by Noel Loomis
“Curly Brown won’t, not tonight,” Cummings answered with a grim smile. “He will sleep a long time, and when he wakes up, he will be a mighty sick hombre. I remember Saint when he took that medicine old Doc Brady fixed up.”
“Snake Hollister didn’t drink any of it,” Waggoner argued. “How about him?”
“Well, my head still aches a bit,” Gospel said slowly. “And I hit Snake harder than Curly hit me!”
“So we come to Jude Tabor,” Waggoner pressed his advantage. “Now you tell me about Jude.”
“The way I see it, Curly Brown controls most of the men,” Cummings reasoned. “They will be watching Jude mighty close!”
“Which I hope you are right,” the Wagon Wheel boss said grudgingly. “What with Sandra and Molly back there at the Circle F.”
“We better be getting along,” Cummings ended the talk. “The horses have their second wind, and we ought to catch up with Ace and his boys before long.”
They rode through the rubble and came to the grassy trail which led to the shipping town of Saint George over across the Utah line. Gospel Cummings glanced at his heavy silver watch and said it was almost nine o’clock. A sickle moon came from behind a scud of clouds, and Waggoner held up a hand for silence. He listened intently and then faced the south.
“We cut in ahead of them,” he said with satisfaction. “Let’s ride down to meet them.”
They kept to the wide trail so that the cowboys on the vengeance trail would easily recognize them. Ace Fleming spurred ahead of his men when he heard Gospel Cummings give a clear Texas yell. He came up fast and showed his surprise because the two were ahead of his bunch.
“Gospel knew a short-cut,” Waggoner explained. “You see anything of the rustlers?”
“Not a trace,” Ace Fleming answered. “Where do you think they mil come out of the lavas, Gospel?”
“About two miles north and west,” Cummings answered confidently. “There’s a water hole up that way, and those shippers will be thirsty.”
“Curly Brown and Jude Tabor bushed Gospel back in Lost River Cave this afternoon,” Waggoner spoke up spitefully. “Clouted Gospel over the head with a gun, and Brown was going to cut his throat with his knife!”
“How the blazes did you get away?” Ace Fleming asked curiously.
Saint John had loped up, and the big deputy was listening intently. “I had a bottle,” Cummings said sheepishly.
“So you had a bottle,” Saint John repeated mockingly. “When was the last time you didn’t have one?”
“Back there in that cave,” Cummings answered quickly. “I had planted my own jug beside the trail before I went into the cave. The bottle I packed in there was the one Doc Brady mixed up for you the last time you was gunshot!”
“Gentle Annie!” the deputy whispered. “What happened to me shouldn’t happen to a hydrophobia skunk. Which one of them critters of the same breed sucked on that jug?”
“Curly Brown,” Cummings said with a smile.
“But Curly is dead,” Saint John said bluntly.
“For reasons I thought best, I didn’t tell you about Curly,” Cummings said to the deputy. “Curly Brown and Jude Tabor rigged up a bit of play-acting to fool Molly Ballard. Curly Brown is alive and kicking, and he’s doing most of his kicking against Jude Tabor!”
“He ain’t dead?” the deputy repeated. “After all that palaver on the trail with Jude Tabor, and finding the empty grave back yonder?”
“That’s why the grave was empty,” Jim Waggoner said with a grin. “Gospel knew Curly Brown was alive all the time.”
Saint John rubbed his lean jaw. “You better explain, Gospel,” he growled. “You still say that outlaw ain’t dead?”
“Naw,” Cummings answered. “He’s just sleeping heavy.” And he explained about the fake gun-fight between Tabor and Brown.
“Look, Gospel,” the deputy said angrily. “I could place a charge against you for obstructing justice and withholding information from the law!”
“Yeah, but you won’t,” Cummings said with a shrug. “If you really want to assert your authority, you can choose any one or all of those three!”
“Which same I aim to do!” Saint John answered doggedly. “Just as soon as we come up on those rustlers, and take a few prisoners!”
“What prisoners?” Ace Fleming asked coldly.
“I hereby deputize all you men!” Saint John rasped angrily. “And you’ll all take my orders!”
