by Noel Loomis
He hurried down the steep trail and met Jim Waggoner around the bend. Cummings tied the sack of money behind his cantle, mounted old Fred, and shook out the reins.
“Where’s Saint?” he asked.
“Down below,” Waggoner answered. “Who shot second back there?”
“Jude Tabor shot second,” Cummings answered, but now there was no sorrow in his deep-set brown eyes. “The law caught up with Jude.”
“The law?” Waggoner echoed, with a curious stare.
“The law of compensation,” Cummings explained. “Let’s get out of here before Curly Brown discovers he has no hostage!”
Chapter 18
Jim Waggoner stared at the sack of money, but he asked no questions. He mounted his horse and followed Cummings, who rode down the trail in moody silence.
Waggoner watched the tall string figure which never seemed to feel the weight of the passing years. As though conscious of the younger man’s scrutiny, Cummings turned suddenly in the saddle.
“I’d rather it had been Curly Brown,” he said, without preamble. “Curly is the most dangerous, and he’s filled with a deadly hate!”
“Ace will take care of that,” Waggoner answered confidently. “Curly Brown might be fast, but I’ll bet my money on Ace Fleming.”
“It would be close,” Cummings warned. “Much too close for comfort. It might even end up in a draw! Yonder is Saint, and don’t hooraw him.” He nodded as the deputy glanced up, and Cummings spoke brusquely. “Let’s make tracks away from here!”
John Saint John sagged in the saddle as the three men rode back to the Circle F. The big deputy had lost much blood, and was very weak.
“He won’t get away,” Waggoner promised. “When Ace hears about what happened, he’ll bottle up that trail tight.”
Gospel pulled out his bottle and passed it to the wounded officer. “Drink hearty, pard,” he said quietly. “And this one ain’t loaded.”
Saint John took the bottle and lifted it to his pallid lips. He downed a stiff draught, returned the bottle to Gospel, and voiced his thanks gruffly.
“I’ll be in the saddle tomorrow,” the deputy said. “Never will forget the time Singin’ Saunders’ wife shaved me, the last time I was hurt a mite.”
A Circle F cowboy met them at the west trail, driving a light wagon behind a fast team. Two tarp-covered bodies were in the wagon, and Waggoner rode over to speak to the driver.
“Morning, Charley. Did Ace get back to the spread yet?”
“He’s back, Jim,” the cowboy answered, and his voice was low. “Ace is all broke up about old Wing Loo, and my orders to Boot Hill Crandall are to give Wing Loo the best he’s got!”
“Any orders about Snake?” Waggoner asked, his face stony.
“County burial!” the cowboy said coldly. “A forty-dollar job, including the digging!”
Gospel Cummings listened and interrupted. “Snake wasn’t much of a man, but his boss can put him away proper,” he said quietly, and reached into the bulging bag behind his cantle. He counted out some bills, handed them to Charley, and spoke again. “Tell Boot Hill Crandall to do right by Snake, and include lettering on a stone!”
Saint John showed renewed interest. “Where did you get that money, Gospel?” he asked curiously.
Cummings smiled and stroked his silky beard. “Part of it belonged to the late Jude Tabor,” he said. “The rest was claimed by Curly Brown, but I impounded it for the State. Ride on, Charley, and do it like I said!”
“There’s a point of law involved there, Gospel,” Saint John argued.
“Possession is nine points of the law,” Cummings said tartly. “When I get around to doing it, I’m taking this dinero over to the sheriff at Rainbow.”
Ace Fleming came to meet them as the three tied up at the Circle F tie-rail. He called a cowboy to take the horses, stared curiously at Saint John’s blood-soaked sleeve without commenting, and drew Gospel Cummings to one side.
“You get either one of them?” Fleming asked, in a hard metallic voice.
“I was an innocent bystander,” Cummings answered with quiet dignity. “But Curly Brown was faster with his tools than Jude Tabor.”
Then he told Ace about the gun-fight in the tunnel. He nudged the bag of money at his feet, with a rusty boot.
“Better put that in a safe place, Ace,” he suggested. “There’s more than twenty-five thousand there, and the courts might decide that certain cattlemen are entitled to fair damages.”
