Comanche Gold (3 page)

Then McMannus spoke again. “Say, Mr. Tucson,
ain't it kind o’ dangerous for you to be sittin’ around here
without your gun?”

Tucson glanced at the boy and saw the glassy
stare filming his eyes that he had seen in the eyes of many young
gunmen eager to make a reputation. He sensed honesty and decency in
the kid, and didn't want to hurt him. Hopefully, the boy wouldn't
push him too hard.

Tucson folded his arms over his chest, rested
his elbows on the table then looked at McMannus. “If you want to
reach old age, son, don't ever underestimate anyone.”

“But with your rep,” the boy pressed, his
face flushed with excitement, “if you were caught without your gun,
someone could take advantage of it. Like right now. What if I was
to get it into my head to take you out?”

“Tom!” Mrs. Murry cried in alarm. “Don't say
such things. And don't you dare try it!”

Tucson could sense the boy steeling himself
to make a move. Even if he didn't really intend to kill Tucson, he
was finding it irresistible not to at least pull his Colt and
threaten him. It was a dream-come-true, and he was getting ready to
take advantage of it.

Tucson slid around in his chair, and as he
faced the boy his right hand pulled easily and naturally from under
his left arm, and they were all startled to see the Colt .32 appear
in his fist. As he pointed it at Tom McMannus' chest, Mirah
screamed and dropped the coffee pot on the floor. George Bentley
choked on his cigar, and Mrs. Murry's hand flew to her pale face,
the fingers pressed to her lips.

Tom McMannus’ face turned green and he looked
like he was going to vomit.

“With your left hand,” Tucson told him in a
voice of iron, “unbuckle your gun-belt very slowly and throw it on
the floor back over in the corner.”

His eyes sick with humiliation, McMannus
unbuckled his gun-belt, slid it out from around his waist, then
tossed it behind him onto the floor.

“Now get up from the table and walk out of
here,” Tucson ordered.

“What about my gun?” the boy whispered.

“You can collect it at the front desk from
Mrs. Murry in a couple of hours,” Tucson replied. “But for now, if
you want to live to see the sun rise tomorrow, just get up and walk
out.”

Shaking from head to foot, McMannus stood up,
and with a sob of mortification rushed from the room and continued
on out the front door. A collective sigh of relief went up from the
others as Tucson returned the .32 to the holster in its original
place inside his jacket.

He glanced at Mrs. Murry, who was staring at
him with eyes as wide as saucers. “I'm sorry, ma'am,” he said
apologetically. “I promised you that I'd keep my gun in its holster
while I’m here. But the boy was getting ready to make a very
foolish move, and I thought he needed a lesson. Maybe if he learns
from this mistake he won't underestimate another man, and he might
live a little longer. It never occurred to me to hurt him,
though.”

After taking a moment to come back to her
senses, Mrs. Murry shook her head as if to clear it. “I know,” she
said. “Actually, I thought you handled Tom rather gently...which is
not,” she added sternly, “what I'd have expected from your
reputation.”

Tucson's wide mouth quirked ruefully. “Like I
said, ma’am, not all the stories told about me are true.”

“Perhaps not,” Mrs. Murry replied. Then she
glanced up at Mirah, who was still gazing at Tucson with her mouth
hanging open. “Mirah, girl...! Get a move on and clean up the
spilled coffee. Then help me clear this table.” She glanced at the
men. “You two can stay here and finish your coffee and cigars.”

* * * *

Tucson and George Bentley sat silently
smoking as the women finished clearing the table. The older man
seemed lost in thought, his pale eyes staring vacantly at the wall
before him. Then, when Mrs. Murry and Mirah finally left the dining
room for good, he returned his attention to Tucson.

“Perhaps I was a bit indiscreet, young man,”
he said thoughtfully. “I suppose I should have kept my mouth
shut—perhaps kept what I had to say until later. But it's very
difficult for a newspaper man to keep anything to himself. Anyway,”
he smiled, “I apologize for my lamentable lack of discretion.”

“Don't worry,” Tucson smiled in return. “No
offense was taken. My reputation always comes out sooner or later.”
He waved his hand as if dismissing the subject. Then, “But as a
newspaper man,” he shifted the topic, “you must have a good idea of
what goes on around here in Howling Wolf.”

