by Noel Loomis
They left the jail and walked to a little restaurant down the street near the Casino. An old gimp-legged cowboy greeted them cordially. Misery Barlow had been camp cook for the Box B until rheumatism forced his retirement, and Cole Brighton had set him up in business.
“What will it be, gents?” he asked the trio.
“Double order of ham and,” Gospel spoke up quickly. “A side flannel cakes with blackstrap, and I’d admire to start with some good cowboy coffee. Without too much creek water in it,” he added.
Misery Barlow drew three huge mugs of Java and carried them to the table. “I never put too much water in my coffee,” he said grouchily. “What put the three of you gents on the prod this early of a morning?”
“Rustling!” Jim Waggoner answered bluntly. “I’m short five hundred head of shipping steers, mostly long threes.”
“Look for Jude Tabor!” Misery Barlow said brusquely. “Chances are he’s drifting them slow through the badlands, and will ship from Saint George over in Utah.”
“Jude Tabor is short two hands,” Waggoner murmured. “It would take six or eight riders to bunch that herd and keep ’em together.”
Gospel Cummings sipped the scalding coffee and did little talking. His mind was busy with the facts Waggoner had presented, and Cummings was placing the range country in his mind. The badlands stretched away for forty-odd miles, and he wondered if Saint John had notified the Utah sheriff over at Saint George. Then Misery brought three steaming plates and set them before the hungry men. They ate in silence; then Cummings said he would drop up to see Fat Farrel while Saint John was gearing his horse.
Fat Farrel opened the door quickly and handed Cummings a package wrapped in a newspaper. “Saw you ride in,” he explained. “Thought perhaps you needed some cough syrup. I wrapped up four quarts as usual.”
Neither man referred to the package which Cummings carried under his left arm. He swung up to his worn saddle, nudged old Fred with a blunted spur, and the three rode out of town toward Three Points.
Gospel Cummings swung down and went into the cabin to leave his package. He stayed inside for a moment, came out with a new spring to his step, and mounted his sorrel horse.
“Bend the lead to the place where you lost the sign,” he told Jim Waggoner. “We ought to get there about ten.”
“You could go right to the spot by yourself,” Jim Waggoner said gruffly. “You know that rangeland like your own back yard.”
“Yeah, and I’ve got business in my own back yard tomorrow afternoon,” Cummings agreed.
“Something mighty funny about that,” Saint John said slowly. “We know for sure that one of Tabor’s riders must have come down out of the hills to make arrangements for burying those two. No one else in Vaca would be interested!”
“It means something else,” Cummings said quietly. “It means that the Rafter T outfit knew about those two getting rubbed out, and they were at my place while I was here in town notifying the law.”
“What passes for the law,” Jim Waggoner growled.
“So that means Tabor had those two put away,” Cummings interrupted, when Saint John glared at Waggoner. “I’ll see that Slade and his pard are put away in their final resting place tomorrow afternoon.”
It was two hours and ten miles later when the three men drew rein at the edge of the volcanic badlands where the Wagon Wheel range grass thinned out. There was plenty of sign where the big herd had been driven through the lush grass along Wild Cat Creek, and then all trace of the cattle vanished.
Two of Jim Waggoner’s crew were sitting their Wagon Wheel horses on guard, and they reported that they had seen no one since their young boss had ridden to town.
“Scatter, and fan out!” Gospel Cummings said crisply. “This is an old Injun trick, and even Misery Barlow would have known it. They drove your critters into the water, up the crick, but they had to come out somewhere.”
“Never thought of that,” Jim Waggoner admitted.
Cummings turned to Saint. “Did you remember to check the loads of that gun that was lifted from your scabbard last night?”
Saint John flushed and grabbed the six-shooter from his holster. His face colored even more when he opened the loading gate and plucked cartridges from his belt. He thumbed them through the loading gate and set the hammer on an empty, and Gospel Cummings sat saddle and grinned with enjoyment. He didn’t say a word; none was needed.
“I’ll ride the north bank,” Saint John said, to cover his embarrassment. “You take the right fork, Jim.”
