Comanche Gold (19 page)

Tucson watched it for any sign of alarm when
it passed by the open gate of Durant's estate. It stopped and
sniffed at the bronze plaque at the entrance then, evidently not
finding anything of interest, trotted on. Tucson watched it until
it moved out of sight behind another house then, deciding that the
coast was clear, he dismounted.

With a last word to the stallion to stand
fast, Tucson hunched down and left the cover of the warehouse at a
run. Crossing the open space of the roadway, he came to a halt next
to the hedge bordering the neighborhood. Peering around the corner,
he couldn't detect any change in the stillness. He passed around
the hedge and glided like a wraith among the trees dotting the
area, pausing at each one to reconnoiter, checking to the front and
to the rear.

It would seem that Durant had total
confidence in Prince's ability to eliminate Tucson, because it
appeared that the banker had taken no precautions to protect
himself in case of a slip-up.

Tucson grinned coldly and his eyes glowed in
the half-light with a yellow fire. Charles Durant's carelessness
was going cost him his life.

Still, Tucson took no unnecessary chances as
he passed through the gate of Durant's estate and sprinted up the
driveway. He kept to the deeper shadows of the hedge lining the
drive until he got to the porch, then squatted down and took one
last look around. There was still no sign of sentries, and the
windows of both floors were black. Tucson strained his ears for any
sound, but all he could hear was the chirping of crickets.

He moved stealthily up the steps and tried
the door, but it was locked. Reaching into an inside pocket of his
jacket, he pulled out a long thin sliver of metal and inserted it
into the lock. After moving it around for a minute, he heard a soft
click, and the door swung quietly open.

Pulling his Colt, Tucson knelt in the
entranceway as his ears strained for any sound that would indicate
he had been discovered. Still nothing – the house was as silent as
a tomb.

Moving cautiously, Tucson went up the stairs,
testing each step with his foot before he trusted it with his full
weight. At the second floor landing, he stopped to orient himself.
A hallway ran to the right and to the left. After a moment's
deliberation, Tucson decided to go to the right. Thick carpet
covering the floor muffled his footsteps. Coming to a door on the
left wall, Tucson turned the knob and pushed it open.

The room was huge, and curtained windows
lined all of one wall. Lying in a large canopied bed to the right,
Tucson recognized the massive bulk of Charles Durant. The banker
was sleeping peacefully on his back, snoring softly. Tucson tiptoed
to the bed and gazed down at the sleeping man. The harsh lines of
Durant's face had been washed away by sleep, and he looked almost
innocent.

Tucson put the cold barrel of his Colt
against Durant's temple and pulled the hammer back to full cock.
The sharp sound in his ear brought the banker out of his slumber.
His eyes opened and he stared uncomprehendingly up at the canopy
above his head. Then his gaze shifted; he recognized Tucson and at
the same time realized that it was the cold steel of a gun barrel
that was pressing against his temple.

A low moan of terror rumbled up from his
throat.

“Keep quiet!” Tucson hissed, increasing the
pressure on Durant’s head. “If you shout for help, I'll pull the
trigger right now.”

The banker glared up at Tucson in the
darkness. “What do you want?” he croaked.

“I know that you ordered Prince and Ed
Thompson to kill me,” Tucson answered. “And, like I told you
before, I know about your plot to steal the Comanche’s gold. And
you’ll remember that I told you to be out of Howling Wolf by
sundown last night, or I'd shoot you on sight. Well,” he flashed a
murderous grin, “you're still in Howling Wolf - and I'm here to
execute you.”

Beneath the covers, Durant's body jerked
spasmodically. “You can't just kill me in cold blood!”

“And how were you going to kill me?” Tucson
demanded in turn.

“Whatever anyone may have said about me
ordering you killed,” Durant replied urgently, “is a lie! I had no
reason to want you killed,” he insisted. “Someone's just trying to
throw you off the track.”

Reaching down, Tucson gripped the edge of the
bedspread and ripped it off Durant. The banker lay on the sheet in
his silk pajamas, shaking with terror.

“Get up,” Tucson ordered.

Durant threw his muscular legs over the side
of the bed, dropped his feet into a pair of slippers, then stood up
and reached for his dressing gown that was wrapped around a bed
post.

