by Noel Loomis
“Look, Gospel,” Saint John growled. “I don’t have eyes in the back of my head. I was doing the best I could, and I was facing the ruckus out in front!”
“Thought mebbe you might have seen his hand, or his legs,” Cummings prompted. “Often you can tell a man from his clothes before you see his face.”
“So I was hit by a ghost!” the tall deputy snapped. “Here’s the key to this cell!”
He fitted a key to the brass lock and pushed back the barred door. Cummings had lighted a small lantern which hung on a wall, and he followed Saint John into the cell. The deputy turned Joe Slade over and jerked back with a startled gasp.
“Look!” he said hoarsely. “He’s got a knife in his left breast up to the handle!”
“Better get Doc Brady,” Cummings said in a low voice. “I’ll wait here for you.”
“He’s dead,” Saint John said tonelessly. “The jasper who buffaloed me with a gun must have finished Slade.” He hurried from the jail, and Gospel Cummings knelt beside the dead man. He frowned as he searched the murdered victim’s pockets, but aside from a few coins, a sack of tobacco, and an old card, Cummings found little of interest. He stared at the card, turned it over in his hand, and leaned forward when he saw a crude drawing. Then his mouth popped open as recognition came to him.
Gospel Cummings put the card in the left tail of his long coat as thudding boots sounded outside. Saint John ran in, followed by Doctor Brady, and the old medico knelt down and made a hasty examination.
“Stabbed through the heart,” the little doctor muttered. “Been dead about half an hour, and this is a job for Gospel!”
“For Boot Hill Crandall,” Saint John corrected. “Any idea who did this?” he asked Cummings.
“You can’t arrest a man because of my suspicions,” Cummings said slowly. “Now let’s piece things together. Joe Slade was going to talk, and he wanted to leave the country.”
“You’re just guessing again,” the deputy said dryly.
“It’s more than a guess,” Cummings said slowly, and he told them about Molly Ballard. “Slade offered to sell out for a price to Tod Ballard, and we know who killed Tod!”
“That’s the law for you every time,” Doc Brady said harshly. “Too many loopholes for a smart operator. We all know Jude Tabor killed Tod, but Joe Slade knew something we didn’t. If he was going to talk about his boss, we know who killed Slade!”
“We think we do,” Cummings corrected. “But then, I’m not the law. All I know is that we have lost a valuable witness!”
“He might have left some sign around,” Saint John suggested.
“Boot tracks all over the place,” Cummings said wearily. “Whoever did this job rode up the alley. We might ask Fat Farrel if he saw a horse-backer come through thirty minutes ago.”
“He like as not saw a dozen,” Saint John snorted. “You always ride up the alley yourself!”
“So there is nothing unusual or suspicious in me following a routine with which everyone in Vaca is familiar,” Cummings said curtly. “You refer to my besetting sin, law-dog. Did it ever occur to you that more poison can come out of a man’s mouth than he can possibly put into it? A little more thinking in advance would help a lot on this case.”
Saint John bristled. “Pour it on, Gospel,” he snorted. “Who didn’t do which thinking at what time?”
“That’s a good combination,” Cummings agreed. “Who, which, and when? We could also add…where?”
“Start with who,” Saint John growled.
“That’s you,” Cummings said sternly. “You rode out to Jude Tabor’s place alone. You know what happened. Then you knew Joe Slade was anxious to talk to me, so you lock him in back, and watch the front door.”
“I can’t be in two places at the same time,” the deputy snapped.
“So then you do need some help with your work,” Cummings clinched his point. “You’ll get that same, but you won’t be the arrogant ramrod.
“I’ll ask Fat,” Cummings finished, and started for the back door.
Saint John made as if to follow him, but Doc Brady put out a hand and shook his head. The deputy nodded his understanding, and Gospel Cummings stepped into the dark and reached for the right tail of his coat. His hands were steady when he re-entered the jail, and taking the small lantern, he began to search the floor, and finally reached the packed dirt of the alley.
“Can’t tell a thing,” he admitted at last. “Several horses rubbed against that tie post yonder; I even found some of old Fred’s sorrel hairs.”