Bentley's cigar had gone out, and he paused
to strike a match and re-light it. “I suppose that’s an accurate
statement,” he replied, puffing away. “It's part of my job to keep
a weather eye on what’s happening around town.”

“That's what I thought,” Tucson nodded. “You
described Howling Wolf as a growing town. It's hard to believe that
a town squatting in this God-forsaken desert could be growing.
What's the attraction?” he asked.

“Well,” Bentley mused, between meditative
puffs on his cigar. “There are several cattle ranches off to the
west and south of town, making Howling Wolf something of a
railhead. We have a railroad junction here, so the cattle owners
can get their beef shipped out to buyers without any trouble.

“We have a freight line that ships goods out
to locations where the railroad doesn't go,” he continued. “And
then there are a couple of good banks in town. They feed mainly off
the railroad and the freight line, see the ranchers through hard
times, and bankroll our businesses.” He thought for a moment then
added, “There’s a sandstone quarry about a mile east of here that
employs a lot of laborers, who spend their money in our stores.” He
flicked the ash off his cigar into the ashtray. “But,” he
concluded, “I suppose it's the railroad that's most important when
all is said and done. The railroad gives people and businesses
access to us.”

“Is there anything to the north?” Tucson
asked.

“Not much.” Bentley shook his head. “There’s
the Twin Trees Indian Reservation where a poor, squalid bunch of
Comanche eke out a bare existence. The ground out there won't grow
much—just mesquite and yucca. The Comanche aren't even of interest
to the tourists from back east who pass through here occasionally
on hunting trips.” Bentley paused and thought for a minute.
“There's another ranch called the Lazy T that shares the eastern
boundary line with the Indian reservation. The Lazy T is owned by a
man called Ed Thompson.” He shrugged dismissively. “That's about
the extent of it.”

“How about a boss,” Tucson pursued. “Is
anybody running things in town?”

“Now that's a good question!” Bentley heaved
a deep sigh. “There's a certain amount of speculation about that
among us regulars. Some people believe Prince, the gambler who owns
the Elkhorn Saloon, runs things. Others think maybe its Charles
Durant, the owner of the United Commerce Bank.” Bentley’s eyes
sharpened. “Durant has loaned a lot of money to the ranchers, so
they step lightly around him. And he seems to have controlling
interests in many of the businesses around town. And he owns the
biggest house over on Grant Street, which is our upper class
neighborhood.”

Tucson flicked ash from his cheroot into the
ashtray. “What's your opinion?”

“Me?” Bentley shrugged. “I don't know. Well,
I guess if I was forced to make a choice, I'd put my money on
Charles Durant. He's got big plans for Howling Wolf, and he sees
himself as the most qualified candidate for governor of the state
someday.”

Tucson digested that for a minute. “How's the
law?”

Bentley chuckled. “Yes, I guess that would
interest you. The marshal's name is Todd Calloway. Todd's a big man
- about as tall as you but heavier through the shoulders, and he’s
very fast with a gun. He's as tough as boot leather, but I’d say
he’s an honest lawman.” His pale eyes twinkled humorously. “If you
behave yourself while you're in town, I don't think Calloway will
give you any trouble.”

Tucson stubbed out his cheroot in the ashtray
and stretched, feeling the joints of his shoulders crack. “I feel
in the mood for a little recreation,” he stated casually. “Is there
an honest poker game in town?”

“Your best bet is the Elkhorn Saloon,”
Bentley replied. “Prince, the man I mentioned, runs it. I don't
know if he has a last name,” he added after a moment’s thought.
“But the Faro tables are straight, and the women won’t roll you
when you go upstairs with them. I'd say that the Elkhorn’s the best
place to start.”

“Well,” Tucson said, as he pushed himself to
his feet. “I guess I'll mosey on over there, have a drink and get
the lay of the land.” He nodded to the older man. “Thanks for the
information.”

Stepping to the rack, Tucson put on his
sombrero and strapped on his gun-belt, stooping to tie the thong
around his thigh. With a last nod to Bentley, who still sat at the
table watching him, Tucson went to the door and let himself out
into the night.