“Leave it alone,” Tucson told him coldly.
“Where you’re going, you won’t need it.” He jerked his head toward
the door. “Let's go on down to your study. And remember—if you
shout, I shoot.”

Durant led the way out of the room and along
the hall then down the stairs. The color flooding the back of his
neck and the way his hands were clenched made it clear that anger
was beginning to replace his fear. Tucson stayed a step behind
Durant so he wouldn't be caught by surprise if the banker made a
sudden move. Durant reached the foot of the stairs, turned to the
left and crossed the entranceway then pushed through the double
doors into his study.

“Light a lamp,” Tucson told him, as he stood
back in the entrance.

Durant went to his desk, took a match from a
holder and lit the lamp sitting on the desktop. Then he turned back
to Tucson, his heavy brows lifted quizzically. “What now...?” he
asked.

Tucson stepped forward, watching the banker
closely. “Open the safe...” he said.

The redness drained from Durant's face. “What
safe?” he asked, in a strained voice. “I don't have a safe
here.”

Tucson pointed his Colt at Durant's kneecap.
“I'll tell you what I'm going to do,” he said casually. “Every time
you lie to me, I'm going to shoot you in one of your limbs. That'll
be more fun than killing you quickly anyway,” he added, his mouth
twisting cruelly. “Now, one more time,” his finger tightened on the
trigger, “where's your safe?”

Seeing the deadly purpose in Tucson's eyes,
Durant didn't hesitate any longer. He walked quickly to a painting
hanging on the wall, lifted a catch and pulled it open. A small
circular metal safe was set into the wall behind it. He was visibly
shaking as he turned his head to look at Tucson.

“Open it,” Tucson ordered.

With a heavy sigh, Durant swung back and spun
the tumblers. A moment later, he turned the handle and it was
open.

“Pull all of the contents out, carry them
over and put them on your desk,” Tucson said.

He came around to the side and aimed his Colt
at Durant's head as the banker put both of his arms inside the
safe, removed a pile of papers, walked to his desk and then stacked
them on the top.

“Stand back against the curtains,” Tucson
ordered. “And if you make one false move, I won’t hesitate to put a
slug into you.”

Tucson waited while Durant complied with his
command; then, keeping the desk between himself and the banker, he
approached and looked down at the stack of papers. Keeping his eyes
on Durant, he poked through the pile with his left hand. There,
about midway down the stack, he found a beaded rawhide pouch.
Lifting it out, he inserted two fingers into its mouth and
scissored it open.

When he turned it over, a large nugget of
pure gold fell onto the desktop.

Tucson's head jerked up and death flamed in
his eyes.

“So, you were innocent, were you!” he hissed,
as his Colt came up and centered on the banker’s chest. “You're
just a lying snake, Durant.” His finger curled around the trigger.
“I'm going to enjoy killing you.”

“No—wait!” Durant gasped, his face deathly
pale as he pressed back against the curtain. “Let's talk this over.
We can make a deal.”

“There's nothing left to say,” Tucson replied
coldly. “And I don’t make deals with murdering skunks.”

“There's a lot to say,” Durant insisted
urgently. His eyes became crafty as he searched for a way out.
“I've got a lot of money,” he offered. “Much more money than you
could make in a lifetime. I'll let you have it.” He gestured with
his hands, as if he were giving something to Tucson. “You won't
have to worry for the rest of your life.”

“I'd still have to leave a sidewinder like
you loose in the world,” Tucson replied, shaking his head. “It's
just not worth it.”

“Alright, then...” Durant was talking fast
now. “I'll make you a sporting proposition.”

In spite of himself, Tucson's curiosity was
captured. “What proposition?” he asked.

For the first time that morning, Durant
smiled, and as the lamplight played over the craggy features of his
face, he took on the appearance of pure evil. He knew Tucson's
interest had been piqued, and his confidence was returning fast. He
gestured toward the Colt that Tucson was pointing at him.

“You gunmen are all alike,” he said
disparagingly. “You practice constantly until you can outdraw
everyone else, then you try to make people think you're courageous
because you can pull a gun and kill a man who can't match your
speed.”

