by Noel Loomis
Saint John studied the prints of horses near the tie rail, and then he shrugged again. There were dozens of tracks, and he could tell nothing. If Jude Tabor was back on the Rafter T, he would have men posted to cover the big yard, and the rambling old house. Even now he might be under the muzzles of several guns, but the law always took a chance.
Saint John rapped on the door which opened almost under his knuckles. A tall, raw-boned man of thirty-five stood in the open doorway, both hands on the twin holsters tied low on his long legs.
“Lookin’ for someone, deputy?” he asked with a sneer.
“I’m looking for you, Jude Tabor,” Saint John said bluntly. “I could take you in for being a fugitive from the law!”
“Does it look like I’m running?” Tabor asked, and his weathered face broke into a wide grin.
“You ran,” the deputy reminded. “But the fellow you argued with wasn’t able to run!”
Jude Tabor stared at the deputy, and the smile left his face. A face that was marked with the dissipation of years, and scarred from many a barroom brawl.
“I was watching you when you rode in,” Tabor stated shortly. “It was mebbe foolish for you to ride back here by your lonesome, Saint.”
“He rides fastest who rides alone,” the deputy reminded him. “You ought to know. You ran from the law, and several times I was right behind you!”
“Yeah? You had a warrant when you were trailing me?” Tabor asked with a wolfish grin.
“I didn’t need one,” the deputy answered. “I’d take you in now if Jim Waggoner would sign the complaint!”
“So Jim wouldn’t sign, eh?” Tabor said with a grin. “What do you want?” he demanded.
“Mind your manners when you speak to the law,” the deputy warned sternly. “You and your two killer-guns don’t booger me, and you know it. I just rode by here to tell you that I know that Ballard killing was a setup. You start any more trouble here, and I’ll ride gun-sign on you. That goes for all your crew, and you can tell ’em I said so!”
“They all heard you,” Tabor sneered. “They are standing right behind me. Come on out, boys!”
Snake Hollister walked out with Ned Tolliver. Two other gun-hung riders came from the rickety barn, and they sneered at the stern-faced lawman who faced them with wrath in his light blue eyes.
“You all heard my wau-wau,” Saint John repeated. “If there is rustling going on here in the Strip, I’ll know where to look!”
Jude Tabor made a sign with his head, and a lean rider stepped up behind Saint John with a drawn six-shooter in his right hand. He prodded the tall deputy with the muzzle, emptied Saint John’s holster when the deputy raised his hands, and stepped back.
“He’s dehorned, boss,” the gunman said from the side of his thin mouth. “Tell him scarey!”
“Was you saying something about rustling, Saint?” Jude Tabor asked in a purring voice.
He was almost as tall as the deputy, weighed two hundred pounds of hard bone and muscle, and his little eyes were slitted.
“I’ll get that gunnie the first time I see him!” Saint John promised.
“Mebbe I better get him first, boss,” the gunman said crisply.
“That will do, Slade,” Tabor stopped the man. “This is between me and him. You was saying, Saint?”
The tall deputy frowned and remained silent. He could feel the muzzle of a six-shooter pressing against his back, and he knew the type of man behind that gun. The fellow would shoot him without conscience, dump his body in a crevice, and ride on to shoot other men.
Jude Tabor watched the deputy’s face, smiled triumphantly, and rolled a brown-paper quirly. He lighted the cigarette, blew a ring of smoke over his head, and goaded the lawman.
“It’s some difference when you are on the other fellow’s range, ain’t it?” he taunted.
“A man can’t talk much when a killer has a gun in his back,” Saint John said slowly. “You’re a lot like that too, Tabor. You don’t talk near so loud when the other man has an equal chance with you!”
“Meaning what?” Jude Tabor asked harshly. “Or are you just talking to get the wind off yore belly?”
“It ain’t my time to talk,” Saint John said shrewdly. “Just stopped to warn you, and I’ll be riding along.”
“Kinda pulled in yore horns, didn’t you?” Tabor sneered. “But I demand an apology. You said you’d know where to look for rustlers. Well?”
