by Noel Loomis
“Curly Brown will be dead to the world,” Waggoner reasoned. “You hammered Snake Hollister over the head with your hog-leg, but then, you got hammered your own self. You’re riding, and Snake Hollister could be doing the same!”
“He tries anything on Sandra or Molly, he will answer to me!” Cummings pledged earnestly.
“Mebbe you’d take him prisoner,” Waggoner taunted purposely.
“I would, if it were possible to take him prisoner,” he said to the Wagon Wheel boss. “But Snake Hollister will be plenty busy watching Jude Tabor. Jude won’t take kindly to what Snake did to him!
“There were four Rafter T men among those rustlers,” Cummings said thoughtfully. “All the rest must have belonged to Curly Brown’s gang. There can’t be many left now.”
“I can’t shake that feeling,” Waggoner muttered. “Ace would want it that way. Let’s make time even if it kills the horses!”
He sent his roan through the brush with Cummings behind. They came out on the margin grass where Lost River watered the west border of the Circle F range. The horses were lathered and leg-weary when the two men loped into the Circle F yard, and Jim Waggoner swore softly when he saw a horse tied behind the barn.
“Rafter T horse, Gospel!” Waggoner whispered hoarsely. “We got here just in time!”
Both men dismounted and dropped their reins to the ground. The weary horses would not wander off, but Cummings whispered hoarsely for caution.
“Keep to the shadows, Jim. We’ll know soon enough, and do what has to be done!”
A shot blasted out from the kitchen just as the two men stopped. A man backed through the door, a spitting six-shooter in his right hand. He staggered as an answering roar came from the kitchen, and then Gospel Cummings went into action.
His right hand blurred down and came up spitting smoke and flame. The tall gunman jerked around as a slug tore through his left shoulder. Jim Waggoner shouted a name as his pistol cleared leather.
“Snake Hollister!”
Waggoner’s six-shooter roared savagely as Hollister whirled to face the new danger. He was battered down under the impact of the heavy .45 slug from Waggoner’s gun, and Gospel Cummings shook his head sadly. Jim Waggoner never threw off his shots, and one more man had died by the gun…with his boots on.
“I knew it was him,” Waggoner growled deep in his throat. “If he hurt Molly or Sandra…?”
“Gospel!” a girl’s voice called. “Are you and Jim all right?”
“We’re all right,” Cummings shouted. “You girls stay inside; we’ll be right in. Thank God they are safe,” he whispered to Jim Waggoner.
Gospel Cummings had walked forward and was staring down at the dead man. Snake Hollister had been wounded four times; he had continued to fight until Jim Waggoner’s bullet had cut him down.
“Like a rattlesnake,” Waggoner said grimly. “Them kind ain’t dead until they are dead all over!”
“This one had a killing coming,” Cummings said, in a low, hoarse voice. “But he didn’t get far; we know that. The girls are safe, but I wonder.”
“Wing Loo!” Waggoner jerked out. “It was him who fired that first shot!”
“I hope so,” Cummings whispered. “I hope so!”
Gospel Cummings stretched erect slowly. He was staring at the open kitchen door, and Waggoner saw the look of dread in the bearded man’s brown eyes.
“Wing Loo was in the kitchen,” Cummings murmured. “That’s Wing’s knife sticking in Hollister’s shoulder!”
He almost ran into the kitchen with Waggoner at his heels. Then Gospel Cummings went to his knees beside the moaning form of Wing Loo, the old Chinese cook. Wing Loo smiled and stopped moaning.
“Knew you’d come, Holy One,” he murmured.
“I ain’t no Holy One!” Gospel Cummings denied fiercely. “How bad you hurt, Wing, old pard?”
“First time not bad, second time… Wing go soon to ancestors.”
“Naw!” Cummings contradicted fiercely. “We’ll get Doc Brady to fix you up, and you’ll live to be a hundred and ten!”
“No live,” Wing Loo murmured. “Me pick up grave, Holy One. You say nice service for Wing Loo? You read from the Book of Life?”
“Why, you ain’t no heathen, Wing,” Cummings murmured, and his deep voice trembled with an emotion he could not control. “Just like you say, old friend. But you are going to get well.”
