got to go on.”
“So you want to be difficult,” the deputy said with a snort. “You’ll ride out swinging a loop too big, and you’ll get tangled up in your own coils. Then you’ll beller for help, and I might be too busy someplace else to
lend you a hand!”
“Yeah,” Cummings agreed. “So that way, it looks like I’ll have to work it out without your help, law-dog.”
“I’ll see Ace my ownself,” Saint John threatened.
Cummings stopped his horse and stared at his companion. “So you can ride on alone and see him,” he said quietly.
“Now don’t get your blood pressure to racing that way,” Saint John tried to mollify Cummings. “You wouldn’t be withholding evidence from the duly constituted authorities, would you?” he asked suspiciously.
“I haven’t seen the sheriff in months,” Cummings growled.
“Never mind the sheriff,” Saint John snapped. “I’m what law there is here in Vaca, and you know it!”
“So you better be riding on about your law business,” Cummings suggested. “There’s times when a man likes to be alone, Saint,” he added. “This is one of those times, if you will overlook my bad manners for saying so!”
The angry deputy rode up the street alone, and Cummings continued to the Casino. He tied his horse to a stunted tree, and entered the back door.
Fat Farrel looked up from his work when a low whistle sounded from the alley door of the Casino. The stout bartender was polishing glasses for the afternoon trade, and he grinned when he saw the bearded face of Gospel Cummings at the rear door.
Cummings was an off-the-premises customer; he never drank at the bar. Farrel took a package wrapped in an old newspaper, carried it through the card room in the rear, and handed the package to Cummings.
“Four quarts of Three Daisies, compliments of Miss Molly,” he said with a smile. “Your money ain’t good here today, so step in and have a tin roof. That’s on the house, you know.”
“Your sense of humor is decidedly indelicate, bar dog,” Cummings said wryly. “Thanks just the same, but I must decline with regret. Is Ace Fleming in his office?”
“You’re a mind-reader Gospel,” Farrel said with a nod. “Here or there?”
“If you would be so kind,” Cummings murmured. “Tell Ace I’d like a word with him out here.”
“No trouble at all, Shaky,” Farrel said bluntly. “So nobody will look while you brace yourself a few. Drink hearty and have another.” And he brought a half-filled bottle under his white apron and thrust it into Cumming’s hand.
Gospel Cummings glared, but Fat Farrel was halfway back to the bar. Cummings glanced up the alley, stepped behind the open door, and raised his arm as his head went back.
“Wine is a mocker, and I never did care much for wine,” he murmured, and the whiskey bottle was empty when he stepped from behind the door.
A small dapper man in his late thirties came across the card room, and his expensive clothing was tailored. A fifty-dollar Stetson was shoved to the back of his head, and he greeted Cummings like an old friend.
“Howdy, Gospel, haven’t seen you for quite a while. Something on your mind?”
“One or two things, Ace,” Cummings greeted Fleming, who owned the Casino. “You liked Tod Ballard, didn’t you?”
A spasm of grief passed over the little gambler’s handsome face. His right hand slapped down to the beautiful six-shooter holstered on his right leg.
“Just let me get a chance at Jude Tabor!” Fleming said hoarsely. “He cut down on Tod while that cowboy was busy branding a Wagon Wheel calf!”
“Yeah, that’s what I mean,” Cummings drawled. “I’m riding out there to cut for sign, and you need the exercise. Well?”
“As soon as I saddle my horse,” Ace Fleming agreed quickly. “I sent Molly out to stay a few days with Sandra. My wife sends her love to you.”
Neither man spoke as they rode down to Three Points where the cabin of Gospel Cummings nestled near Hell’s Half Acre. Ace Fleming straddled a tall thoroughbred stallion, while Cummings rode old Fred, his rangy hipshot sorrel. Cummings dismounted at the tie rail and carried his package inside, took one bottle and drew the cork, and stopped the tremble in his strong gnarled hands. Then he tucked the stoppered bottle into the right tail of his coat and went to join Fleming.
He swung up to the worn saddle and took a deep seat with his burdened coat-tails on each side of the high can-tie. He jerked his head to the east and started up a trail with Ace Fleming following on his fast-stepping thoroughbred. Not until then did the dapper gambler speak. “Where to, Gospel?” he asked.
“Open range between the Wagon Wheel and the Rafter T,” Cummings answered. “I know the draw where Tod branded that dogie, and Saint John don’t!”
“That’s another thing,” Fleming said soberly. “Sam Tabor lashed Tod on his bronc and hit the horse with his hat. How come you know about that draw?”
“I was riding near there when I see Tod’s hoss carrying the body,” Cummings answered. “Didn’t tell Saint, because I wanted to circle for sign before he clouded it with his big feet. Keep your eyes peeled for Rafter T hands, and you don’t have to kill a man every time you skin leather off yore smoke-pole!”