“That leaves me the left fork,” Cummings said with a nod. “Now keep your eyes open, and let’s see what we turn up.”
The two Wagon Wheel cowboys started to ride downstream, and Gospel Cummings rode into the brush. Once out of sight, he mended the pace and rode like a man who knows where he is going. Half an hour later he sent his horse into the creek and splashed through the shallow water. He rubbed his stubbled chin when the water disappeared under a ledge of smooth volcanic rock. Now he was riding dry again, and he stopped his sorrel when the brush tops waved just ahead.
The country was familiar to the gaunt plainsman, and he studied peaks and trees to orient himself. After placing all the landmarks in his mind, the right hand of Cummings reached to the tail of his coat. He brought out his bottle of Three Daisies, drew the cork with his teeth, and quaffed deeply.
His hands were steady when he returned the bottle to its hiding place. Some slight sound attracted his attention, and Cummings saw the tops of the brush move, not more than twenty yards from where he waited.
Chapter 7
Gospel Cummings emptied his saddle like a relay rider. He moved quickly to the side, picked up a broken branch, stripped off his battered black Stetson, and placed it on the branch. Then he pushed the hat above the dense brush and waited.
The snarling flat bark of a rifle shattered the air, and the old Stetson leaped from the branch and fluttered down in the brush. Cummings moved like a cat through the brush, his six-shooter ready in his right hand. His lips smiled grimly when a tall lean man came snakily through the brush, holding a thirty-gun in his hands. The man was Snake Hollister, and he jerked erect when Cummings spoke softly.
“Looking for someone, Snake?”
Snake Hollister stiffened. He turned his head and saw the cocked six-shooter in the hand of the man he was sure he had killed. Hollister dropped the rifle and slowly raised his hands.
A younger and less experienced man might have tried to take a chance, but Snake Hollister was wise to the ways of firearms, and the men who lived by them.
“You’re on private property, Cummings,” he growled, to put Gospel Cummings on the defensive.
“Most of us get that way, every so often,” Cummings answered quietly. “I didn’t know it was a killing offense.”
“That’s only one of the things you didn’t know,” Hollister sneered. “You better stick to busting sin, and mumbling yore palaver over them that was unlucky enough to shoot second!”
“I might not have been so unlucky if I had shot second just now,” Cummings argued. “You stop to think about that, or don’t you ever stop to think?”
“I thought you was a rustler,” Hollister growled. “The Rafter T has been losing shipping beef!”
“Yeah, losing it where they could find it again when they need it,” Cummings said dryly. “Is it your usual custom to shoot first, and find out who you have killed when the smoke clears off?”
“Yeah, back here in the lavas, on Rafter T range,” Hollister answered surlily. “You’re trespassing, and you know it!”
“Well, if that’s good enough for you, it’s good enough for me,” Cummings stated quietly. “I never give a gunnie but one free shot at me, so you might keep that in mind. Where’s Jude Tabor?”
“Riding about his business,” Hollister sneered. “And his business is none of yours!”
“I had business with him last night,” Cummings said slowly. “Thank him for the payment in ad
vance. Tell him the funerals will be held tomorrow afternoon at two. In Hell’s Half Acre,” he added.
“Yeah, what funerals?” Hollister asked curiously.
“Looks like your boss don’t tell you much of his business,” Cummings said slowly. “One will be for Joe Slade, the other for an unknown gun-swift who was Joe’s saddle pard.”
Snake Hollister scowled and stared at Cummings. “You mean Tom Cox is dead?” he whispered.
“So that’s this hombre’s handle?” Cummings said. “I’ll tell Boot Hill Crandall in case you boys want to kick in and have his name chiseled on a headstone.”
“I’ll tell them,” Hollister promised.
It was nearing noon when Cummings rode back and met Jim Waggoner returning from a fruitless search. Saint John was waiting at the forks, and the two Wagon Wheel hands rode back and reported no success.
“Did you find anything, Gospel?” Waggoner asked eagerly. “I thought I heard a rifle bark back yonder!”
Gospel Cummings took off his battered Stetson and poked a lean forefinger through the pair of holes. The deputy and Waggoner stared at the bullet holes with narrowed eyes.