Saint John took a deep breath and then spoke slowly. “I’d start right at the Rafter T,” he said bluntly.
Jude Tabor moved swiftly and lashed out with his right fist. Saint John blocked the punch and countered with one of his own. His rocky fist thudded against Jude Tabor’s jaw and sent the Rafter T owner crashing flat on his back, and the tall deputy whirled to face the four men who were closing in on him. The killer named Slade raised his pistol and took careful aim, but the gun was battered from his hand when a blasting roar came from behind the barn.
Gospel Cummings stepped out behind his smoking forty-five, with Jim Waggoner and Ace Fleming fanning out, one on each side. Saint John took one look and caught the wounded gunman by the shoulder. He jerked Slade toward him viciously, snatched his own pistol from the killer’s belt, and turned just as Jude Tabor crawled to his feet.
“Drag your iron, Tabor!” the deputy roared. “I’m arresting you for attempted murder!”
“You want Joe Slade,” Tabor muttered through swollen lips. “I didn’t try to murder anybody!”
“All right, you,” Saint John said to Slade. “The charge is attempted murder against an officer of the law.”
Slade shrank back, appealing to his boss with fear-stricken eyes. Saint John watched and laughed to show his contempt.
“You got to do something, Jude,” Slade whined. “I’m bleeding out, and I don’t want to go to jail!”
“I’ll get you out on bail,” Tabor told Slade. “Better ride back to town and get that hand fixed up!”
Snake Hollister glared venomously at Gospel Cummings, who smiled and holstered his smoke-grimed gun. “We won’t forget, you drunken old sin buster!” Hollister said viciously.
“You never saw me drunk, and you never heard me bust sin,” Cummings answered quietly. “But I’d admire to read the service for the dead over your unrepenting cadaver, and perhaps someday I will!”
“You will if he ever makes a play at me again,” Ace Fleming said coldly. “Ask him what became of those snake-rattles on his hatband, Tabor!”
“What’s this?” Saint John asked. “You and him tangled today?”
“Ask him,” Fleming answered with a shrug. “I’m telling him, and I never give a man but one chance at me!”
“Any time you say, gambler,” Snake Hollister drawled. “But want some now?”
“I want some now!” Fleming answered without hesitation.
Gospel Cummings stepped in front of Hollister and blocked the gambler off. He stared coldly into the slitted greenish eyes and spoke slowly.
“Better take me, Snake. Ace will kill you sure as sin, while I’ll let you live to repent the evil of your ways. Make your pass!”
A small hand gripped Cummings by the shoulder and whirled him aside like a jackstraw. Then Ace Fleming faced Snake Hollister with hell flaming in his steady eyes.
“No man does Ace Fleming’s fighting for him!” the gambler said quietly. “So draw to your hand, Hollister, or throw ’em in the discards!”
Snake Hollister glared at the gambler, shook his head from force of long habit, and his face colored with anger when the accustomed rattles did not talk.
“I’m calling, gambling man!” Hollister shouted. “I’ve got a full house, mostly Aces!”
“It ain’t enough,” Fleming murmured, and his self-control infuriated Snake Hollister. “Any kind of a flush would beat your full house, except a four-flush. If the boot fits you, try it on for size!”
“Don’t buck the law,” Jude Tabor warned Hollister. “There will be another da
y.” And he turned abruptly and walked into the house.
“We might as well get back to town,” Saint John suggested, but Ace Fleming was not to be denied.
“Well?” he asked Hollister.
“Like Jude said,” Hollister refused the challenge, “there will be another day!”
“I can hardly wait,” the gambler said with a smile. “You name the time and place, and I’ll be there!”
“You’ll be there, and the time will be right,” Hollister muttered. “I’m not talking with the law looking over your shoulder, and taking sides.”
“The law don’t take sides,” Saint John said sternly. “Sam Tabor can testify to that. I was riding your trail when he went down to Three Points looking for trouble!”
Jude Tabor stiffened and his mean face grew black with anger. Doc Brady had told Jude that Sam would be laid up for three months, and as far as firearms went, Sam’s fighting days were over.
