by Noel Loomis
The cowboys tied their horses to stunted trees and removed their hats. This time Jude Tabor uncovered voluntarily. Willing hands served as pall-bearers, and Cummings took his place at the head of the graves. He waited until the coffins had been placed on the stakes, and now Jude Tabor faced him, standing at the foot of the openings.
Gospel Cummings was empty-handed as he slowly scanned the faces of the curious. His hands were steady, and a brooding, somber expression filled his mournful brown eyes.
“The way of the transgressor is hard, my brethren,” he began slowly. “He who lives by the sword, shall die by the sword. The late Joe Slade perhaps had many admirable qualities, because there is so much good in the worst of us. I believe Joe was on the threshold of repentance, but his tongue was stilled before his wish could be fulfilled.
“The late Tom Cox was a brother-in-arms with Joe Slade. He followed a life of crime and evil-doing. He was cut down in the prime of life while attempting to perpetrate the taking of life, and his history is shrouded in obscurity. Is there anyone present who can say a few good words for the late Thomas Cox?”
He paused and looked about expectantly. No one spoke, and Gospel Cummings allowed his gaze to linger on the face of Jude Tabor.
“We came here not to praise evildoers, but to bury them,” he misquoted the Bard of Avon. “Let us bow our heads in prayer.”
Jude Tabor squirmed while Gospel Cummings prayed for forgiveness for the men who could not hear his words. He omitted the customary ritual of sprinkling dirt on the caskets; the usual admonition to: “Go thou with God!”
The service was over, and Jude Tabor turned to face the slim crowd. “Miss Molly Ballard is back home at the Circle F,” he said loudly. “And the man who is responsible for this cattle-rustling is dead. I refer to the late Curly Brown!”
“Let us trust there will be no immediate resurrection,” Gospel Cummings said with feeling.
“What did you say?” Tabor asked, and his voice was raspy.
“Your hearing is good,” Cummings answered quietly. “You heard me the first time.”
“I wasn’t sure,” Tabor growled. “I thought you said something about Brown coming back to life!”
“I mentioned resurrection,” Cummings corrected. “You said Curly Brown was dead.”
Jude Tabor frowned and then shook his head. “I don’t get you,” he said.
“When we hold a service here in Boot Hill, we know the guest is beyond all earthly help,” Cummings answered.
Jude Tabor whirled to face the speaker. “Meaning what?” he demanded.
“Yes, where is the body?” Saint John demanded.
“My men buried that transgressor,” Tabor said coldly.
“I’d like to know the location,” the deputy insisted doggedly. “Doc Brady is coroner, and he will have to write a certificate of demise. The body will be exhumed!”
“No one is going to do anything to that body!” Tabor said fiercely.
“Exhumed means to dig up the corpse for proper identification,” Cummings explained. “According to law!”
“It ain’t decent!” Tabor said gruffly. “To desecrate a man’s last resting place. Miss Molly saw Brown killed!”
“The location of the grave!” Saint John demanded. “Where did you plant that owl-hooter?”
“In a grave off the trail near Lost River,” Tabor answered sullenly. “But I still say it ain’t decent and proper!”
“We’ll ride with you to the place,” the deputy said grimly. “Gospel, Ace Fleming, Jim Waggoner, and myself!”
“Have it your way,” Tabor agreed reluctantly, and Gospel Cummings looked at him closely.
“I’ll catch up after I have changed my habiliments,” Cummings said, and walked slowly through the rows of stones to his cabin.
Away from the scrutiny of curious eyes, Cummings closed the door and reached to his right coat-tail. He brought out his bottle, drank deeply, and closed his eyes. Then he quickly changed to his workaday attire, fortified himself once more against the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, and replaced the whiskey in its hiding place.
Five minutes later he was mounted on old Fred and riding briskly up the trail. He caught up with the four men at the top of the rise, took his place beside Saint John, and rode in brooding silence. Of all the group, excluding Jude Tabor, he alone knew of the little drama which had been enacted for the benefit of Molly Ballard. He wondered about the grave near Lost Creek, and he stared his unbelief when Tabor reined off the trail and rode into a little draw where a mound of new earth met his startled gaze.