“That was a close call, Gospel,” Waggoner whispered. “Who was it?”
“Snake Hollister, and it wasn’t close,” Cummings said carelessly. “My hat was on top of a long branch when Snake fined his sights!”
Jim Waggoner muttered, “What happened back yonder?”
“I came to the place where Lost River gets lost,” Cummings explained.
“Then you was committing trespass,” Saint John spoke up quickly. “That’s on Rafter T land.”
“Yeah,” Cummings agreed. “So I didn’t wound Snake Hollister.”
He maintained silence until Saint John burst out angrily. “What did you do?” he demanded.
“I spiked Snake on the muzzle of my six,” Cummings explained evenly. “He said he thought I was Ace Fleming, and said to tell Ace he would shoot on sight.”
“So you spiked him on the end of your hog-leg,” Saint John prompted.
“I asked him where Jude was,” Cummings explained. “Snake said Jude was riding about his own business, and it was none of mine. Allowed the Rafter T was losing shipping beef, and I said nothing about the Wagon Wheel herd.”
“You see any sign?” Waggoner asked hopefully.
Gospel Cummings scratched his head. “None that I could be sure of,” he admitted. “But enough to make me suspicious. The only man who could ride back there would be Saint, and Snake Hollister said their orders was to shoot first, and ask questions afterward.”
“We’ll see about that!” the big deputy blustered. “Right now I’m deputizing you men as my posse.”
Gospel Cummings sighed and shook his head. “You can’t rule a boy out for trying,” he said. “Like I told you before, I’m no part of the law. Jim can speak for himself.”
“I have spoken,” Jim Waggoner said firmly. “I’ll help the law as a citizen and taxpayer, but I won’t be any part of it.”
“So you gents won’t do it the law way, eh?” the tall deputy asked again, watching Cummings’ face hopefully.
Gospel Cummings slowly shook his head. “I won’t wear a law star, Saint,” he answered gruffly.
Saint John glared and swelled his big chest. “I’ll ride back there alone,” he said fiercely. “When you get the sand up in your craw, I might give you the lend of a law shield!”
“Well, we’ll be seeing you,” Cummings answered with a shrug. “But you make a mighty big target, and you move through the brush about as quiet as a bull moose. Any particular part of the Devil’s Graveyard you prefer for your own final resting place?”
“You’re a comical cuss,” Saint John growled. “But there might be something in what you say. I don’t want to start a range war, and that’s what I’d do if I was to ride back on the Rafter T range right now.”
“I brought sandwiches,” Jim Waggoner interrupted. “We might as well light down and rest our saddles. Give the horses a rest while we eat.”
The five men stripped their saddles and picketed the horses on the lush margin grass near the creek. Saint John lolled against his heavy saddle and munched on a beef sandwich.
“I’d like to know who that dead gunnie was,” he muttered. “The one Jim did for last night.”
“Name was Tom Cox,” Cummings said quietly.
Both Waggoner and Saint John sat up straight and stared at him. “How’d you know that?” the deputy asked sharply.
“Snake Hollister let it out, and there’s another funny thing,” Cummings explained. “I’m certain that Hollister knew nothing about Cox being dead. When I mentioned that the deceased was a pard of the late Joe Slade, Snake blurted out the name.”
“Now I’ve got it,” Saint John said grimly. “Tom Cox was wanted for murder down Bisbee way. He used to run with the Curly Brown gang, and for that matter, so did Joe Slade. I wonder if Curly could be hiding out up here?” he said thoughtfully.
“What kind of a looking jigger is this Curly Brown?” Cummings asked.
“He’s a little jasper about forty years old,” the deputy gave a description. “Curly black hair, squinty eyes, fast with a six-shooter. He’s a stage robber and rustler, won’t weigh more than a hundred and thirty soaking wet, but he don’t lack for sand.”
“I’ve heard about Curly,” Gospel Cummings said slowly. “Things begin to add up now. Curly Brown is an artist with a sharp knife, and you know how Joe Slade got his!”