Gospel and Jim Waggoner entered the kitchen door, and Molly Ballard ran to meet Jim. He kissed her without shame, and Ace Fleming stared with his mouth open.
“Don’t just stand there staring,” Sandra Fleming told her husband. “Molly and Jim are engaged, and in case you didn’t know, Gospel will be Jim’s best man!”
“Which is as it should be,” Fleming agreed. “Gospel is the best man in these parts, but right now he’s complaining terribly about being famished.”
“Where’s Saint John?” Sandra asked anxiously.
“Gone to the bunk house for surgery,” Fleming tormented the two girls. “Fools rush in where angels fear to tread, so don’t let that deputy’s name fool you. He rushed in, but he ain’t hurt too bad. Just a bad flesh wound in the upper left arm. Jude Tabor is dead!”
Molly caught her breath quickly, turned to stare at Cummings, and shuddered slightly.
“If it had only been that terrible little outlaw,” she whispered.
“I’ll take care of Curly Brown,” Fleming said coldly. “Don’t forget that it was Jude Tabor who killed your brother Tod!”
“I’ll go in the house,” Molly said quietly, and ran back into the kitchen.
Gospel Cummings changed the subject quickly. “How many head of cattle did your boys recover?” he asked with interest.
“A few over four hundred,” Fleming answered with quiet satisfaction. “I left a crew to haze ’em over this way slow; the rest of the boys turned in to make up some sleep. Two hundred and fifty head of Wagon Wheel steers, and the rest were mostly Circle F stock,” he explained to Jim Waggoner.
“That’s something else we owe Gospel,” Waggoner voiced his gratitude.
“The rest of that rustled stock is down in Lost River Canyon, and Curly Brown can’t move them,” Cummings said hastily.
Sandra called the hungry men to breakfast, and Fleming sat down with Waggoner and Cummings. Nothing had been said about Wing Loo, but when the meal was finished, Fleming drew Cummings aside.
“You’ll give Wing a good send-off?” he asked.
“The best!” Cummings answered gruffly. “Wing was my friend!”
“He worshiped you, Gospel,” Fleming whispered. “He told me how you rescued him from a bunch of drunken cowboys fifteen years ago. Sandra and I are going to miss old Wing Loo!”
“I got to be getting back home,” Cummings said gruffly, and his big hands were trembling.
Fleming took Cummings by the arm and led him into a little den. “It’s all yours,” he said quietly, and indicated a quart of Three Daisies whiskey on the desk. Then Fleming went out and closed the door behind him.
Gospel Cummings was relaxed when he walked out into the big yard, and the trembling had left his hands. The same brooding expression of sorrow had returned to his brown eyes. He stopped to speak to Fleming.
“Better send a couple of men out to guard the trail to Lost River Cave,” Cummings suggested. “We’ve work to do first, but we also have a job back there to finish.”
Fleming nodded and then stared at his tall companion. “I’ve got a favor to ask, Gospel,” he said quietly.
“No!” Cummings answered truculently.
“Yes!” Ace Fleming insisted, and his nostrils flared. “I want to save further bloodshed if possible, and I’m faster than Curly Brown!”
“You ain’t!” Cummings contradicted. “I’ve seen you both work, and it would be a draw at best!”
“I’d have something on my side,” Fleming said thoughtf
ully. “Not that I want any edge with that little sidewinder, but I know I’m right. He knows he’s wrong!”
“He’s fast, Ace,” Cummings explained. “So fast that you scarcely see his right hand move. And he can call his shots!”
“I can call mine,” Fleming argued. “I’m taking it to him!”
“I won’t be a party to it,” Cummings said flatly. “I still think it would be a draw!”
“Then I’ll go on my own,” Fleming threatened. “Curly Brown sent Snake Hollister down here to get Sandra and Molly. Hollister killed Wing Loo, and I’ve taken up for old Wing!”
“It’s the old disease in your blood,” Cummings accused him sternly. “You hear a fast gun-swift is riding loose and throwing down his glove. You get an aching in your gun-hand every time you think of him. You know you might get killed, but you won’t take any rest until you face him for a game of Draw!”
