The Third Western Novel

by Noel Loomis

  “Come, Miss Ballard,” Jude Tabor said quietly. “Sorry you had to see this, but there was no other way. I found your horse down in a thicket, and I’ll ride back with you until I am sure you are safe!”

  “He was going to hold me for ransom!” the girl whispered tearfully.

  “You have nothing to fear now,” Tabor said soothingly. “I heard Curly Brown had moved in, but this other trouble occupied my attention up to now. He’s a cold killer, and some of his men are even worse, but I’ll take care of them!”

  Gospel Cummings watched and listened with his jaw agape. It was difficult for him to believe what he had seen with his keen eyes, but there it was. Curly Brown was dead on the floor of the cave, and Jude Tabor was very much among the living.

  “I don’t know how I can ever thank you,” Molly said earnestly. “The horrid things he suggested…”

  She buried her face in her hands for a moment, and Tabor patted her gently on the shoulder.

  “You will be home in a few hours,” Tabor soothed the girl. “I don’t make war on women!”

  He followed Molly Ballard from the cave, and Cummings saw him take the girl’s arm and lead her down a sloping trail. A moment later he heard the sound of shod hooves, and Cummings was about to swing a leg over the shelf for a look at Curly Brown.

  He stopped the move when he heard a murmuring chuckle. Then Curly Brown sat up and reached for a flask behind a pillar. The outlaw drank deeply and tossed the flask away, and Cummings strained his ears mechanically, expecting to hear the crash of glass. When he heard nothing, his surprise increased. Then he heard a distant splash, and Gospel Cummings knew. Lost River flowed swiftly, perhaps a hundred feet below the floor of the huge cave.

  Now Gospel Cummings knew why the whole scene had seemed so unreal to him. Curly Brown had acted out a part, and even with the stage-setting of the cave and the leaping flames, his acting had not been very good. Cummings had detected the fumbling with his six-shooter; the slow draw of big Jude Tabor.

  The little outlaw seemed very pleased with himself, and he listened as though expecting someone to come from the dark shadows. He chuckled as he toyed with the thongs Jude Tabor had severed from Molly Ballard’s wrists.

  Cummings knew he would not have long to wait; this time the acting was very good pantomime. Curly Brown was waiting for a caller, and footsteps sounded faintly.

  Another man came from a hidden recess back in the cave, and Cummings stared again. The second man was Snake Hollister, and he joined Curly Brown in a roar of ribald laughter.

  “How’d I do, Snake?” the little outlaw shouted.

  “Curly, you should have been an actor,” Hollister answered. “Jude Tabor never saw the day he could watch your draw. You fumbled around until he cleared leather, and when you spun around after his second shot, I near choked to death to keep from laughing out loud. You had the gal fooled too, and now she will go back home and give Jude a clean bill of health!”

  “I hated to give that gal up,” Brown confessed. “And I near let Tabor have it when he fumbled around for his cutter. I could have shot the buttons off his vest before he cleared leather!”

  Gospel Cummings stared and listened, and then the truth struck him. That talk about Tabor being in the clear, and now Molly would go back to the Circle F and tell Ace Fleming and Jim Waggoner that they were wrong about the cattle rustling. Jude Tabor had rescued her from a fate worse than death, the blame would be thrown on Curly Brown, and Molly would testify that she had seen the outlaw killed.

  Cummings had the answer even before Curly Brown reached down and picked up one of the brass cases Tabor had ejected from his gun. Jude Tabor had extracted the lead from his bullets, and had pressed a wad down to hold the powder. He had shot Curly Brown with blanks.

  Then Curly Brown did a strange thing. He tossed the empty brass case in the air. His right hand whipped down with the speed of light. The gun in his hand roared thunderously, and Cummings saw the cartridge case spin and batter against the cave wall.

  “I’m the fastest gun-hawk in this Strip country!” Brown boasted arrogantly. “I’ve never been beat to the shot but one time in my life, and it was a strange feeling for me, Snake. To stand there and let a creeping-snail throw down on me like I let Jude Tabor.”

