by Noel Loomis
He returned to the noonday camp, saddled his hip-shot sorrel, and mounted up. Jim Waggoner watched silently as Cummings slowly coiled his picket rope.
“Be seeing you in town, Jim,” Cummings said shortly. “Or down at Three Points.”
Gospel Cummings rode the creek trail for an hour. He watched the brush closely, and then he dipped down in a buffalo wallow. He smiled as he fumbled with the straps on his saddlebags, and then he brought out a new quart of Three Daisies.
“A man never knows,” he murmured contentedly. “And Saint John is not my keeper, but there will come a day!”
Gospel Cummings was smiling as he tucked the bottle into the right tail of his coat. He mounted his horse and turned old Fred toward home. He frowned slightly as he remembered the threat Snake Hollister had made against Ace Fleming, and a few moments later he drew rein at his cabin.
“I’ll ride to town before supper unless I see Ace,” Cummings murmured, and then he entered his humble abode to make his simple preparations for the evening meal.
Chapter 8
Ace Fleming rode down the trail to Three Points at a dead run. Gospel Cummings heard him coming and met the dapper gambler at the tie rail in front of his simple cabin. He saw at a glance that something was wrong; Fleming was wearing two six-shooters. Cummings could see the ivory handles of the .41 Colts under the gambler’s tailored coat.
“You see anything of Molly back there on the open range?” Fleming asked, and he did not even waste time in greeting his old friend.
Gospel shook his head. “You mean she went riding alone?” he asked hesitantly.
“Early this morning,” Fleming answered shortly. “And the Circle F lost a hundred head of shippers last night, some more of Jude Tabor’s work!”
“Mebbe not,” Cummings said quietly. “There’s a new angle on this rustling business up here, Ace,” he continued quickly, and he told the gambler about Curly Brown.
Ace Fleming sucked in a long deep breath. “Curly is a vicious killer,” he said slowly. “But he’s fast with his tools, and he has what we call gun-pride.”
“Meaning he wouldn’t be likely to shoot a man in the back?” Cummings asked.
“Not if that man was fast,” Fleming explained. “Curly would want to prove that he was faster than this other fellow. He’d go to almost any length to prove it to himself.”
Cummings nodded as he compared Ace Fleming with the notorious outlaw. Fleming and Brown were both small men; both were known for their speed and accuracy with six-shooters. Neither lacked for cold nerve, and if both lived long enough, a powder smoke showdown was inevitable.
“Right now you better worry about Snake Hollister,” Cummings changed the subject.
Fleming swore softly and gripped his right-hand gun. The balanced .41-calibre pistols fitted his small hands better than the heavier .45s carried by most of the cowboys, and the eyes of the gaunt plainsman glowed with a peculiar light as a sudden thought struck him.
“I met Snake Hollister back near Lost River this morning, Ace,” he said soberly. “He thought I was you, or at least that’s what he allowed. He cut down on me at sight with a rifle, and said to tell you he was shooting the same way the minute he saw you.”
“Thanks, and I’m glad I know the rules of the game,” Fleming said coldly. “He didn’t get you, so he must be badly wounded.”
“Not a scratch,” Cummings contradicted. “He’s your man, and I was trespassing on Rafter T land. I was also looking for trace of those rustled Wagon Wheel steers, and like you know, I’m a man of peace.”
“Yeah, I know,” Fleming said harshly. “I remember the time Sandra was missing, before we were married. You wasn’t much of a man of peace that time!”
“That was some different, Ace,” Cummings reproved gently. “You might say I had a hand in the raising of Sandra.”
“Molly Ballard thinks a lot of you,” the gambler said slowly. “And now Molly is missing!”
Gospel Cummings raised his head, and his thin nostrils were flaring wide. “If they hurt that gal, they’ll answer to me!” he swore fervently.
“Or to Jim Waggoner,” Fleming said quietly. “He thinks a lot of Molly, and she thinks a lot of him.”
“Saint John ought to be notified,” Cummings murmured. “He’s back there riding with Jim and part of the Wagon Wheel crew.”
Ace Fleming rode closer. “Look, old pard,” he said seriously. “You seem to have ways of going places where another man wouldn’t have a chance. You’re tempered and self-controlled.”
Cummings stared narrowly at the gambler’s handsome face. Fleming knew men. So did Gospel Cummings, and he knew what was coming.
