Comanche Gold (2 page)

Prosperous looking stockmen lounged outside
the Elkhorn Saloon; laborers in dirty overalls dragged their tired
way home after a hard day's toil, their metal lunch pails dangling
from their gnarled fists.

A few young cowboys were just climbing down
from their mustangs in front of the Elkhorn, laughing, joking, and
calling up to the women hanging out of the upper windows. Here and
there storekeepers prepared to close up shop, while several
housewives hurried home to get the evening meal ready for their
families.

From beneath the broad brim of his sombrero,
Tucson surveyed just another medium-sized town, like so many others
he had passed through in his travels. And like all the other towns,
Howling Wolf left him as unmoved, disconnected and uninterested in
the lives these people led as all the others had. He would never
understand what made people settle down in these kinds of places,
sink roots and then lead dull lives clogged with drudgery and
stifling routines.

Then he shrugged indifferently, stepped down
off the sidewalk, crossed to the other side of the street and moved
on toward Murry's Boardinghouse.

* * * *

The two-story building was freshly painted
and looked sturdy. Tucson pushed open the glass door, stepped
inside then paused as his eyes adjusted to the relative gloom and
he had a chance to look around. The windows along the street side
of the room were open, and the breeze coming in took the sharp edge
off the heat. To the right was a long room that looked like the
dining area, with a heavy oaken table with chairs around it running
down the middle. On the left was a counter for signing in. Lining
the wall behind it were cubby holes where a few envelopes could be
seen sticking out. Straight ahead to the rear was a staircase
leading up to the second floor rooms.

Stepping to the counter, Tucson rang the bell
sitting on top. While he waited, he spun the register around and
ran his eye down the list of names, seeing none he recognized. Then
a door opened off to the right and he heard a swirl of petticoats
and looked up to see a woman wearing a high-collared dress and a
white apron moving gracefully toward him.

She had long auburn hair swept up off a
slender neck and pinned on top of her head. A little tall for a
woman, she had deep, swelling breasts and flaring hips. Her large,
hazel eyes regarded him levelly over a straight nose and a wide,
full-lipped mouth. She appeared to be in her mid-thirties, and she
had faint lines of character etching the corners of her eyes and
lips.

Walking around behind the counter, she rested
her palms on the top and gazed up at him inquisitively. “My name is
Mrs. Murry,” she said. “Can I help you?” Her voice was soft and
smooth, but it held the strength of a woman used to making it on
her own.

Tucson nodded. “I was told you might have a
room to rent.”

She took her time looking him over. Her eyes
passed over the leather jacket, fitting tight at the shoulders, the
well-used six-gun strapped to his lean waist, and the large bronzed
hand resting on the counter. Her gaze finally came to rest on his
face, the hard jaw and rugged chin blurred by a two-day's growth of
blue-black beard. She stared candidly into his steady grey eyes;
his lips twitched when a faint flush crept up her neck, then she
glanced hastily down at the register.

“I do have a room,” she said, biting her full
lower lip. “But...” With a slender finger, she pointed toward his
Colt. “I won't tolerate any trouble in my house. While you're here,
you have to keep that firearm in its holster.”

For the first time in a week, Tucson
smiled.

In a flash of straight, startlingly white
teeth, his face went from a somber mask carved in mahogany to a
face that was almost handsome. But, paradoxically, the smile seemed
in some uncanny way to make him seem even more devilish.

“Believe me, Mrs. Murry,” Tucson chuckled, “I
don't want any trouble either. As far as I'm concerned, my gun
won't leave leather for as long as I'm in your establishment. Is
that good enough?”

He watched her eyes linger over his smiling
lips a little too long, then she caught herself and nodded hastily.
“That will be fine, Mr....?

“Tucson,” he said, dipping the pen in the
inkwell and signing his name to the register.

“Mr. Tucson,” she repeated. “The charge is
five dollars a day. That includes breakfast, served at 8am sharp;
and supper, served at 6pm sharp.”

“That's great.” Tucson pulled some gold coins
from his pocket and counted out a few onto the counter. “Here's a
week in advance. If I decide to stay longer, I'll give you another
week in advance.”