Saint John stared at Cummings for a long moment without speaking. His face flushed with anger as he remembered how he had been tricked into leaving Joe Slade’s cell unguarded.
“This thing is like a picture puzzle all cut up,” he muttered. “Like some kid got in and threw some of the pieces away. Here and there you pick up one of those lost pieces, and when you fit it where it belongs, it makes the picture stand out clear.”
“There are a lot more pieces lost,” Cummings said moodily. “But one piece leads to another, if we just keep on looking. I still feel a personal guilt about the death of Joe Slade. If I’d read the sign right, I’d have rode in with you and him, and he’d have talked before he passed on to a better world!”
“Yeah, but like you said, you ain’t any part of the law,” the deputy remarked with heavy sarcasm.
“And I didn’t get belted to sleep, or have my six-shooter lifted from my scabbard,” Cummings retorted.
“By dogies, you’re right, and I never thought of that!” Saint John said excitedly. “I’m betting money it was Brown who hit me with his cutter!”
“He’s part Injun,” Cummings went on. “And Curly can move around in the brush without being seen or heard. Now I wonder if he’s tied up with Jude Tabor, or whether he just saw a good thing and moved in?”
“Jude Tabor came from Arivaca country down south,” Waggoner said slowly. “About five years ago, if you recall, Saint. There must be a connection between him and Curly Brown.”
“You want to be part of my posse now?” Saint John asked hopefully.
Jim Waggoner glanced at Cummings and shook his head. “There’s just me to look after Dad and the Wagon Wheel,” he said slowly. “Mebbe you better call in some outside help.”
“Mebbe I better,” the big deputy growled savagely. “Was a time in this country when the law could round up a posse of cowboys without getting down on his knees!”
“There will come a time again,” Gospel Cummings assured the disgruntled officer. “Every man in the Strip will help when he knows what for, but up to now we’ve just been riding in circles.”
“You’ve got a plan, perhaps?” Saint John asked sarcastically.
“I’ve got work of my own to do,” Gospel said with simple dignity. “Now if you gents will excuse me, I want to see if my horse has a stone in his foot.”
He arose abruptly and walked into a fringe of willows. Jim Waggoner smiled, but Saint John refused to be mollified.
“Just so long that ol
d pelican can stand it without cough syrup or snake-bite,” he growled. “Then he ambles off to suck on that bottle he packs in his right coat-tail.”
Jim Waggoner glared at the rangy deputy with veiled anger showing on his weathered face. “Gospel has his faults, and admits them without making excuses,” he reminded. “He don’t keep on making fool mistakes, and then trying to blame them on someone else, like some I know.”
“Don’t try to tell me my business,” Saint John said savagely. “Right now we could be getting results if old Gospel didn’t have to slip back there in the tangles to wet his whistle!”
“Are you finding fault with the man we always have to depend on when the going gets tough?” Waggoner asked crisply.
“Yeah,” Saint John came back. “Finding fault because he didn’t offer me something to wet my own whistle with.”
He stretched to his feet, followed Cummings into the willows, and met the gaunt plainsman coming out. Saint John did not speak, merely held out his hand and licked his lips.
Gospel Cummings reached for his coat-tail and handed the bottle to Saint John. “Drink hearty, law-dog,” he said with a smile. “And I’m glad you decided to stay out of that badlands brush. The season is uncommonly dry, and the side-winders are shedding their skins. A man never knows when a snake is like to bite him!”
Saint John raised the bottle to his lips and drank deeply. Gospel Cummings watched with alarm spreading over his bearded face, and he groaned when the deputy tossed the empty bottle into the brush. Then Saint John smiled at Cummings and wiped his lips with the back of his hand.
“Cheer up, Gospel, old friend,” Saint John said, and his grin broadened. “I’ll pay you back.”
“That wasn’t the act of a friend,” Cummings said reproachfully. “It just makes me ride back to town sooner than I intended. But you won’t be needing me,” he said with a shrug.
“You mean you’re quitting me and Jim?” the deputy asked.
“Yeah,” Cummings grunted. “Like I said, a man never knows when he might come down with a bad racking cough.”