“I’d want to play it solo,” he said quietly. “He rides fastest who rides alone.”
“He’d also have more chance of staying alive,” Fleming added dryly. “One man only makes half the target two men do.”
“A man don’t die until his time comes,” the plainsman said with characteristic fatalism. “The thought of death does not perturb me, old friend. But I admit honestly that I am worried about Molly.”
“That’s what I mean,” Fleming agreed. “If you’d cut out in the badlands and really hunt for sign, we might find out something about Molly. She’s a mighty pretty girl, and well, you know those wide-loopers as well as I do.”
“There’s not too much light left for a long ride,” Cummings murmured. “I’ll get a bait of hot grub and pack my saddlebags. You ride on up the trail to meet Saint John. I’ll follow a bit later, and I’ll take to the bush if I see you coming.”
“Keno, but we’ve got to organize again, Gospel,” Fleming said thoughtfully.
“I won’t get back tonight,” Cummings warned. “Try to keep the boys away from Three Points, and don’t let them know where I’ve gone.”
“I don’t know where you are going,” Fleming reminded. “I don’t want to know…not just yet. You’ve had something on your mind the last day or two, so go ahead and verify your suspicions.”
Cummings gazed at the gambler for a long moment. “I didn’t think my thoughts showed on my face,” he said slowly. “Perhaps you are psychic, Ace.”
Fleming rode up the trail as Cummings returned to his cabin, after giving his horse a generous measure of grain. Then the bearded man cut steaks from a haunch of venison which hung in his cooler, stirred up the fire in his old iron stove, and busied himself with preparations for a hearty supper.
Old Fred was rested when Cummings saddled the sorrel and set out for the badlands. He thought of the card he had found on the body of Joe Slade; that card was now tucked between the lining and the back cover of his worn Bible. Just a few lines drawn on the card, but now Gospel Cummings was sure that he knew what they stood for.
He was back on Wagon Wheel range when he heard the distant clop of hooves. Cummings drew rein and rode into the trail-side brush, dismounted, and held old Fred’s nose to prevent a warning whicker. Three men were coming from the west, and Cummings recognized the tall figure of John Saint John, the small dapper figure of Ace Fleming on his tall thoroughbred, and Jim Waggoner on a Wagon Wheel horse. They passed his hiding place riding abreast, with Fleming nearest to Cummings. He wondered if the gambler had seen him, and then Cummings shrugged and continued his ride toward the west.
There was just a trace of daylight left when Cummings crossed Lost River, drew rein at the rocky ledge where the water went underground, and the tall plainsman dismounted. He took a burlap sack from under his saddle, cut it into strips, and bound the strips around the hooves of his son-el. Then he mounted up and rode across the rocky ledge, skirted the thicket where he had met Snake Hollister, and after another half-mile, drew rein in a bosque of creosote bush and sage.
He knew that he was standing over Lost River, but now the stalking plainsman had a definite objective. He also knew the location of a huge cave where glittering stalactites grew down from a towering ceiling. He had sought shelter in the cave from a flash storm and had stayed there thr
ee days until the flood waters of Lost River had subsided. With three days on his hands, Cummings had explored the ghostly cavern; he had also found an opening from above where the bats returned after their nocturnal hunting.
Gospel Cummings worked his way slowly upward until he was in some small hills, and then he slipped between two towering rocks and began to move cautiously up a steep, brush-choked trail. Now he was hugging a giant rock, and he pulled off his boots and hung them around his neck with a thong of whang leather. He took a pair of moccasins from the cavernous pocket of his long coat, slipped them over his heavy socks, and wormed his way around the chimney rock.
A velvety darkness enveloped the foothills, but the brown eyes of Cummings were now accustomed to the gloom. He had found this secret entrance to the cave by watching the clouds of bats which lived in the upper reaches of the long, winding cave.
Cummings was not sure of what he would find, but he was certain that the cave held the key to one of the mysteries which plagued the cattlemen. He was thinking of Jude Tabor and Curly Brown, and making his own comparisons.
Of the two, Curly Brown was the brainiest. This was evidenced by the fact that the notorious killer had escaped capture for so many years. And because like begets like, it was highly probable that if Tabor and Brown were working together, Jude Tabor was also a killer.