“Look, Saint,” Fleming said bluntly. “You just came along for the ride as far as I’m concerned. You can take the glory, if any, but don’t try giving me or my men any orders!”
“I’ll give ’em!” the deputy said angrily.
“Gentlemen!” Gospel Cummings chided sternly. “This is no time or place for quarrels among ourselves. Saint John has no jurisdiction as of when we cross that little stream yonderly. That’s the border of Utah, but I suggest that we temper justice with mercy.”
Ace Fleming smiled coldly and turned to Saint John. “You heard Gospel,” he said quietly. “We are not only out of the county up yonder, but out of the state as well. You haven’t lost any beef like the rest of us, and we haven’t lost any prisoners. So we can’t see eye to eye on that score.”
“I strongly urge a less lethal method of dealing with the rustlers,” Cummings said quietly. “I suggest that you boys only wound the rustlers.”
“You would,” Ace Fleming agreed dryly. “Now the rest of you men listen to me. Get your rifles ready, and if we sight those owl-hooters, line your sights center and shoot to kill!”
“You make me sorry I tipped you off to this drive,” Cummings said mournfully. “Change your orders, Ace. Tell your men just to wound those wayward rannies!”
“Shoot to kill!” Fleming repeated inexorably. “This is the second time we had to cut off an outfit like this, and perhaps this will be the last!”
Saint John turned his horse and spoke to Cummings. “You want to ride with me?” he asked gruffly. “I’ve no business riding in Utah, but I do have law business back at Lost River Cave!”
“You’d get picked off like a tame pigeon,” Cummings discouraged Saint John. “I’ll ride back there with you later, but right now I’ve other things to do.”
“So I’ll ride back there alone,” the deputy announced stubbornly.
“So we will be seeing you later,” Cummings said dryly. “I’m staying with the boys, and we’ve got to be getting along.”
He wheeled his horse and took the lead, urged his mount into the shallow water, and did not turn his head. Saint John whirled his horse and rode down the back trail, and Cummings spoke quietly to Waggoner and Fleming.
“We can beat him back by way of the badlands shortcut. Pay him no mind, and if we take any prisoners, they get a fair trial.”
“I’ll go along with that,” Fleming agreed. “If we take any prisoners!”
Gospel Cummings had to be satisfied with that, and he rode up the wide grassy trail in the pale moonlight. He held the pace for perhaps two miles, called a halt, and waited until the two crews gathered around him. None questioned his right to give orders; they had seen the old plainsman work before.
“Pay mind to me, you cowhands,” Cummings said sternly. “That mixed trail-herd will come just about here. I want you boys to fan out in position to take over the drive. Let the critters all get out of the badlands tangles before you fire a shot. Then close in on the drive and keep ’em from scattering. You, Ace, pick out your own fighting men to handle the rustlers. The rest of the crew will handle the cattle!”
“Thanks, Gospel,” the little gambler said gratefully. “You’ve got it all figured out, and it goes like you said. The men I call will side me to see that justice is done, and you know what I mean!”
Eager cowboys waited in silence as Fleming looked over his men. Sixteen counting Cummings and Waggoner, and every man was armed with rifles and six-shooters.
“Jim Waggoner stays with me,” Fleming began his c
ount. “Singin’ Saunders, Cole Brighton, and Tom Curry.” He paused, and the men waited to hear the name of the sixth man. “Gospel Cummings,” Fleming said after a pause. “That way we might take one prisoner!”
“Thanks, Ace,” Cummings said gruffly. “We might at that. The rest of you rannies remember that this is a trail-drive. You didn’t come out here to play cowboys and Injuns. Your job is to take over and hold that shipping herd. Point and swing men will ride right and left, and don’t let any bolters get back into the tangles. Keep your six-shooters handy; we will all have plenty to do!”
“And we will know how to do it,” Waggoner said with a grim smile. “Now I want to add a bit of my own. When those rustlers begin to shoot at you boys, just remember about them kidnapping Molly Ballard!”
Gospel Cummings looked reproachfully at Waggoner. He knew the value of the power of suggestion, and Jim Waggoner showed that he also knew, when he refused to meet Cummings’ eyes.