Gospel Cummings gathered the frail form in his strong arms. Anger surged through his veins, and his heart pounded like a trip hammer. He tried to control himself, but it was some time before he could trust himself to speak.
“Wing knew you would come,” the old cook whispered. “Wing say a little prayer, and then fight like hell!”
“I’ll say you did,” Cummings answered fervently. “That Snake had a knife sticking in him when he ran into our gunfire. I knew you’d look after the women folks!”
“Getting plenty dark,” the old Chinese murmured with difficulty.
Gospel Cummings held the bottle to the old cook’s pallid lips. Wing Loo smiled and drank deeply. A red stain was spreading across his silken blouse just over the heart, and Gospel Cummings could see another wound in the old cook’s left shoulder.
“I hear horses ride up quiet,” Wing Loo whispered. “Snake man break lock and get in kitchen fast. I stick him with knife, and he shoot fast. Money in flour bin for funeral. I go now!”
Gospel waited a moment and then laid Wing Loo gently on the floor. His lips moved silently as though in prayer, and then he moved to the door and into the big living room. Sandra Fleming ran to him and buried her face against the rough cloth of his aged coat.
“Is he…?” she sobbed.
Gospel Cummings did not answer. He raised the bottle to his bearded lips and drank to the very bottom. Then he sighed heavily as he wiped his lips, but he was steady and poised when he turned to face the others.
Chapter 16
Jim Waggoner spoke softly to Gospel Cummings, who was staring moodily into space with unseeing eyes. His girls had gone back to bed, and the body of Wing Loo had been placed on his cot in a little back room off the big kitchen.
“You need action, Gospel,” the young Wagon Wheel boss suggested. “There’s little you can do for Wing Loo, except to keep the promise you made to him, but there are others who might need your help.”
The bearded man stirred restlessly, brought himself back to the present, and told Waggoner to give it a name. “Who might be needing me?” he asked.
“Saint John,” Waggoner said slowly. “I’m afraid for the law.”
Cummings drew a quick breath and appeared startled. “That’s right,” he conceded. “I wonder if that stubborn law-dog rode back to Lost River on his own?”
“I’m sure of it,” Waggoner answered. “The Saint was mad, and he thinks his size makes him immune.”
“You’re thinking about Curly Brown,” Cummings said thoughtfully. “We better saddle up again and do what we can.”
“And with Curly perhaps coming out of that long sleep, he’ll be as vicious as a grizzly,” Waggoner added.
“Saint John will know about that,” Cummings said thoughtfully. “The medicine was his in the first place, and he will know all the reactions.”
Waggoner had boiled a pot of strong coffee, and he poured two big mugs full. There was a pot of stew on the back of the stove, and he filled two large bowls and cut some bread. The faint light of approaching dawn showed in the east as the two men finished their simple breakfast. “We’ve got to do more than just ride back there and make targets of ourselves,” Waggoner said grimly. “I have an idea that’s just what Saint John did.”
Gospel Cummings knew what the younger man was thinking, but he waited for Jim Waggoner to put it into words. “You got back there and had a grandstand seat the time Brown and Tabor put on that fake gun-ruckus for Molly,” Waggoner began. “If you did it once, we can do it again!”
“I can,” Cummings corrected, as though he
had already considered the plan. “You ride up the front trail and keep behind cover. Let them know you are out there, but don’t expose yourself. I’ll go up high and down the chimney rock, and we might be lucky.”
Waggoner looked disappointed, but he could see the logic of the plan.
They roped fresh horses and made ready for the ride back to Lost River Canyon. Jim Waggoner called Molly and left a message for Ace Fleming, and then he rode from the Circle F yard with Cummings who was again lost in silent brooding.
“If the Saint had waited, we could have starved those owl-hooters out when Ace and the boys got back,” Waggoner remarked. “But that big star-toter takes himself seriously, forgetting what a target he makes.”
The sun came behind the high peaks as the two men rode across the rocky ledge where Lost River went underground. They rode together until they came to the trail leading to the cave, and Cummings turned to the right and rode into the brush without speaking. He tied old Fred in a ’squite thicket, twitched the black six-shooter in his worn holster, and cat-footed into the brush and up the steep trail leading to the chimney where the bats came in and out of Lost River tunnel.