  “But we need Jude in our business,” Hollister said carelessly. “I know what you mean, though. I bored a hole through that nosy sin buster’s hat this morning, only he wasn’t under it. Next thing I know he had me under his gun, and that old son is plenty fast.”

  “Faster than me?” Curly Brown demanded jealously.

  Snake Hollister scratched his chin. “It would be mighty close,” he muttered cautiously. “One time I saw him do the same thing with a silver dollar that you did with that cartridge case.”

  “The cartridge case is smaller,” Brown said jealously. “But Cummings is fast for a man his size. Too fast for Jude Tabor and his kind, but I know I’ve got him faded on the draw!”

  “Don’t take any fool chances, Curly,” Hollister warned soberly. “There ain’t the wink of a snake’s eye between you and Cummings, and you better wink that eye yourself!”

  “You just can’t keep snakes out of the talk, can you?” Brown complained irritably.

  Snake Hollister shook his head slowly. “Not since he shot the rattles off my hat,” he admitted venomously. “I got used to those rattles talking when I shook my head, and I miss them. I also remember how fast Gospel Cummings moved when he shot the gun out of Sam Tabor’s hand!”

  “I’ll face that old sinner one day,” Curly Brown hummed softly. “I’ll have a little edge on him, because he will think I’m dead, and a ghost. After the gal tells her story, the law will stop looking for Curly Brown!”

  “Grow a beard like old Cummings,” Hollister suggested. “Tell you what, Curly. We’ll rig up another plant and get old Gospel back here in the badlands. Take his bottle away from him until he gets the shakes. Then it’s you and him.”

  “I don’t need an edge!” Brown barked. “But I do want to meet that whiskered old soak. Joe Slade was going to talk to Cummings with his mouth wide open, and I’d like to have seen that big deputy’s face when he came to and found Slade with a knife through his ticker!”

  Gospel Cummings relaxed and listened with a smile on his bearded lips. The blood raced through his veins as he thought of facing the deadly little outlaw for a shoot-out. Snake Hollister was talking again.

  “We’ll ship part of those steers from Utah, a few from Nevada, and work in some right down at Rainbow,” he boasted. “Jude bought a few head here and there from the smaller cowmen, and we can fix up the papers.”

  “We don’t have to fix any papers for those dogies going to Utah and Nevada,” Brown corrected. “The buyers will see to that, and we will clean up a big getaway stake. If I have another chance, I won’t let that Ballard filly get away next time!”

  “Well, we better get down below,” Hollister suggested. “The boys ought to be here soon with another jag of beef, and we’re starting some of them over the hump to Utah!”

  Gospel Cummings stretched when the two men walked deep into the cave. Then he listened and held his breathing. He could hear the murmuring bellow of cattle which was becoming louder. Then he heard the click of horns and the rattle of hocks. A horse-backer on a Wagon Wheel cayuse rode into the mouth of the cave, posted himself at a spot that Cummings knew as the brink of Lost River, and then the lead steers crowded into the cave. Gospel stared and counted forty head of Circle F steers, and two men brought up the drag and herded the bawling cattle down through the tunnel.

  When the last echo had died away, Cummings turned on the shelf and crawled up the steep trail through the bat opening. His tough body was bathed with sweat when he crawled out and shucked the skin moccasins which he tucked down into a tail of his coat, and then pulled on his worn high-heeled boots.

  He made his way cautiously down the steep goat trail, found old Fred grazing quietly, and slipped on the bridl
e. After coiling his rope, Cummings leaned against the saddle and brought out his bottle.

  The gaunt plainsman took a long pull at the bottle, allowed the fiery liquor to trickle slowly down his parched throat, and sighed softly. His eyes were half-closed as he relived the scene in the cave, and then his head tilted back again.

  “A cowboy can’t stand on one leg,” he murmured. “And there’s an uncommon number of snakes back here in this scab-rock tangles.”

  His knowledge would be useless unless he got back to Vaca with his findings, and so Cummings replaced the bottle and tightened his cinches. He climbed his worn saddle and clucked to the trained horse.

  He sent the sorrel through the darkness at a fast walk, ate the thick meat sandwich he had prepared, and rode the wild trail thoughtfully. Then he had a strange premonition, and he mended the pace as he came to the trail along Lost River, where the lush grass grew high.