Cummings whirled swiftly and almost ran through the cell block. “I forgot about Molly down at my place alone!” he said hurriedly. “With this killer on the loose, you never can tell!”
Cummings pulled the slipknot that tied old Fred, vaulted to his worn kale, and raced down the dimly lighted street. It was three miles to Three Points, and the sorrel was lathered when Cummings came in sight of Hell’s Half Acre. A pair of pistol shots blasted the stillness of the night as Cummings urged the horse to a burst of speed, and the gaunt bearded man drew his horse to a walk.
He thought he heard the rattle of hooves as he rode into the little yard with his gun in hand, and a voice called quickly from the shadows of the little barn.
“Don’t shoot, Gospel; it’s Jim Waggoner!”
Cummings rode up to the rail and slid to the ground. Jim Waggoner was ejecting a spent shell from his long-barreled forty-five, and then Cummings saw a blurred shadow under the kitchen window. The door was unbolted and flung back, and Molly Ballard came running toward them.
“Jim!” she cried, and ran to the Wagon Wheel boss. “A man was going to shoot me through the window, and then I heard you shout. Are you hurt?”
She seized Waggoner’s hands, and then remembered Cummings. “What happened?” she asked shakily.
“Better take a look at that gunnie under the window, and then mebbe we’ll have some idea,” Waggoner said slowly. “I rode down there to see if you were all right. I stopped at the Circle F, and Sandra Fleming told me you had ridden down here to see Gospel.”
Gospel Cummings approached the man on the ground cautiously. He sighed when he noticed the sightless staring eyes. The man was dead, or his eyes would have been closed.
“He’s done for, Jim,” Cummings said quietly. “You shot twice?”
“Once,” Waggoner answered. “He got one away, but it went over my head. I aimed to ring him center!”
“You scored a bull’s-eye,” Cummings said sadly. “You might have throwed your shot off a mite, but I reckon you didn’t have time.”
“I had time,” Jim Waggoner said gruffly. “But I saw him bringing his gun up on Molly, and I lined my sights center!”
“I never saw him before,” Cummings said, after a closer scrutiny. “You know him, Jim?”
Waggoner leaned over and nodded his head. “He’s one of Tabor’s new men,” he said positively. “Jude Tabor brought in four, five men from outside, and they’ve been combing the draws back in the badlands. This one was a pard of Joe Slade.”
Gospel Cummings sighed slowly. He had momentarily forgotten about Slade, and he saw Molly watching him.
“Did Joe Slade talk?” the girl asked eagerly.
Cummings shook his head. “Joe Slade is dead,” he said sadly. “Whoever killed him didn’t want Slade to talk.”
“You mean you were too late, Gospel?” Molly asked in a little voice.
Gospel Cummings nodded sadly. “Whoever killed Slade knocked Saint John out with the barrel of a six-shooter. I should have ridden to town with that deputy and his prisoner, but it’s too late to be sorry now. Joe Slade didn’t have a chance. He was locked in a small cell, and he evidently thought the killer had come to free him.”
He explained briefly what had happened back in town. Then he spoke to Waggoner.
“I thought I heard a boss going away fast, Jim. Was there another man here with this killer?”
“If there was, he waited up on the ridge,�
�� Waggoner answered. “I heard a horse running, but I thought it was you.”
“I’ll cut for sign early in the morning,” Cummings said slowly. “You’ll ride back to the Circle F with Molly?”
“That’s why I came down here,” Waggoner answered eagerly. “And we better be starting, Molly.”
“Him,” the girl said, and pointed to the dead man.
“I’ll have to notify Saint John,” Cummings said gruffly. “And Boot Hill Crandall.”
He went to the barn, saddled Molly’s horse, and the girl rode away with Jim Waggoner. After stabling his sorrel, Cummings returned to his cabin and bolted the door. He turned up the wick of the lamp, sat down at the deal table and reached into the left pocket of his coat where he had hidden the card with the crude drawing.
“Lost River,” Cummings muttered as he read. “Wild Cat Creek. Hmm. Wonder what that black line means which seems to connect them two streams?”
Sitting in his tight little cabin, Gospel Cummings rode in memory along the trails indicated on the crude map. He could see the high peaks of the distant mountains; the low lush-grass swales around the hidden water holes.