“That’ll be fine,” Mrs. Murry said, scooping
up the coins and dropping them into her apron pocket. “Now, if
you'll follow me, I’ll show you to your room.”

Carrying his saddle bags and Winchester,
Tucson followed her up the stairs and down the hall. She stopped at
a door on the right, put a key into the lock then pushed it open.
The room was clean, with a big bed against the right wall and a
dresser on the wall to the left with an oval mirror above it. A
wooden stand with a crockery basin and pitcher stood beneath a
window opening onto the street.

Tucson went to the window, parted the
curtains and looked out. The sun was sinking below the western
horizon, but the street was still as placid as it was when he had
left it. Turning back into the room, he found Mrs. Murry staring at
him quizzically.

“I like to know what's going on around me,”
he explained with a grin.

She nodded then held the room key out to him.
“I'll leave you now,” she said. “I'm in the middle of preparing
supper. Remember,” she held up a finger, “it's served at 6
o'clock.”

Tucson pulled a gold watch from his pocket
and snapped open the case. “That gives me about an hour,” he
commented. “Do you have a washroom here?”

“There's a tub in the room at the end of the
hall.”

“Do you have someone who can put some hot
water in it for me?” he asked. “I'd like to take a bath.”

“I'll see to it,” Mrs. Murry said. “Mirah,
that's my helper, will knock on your door when it’s ready.”

“That should do it,” Tucson replied. “By the
way,” he added. “Would you mind having her fill the tub each day
about this time? I like to take daily baths when I can.”

Mrs. Murry’s brows arched in surprise. “I've
never heard of anyone washing that often before. Most of the people
around here bathe once a week at the most.”

Tucson shrugged. “When I have no choice, I
can go for as long as I need to. But when I can, I like to stay
clean. So if you'll take care of it, I'd appreciate it.”

Mrs. Murry nodded, then turned and left the
room.

After leaning his Winchester against the wall
next to the bed, Tucson busied himself taking his few belongings
from the saddlebags and transferring them to the drawers in the
dresser. He had just finished when a knock sounded on the door.
When he opened it he found a pretty mulatto girl about eighteen or
nineteen standing in the hall. Dressed in a simple cotton blouse
and a full skirt, she was long-legged and lithe, with high,
up-tilted breasts and laughing brown eyes. Her black curly hair was
covered with a blue scarf.

“Your bath's ready, Mistah Tucson,” she said
in a deep, lilting voice, as she boldly looked him up and down.
Spinning around so that her skirt flared out from her slim ankles,
she walked back down the hallway, swinging her rounded hips
suggestively.

Tucson watched her appreciatively until she
reached the end of the hall, turned at the landing and glanced back
at him with a broad smile, then disappeared down the stairs.
Grinning to himself, Tucson went on to his bath.

* * * *

It was a quarter past six when Tucson stepped
into the dining room. His black hair was washed and combed straight
back, and his cheeks were freshly shaved. A clean white shirt
gleamed beneath his jacket, and his trousers and boots had been
brushed. Holding his gun-belt and sombrero in his left hand, he
stopped inside the doorway and glanced at the people sitting around
the table.

There were a few bachelor merchants and
laborers hunched over their plates; a couple of women who looked
like someone's maiden aunts picked at their food; and then there
was an elderly, distinguished looking gentleman sitting on the
other side of the table to the left of Mrs. Murry, who sat at the
far end.

The only jarring note was the young man
sitting on the right side of Mrs. Murry. Dressed like a cowboy, he
wore an open-at-the collar shirt and a bandanna, a leather vest
with silver conchos, and faded Levi's stuffed into a pair of fancy,
high-heeled boots. His blonde hair curled over a broad forehead,
and his open, good-natured face had a spray of freckles spread over
the bridge of his nose.

But it was the Colt .45 cinched around his
waist that set alarm bells off in Tucson's head.

The group had been talking and laughing, but
when he entered they stopped and stared at him curiously.

Mirah called out to him in her lilting voice
as she put a heaping plate of potatoes on the table. “Come on in
and set yourself down, Mistah Tucson...the food's gittin'
cold.”