“I won’t forget what you did to Sam, Cummings,” the Rafter T owner said venomously.
“You just remember what I did to you,” Gospel said quietly. “We prevented another murder when we rode in here after Saint, and you can make of it what you will.”
He turned slowly and boosted the wounded Joe Slade to the saddle on a Rafter T horse. Ace Fleming and Saint John climbed their saddles, and Gospel Cummings mounted his sorrel and rode slowly from the big yard. Jim Waggoner followed Cummings, watching Jude Tabor for some sign of treachery. The young Wagon Wheel boss did not say anything, but his right hand was close to his holstered gun as he rode past the Rafter T crew.
Joe Slade had lost most of his bravado by the time the group reached Three Points. It was almost dark, and the headstones in the Devil’s Graveyard cast long brooding shadows. Slade shuddered and gripped his wounded hand closer to his chest. Ace Fleming spoke quietly to Saint John, but loud enough for the prisoner to hear.
“Slade ought to get at least five years, the way I see it,” the gambler said thoughtfully. “While his boss rides around enjoying good health, and getting rich.”
“That’s up to the judge,” Saint John said tersely. “’Course, it might help some if he was to give up head and talk with his mouth wide open.”
“I’ll take the five years,” Slade said grimly. “Jude will take care of me!”
“I’ll say he will,” Fleming agreed. “You heard how quick he passed the rap from himself to you when Saint John accused him of attempted murder!”
“No use me riding back to town,” Gospel Cummings interrupted. “I’ll stop off here at my cabin and stir myself a bait of grub.”
He rode around to his lean-to barn, and the others took the road to Vaca. Back in the shadows, after stripping his riding gear, the bearded man sighed heavily and reached to the right tail of his coat. Then he shook out blue-stem for his horse, walked to his cabin, and pushed the door open. He stiffened when some sixth sense warned him, and his right hand flicked like the tail of a whip-scorpion. The black six-shooter appeared like magic, and then a gasping voice spoke quickly.
“Don’t shoot, Gospel. It’s Molly!”
Cummings lowered the hammer and holstered his gun. He took a step inside, lighted the coal-oil lamp, and waited for Molly Ballard to speak. She was dressed in riding clothes, but Cummings remembered that he had seen nothing of her horse.
“It ain’t smart to hide in the dark in times like these, Molly,” he reproved gently. “You left your horse back in Boot Hill?”
“Near Tod’s grave,” the girl said in a low voice. “I’m afraid for Jim.”
“He just left here,” Cummings assured the girl. “Did Sandra Fleming ride in with you from the ranch?”
“I came alone, because I wanted to be alone for a while,” the beautiful girl answered, and he could see traces of tears in her dark eyes. “Jude Tabor will never rest until he has killed Jim, just as he killed my brother!”
“Why does he want to kill Jim Waggoner?” Cummings asked patiently.
“Because he wants the Wagon Wheel,” Molly declared bitterly. “Tod knew that the Rafter T crew were rustling Wagon Wheel stock, and now Jim must also be certain. You’ve got to help Jim, Gospel!”
“I’ll do what I can,” Cummings assured the girl. “Have you any suggestions?”
“There’s one man who could tell you,” Molly said slowly. “Tod talked to this man, and he was willing to sell out for a price!”
“Who was this Judas?” Cummings asked slowly.
“A man by the name of Slade,” the girl whispered. “He was afraid of Jude Tabor, and he wanted to leave the country.”
Gospel Cummings turned quickly, tugging at his beard as he watched Molly’s expressive face.
“You said Slade?” he asked slowly.
“Joe Slade,” Molly Ballard repeated. “He’s afraid of Jude Tabor, and he does not trust his boss!”
“I can vouch for that,” Cummings said with a nod. “I wish I had known this before. It all fits in with what I’ve found out in running down the sign, and I know that Slade fears Jude Tabor.”
“How would you know that?” Molly asked wonderingly. “Have you seen Slade recently?”
Gospel Cummings frowned and wrinkled his brow. He stirred up the fire in the old iron stove and set a pot of stew on a front lid.