He turned the lamp low again, leaned back and closed his eyes, and began to ride Memory’s trail. He knew the location on the crude map, and then he smote his thigh.
“That’s it!” he said vehemently. “There’s a big cave where Lost River gets lost and runs underground. Dry most of the year, but banks full during the rains!”
He reached for the quart of Three Daisies and satisfied his thirst. Then he opened his worn Bible and tucked the old card behind the binding of the back cover. He sighed as he blew down the chimney and left the cabin. John Saint John would have to be notified, and there would be work to do in Hell’s Half Acre.
The tall deputy was just leaving his office when Cummings rode up to the rail. Saint John waited with a hand on the door knob.
“What you doing back in town, Gospel?” he asked curiously.
“There’s another dead man down at my place, Saint,” Cummings answered slowly. “One of Jude Tabor’s new hands.”
“If he’s dead, you didn’t shoot him,” the tall deputy said positively. “Who did?”
“Jim Waggoner,” Cummings answered, and then he made a brief explanation. “You and Doc Brady better ride down and see him, and we can let Boot Hill Crandall know!”
“You reckon it was the same hombre who did for Slade?” Saint John asked.
Gospel Cummings shook his head. “From what Jim said, the dead man and Slade were saddle pards,” he told the deputy. “There was another hoss-backer with the man down at Three Points, but he hit a high lope going away…toward the Rafter T,” he added.
“Jude Tabor wouldn’t be in town this soon,” Saint John guessed slowly. “You say this dead gunnie was a stranger?”
“He was to me,” Cummings answered slowly. “But Jim Waggoner thinks he saw him riding the back ranges with the late Joe Slade.”
“That don’t add up, Gospel,” the deputy complained. “If this hombre and Slade were saddle pards, some other jasper must have killed Slade.”
“Jude Tabor had the most to lose,” Cummings insisted. “Tabor had just as good as blamed Slade for killing Tod Ballard. Slade was resentful, and he was in jail. He was going to clear his conscience some, and get back at Tabor at the same time. So Tabor either killed Slade, or had it done!”
“So all we would have to do would be to prove your little theory in a court of law,” Saint John said with biting sarcasm. “You should have been a law-shark, Gospel.”
Cummings shrugged carelessly. “You’re forgetting this other hombre I heard quitting Three Points at a high lope,” he reminded Saint John. “He was heading toward the Rafter T, and like as not he’s there by now!”
“That don’t mean anything,” Saint John complained. “The Circle F is out that away, and also the badlands. You notify Crandall while I saddle up, and I’ll tell Doc Brady. There must be a key to this mystery if we could only find it.”
“Well, we’ve got two dead men,” Cummings said soberly. “And like you know, dead men don’t talk.”
He rode away to notify Boot Hill Crandall, and later joined the little doctor and Deputy Saint John. After the two men had made an examination, and Boot Hill Crandall had taken the corpse away in his pick-up wagon, Gospel Cummings returned to his cabin. He lighted the lamp, reached to his right coat-tail, and stopped the move. Lying on the table near the lamp, were three twenty dollar gold pieces. Some friends of the two dead men had paid for the graveside services in advance. Saint John’s stolen pistol rested beside the gold.
Gospel Cummings stood very still, staring down at the objects on his rough table. His cabin door was seldom locked, and his friends took what they needed.
Gospel Cummings shook his head and blowed down the chimney to extinguish the light. He wanted to think this new puzzle out, and decided it would be best to sleep on it. He undressed slowly, crawled between his blankets, and was soon sleeping soundly.
Chapter 6
Jim Waggoner rode into Vaca town on a lathered horse, with a thirty-gun in the saddle-boot under his left fender. The young Wagon Wheel boss was excited and seething with wrath. He tied up in front of the jail and strode across the board sidewalk. John Saint John glanced up from some Wanted posters he had been studying.
“Looks like you are painted for war, cowboy,” he greeted Waggoner. “But I’m glad you came to the law.”
“Such as it is,” Waggoner said ungraciously.
Saint John scowled and thrust out his square chin. “Meaning what?” he demanded bluntly.