Cummings climbed the chimney and rested a moment at the top. Then he dropped his long legs into the hole and slowly lowered himself.
There was just room enough to admit his spare frame as he crawled into a round smooth hole. The odor of bat guano was strong in his nostrils as he worked carefully through the opening. He stopped to sniff the air when the smell of wood smoke came to his inquiring nostrils, and after a brief pause, Cummings began a steep descent.
Moments later he paused when a faint yellow light showed in the tortuous tunnel. Now he could hear the gruff voice of a man speaking, and the plainsman’s pulse began to race when he heard a woman answer.
“What are you going to do with me, Mister Brown?”
Cummings recognized the overwrought voice of Molly Ballard. He moved forward slowly, testing each foot of the way with groping, sensitive hands. Then he was on a low shelf which overlooked the floor of the huge cavern. Gospel stopped and closed his eyes for a moment to shed the light, and he heard Brown make an answer.
“Your friends will pay a pretty penny for your safe return,” the little outlaw boasted. “If they don’t, your return won’t be safe!”
Gospel Cummings felt a surge of anger through his tough-thewed frame as he watched the scene on the floor of the cave. Molly Ballard was evidently frightened, but the plucky girl was trying to keep up her courage. Cummings gripped his six-shooter, and then closed his eyes until he had again controlled his emotions.
Curly Brown squatted in front of the fire, his Stetson pushed to the back of his curly hair. A brace of heavy forty-five six-shooters nestled at his thin thighs, and a long-bladed hunting knife hung from the back of the outlaw’s belt. He wore a heavy sweater, a calf-skin vest, but no coat.
“I have no money of my own,” Molly ventured timidly, “except a little I have saved from singing in the Casino.”
“Jim Waggoner has plenty, and so has Ace Fleming,” the outlaw answered carelessly. “You’re a mighty pretty package, Molly gal. If my boys got a look at you, I don’t know whether I could control them or not!”
Cummings saw the girl shudder. It seemed to him that he could hear the bellow of cattle above the roar of the underground stream, and Cummings drew his six-shooter and tested the ledge with the sole of his skin moccasins. Then he relaxed when a shadow spiked out from the distant mouth of the cave, and withdrew again. Someone was listening from the outer opening, or standing just within the huge cave.
“You stole the Wagon Wheel herd,” Molly accused positively. “You must be working with Jude Tabor!”
“Tabor!” the outlaw sneered. “I’ve got that gunnie over a barrel. I’ll get the stuff, and he gets the blame!”
Gospel Cummings drew a long, slow breath. Here were two dangerous men at odds with the law, and each other. Cummings saw the expression of surprise on Molly Ballard’s pretty face.
“Jude Tabor killed my brother,” Molly whispered. “What are you doing back here?”
“Rustling cattle,” Brown admitted readily. “I let these ranchers raise the beef, and I steal it.”
“You rustled the Wagon Wheel herd?” Molly asked.
“What difference does it make?” Brown answered with a shrug. “I’ll get the cattle, and Tabor will get the blame!”
“You and Tabor are enemies?” Molly asked.
“We ain’t friends,” Brown sneered. “He leaves me alone, I’ll leave him and his alone!”
Gospel Cummings digested this piece of information as he watched the deep shadows in the huge cave. He mistrusted Jude Tabor, but Curly Brown and his gang were wanted by the law. The outlaw had made a specialty of handling wet cattle down on the Rio Grande, and it might be that he had made a deal with crooked cattle buyers shipping out of Utah, or from some remote siding in Nevada.
Cummings leaned forward suddenly when he saw a dark object detach itself from the wall facing the fire. A tall man was working his way slowly toward Curly Brown, but keeping in the niches which pocked the cavern wall. Careful not to throw a shadow which would warn the unsuspecting outlaw who had his back to that outside wall.
Cummings saw Molly gasp, and then the girl quickly lowered her head. Her hands were tied behind her back, and her ankles had been hobbled with a piggin’ string. Cummings knew that Molly had seen the creeping shadow, and now the fine sweat of indecision moistened the plainsman’s brow. He had caught a fleeting glimpse of the skulker’s face, and that man was Jude Tabor!
Gospel Cummings was breathing hard as he watched the little drama unfold before his eyes. Again that tall shadow was lancing out from the front of the cave, and it gradually took form. Now it was no longer a shadow, as Jude Tabor stood revealed in the light from the flickering flames.