“Don’t tell me how to handle my six,” Fleming said thinly. “I never draw unless I mean to shoot, and I never learned to throw off my shots!”
“A man can learn,” the gaunt plainsman said gruffly. “Special when he’s married to the best woman in the world. I picked you to ride out here with me because yo’re old enough to have some self-control.”
“Not against those Tabor snakes,” Fleming argued hotly. “And you didn’t show so much control this morning!”
“Did I kill a man?” Cummings demanded coldly. “Did I?”
“You didn’t kill Sam Tabor, but you sure ruined him for life,” the gambler said with a short mirthless laugh. “Broke both his shoulders with .45 slugs, but I reckon you might say that comes under the heading of mercy!”
“Yeah,” Gospel Cummings agreed. “Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy!”
Ace Fleming shook his head and remained silent. Gospel Cummings had a code all his own, and he lived by that code. The two were as different as two men could be, but were the best of friends.
Ace Fleming was five-feet-five, but one of the strongest men in the Strip. He was also fast and deadly with a six-shooter, but had the reputation for controlling his emotions. He had won or lost as much as fifty thousand on the turn of a single card, and was known for his courage and honesty.
In that, he and Cummings had a common bond. Gospel Cummings would ride wide to avoid trouble; but he always met it without backing up a step when it corralled him in a corner. His speed with a six-shooter was legendary, as well-known as the one sin which dogged him like his shadow.
Now his thin nostrils flared wide as they skirted the lava badlands which separated Arizona from Utah. Death and mystery brooded over the arid waste where some prehistoric volcano had spread a molten stream of burning rock to fill up what had once been a deep valley.
Cummings stopped suddenly and scanned a goat trail on a high hog-back. Ace Fleming followed the plainsman’s gaze, and the gambler’s right hand swept down to his holstered six-shooter. A lean rider and horse stood silhouetted against the cloudless sky, and then the rider sent his horse abruptly down the steep trail.
“He’s seen something we don’t, whoever he is,” Cummings said quietly. “That trail leads right down into the draw like one where Tod Ballard was bushwhacked. Hold your hoss to a walk, and let me bend the lead.”
Ace Fleming nodded and fell back. No other man in the Strip knew all the wild country like Gospel Cummings, who sometimes spent weeks in the wastelands, while trying to conquer his overpowering thirst. Gospel Cummings saw most of what went on, and usually kept his own counsel.
Cummings stopped suddenly and threw back his head to keen the wind inquiringly, and Ace Fleming nodded as he too caught the odor of smoke from a sagebrush fire.
They came to a fringe of sage which marked the edge of a sandy clearing. Cummings raised his hand for a stop, slid from the saddle, and slipped a saddle-string over the nose of his horse. A warning whicker could betray their
presence, and Ace Fleming followed the example set by his companion.
“We’ll leave the horses here and shag ahead on foot,” Cummings said in a low whisper, and he ground-tied the sorrel with trailing whangs. Fleming tied his thoroughbred to a ’squite branch, and they made their way through the thinning brush. A gruff voice came to them from down in the draw, and then they saw the thin curls of smoke rising above the brush.
“I got you dead to rights this time, rustler,” the voice said with quiet satisfaction. “That’s a Wagon Wheel cow yonder, and you’ve branded her calf with the Rafter T!”
Cummings listened as he stared at Fleming. They both recognized the voice of Jim Waggoner, ramrod of the Wagon Wheel. Jim would someday own the big cattle spread; his father was crowding eighty, and it was Jim who ran the outfit.
“That calf is a maverick, I tell you,” another man’s voice argued. “That old cow ranged up here while I was working!”
“That’s Ned Tolliver,” Fleming whispered. “He wasn’t at the burying this morning, and now we know why!”
“It’s a trap,” Cummings said hurriedly, and he began to move through the brush like an Indian. He remembered that lone rider on the high ridge, and he motioned for Fleming to stay back under cover. Then Gospel Cummings walked boldly into the clearing where the two men stood facing each other over a hog-tied calf.
“Howdy, Jim,” Cummings greeted young Waggoner. “Looks like you caught yourself a varmint!”
Jim Waggoner held a cocked .45 six-shooter in his right hand, and the Rafter T man had both hands raised level with his shoulders.
“Glad you came, Gospel,” the Wagon Wheel cowboy said gratefully. “Now I’ve got a witness. Read the brand on that old cow!”
“Wagon Wheel iron,” Cummings said briefly. Then he turned his back and faced the high ridge, and his deep voice shouted loudly.
“Don’t trigger that rifle, Snake Hollister. You’re covered from the brush!”
Tolliver sucked in a startled breath and then cursed softly. Jim Waggoner stared at Cummings, took a quick step toward his prisoner, and buried the nuzzle of his gun in the rustler’s lean belly.