Chapter
Two

Tucson paused on the sidewalk and took a deep
breath of the cool night air. Main Street ran from east to west,
and it looked like Mrs. Murry's Boarding House was the dividing
point between them. Off to the east, the buildings were a little
bigger, richer, with a bank, a high class hotel, comfortable
residences, and even a church. To the west, toward the Elkhorn
Saloon, there was a cheap hotel, fancy houses, and stores that
catered to the cattlemen and laborers. To the east, Howling Wolf
was dark and quiet. To the west, the town was just waking up and
getting ready to live up to its name.

The shadows thrown by the crescent moon were
deepest on the north side of the street, and that was where Tucson
stayed as he made his way west toward the Elkhorn Saloon. Whenever
he approached groups of loungers he slowed down and examined them
carefully, then stepped around them. Tucson never looked for
trouble, but he was a man for whom danger was a way of life. It was
a constant possibility that he could come face to face with an
enemy, or bump into some punk kid looking to make himself a
reputation.

So he went cautiously, and never took
anything for granted.

Tucson heard the tinny sound of a piano long
before he got to the Elkhorn. Bright light poured out of the
windows and doorway and spilled over the string of cow ponies tied
at the hitch rack out front. He paused at the bat-wing doors and
took a quick look inside. The room was long and had a low ceiling
from which hung three cut-glass chandeliers, turning night into
day.

On the left side of the door was a fancy
mahogany bar lined with mirrors. Cowboys and railroad men stood
elbow to elbow while they drank and talked. In front of the door,
on the opposite wall, an area was cleared around the piano as a
dance floor. Down on the right was the Faro layout, with tables set
aside where poker games were in progress.

Other tables occupied the rest of the room
where cowboys in from the ranches, dusty laborers, muleskinners and
regular town-folk danced and caroused. Women with painted faces and
colorful, low-cut dresses circulated through the crowd. Most of
them were slatternly, but a few were rather pretty. They hung on
the men, cadging drinks for themselves or trying to get them to
take a trip upstairs.

Tucson pushed through the doors and moved to
the left toward the bar. There was an open space at the end by the
wall, and he walked to it. Once there, he rested his boot on the
brass rail, his elbows on the counter, and waited for one of the
two bartenders to notice him. It didn't take long. The nearest one,
a short, burly man with a handle-bar mustache, saw him and came
over.

“Top o’ the evenin’ to ye, sir...” He spoke
with a strong Irish brogue. “What’ll ye have?” he asked, as he
wiped the counter top with a damp cloth.

“Beer...”

The bartender nodded, walked over to the
spigots, picked up a mug and drew a beer. He put it down in front
of Tucson. “That'll be a nickel, sir.”

Tucson pulled a coin out of his pocket and
flipped it at the bartender. “Keep the change,” he said.

The bartender caught it, nodded his thanks
then moved off to serve other customers.

As Tucson lifted the beer to his mouth, he
noticed a few of the men down the bar staring at him quizzically.
He stared back coldly until they dropped their eyes and resumed
their conversations. Glancing over the room, he grinned as he
watched two Mexican quarrymen kicking up their heels as they danced
a jig with each other. Then his eyes narrowed speculatively as he
assessed the women. None of them were worth bothering about, so his
gaze moved on toward the poker tables.

His attention was caught by an Indian boy
with a wooden box hanging from a leather strap slung over his
shoulder. He was working his way around the tables, asking the
patrons if they wanted their shoes shined. Dressed in leather
pants, breech clout and a plaid flannel shirt, the boy couldn't
have been more than twelve or thirteen. His black hair was cut
straight across his shoulders and was held back with a cloth
headband. No one took him up on his offer, so he worked his way on
up to the bar and looked over the customers.

His black eyes met Tucson's, and he came
toward him. “Want a shine, mister?” he asked in a voice too deep
for his size. He had the high cheekbones, slightly slanted eyes and
broad features of the Comanche.

“Sure,” Tucson replied.

The boy gave him a big grin, dropped his box
on the floor, knelt down and took out the boot blacking. “Put your
boot on the box, mister,” he said brightly, “and it'll get the best
shine it ever had.”

Tucson sipped his beer and watched the boy
work industriously on his boot. “Are you from the Twin Trees
reservation?” he asked.