  The Circle F was over to the east, and Cummings rode past the fork in the trail at a high lope. He sent old Fred swiftly through the night, reached Three Points a half-hour later, and stripped his saddle gear. He rubbed down the sorrel, heaped the manger with fragrant blue-stem, and walked slowly to his cabin.

  Inside, he did not light the lamp. With the Bible on the table to his left, a bottle at his right, Gospel Cummings sat down to wait. He leaned forward to listen when a vagrant sound came to him. A horse-backer was coming down the trail from the west.

  Cummings stepped outside and sought the shadows under an old cottonwood. A tall rider came into the yard and hallooed the house. “Cummings, are you home?”

  Gospel Cummings smiled in the darkness. “Right here, Tabor,” he said quietly. “I heard you riding down, and I’m a man of peace.”

  “So am I,” Tabor answered quickly. “Thought you’d like to know. I found Molly Ballard back in the badlands; sorry, but I had to kill Curly Brown!”

  “Thou shalt not kill,” Cummings reproved sternly.

  “Knew you’d say that,” Tabor answered, and he laughed shortly. “He had the gal tied up in the cave, and I saw the fire. I rode home with her, but I didn’t go to the house. You can ask Miss Molly what she heard!”

  Gospel Cummings did not answer at once. He was again comparing Jude Tabor with Curly Brown, and finding the big man lacking. Tabor was not much of an actor, but Cummings admitted that he might have been fooled, if he had not seen the melodrama enacted in the big cave.

  “Curly Brown was fast with his tools,” Cummings said quietly.

  “But not fast enough,” Tabor answered with a grim smile. “But you can ask Molly Ballard; she saw the whole thing!”

  “So we might have peace again here in the Strip,” Cummings said, and he tried to put some warmth into his deep voice. “It ought to be an easy matter to find and round-up those rustled cattle.”

  “It’s not as easy as that,” Tabor said quickly. “Brown rode back into the badlands with a gang, and they are dangerous. But I’ll do all I can to get them.”

  “The other cattlemen will be glad to help,” Cummings said slowly.

  “We won’t need any help,” Tabor asserted. “I’ve got enough men to comb my own range, and my men have orders to shoot to kill at any strange riders. We don’t want any more killings, so you tell the boys to stay off Rafter T range until we finish our snake hunt!”

  “Ace Fleming ain’t going to like that,” Cummings said. “Neither is Jim Waggoner!”

  “They trespass on my range, they take the consequences!” Tabor declared. “Right now Snake Hollister is leading a man-hunt, and Snake will shoot first, and ask questions afterwards.”

  “That ain’t a monopoly,” Cummings reminded dryly. “And some of our boys are mighty accurate. They don’t like rustlers none to speak of, and they’ve lost too many shippers to sit on their hands while your boys ride around as if they owned the range!”

  “I own the Rafter T,” Tabor said slowly. “I figure that this trouble was brought to me on my range, and I’ll handle it in my own way!”

  “So will the Strip cattlemen, when they start after rustlers,” Cummings warned. “But I’ll tell them what you said. You coming to the burying this afternoon?”

  “I might, I might,” Tabor answered evasively. “I’d like to have a talk with Jim Waggoner. I might make him an offer for some range, now that he needs the money, losing his shipping beef and all.”

  “Why not just lend Jim the money?” Cummings suggested.

  “Nuh-uh,” Tabor said flatly. “I’ve always wanted that Wagon Wheel range where it joins mine by Lost River. This is a good chance to get it.”

  “I told Ace Fleming what Snake Hollister told me to tell him,” Gospel changed the subject. “Snake said he’d shoot Ace on sight.”

  “Snake was talking through his mad,” Tabor said with a smile. “Things are different now, and there’s no call for war. You tell the rest of the boys; I got to be riding back to the Rafter T!”

  “You tell your Rafter T men the same thing,” Cummings suggested. “This thing has got to be worked out for the mutual benefit of all concerned, and no one man will be the big boss of the works. You might keep that in mind, Tabor.”