Seeing that the banker was trying to bait
him, Tucson snorted disdainfully. “You'd be surprised how little
speed alone has to do with it.”

“That's easy for you to say while you're
holding a gun on me,” Durant argued.

“What do you want me to do?” Tucson asked.
“Do you want me to give you a gun?”

“I'm no match for you with a firearm,” Durant
replied, as he raised his hands and curled them into fists. “I
challenge you to stand up to me with your bare hands.” His voice
had regained its usual authority. “Fight me man to man—winner take
all.”

Tucson shook his head. “I'd be a fool to take
that challenge. You outweigh me by at least fifty pounds.”

“You'd be surprised how little size alone has
to do with it,” Durant sneered, imitating Tucson.

Tucson studied Durant's massive shoulders and
arms that strained the silken fabric of his pajamas, and his
scarred fists that looked as big and hard as oaken mallets. His
every instinct told him not to be stupid. Durant's size, strength,
and his background in the prize ring all gave him far too great an
advantage.

The banker would tear his head off.

But, even though he knew that Durant was only
baiting him, Tucson’s pride had been pricked by his slighting
reference to Tucson’s speed as a gunman. And finally, it just
wasn't his style to kill an unarmed man.

With an inward groan, Tucson realized that he
was going to take Durant's challenge. Only by putting it all on the
line with one roll of the dice could he be the man that he chose to
be.

* * * *

Feeling in control now that he was operating
in his element, Durant smiled confidently as he went to the other
side of the room and stripped away his pajama top. The massive
muscles of his chest, shoulders and arms, as he flexed them to get
them warmed up, writhed like snakes beneath his pale skin.

Tucson set his Colt down on the desktop,
still pointing at Durant, and unbuckled his gun belt. Then he took
off his leather jacket, slipped out of his shoulder rig and put
them in a pile on the desk. Finally, he removed his shirt and
dropped it over the rest. Then he stepped around the desk, kicked
aside a bearskin rug, and positioned himself in the middle of the
floor, standing with his fists resting on his narrow hips.

Durant's eyes widened when he caught sight of
Tucson's leanly muscled body—the body of a born fighting man—with
the many scars that indicated extensive combat experience.

Then his confident smile returned, and he
came forward with his fists up.

His boxing experience was immediately
apparent in the way he settled into a stance with his fists raised
to protect his face and his elbows lowered to guard his ribs. As he
shuffled purposefully toward Tucson, his eyes blazed with an
indomitable fighting spirit.

Daunted by Durant’s formidable appearance,
Tucson sidestepped evasively.

But the banker turned with him, and in the
process he gained another step in distance, bringing him almost
within striking range. Sliding his left foot forward and dropping
his weight, Durant closed the distance and lashed out with a left
jab that Tucson didn’t even see coming, and it caught him high on
the cheekbone.

Tucson was awed by Durant’s power as the
punch knocked him back two paces. Then the banker followed up the
jab with a barrage of strikes that came at Tucson from every
conceivable angle. Blows rained down on Tucson’s head, shoulders
and arms as he tried desperately to block and evade Durant’s
charge.

“I’m going to beat you to death, Kid,” Durant
snarled, his eyes glowing with cruel joy. “And I’m going to take my
time doing it.”

Tucson didn’t have the breath to respond. As
he moved back and forth across the floor in a futile attempt to
escape Durant’s attack, he faced the stark truth that accepting the
banker’s challenge was one of the stupidest moves he had ever made.
It was painfully clear to him that his life did indeed hang in the
balance.

He knew that he couldn’t survive if he kept
trying to box Durant—the banker’s skills were too superior. Taking
a chance born of desperation, Tucson let Durant come close, then,
as he reached up to grab Tucson by the neck and throw him down,
Tucson brought up his knee and struck Durant as hard as he could in
the groin.

Durant shrieked with agony and doubled over.
Seeing his chance, Tucson hit him square on the nose with his right
fist. Durant hurtled backward and Tucson followed him, punching him
as hard as he could with both fists. By the time the banker had
gotten his guard back up, his face had been chewed to a bloody pulp
by Tucson’s knuckles.