“I don’t often ask a favor, Gospel,” Fleming said, his deep voice almost a whisper. “I’m asking one this time, and I’m telling you that I will go alone unless you agree. I’ll head right back there now, but I’d rather go with you!”
“You’d never get a chance back there alone,” Cummings warned. “Curly Brown ain’t overburdened with honor. He’d pick you off from the brush!”
“I’m betting he wouldn’t,” Fleming argued. “He’s like me in one respect. He won’t take any rest until he is sure that he’s the fastest. I’m banking that he’d fight by the code!”
“Funny thing, the code,” Cummings said slowly. “You take a man who has no morals or conscience. He’ll kill and rob with no thought of ethics. Then he faces another fast gun-swift for showdown, and most times he’d die before he’d take an advantage!”
“So that’s why I’m reminding you,” Fleming said, with a cold smile. “You’ll go back there with me!”
Gospel Cummings muttered in his beard, shifted his big boots, and glared at the little gambler. Ace Fleming had been riding all night, but he had changed to fresh clothes, and had shaved smoothly. He looked fresh as a daisy, and he watched the face of Gospel Cummings like a hawk.
“I know I’m wrong, but so be it!” Cummings rasped angrily. “But not until after Wing Loo’s funeral. You hear me?”
“I hear you, old friend,” Fleming answered with a smile, but now all the tenseness had left him. “We’ll say nothing about this to the girls or anyone else.”
Chapter 19
Gospel Cummings filled the big wooden tub in his kitchen with hot water taken from the kettles on his old iron stove. He scrubbed thoroughly, dried on a rough buck towel, and donned fresh raiment from the skin out.
He had finished his noon meal before bathing. The mass funerals would take place at one o’clock. Fourteen new graves had been dug; the diggers had worked all night.
Boot Hill Crandall led the procession with a long black wagon. Following were several other light wagons, each carrying two pine coffins. Hard-faced cowboys followed on their cow ponies, and Cummings left his cabin and walked out to meet the cortege.
Boot Hill Crandall was clothed in somber black as befitted his calling. Gospel Cummings fell in behind the first wagon, and walked with measured tread to the long row of waiting graves. He took his place at the head of a grave in the center, removed his hat, placed it on a bank of new earth, and waited.
This time there were no arguments of rebellion. Every head was uncovered out of respect for those who had gone to a better world. Even the hum of insects seemed to become less noisy in the short pause that preceded the solemn service.
There was little to be said for Ned Tolliver or Snake Hollister, but Gospel Cummings said that little in low and reverent tones. It was the last thing any of the departed would require from the living.
The crowd waited in respectful silence as Cummings left the burying place and hurried to his cabin. He reached for the quart of whiskey, pulled the cork with his strong teeth.
Gospel sat alone as the long procession left the portals of Hell’s Half Acre. He scarcely looked up when the door opened softly, and Ace Fleming came into the room.
“Wing Loo will be buried at three?” Fleming asked gently.
Gospel Cummings nodded. For a moment neither man spoke.
“Give up this mad idea, Ace,” Cummings pleaded. “Think about Sandra!”
“Sandra thought about me,” Fleming answered with a wan smile. “I didn’t sleep too well last night, and Sandra came to me this morning. She looked deep into my eyes, and then she wished me Godspeed to my right hand!”
Cummings appeared surprised. “One never knows how a woman will react,” he said slowly. “Then again, they have a sense of knowing things which is denied to a man.”
“I know,” Fleming said quietly, but he seemed pleased. “Woman’s intuition!”
“I’d bank on Sandra’s intuition,” Cummings agreed, and now he also seemed more content.
“Sandra is one in a million,” Fleming murmured. “She didn’t take on and make a scene. She just kissed me, and gave me her blessing.”
“She knew you were bound to go,” Cummings said with understanding. “She knew you’d never take your rest unless you met Curly Brown.”
He reached for the bottle and refilled the gambler’s glass.
“They are bringing our friend,” he said quietly.
Gospel Cummings experienced a new feeling as he took his place at the head of the open grave.
He waited as he glanced at all the solemn faces. Then he spoke gently, giving an eloquent eulogy for the old Chinese who had protected those he had loved with his life.