  “You meaning anything special?” Jude Tabor asked thinly, and his beefy face showed his anger.

  “Yeah, special,” Cummings answered. “If your men shoot at our boys, they will get the same kind of answer in return.”

  Tabor shrugged and forced a smile. “Well, with Curly Brown out of the way, things will be different,” he promised. “Now you put away your war talk, and concentrate on your prayers for the deceased!”

  Gospel Cummings nodded. “I’ll also think up a few for any Rafter T men who might fall by the wayside,” he told Tabor. “So you better be getting back there to the Rafter T!”

  Chapter 10

  Gospel Cummings was not only a man with a dual personality; he was also a creature of habit, and a stickler for the proper observance of all conventions that had been proven by time, and hallowed by tradition. His lunch over, the apostle of brotherly love was preparing for the services to be held in the burying ground.

  Gospel had polished his scarred boots, had brushed his worn black coat and hat, and had laid out his ritual clothing. He had scrubbed himself thoroughly in the wooden tub, had washed his hair and luxuriant beard, and had pared his nails with the small blade of his stock knife. Now the worn Bible stood open on the deal table, and at the far edge, the black .45 pistol completed those things he would need for his part in the little drama which always ended in the Devil’s Graveyard.

  John Saint John rode down the road from town and stopped at the cabin. He walked in without invitation, reached under the bunk, took a fresh bottle of Three Daisies, and withdrew the cork. The rangy deputy plopped the neck of the flask with his forefinger, raised the bottle in salute to the solemn owner of the cabin, and proposed a toast.

  “Here’s to the death of Curly Brown, and confusion to our common enemies!”

  Saint John drank deeply and placed the bottle on the table. He hitched up his gun belt, wiped his mouth with the back of one big hand, and said he’d be getting out there to insure law and order during the last rites.

  He returned the bottle to its hiding place under the bunk, saluted Cummings by touching his left hand to the brim of his Stetson, and strode from the cabin.

  Gospel Cummings fastened the collar of his white linen shirt, made a knot in the black string tie, and buckled his cartridge belt about his lean hips. He fastened the tie-backs low, seated the heavy six-shooter in the hand-molded holster, tipped the handle just so, and shrugged into his long-tailed coat. His hands were trembling a bit, and he scanned the roads through the open doorway to insure privacy. Then he reached for the bottle, marked it carefully with his thumb and, well, habit is strong. A moment later he repeated the dosage, stoppered the quart, and returned it to the hiding place. The services should take no more than an hour.

  “My cough will not bother me for that long,” he assured him
self soberly. “But just in case…” And he tucked a full quart down into the right tail of his coat, under his six-shooter, on that side where the bad man of his nature had its abode.

  The muffled beat of hooves sounded outside as Cummings picked up the Book. The glass hearse was about to roll through the volcanic portals to Hell’s Half Acre, where most of the occupants had died violently, and with their footgear on.

  The long-faced Crandall was tooling his four expertly, and Gospel stared as he saw a lone out-rider acting as a guard of honor, riding a powerful Morgan horse which carried the Rafter T brand on the left flank, and also carried Jude Tabor in the carved black saddle.

  The solitary rider did not enjoy his place in the spotlight for long. Another tall man rode out and took his place beside the Rafter T owner; a man who repped for what passed for the law in the Strip. John Saint John was not playing second fiddle to anyone so lately converted to propriety, and to peace.

  Behind the pair rode Ace Fleming on his thoroughbred, and Jim Waggoner of the Wagon Wheel. Both seemed a trifle bewildered because of the turn in events; Molly Ballard had told her story well. Then came the townspeople on cow horses, but this time there were no women present.

  Gospel Cummings walked into the yard and took his place behind the gleaming glass hearse. This made Jude Tabor rein back a step, which the Rafter T man did with a scowl. The procession proceeded through the rows of chiseled headstones to a place where two Mexican gravediggers stood beside a pair of open graves, their straw sombreros held over their hearts. Stakes had been laid across the graves, and Boot Hill Crandall stopped his team, worked them at a right angle without moving the back wheels, and then turned the hearse neatly until the back faced the waiting three-by-sevens.