“Remember that Molly was not harmed,” Cummings tried to repair the damage. “We are working in the dark, and if one man would only talk, it might save many lives, and much valuable time!”
“Ned Tolliver didn’t talk,” Waggoner said acidly. “And neither did Joe Slade!”
Ace Fleming nodded and gave his orders. Each man was assigned a specified position, and the men Fleming had chosen would bring up the drag when the fighting was done. The grim-faced cowboys rode on both sides of the trail and were soon lost to sight, and Ace Fleming then placed his fighting men in strategic positions.
“We’ll turn the herd up way and bed them down by that little stream we just crossed,” Fleming said quietly. “How many you think there will be making that drive, Gospel?”
“Ten, mebbe twelve,” Cummings answered shortly. “The rest will be in Lost River Canyon to hold the stuff they think they can ship from Rainbow.”
“They won’t get away with that now,” Cole Brighton spoke up, and there was a note of satisfaction in his deep voice.
Brighton was one of the older cattlemen in the Strip, and younger men listened when he spoke. He had seen men like Waggoner and Singin’ Saunders grow up from boys, and they respected his judgments.
“Do it the way Ace said,” Brighton said quietly. “We will have odds enough when we close in on that Lost River hideout!”
“I’ll ride with Gospel,” Jim Waggoner told Fleming. “If we get this thing under control, me and Gospel will take the short-cut back just to keep Saint John from getting himself killed.”
“I’d like to go with you, on account of Snake Hollister,” Fleming said quietly, but there was a peculiar vibrating hum in his voice.
Gospel Cummings did not say anything. He rode into the badlands with young Waggoner, reached for his rifle, and levered a shell into the breech. The other fighters took their positions and then all was silent. Cummings scanned the wasteland, rode on a way, and whispered to his companion.
“You hear it, Jim?”
Jim Waggoner hadn’t heard anything, but he dismounted and pressed his ear to the ground. Then he nodded and remounted his Circle F horse.
“Cattle coming from the east,” he said quietly. “I’d say they were a good mile away, and being pressed a bit!”
Cummings threw back his head and gave the cry of a burrow owl three times. This was the agreed signal, and the mournful sounds floated across the wasteland brush. Then the two men separated and fanned out to make their fight.
Chapter 15
Darkness enveloped the wild region when the sickle moon drifted behind a bank of clouds high above the red sandstone cliffs. A murmuring roar sounded from the southeast, growing louder in volume as the stolen cattle were urged on through the rubble and brush of the lava badlands.
Gospel Cummings waited behind a stand of prickly pear, the long thirty-gun ready in his strong brown hands. Now he could hear the click of horns and the rattle of hocks as the weary cattle caught the scent of water, and the cries of the rustling drovers drifted down the wind as the herd was urged on by a dozen long-riders.
Two dust-covered cowboys broke into the clear and rode past Cummings to take positions in the Utah trail. They would have to turn the herd north to keep them from stampeding south to the creek, and then the lead steers trotted into view as the moon came out from behind the clouds.
Two more riders moved up to turn the herd, and Cummings could picture the Circle F and Wagon Wheel riders waiting up above to turn the drive south when the shooting began. Now the sweating cattle were streaming through the rubble and into the broad grassy trail, and Cummings raised his rifle and lined his sights when a tall rider with drooping long-horn mustaches brought up the drag.
Cummings took careful aim, meaning to drop the rustler with a slug in the right shoulder. He grunted when another rifle barked spitefully, and his target flipped over the rump of his horse and thudded to the ground.
The rustlers knew that they were in for a fight as guns began to blaze out of the darkness. An answering volley thundered from the outlaw guns, and here and there, individuals picked personal targets to sound the knell of death.
The terrified cattle were running blindly, and bellowing with fear. Gospel Cummings knew it meant certain death for any rider who was knocked from his horse, and he sighed when a tall outlaw screamed and pitched from his saddle.
Cummings picked out a smaller man who was firing a brace of heavy six-shooters. The cowboy slid from the left side of his horse, pinwheeled for a moment, and lay still. Now the rifles were barking a savage tune of revenge and retribution as Ace Fleming and his fighting men joined the fight and played the game for keeps.