“Meaning you can’t be in several places at the same time!” Jim Waggoner answered hotly. “Me and my boys have been making a gather for market!”
“So you do your cow work and leave the law to me,” Saint John advised sourly.
The tall rangy deputy glared and then controlled himself. He knew that something unusual had occurred to upset Jim Waggoner; snarling at each other would only make the tangle worse.
“All right, Jim,” he said quietly. “Suppose you tell me what’s eating yore innards? Then I’ll start doing my work.”
“Like I was saying when interrupted,” Waggoner growled, “we had about five hundred head of choice steers gathered for the drive in the railhead at Rainbow. We drifted them over to my west line where the grass is lush, to put on more weight.”
Saint John frowned. “Like you’ve been doing for years, and your Dad before you,” he growled. “Say you only put on thirty pounds to the critter before shipping time. Multiply that by five hundred head, and you’ve got a tidy profit in your hip pocket.”
“We’ve got nothing!” Waggoner blurted angrily. “That herd of shipping beef has disappeared like the earth had swallowed them up!”
Saint John stared at Waggoner, wrinkled up his nose, and then shook his head.
“You mean to say five hundred head of Wagon Wheel steers have been rustled, and never left a sign?” the deputy demanded. “It can’t be done, cowboy!”
“But it was done,” Waggoner insisted. “I thought I knew every foot of the range back there, but there’s places no one has found except old Gospel. He’s hunted all those blind draws and valleys, and if anyone could find a trace of that missing herd, that man is Gospel Cummings!”
“Someone take my name in vain?” a deep voice asked, and Gospel Cummings strode into the jail office. “Morning, Saint,” he greeted the deputy. “Howdy, Jim!”
“He’s lost a shipping herd,” the deputy told Cummings.
“Yeah, did you lose anything?” Cummings asked the deputy.
“Yes, a prisoner, like you know,” the deputy answered acidly. “You trying to be smart and hooraw a hand?”
Gospel Cummings sniffed and opened his coat. He took a long-barreled six-shooter from his belt, held it by the barrel, and extended it to Saint John.
“That was left at my cabin last night,” he said slowly.
Saint J
ohn took the weapon and swore under his breath. “That’s my gun, the one that was took from me last night after I was slapped to sleep,” he growled. “You any idea who put it there?”
Cummings shook his head. His hands were steady, and the right tail of his coat sagged suggestively.
“It had something to do with Jude Tabor, or his gang,” Cummings said quietly. “I read it this way, Saint. Joe Slade was working for Tabor, and the man who was killed at my place was a saddle pard of Slade’s. That means two owl-hooters to bury in Hell’s Half Acre, and someone stopped by while I was up here. They paid in advance for the graveside services, and the same gent left your gun by the gold. That’s all I know, and he didn’t leave any sign.”
“Two dead men, and them saddle pards,” Saint John said thoughtfully. “I figured at first that this hombre who was killed at your place might have been the killer of Joe Slade. Now you say them two were saddle pards, and nohow, they’re both dead.”
“Good, as far as you’ve gone,” Cummings agreed. “But it stops off too soon. There was a third man who stood his horse on the rise behind my cabin. This gent high-tailed when Jim Waggoner started shooting. He might have done for poor Joe Slade, but your guess is as good as mine until we read what sign he might have left.”
Saint John grimaced and admitted ruefully, “I’m man enough to say I still need your help. You was a cowman one time, and a mighty good one. This shipping herd of Jim’s has vanished in thin air!”
“So all he has to do is follow the spoor,” Cummings said lazily. “I didn’t get any too much sleep last night.”
“I’ll pay you well, Gospel,” Jim Waggoner spoke up. “If anyone can track down that herd, you’re the man. Won’t you ride out with Saint and me and circle some for sign?”
Gospel Cummings stroked his long silky beard. Then he nodded slowly.
“Tell you what I’ll do,” he suggested. “I rode to town for a hearty breakfast, and a drop of cough syrup. Let’s eat first, and we can ride past my place on the way out to the Wagon Wheel.”
“But they will get miles away,” Waggoner protested.
“They’re miles away now,” Cummings reminded him. “But I can catch you up if you’re in a sweat. I’ve got to refresh the inner man before I take a long ride like you mention.”