Curly Brown glanced at the girl, jerked a bit, and stared at her intently. He seemed to relax, but his right hand dropped down to loosen the heavy six-shooter in his open holster.
Jude Tabor took two steps forward and then stopped. Molly Ballard watched with silent fascination. She tried to tear her eyes away, but found the task impossible.
Chapter 9
Jude Tabor stood erect for a moment, facing the fire. He seemed incredibly tall in the flickering shadows, and he suddenly went into a crouch as Curly Brown stretched to his feet. Gospel Cummings watched, wondering why Tabor had not drawn one of his six-shooters. Cummings gasped when Curly Brown spoke quietly.
“Don’t draw, Tabor. One of ray boys has you under his cutter!”
Jude Tabor drew back. His face was livid with anger as he glared at Brown.
“I’ve been trying to have you down like this since our run-in down Arivaca way,” the little outlaw said evenly. “You can relax now, Tabor. That was just a bluff I ran on you. You and me are alone, except for the gal.”
“I might have knowed you’d cold-deck me,” Tabor said bitterly. “I should have shot you in the back!”
“Like Tod Ballard got his?” Curly Brown asked lazily. “For one time I’m going to keep you honest, Jude. Make your pass whenever you’re so minded!”
They made a strange contrast in the light from the flickering yellow flames. Curly Brown, small and deadly, superbly confident, and inordinately arrogant.
Jude Tabor, tall and strong, full-bodied and agile. With two heavy six-shooters belted around his hips in crossed gunbelts, his right hand hovering over the grips of his lethal forty-five Colt.
Both men wore the cutaway holsters of the fast gun-fighter, with those holsters tied low and tilted out for a rapid draw. Only a professional would have the touch to shape those scabbards to fit the frames of the guns they had balanced to their own hands.
Gospel Cummings was a gun-fighter, and
he knew all the earmarks of the fraternity. Of the two, he would have chosen the waspy little outlaw, Curly Brown. For one thing, Brown presented less target, and if he turned his lathy frame to the side, he would present only half as much. Brown was like the vinegarroon of the desert; the deadly whip-scorpion which moved with the blinding speed of light.
Jude Tabor was fast for a big man, but his very size marked the difference. He would move slower because there was so much more of him to move. It was also Cummings’ opinion that Tabor’s mind moved more slowly than the thwarted brain of the little killer, but time would bring the sure answer.
“I’ve got you faded, Tabor,” Brown taunted the big man. “Roll ’em when you’re ready!”
“Hold it!” Tabor said sharply. “You rode in here with your gang and you rustled that Wagon Wheel herd. Jim Waggoner thinks I did it!”
“Let him keep on thinking it,” Brown sneered. “You won’t tell him any different, not after the smoke clears away!”
Gospel Cummings frowned as he watched the two men facing each other across the fire. Molly Ballard shrank back against the rocky pillar to which she was bound, and Gospel Cummings allowed his gun-hand to rest on the rocky shelf.
“Your body will tell him and the law all they need to know,” Tabor said harshly. “Make your pass!”
Curly Brown leaned over slightly, and his right hand shadowed the gun on his skinny leg. He was turned partly to the side to thin the small target he presented, while Jude Tabor faced him squarely.
“I’m coming out with aces!” Brown barked.
His hand snapped down to his gun-butt and started up. He seemed faster than Jude Tabor, but it was the big Rafter T man who got the first shot away. Curly Brown staggered and took a step back, and his gun exploded to blast a slug into the high ceiling.
Jude Tabor caught his smoking gun on the recoil, eared back the hammer and dropped it with his finger depressing the trigger. Molly Ballard screamed softly, but the scream was drowned by the second vicious blast of Jude Tabor’s .45.
Curly Brown jerked back, spun around, and dropped to the floor. Jude Tabor stood over him with his gun held ready for a follow-up. Then he jacked the spent shells from the weapon, thumbed fresh loads into the cylinders, and holstered his gun. His right hand slapped to the back of his neck, and a keen-bladed knife was in his hand when he leaned down to sever the thongs which held Molly Ballard a captive. He helped the girl to her feet, and Gospel Cummings watched with a stunned expression of surprise on his bearded face.