“There she is,” Tabor said quietly. “But we didn’t bring any shovels!”
“And we won’t need any!” Saint John shouted. “Someone has opened the grave for us!”
He dismounted and walked to the open grave, peered down into the shallow hole, and turned to glare at Tabor.
“Now you better talk fast, Jude Tabor!” he warned. “There ain’t any corpse in this prairie-bed!”
Tabor swung down from the saddle and came to stand beside the scowling deputy. He peered in, rubbed his chin, and shook his head.
“This is the grave, like I said,” he muttered.
“Like Gospel allowed, mebbe Curly Brown had a resurrection,” Ace Fleming suggested. “Start reading sign, Gospel!”
Gospel Cummings leaned back in his worn saddle. “Snake Hollister was here,” he said slowly. “Hollister and Ned Tolliver. They left their tracks all over the place!”
“I’ll tell Snake what you said,” Tabor growled. “What would Snake want from a corpse?”
“Mebbe he wanted information,” Cummings answered carelessly. “You knew Curly Brown better than any of us, and you know more about Snake Hollister.”
“Snake takes orders from me,” Tabor growled. “And he knows better than to work on his own!”
“That puts you in a tight,” Cummings said calmly, and he stared hard at Jude Tabor. “Snake Hollister took a shot at me back in the tangles, and he got those orders from you!”
“His orders were to shoot anyone trespassing on Rafter T range!” Tabor roared.
“Light down off your high horse, Jude,” Saint John said sternly. “Your men have orders to shoot anyone on Rafter T graze, but you and yours ride across the land of every man in the Strip. Well?”
“When we do, it’s on peace,” Tabor argued. “What has that got to do with Snake Hollister and Curly Brown?”
“Mebbe he was working for Curly Brown,” Waggoner suggested.
“They are both working for me!” Tabor said flatly.
“That’s right,” Gospel Cummings agreed. “Who buried Brown?”
Jude Tabor snapped at the bait. “That’s it!” he shouted. “Snake and Tolliver brought Brown down here and buried him!”
“You sure about that?” Saint John asked coldly.
“Certainly I’m sure about it,” Tabor answered. “I gave them the orders myself!”
“Then you better ask them what they did with the body,” the deputy said grimly. “On account of I can read sign some myself. No one else has been close to this hallowed spot; all the tracks belong to Hollister and Tolliver. Mebbe we better ride over to your spread and ask them two a few questions!”
Jude Tabor glared at Gospel Cummings, who was stroking his silky beard and casting his eyes about the trampled draw. Finally Cummings glanced up and met Tabor’s eyes, and the gaunt plainsman smiled without mirth.
“Them two dug this hole, but they didn’t bring anything to put in it,” Cummings said quietly. “Study the tracks of those horses they rode. Neither horse carried an extra load, and there were only two horses!”
“You can settle this with Snake!” Tabor declared angrily.
“I’ll settle with Snake,” Ace Fleming said evenly. “He sent word he would shoot me on sight, and I mean to go and do likewise!”
“I don’t want any trouble among my men!” Tabor growled.
“So I’m not one of your men,” the little
gambler said slowly. “Snake Hollister never was worth snow-water, and he’s as crooked as the track his namesake makes in the dirt!”
“Brave talk when a man ain’t here to argue,” Tabor sneered. “You wouldn’t tell it so scary if Snake was facing you!”
“I’d tell it that away,” Ace Reining said with a smile. “And you can tell him what I said.”
“I’ll tell him,” Tabor growled. “You’ll hear from Snake!”
“I don’t think much of him or the people he works with,” Fleming said slowly. “Now you can pick that up, or just let it lay where it fell!”
Jude Tabor scowled and his face grew dark with anger. Ace Fleming watched and smiled as he dropped his right hand to the handle of his .41 Colt.
“Now?” the gambler asked softly.
Chapter 11
“Hold it!”
Gospel Cummings spoke sharply as he stepped between Fleming and Tabor. Saint John had his six-shooter half out of leather, and he waited to see what Cummings was about.
“My mistake,” Gospel murmured with a shamed grin. “I was thinking about you, Saint. Kinda got things mixed up for a while. Your gun was stolen the night Joe Slade was killed, and I was wondering if you checked the loads. Whoever stole your gun might have drawn the loads, and the law wants to be sure he is shooting bullets when he rides on law business!”