Gospel closed the Book and nodded his head. Jim Waggoner and Ace Fleming stepped forward, catch-ropes in their hands. They passed the lariats under the casket, handed the ends to Singin’ Saunders and Cole Brighton, and Boot Hill Crandall removed the stakes. The casket was lowered slowly. Wing Loo was at rest.
As he approached his cabin, Cummings stumbled and put out a hand to find the door. Then he was inside stripping off his new clothing. Attired once more in his worn range garb, Cummings reached for the bottle with trembling hands.
He heard the creak of wheels as the mourners returned to town, or to the outlying cattle ranches. When Ace Fleming knocked gently and then opened the door, Gospel Cummings was once more composed, and his strong brown hands were steady. He indicated the bottle on the table, but Ace Fleming shook his head.
“I’ve work to do,” the gambler said quietly. “Are you ready to ride, Gospel?”
“In a moment,” Cummings answered, and he dropped a bottle into the right tail of his old black coat. Now he wore an old hickory shirt open at the neck, and he picked up his worn Bible and tucked it into the left tail.
“I’ll saddle old Fred,” he told Fleming. “What about Jim?”
“Jim and his crew rode back to block off the Canyon trail,” Fleming answered. “Saint John is resting out on the Circle F; says he will lead a posse back to Lost River tomorrow.”
“So we won’t have to worry about him,” Cummings answered. “The Saint forgets what a big target he makes, but he don’t lack none for nerve.”
He left the cabin and walked to the little barn to saddle his sorrel. Ace Fleming was waiting when Cummings rode out, and they took the north trail and rode at a lope until they came to the grassy margins of Lost River. Cummings glanced at the brace of .41 caliber Colts in the crossed belts around the gambler’s lean middle.
“You won’t need but one,” he counseled. “You concentrate on that one cutter, and you ought to do all right.”
“I’ll do all right,” Fleming promised grimly. “I can hardly wait!”
The horses loped through the lush grass, while each man was busy with thoughts of his own. Cummings glanced down the trail and reined to the right.
They left the creek and crossed the rocky ledge with Cummings in the lead. He stopped abruptly when rifle fire broke out up ahead, and to the left.
“That will be Jim and his crew,” Fleming said qu
ietly. “You reckon Curly Brown tried a getaway?”
“I’m sure he didn’t,” Cummings answered with a slow smile. “He wouldn’t leave without that money, and by now he’s discovered his loss.”
They came to a mesquite thicket and dismounted. Fleming tied up his thoroughbred, hitched up his gun-belts, and slipped his six-shooters in the holsters to make sure against crimp after the long ride. Cummings ground-tied old Fred with trading whangs, and nodded for Fleming to follow him.
Then he was in the dense brush, and climbing the steep trail up behind the chimney rocks. They could hear the bark of rifles out in front, and from a distance. Fleming studied the hole curiously as Cummings climbed up and lowered his long legs.
Cummings disappeared and waited in the tunnel. When the gambler touched him, he moved slowly forward on hands and knees. He saw the reflection of light as he rounded the bend, and a moment later he rested on the broad shelf above the floor of the cave.
Ace Fleming crouched beside him, and they closed their eyes to shed the light. A rasping voice spoke grimly.
“All right, you pious gun-sneak! Climb down off that shelf and make your fight!”
Chapter 20
Gospel Cummings crouched in the darkness with every muscle taut for a leap. The snarling, rasping voice had been like a knife, cutting through the murky gloom.
Ace Fleming had jerked violently, but now the gambler was calm and relaxed. Cummings forced his taut nerves and muscles to loosen under the power of his strong will. It didn’t pay to get emotionally upset with a killer like Curly Brown acting as executioner.
“You heard me!” the snarling, imperative voice again spoke arrogantly. “Flop off that shelf before I riddle you with slugs. I can’t miss from here, and you can’t go nowhere!”
“Coming,” the tall plainsman muttered, as though disgusted with himself. “As soon as I untangle myself.”
He could feel Fleming strain against his ribs, and Cummings knew that the gambler was eager to take up the fight. But there was an element of surprise which might serve as a temporary weapon until he could think things out more clearly.
Cummings raised his head as he opened his eyes. He saw Curly Brown off to one side with a cocked six-shooter in his right hand. Cummings whispered softly as he nudged Fleming.