Tucson hung his gun-belt and sombrero on a
rack standing in the corner then took the vacant chair next to the
young cowboy that allowed him to keep his back against the
sideboard along the wall.

The others continued to stare at him in
silence.

He glanced down the board, meeting their
eyes. “Don't let me interrupt your meal,” he said quietly.

The subtle sense of steel edging the softness
of his voice awakened the others from their distraction, and they
hastily returned to their food. Conversation was soon bubbling
around the table again. Tucson put a slab of beefsteak on his plate
then filled the other half with corn, potatoes and onions. He
reached for the pitcher of milk and filled his glass. Then, with
the appetite of a man who hadn't eaten since before sunup, he dug
in.

The conversation stayed general and had the
easy, comfortable feeling of people who knew each other well.
Although he listened to the talk with interest, Tucson remained
silent and concentrated on his food. Except for occasional,
surreptitious glances directed at him by the other boarders,
especially by the two women, they seemed satisfied to leave him
alone.

After about half an hour, with sighs of
satisfaction and compliments to Mrs. Murry over the food, the
others began getting up and leaving the table.

Finally, only Mrs. Murry, the older
gentleman, the boy with the gun, and Tucson remained at the
table.

As Mirah filled his coffee cup, the gentleman
leaned back in his chair and lit a cigar. Through the cloud of
smoke he eyed Tucson with interest. “Welcome to our small but
rapidly growing town, sir,” he declared in a mellow voice. “My name
is George Bentley. I own The Bulletin—Howling Wolf’s only
newspaper. This handsome young lad with the yellow hair sitting
beside you is Tom McMannus. If you don't mind my asking,” his eyes
sharpened, “did I hear correctly when Mirah called you,
Tucson?”

Tucson took a leather cigar case from an
inside pocket of his jacket, opened it, selected a long, thin
cheroot then clamped it between his teeth. Taking a wooden match
from a glass sitting on the table, he snapped it into flame with
his thumbnail then waved it slightly to dissipate the sulphur.

Once he had the cheroot going, he looked
directly at the other man. “That's right.” Then he shook his head
as Mirah started to pour coffee into the cup at his elbow. “No
thanks.” He smiled up at her. “I don't drink the stuff.”

George Bentley leaned across the table. “You
wouldn't by any chance be the Tucson Kid, would you?”

Tucson's eyes, squinted against the smoke,
went cold. “I've been called that,” he replied evenly.

Bentley leaned back in his chair and drew
vigorously on his cigar. Mrs. Murry's jaw dropped and her face took
on a stricken expression. Tom McMannus spun sideways in his chair,
leaned his elbow on the table and stared at Tucson in frank
fascination.

The object of their attention felt the
uncomfortable sensation in his guts that he always got when people
found out who he was.

“I've heard of you,” Bentley intoned, running
his fingers through his thinning grey hair. “I recall that you made
quite a name for yourself when you were still a boy, scouting
against the Apaches over in Arizona. You took on the Ames brothers
in New Mexico, and shot up the McCarthy gang in Wyoming so badly
they haven't been heard of since.

“Folks are still telling the story about how
you outdrew Jeb Hollander in Abilene some years back,” he went on
enthusiastically. “Before you came along, Hollander was considered
the fastest, deadliest gunman on the frontier—next to Wild Bill
Hickok, of course. Which reminds me,” he added, pointing his cigar
at Tucson. “It's said that you were friends with Hickok before he
went and got himself killed over in Deadwood.” Bentley drew deeply
on his cigar then shot a mouthful of blue smoke toward the ceiling.
“Yes, sir,” he concluded, “you could say that I've heard of
you.”

Still holding the coffee pot, Mirah walked
around and stood on the other side of the table, staring at Tucson
in open invitation, moistening her full lips with the pink tip of
her tongue.

Uncomfortable, Tucson glanced away from her
and looked apologetically at Mrs. Murry. “I'm sorry, ma'am,” he
said. “But not all the stories told about me are true.”

Tom McMannus spoke up, his voice throbbing
with awe. “Most of 'em are, though, I'll bet!”

Tucson felt like a bug skewered on a pin, and
wished that Mrs. Murry would say something. Her face was deathly
pale, and she stared at him through round eyes.