“Mebbe you’ve got a perverted sense of humor,” the rangy deputy said angrily. “That worked one time, but it don’t call for an encore.”
“Sometimes lightning strikes twice in the same place,” Cummings insisted. “When a man’s hardware has been tampered with in any way, he ought to check it over just in case!”
Saint John scowled and drew his gun. He checked the loads carefully, but Gospel Cummings was watching the face of Jude Tabor. The Rafter T man twitched his right shoulder as if he too wanted to check his gun, and then Ace Fleming spoke up.
“I’m sure about the loads in my gun,” the gambler said quietly.
“I’m sure…” And then Jude Tabor stopped talking. “I’ve got no fuss with you, Fleming,” he said slowly. “I’ve lost more cattle than you have, but now this rustling will stop!”
Saint John stopped the exchange when he turned to Tabor.
“So we might as well ride back to the Rafter T and have a look around,” he suggested.
“You can’t do that!” Tabor said swiftly. “I gave orders to my men to shoot any trespassers on Rafter T range until we run down that Curly Brown gang!”
“So that’s work for me to do,” the tall deputy said sternly. “And any men I deputize!”
“I won’t be responsible,” Tabor said bluntly. “Not until I have a chance to ride back and give my men different orders!”
“You mean they’d cut down on the law?” the deputy demanded.
“You know how it is back there in the brush,” Tabor temporized.
“Yeah,” Gospel Cummings murmured, and he fingered the bullet holes in his battered black Stetson. “But we’re getting away from the main subject, men. We came to find the corpse of Curly Brown.
“He is wanted several times for murder, the last one being for the killing of Joe Slade while the latter was in custody of the law!”
“There’s something going on here that don’t meet the eye,” Saint John said shrewdly. “Are you withholding anything, Gospel?”
“I’m trying to help find a rustler and killer,” Cummings answered gruffly.
“I ought to be able to read a trail like that,” the deputy said musingly. “I’m not sure it was Curly Brown who killed Slade, and you’re not sure yourself, Gospel!”
“The sign all pointed to Brown,” Cummings argued. “And he was holding Molly Ballard herself, according to Tabor.”
“According to Miss Molly herself,” Tabor corrected. “I can’t figure out what you are getting at, Cummings.”
“You’ve got nothing on the law,” Saint John growled. “Spell it out plain, Gospel.”
“Here it is,” Cummings said with a sigh. “Curly Brown can do things with a throwing knife. Joe Slade was killed with a knife. Now Tabor says he killed Curly, and Tabor claims he ordered Hollister and Tolliver to bury the corpse!”
“So first we’ve got to find Snake Hollister and Ned Tolliver,” the deputy decided. “Ride on and bend the lead, Tabor. If anyone is going to get shot, you might as well be a target yourself!”
Tabor muttered to himself, but he climbed his saddle and turned his horse. They headed for the badlands, and several minutes later, Tabor made a suggestion.
“Better let Gospel and Jim Waggoner ride on with me. My men might open up on the rest of you!”
“You mean they won’t shoot Jim?” Fleming asked.
“Not after last night,” Tabor said confidently.
“If they can see good enough to tell who they are shooting at, then they’d deliberately shoot at the law,” Saint John said with a cold smile. “Hold your hosses a spell, men,” he ordered. “We don’t want more trouble here in the Strip, and I’m going to give Jude Tabor a chance!”
“Spell it out, deputy,” Tabor said eagerly.
“I’m going to let you ride back there with Gospel Cummings,” Saint John stated. “Your men won’t shoot at Gospel, and you can give your orders!”
“Just a minute, Saint!” Fleming argued. “Snake Hollister did shoot at Gospel, and history might repeat!”
“I’ll ride with him, but first I want a word with Jim Waggoner,” Cummings said quietly.
Both Saint John and Jude Tabor glared suspiciously at the gaunt plainsman. Gospel Cummings smiled and rode off, beckoning with his head for Waggoner to follow him.
“What’s this all about, Gospel?” the young Wagon Wheel boss demanded, when they were out of sight of the others.