Gospel Cummings sniffed as he came closer to the hole in the volcanic rocks. The bats had returned from their nocturnal hunting; countless wings had brushed the rocks to leave the unmistakable odor of their bodies.
Cummings tightened his old Stetson and climbed up the defile, lowered his long legs into the hole, and disappeared from sight. A moment later he was crawling down the steep declivity on hands and knees, and when he came to a wide place, he rested for a moment.
His right hand reached for the bottle carefully. Then he continued his stealthy progress. He heard nothing when he came to the bend and saw the glow of light from the front entrance of the big cave. He also knew that there was no fire, or he would have detected the smell of wood smoke. Then he heard the high pitch of Curly Brown’s arrogant voice.
“I’m for cutting his throat and dumping him in the river. Like as not he did for Snake Hollister, and I never did like the law regardless!”
Gospel Cummings sighed in the darkness. So Saint John had blundered into another trap, and was now a prisoner. He heard the big deputy speak, and Cummings began to crawl forward.
“I gave you a chance to surrender yourself, Curly. I might have known your word wasn’t worth the breath it took!”
Cummings was now on the shelf, his eyes accustomed to the changing light. He could see Saint John sitting against a limestone pillar, hands tied behind his back. Curly Brown was off to the side, with Jude Tabor facing the outlaw leader several paces away, his back to the entrance of the big cave. Curly Brown drew his knife and crouched toward the prisoner.
“I’ve killed more than one law-dog!” he boasted. “So my word ain’t any good, but you’ll never live to do any talking about it!”
“Leave him be!” Jude Tabor barked suddenly. “It was me who winged that nosy Johnny Law on my own land!”
“You ain’t telling me anything!” Brown muttered. “I’m letting you live because we need each other. When tills ruckus is settled, you and me can take up where we left off!”
“It will be different next time,” Tabor promised grimly. “But right now we’ve got more important things to think about.”
“Name a few,” Brown answered insolently. “You’re in a jam up to your eyeballs.”
“I am for now,” Tabor admitted. “But you’ve been in that same jam for years. I’m not forgetting that you rode back here and brought this grief to me!”
“So you can remember it when we play the final hand,” Brown retorted. “And as far as I’m concerned, we can play that hand right now!”
“It can wait,” Jude Tabor said hurriedly.
“So it can wait,” Brown growled, and turned back to Saint John. He held the thin-bladed knife in his right hand as he looked the big deputy over with contempt.
“I could throw this through you up to the handle, Saint John,” he growled.
“Let the law be for now!” Tabor answered grimly. “We’ve got other things to think about right now. Ned Tolliver didn’t show up, and Snake Hollister didn’t get back from the Circle F. None of our boys got back from the Utah trail to report, and this big son might tell us something about them!”
“I can tell you,” Saint John said gruffly. “But first I’d like a drink!”
Curly Brown smiled, and his thin lips curled back to show the dog-teeth in the sides of his evil mouth. He reached to a little shelf and picked up a bottle. He drew the cork with his teeth, but Saint John shuddered and shook his head.
“Water,” he croaked. “I don’t want a Mickey out of that jug!”
Curly Brown glared at the big deputy. “Mebbe you’ve seen this bottle before,” he said in a hoarse voice.
“I’ve seen it,” the deputy answered. “Gospel told me that you took a healthy swig, and I hope you slept good!”
“I ought to break it over your head!” Brown growled.
“Hold it, Curly!” Jude Tabor shouted. “He said Gospel Cummings told him about the bottle. When did you see that old sin buster last?” he asked Saint John.
“Before midnight,” the deputy answered without hesitation. “Gospel knew all about that drive up the Utah trail, and Ace Fleming gave orders not to take any prisoners. That’s why I left the manhunt!”
“You’re a liar!” Brown barked. “You knew the fight would be in Utah where you have no jurisdiction!”
“Something like that,” Saint John admitted. “So I rode back here to give you and Jude a chance to surrender to the law!”
“You’re lucky you didn’t get killed,” Brown muttered. “Sneaking up the trail with a six-shooter in your fist, and it eared back for war. Lucky Tabor shot you instead of me; I’d have drilled you center!”