“I’m riding in to see Joe Slade after I eat a bite,” he told the girl. “Slade was wounded in the hand when he lined his sights on Saint John back at the Rafter T. I shot the gun from Slade’s hand, and he said he might talk to me later.”
“You will ride in and talk to him?” Molly pleaded. “I’m sure he could tell you something about Tod’s death!”
“I’ll ride in,” Cummings promised. “But you better not ride these wild hills alone after dark. I’ve enough stew for both of us, and if you will eat with me, and then wait here, I’ll ride back with you when I return from town.”
They ate the simple meal slowly, after which Molly said she would wash the dishes while Gospel saddled his horse. Cummings hurried away, slipped into the barn, and stood for a moment in the darkness. A soft gurgle broke the stillness, followed by a deep sigh of content.
Then Cummings saddled old Fred and rode around the cabin. He told Molly to bolt the door and that he would hurry back. Then he started for Vaca at a fast trot with a vague feeling of uneasiness plaguing him.
Chapter 5
Gospel Cummings left Three Points and rode slowly through the darkness of the night. He was accustomed to being alone much of the time. A man could think better without someone disturbing his thoughts.
One thought in particular bothered the gaunt plainsman. He felt that he had made a mistake, one that would soon be rectified. Joe Slade had seemed anxious to talk to him, and the Rafter T man was plainly in fear of big Jude Tabor.
Joe Slade was like many another roving cowboy who fell in with bad company. He’d fight for the outfit that paid him his wages, and he would expect them to fight for him. There was usually a mutual bond of devotion between a cattleman and the men who rode in his crew, but Joe Slade had undoubtedly discovered that there was little if any honor among thieves.
Cummings chided himself for not having gone straight to town with Saint John and his prisoner. The thought persisted and tormented him until the plainsman nudged his sorrel with a spur to mend the pace.
He could see the lights in Vaca marking the outskirts of the little cattle-town, and Cummings slowed his horse to a walk as he entered the long dusty street. He had recourse to the bottle in his coat-tail; a bracing nip and no more. Then Cummings clucked to old Fred and hurried toward a cluster of low buildings.
Gospel Cummings rode straight to the jail and racked his horse at the rail. A lamp was burning in the office, turned low, but Saint John was not in sight. Cummings stared for a moment and was about to return to the street when a low moan came to his ears. He leaped forward when he saw a pair of big rusty boots protruding from behind the scarred oak desk, and then he was pulling the tall deputy into the light.<
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Cummings shook the sleeping deputy, reached into the tail of his coat, brought out his bottle, and poured a trickle of whiskey between Saint John’s lips. The deputy coughed and then sat up quickly, reaching for his holster. His clawed fingers pawed air a time or two above the empty scabbard, and then he recognized Cummings.
“What happened here?” Cummings demanded.
Saint John’s left hand rose slowly to rub a lump on his head. “I got slugged over the skull with a gun-barrel,” he said slowly. “I heard a ruckus out front, but something hit me from behind before I could get to the door!”
“Better dip your head under the tap and then take a walk with me down to Doc Brady’s place,” Cummings suggested. “I want to talk to Joe Slade. He might tell us something you ought to know.”
“I got him in a cell out back,” the deputy said, and then he pushed hurriedly to his feet. “Let’s get back there pronto, Gospel!” he said gruffly. “This might have something to do with him!”
The tall lawman almost ran to the last cell in the block, with Cummings crowding his heels. Saint John called harshly:
“Slade! You’ve got a visitor, cowboy!”
“He was expecting me,” Cummings added. “How you feeling, Slade?”
Saint John peered between the bars and then jerked back. “He’s down on the floor!” he gasped. “Wait till I get the keys!”
Cummings stepped aside as the tall deputy ran back to the office. Saint John fumbled under an earthen water jar, brought out a ring of keys, and hurried back to the cell.
“I always hide those keys,” he explained. “Just my idea of stopping a jail-break before it gets started!”
“I had a feeling I should have rode in with you,” Cummings said with evident regret. “The feeling got stronger as I rode into town. Didn’t you see even a glimpse of the bushwhacker who buffaloed you with his six-shooter?”