“You’re a man I can trust, Jim,” Cummings began slowly.
Jim Waggoner watched the face of Gospel Cummings, trying to read what was going on behind those steady brown eyes.
Gospel Cummings reached for his Bible and fumbled in the back lining. He withdrew the card he had taken from the body of Joe Slade, and handed it to Jim Waggoner.
“I found this on Joe Slade,” he said quietly. “It tell you anything?”
“Well, there’s Lost River, and Wild Cat Creek,” Waggoner said slowly. “What’s this black line between them mean?”
“I want your word to keep this a secret for a while,” Gospel whispered. “Well?”
“It’s a promise, old friend.”
“That black line is the mystery of Lost River,” Gospel explained. “It runs through a big cave when it gets lost, but that cave is also a long tunnel. That’s where your Wagon Wheel cattle went, but just you remember your promise!”
“I’ll get every man on the Wagon Wheel and ride in there!” Jim Waggoner spoke out furiously. “Ace Fleming will send his Circle F crew, and we can get plenty more!”
“That’s right, but ride around the badlands to the trail leading to Saint George over there in Utah,” Gospel suggested. “Curly Brown’s gang will be making a drive tonight, and you can save some of your beef!”
“Why are you telling me this?” Waggoner asked bluntly.
“I’ve a feeling I talked, too much with my mouth,” Cummings admitted. “With me back on Rafter T range, they might try to hold me until the cattle are disposed of. Wanted someone to know, and I knew I could trust you.”
“Thanks, Gospel,” the Wagon Wheel cowboy murmured gratefully, and then he stared hard at Cummings. “What’s this about Curly Brown’s body?” he demanded.
“Well, we didn’t find it,” Cummings answered evasively. “You can’t convict a man of murder unless you can produce the body.”
“Try again, Gospel,” Waggoner chided the tall plainsman. “I’ve learned to read sign from you. You were making talk for Jude Tabor’s ears, but the rest of us were listening too. All that talk about a resurrection and such. What’s it leading to?”
“It’s leading to a showdown, unles
s I’m wrong,” Cummings muttered. “And next time Tabor might not be so lucky.”
“Next time?” Waggoner repeated. “You’re still clouding the sign, Gospel.”
“Jude Tabor don’t lack for courage,” Cummings said thoughtfully. “He was all set to match his cutter against Ace Fleming, and then he suddenly changed his mind.”
“I got that part,” Waggoner agreed. “He just didn’t want to draw against Ace after you made that remark about a man checking his gun after it had been tampered with.”
Gospel Cummings stroked his beard. Finally he made up his mind.
“Curly Brown ain’t dead,” Cummings said quietly.
“Wait a minute!” Waggoner protested. “Molly saw Jude Tabor kill Curly Brown!”
Gospel Cummings sighed. “I am a man of peace,” he said wearily. “I saw Curly Brown killed myself, but I also saw him get up and walk away after Molly and Tabor had left the cave!”
“What?” Waggoner almost shouted.
“Keep your voice down,” Cummings cautioned, and then he told the story of the fake gun-fight in Lost River tunnel.
Jim Waggoner gripped the handles of his gun. “I’ll ride back there and take it to Tabor!” he threatened.
Gospel Cummings stared at the angry cowboy, and then he slowly crossed his heart and spit to the side. Jim Waggoner flushed and became quiet.
“I remember, Gospel,” he said sullenly. “What’s the rest of your plan?”
“You and Ace do what you can on the Utah trail tonight,” Cummings said slowly. “Then you get back here and meet me. Don’t tell Ace about Curly Brown until you are on the way back, and I’ll find out what I can without making Jude Tabor suspicious.”
Tabor stared suspiciously when the two men rejoined the group. Saint John watched Cummings narrowly, and then he nodded. Whatever Gospel Cummings had told Waggoner would soon be told to him, and the deputy addressed Tabor.
“Anything happens to Gospel, I’ll hold you responsible,” he said sternly. “Gospel tries to mind his own business, but folks just won’t let him do it. You heard me, Tabor!”
“I heard you,” Jude Tabor said gruffly. “Now what am I supposed to do to keep you from busting out crying?”