“Looks like Jim Waggoner was dead right about you,” Saint John said quietly.
“Yeah, what did that Wagon Wheel boss say about me?” Brown asked curiously.
“Said you’d shoot a man in the back, or on a sneak, just so you’d win,” Saint John answered candidly. “Now that I’ve heard you say so with your own mouth, I know that Jim was right!”
“You big knothead, you’re asking for it,” Brown shouted furiously, and his arm went back for the throw.
“Lay off, Brown,” Tabor said wearily. “Can’t you see he’s just trying to make you lose your head? Now you step back and let me try. This law-dog wants to talk, and I’m all for listening.”
Gospel Cummings listened and eased his breathing. He could see a crude bandage on Saint John’s big left arm, evidently little more than a flesh wound.
“Tolliver,” Tabor asked bluntly. “You see anything of him?”
Saint John nodded his big head. “Saw him laying down by the edge of Circle F graze,” he answered honestly. “They caught him hazing a little jag of Circle F beef back this away, and Jim Waggoner shot first!”
“I’ll settle with Waggoner!” Tabor promised.
“Like you settled with Tod Ballard,” Curly Brown sneered. “You didn’t exactly shoot Ballard in the back, but you got him when that cowhand was kneeling, and him empty-handed!”
Jude Tabor glared at Brown with his right hand close to his holstered gun.
“Drag your iron!” the little outlaw challenged. “Then I’ll dump both you and this nosy law-dog into Lost River back yonder!”
“You won’t get away with it,” the deputy said quietly, but his deep voice trembled. “Ace Fleming will lead his boys back here after they’ve wiped out your gang.”
“They’ll never get my boys!” Brown boasted.
Jude Tabor was facing Brown in a crouch, but again Saint John had detracted the deadly little killer’s attention. Tabor nodded and relaxed. He spoke softly.
“That deputy didn’t ride down here alone,” he stated. “He wouldn’t be so cocky right now if he didn’t think help was coming.”
“Did you see anyone beside him?” Brown demanded.<
br />
Tabor shook his head. “No, but they might have spread out to thin the target,” he suggested.
“You in the cave!” a loud voice shouted suddenly. “Jim Waggoner making medicine!”
Both Tabor and Brown whirled to face the opening, ran forward quickly and Cummings moved like a hunting cat. He dropped over the ledge, severed the thongs which held the big deputy, and pulled Saint John back into the shadows.
“Quiet!” he hissed. “I’ll boost you up on that ledge, and you lay still. We won’t have more than a minute!”
He hoisted the wounded deputy to the ledge and rolled him with one big shoulder. Then Cummings climbed up and crouched beside the startled lawman. Brown and Tabor faced the cave opening, six-shooters in their hands.
“What do you want?” Tabor shouted.
“I want Saint John!” Waggoner answered sternly. “You rustlers lost a dozen men tonight, but you turn Saint over to us and ride on out!”
Curly Brown began to curse. He realized what had happened over on the Utah trail, and his murderous rage communicated itself to Jude Tabor who drew apart and watched the little outlaw closely.
“So that’s the way your men guard your range,” Brown sneered. “Someone sneaked back here and heard your plans. Then you let the law ride in and draw you into a trap!”
“We’re both in the trap,” Tabor corrected. “We can work together to get out of it, or one or both of us can die here and let the law win the pot!”
“You creeping snail!” Brown taunted Tabor. “It wouldn’t be anything like a draw. Don’t get any big ideas because I let you draw on me when your gun was shooting blanks!”
Gospel Cummings prodded Saint John and whispered instructions. Then he led the way up the steep dark trail through the chimney rock, pushed himself through the opening, and helped Saint John crawl out.
“You got to do it the way I say now, Saint,” he whispered. “You haven’t a gun, and you are wounded. My horse is down below, so you ride over and join Jim. I’m going to watch what happens when thieves fall out, and you’ve made enough mistakes for one night!”
He dropped back into the chimney hole and started to work his way down on hands and knees. Not more than five minutes had passed since Jim Waggoner had first shouted, and a six-shooter roared just as Cummings got back to the high ledge and closed his eyes to shed the light. He heard a six-shooter answer from outside, and Tabor spoke thickly.