Up ahead, Cummings could hear the Circle F and Wagon Wheel crews turning the maddened steers with slickers and flaming six-shooters. His face was grim when Cummings dismounted and moved toward the man he had shot from the saddle. The rustler was just attempting to sit up, and he slammed a shot at Cummings when he saw the bearded man moving in on him.
Another six-shooter bellowed off to the right, and the wounded rustler gasped and flattened out on his back. Gospel Cummings sighed and moved forward slowly when he saw Jim Waggoner step out from behind a volcanic rock.
“I meant to shoot the cutter from his hand and let him live to talk,” Cummings muttered.
“There’s been enough talk,” Waggoner said shortly. “I got that first son with the long mustaches with my rifle. He won’t talk either!”
Gospel Cummings walked back to his horse and mounted up. Jim Waggoner rode out on his Circle F horse, and they moved up just as the bellowing herd came down the trail, heading for water. They met Ace Fleming riding with Singin’ Saunders, and the little gambler expressed his satisfaction.
“Got nine that we know of,” he told Waggoner. “What’s your tally?”
“Two more,” Jim Waggoner answered promptly, and he refused to look at Cummings. “Gospel had one gent picked out to take prisoner, but when the son threw a slug at Gospel, I drilled him center. Gospel is still grieving about it!”
“I’m a man of peace,” Gospel Cummings said slowly. “And it was me who led this manhunt out here in the wilderness.” He shook his head, rode back into the trailside brush, and sought solace from the right-hand pocket of his long coat.
“Gospel is hit hard,” Waggoner whispered to Ace Fleming. “He hates a killing like most men hate the plague, and I would have pulled my shot if I had known what he was up to.”
“He’ll get over it; he always does,” Fleming said knowingly. “Never knew a man like Gospel in all my days. He’s a born fighter, but he also has a love for his fellowmen that the rest of us can’t understand.”
Gospel Cummings rejoined the pair, and the three men rode after the stampeding herd. They could hear the rattle of horns in the distance, and the bark of six-shooters.
The weary cattle were slowing down now, and the leaders had reached the shallow stream. They would bed down for the night after slaking their thirsts, and Cummings sighed again as he saw cowboys dragging burd
ens on the end of their ropes. The dead rustlers were left along the Utah Trail where Boot Hill Crandall could find them without trouble, and Jim Waggoner touched Cummings lightly on the arm.
“I’m sorry it had to be this way, Gospel,” the Wagon Wheel cowboy murmured. “Let’s you and me cut away from the bunch and ride back to look after the Saint!’
Gospel Cummings made no answer, but he followed Jim Waggoner back into the badlands. It weighed heavily on his conscience that he had been the indirect cause of the deaths of so many men. What they were was beside the point in his philosophy; good or bad, they were his brothers. It seemed incredible that he and Jim Waggoner had eaten supper at the Circle F that very night, and it was not yet twelve o’clock.
“Spare the horses,” Cummings admonished. “We keep up a pace like we’re going, we’ll founder these Circle F cayuses for certain.”
“You ever get a funny feeling, Gospel,” Waggoner asked, as he slowed down the pace. “Like something was going to happen, and that mebbe if you hurried, you could stop it?”
“Now that you mention it, I’ve felt that way the past hour,” Cummings admitted. “And it has something to do with the Circle F!”
“Thought I was just imagining things,” Waggoner said, with some excitement. “But that’s just the way I feel. And it has something to do with those darned outlaws holed up back there in Lost River Canyon!”
“Killing the horses won’t help much,” Cummings said soothingly, but Jim Waggoner knew that the gaunt plainsman was worried.
“Sorry I spoiled your play, Gospel,” Waggoner said gruffly. “But I’ve been worrying about the girls. You know how much I think of Molly, and I’ve a strong feeling that I can’t shake off, try as I will!”
“We are probably imagining things,” Cummings said soothingly. “A man gets jumpy out under the moon, especially after a gun-fight. The Circle F is well protected, and we can trust old Wing Loo to guard the girls with his life!”
“You should have let Curly Brown have it, Gospel,” Waggoner insisted, and his voice was husky with worry.
“He’s smart, but we don’t have to worry about him tonight,” Cummings assured the younger man.
