Comanche Gold (5 page)

When he was still a few paces away, the
stallion threw up its head and nickered softly.

Reaching into his shirt pocket, Tucson pulled
out a lump of sugar he had picked up at the Elkhorn and let the
horse nibble it off his palm. Then he took a pitch fork and threw
enough hay into the trough to last until the next day. Running his
hands down the stallion's legs, he lifted the hooves and checked
each shoe. Satisfied, he left the stall and closed the gate.

Before stepping back out into the night,
Tucson listened for any sounds out of the ordinary. Hearing nothing
but the scampering of mice in the rafters, he went back to the side
door and let himself out.

* * * *

Mrs. Murry's Boarding House was quiet when
Tucson came in; a single lantern, turned low, glowed on the front
desk. Tucson went quietly up the stairs, keeping to the inside
close to the wall where there was less chance of making them
squeak. Inside his room, he unstrapped his gun-belt, peeled off his
jacket and shrugged out of the shoulder harness. He dumped his
boots then climbed out of his shirt and trousers.

Picking up the right boot, he dipped his hand
into it and came out with a straight-bladed, double-edged throwing
dagger. The knife was a hideout he kept for emergencies. Testing
the edges with his thumb, he grunted with satisfaction then
replaced it in its sheath.

Pouring some water into the basin, he took a
wash cloth and gave himself a quick rub-down. Then he picked up his
guns, padded over to the bed and placed them on the nightstand
where he could get to them fast if he needed to, then he stretched
out on the bed. His head had just touched the pillow, when he heard
a soft scratching at the door.

He came back up fast with the cocked .45 in
his fist and pointed at the door. Moving carefully so the
bedsprings wouldn’t squeak, he got up and tiptoed across the room
then pressed his back against the wall. Reaching out, he turned the
knob and let the door swing open slowly.

A shadowy figure in a long skirt floated into
the room and looked around. Tucson sighed with relief, but he
didn't relax completely.

“Mirah...!” he whispered fiercely. “What the
hell are you doing here at this hour?”

The girl spun around in surprise, saw him
leaning against the wall then split the darkness with the flash of
her smile. “Why, honey,” she breathed, her dark eyes raking
hungrily over his naked body. “Why are you holdin' that gun on me?
I don't mean you no harm.” Her smile broadened. “In fact, I came up
here to give you and me both a treat.”

Tucson lowered the Colt and allowed Mirah to
approach him. Moving with the sensual grace of a cat, she came up
inside his arms and slid her palms over his muscular chest. “So
many scars...!” she murmured passionately, as her hands moved from
his chest to his ribbed stomach, paused for a moment then dropped
lower.

Scorching flames ignited in Tucson’s groin,
then flared up to engulf his entire body. Bending down, he crushed
his mouth brutally against Mirah’s eager lips. He tasted pepper and
felt the darting heat of her tongue.

Lifting her in his arms, he carried her to
the bed and threw her down on the mattress. She reached up and
pulled him down on top of her. For several minutes they kissed
passionately, their bodies intertwined. With shaking fingers,
Tucson unbuttoned her blouse and felt her heavy breasts leap into
his palms.

With his mouth clamped hungrily over Mirah’s
huge dark nipple, Tucson ripped the rest of her clothes from her
glistening body. Her chocolate skin was as smooth as satin beneath
his touch, and his palm sparked with electricity as it slid down
the soft curve of her stomach and plunged into the dark shadows
between her quivering thighs.

“Oh, take it, honey, take it...!” Mirah
moaned against his throat, as her lush body bucked and shook.

In the grip of a frenzy of passion that
threatened to overwhelm him, Tucson rolled over and climbed between
her waiting thighs. Mirah’s eyes were slits of yellow fire as she
stared up at him, and her lips were pulled back from her teeth in a
grimace of pleasure that was almost pain.

Her hips pounded against his with a savage
rhythm that kept moving faster and faster; and Tucson responded
with powerful, brutal strokes that drove deeper and deeper into her
soft flesh. After what seemed an eternity of unendurable pleasure,
with her nails raking spasmodically across his shoulders like the
sharp claws of a cat, Tucson pressed his lips against hers as they
both rose to climax at the same time.

Time stopped and the world crashed around
them. Their lips pressed together and their bodies fused, they
rolled back and forth across the sweat-soaked sheets, abandoned to
the throes of ecstasy.

Finally, the world re-formulated around them,
and Tucson rolled off Mirah’s body and flopped over onto his back,
his chest heaving like a bellows. Rivulets of sweat ran down
Mirah’s heavy breasts and rippling stomach, and her thighs still
quivered with reaction.

Then, as they both lay there staring dazedly
at the ceiling, her brown hand stole across the sheet and squeezed
his.

Chapter
Three

It was about noon when Tucson left his room.
He descended the stairs so quietly that Mrs. Murry, who was
standing behind the front desk putting mail in the slots, didn't
hear him until he was leaning on the counter behind her.

“Good morning,” he said.

“Oh!” she cried, spinning around in surprise.
“I didn't know you were up, Mr. Tucson. I hope you got a good
morning's sleep.”

Tucson scrutinized her face for hidden
meanings, but found only amused irony. “Yes, I did,” he replied
easily. “Your bed is very comfortable.”

She was looking especially pretty just then,
and he paused to admire her. Her dress was clean and fresh and her
hair, although still piled atop her head, seemed neater; and there
was color on her cheeks and full lips.

Noticing his scrutiny, she flushed, looked
away, then spoke again. “I heard about what you did last
night.”

Thinking she was referring to Mirah, Tucson
paused then answered cautiously, “And what would that be?”

“Don't be so modest, Mr. Tucson!” Mrs. Murry
admonished him, shaking her finger. “You know very well what you
did. You stood up last night at the Elkhorn Saloon for that Indian
boy, Cuchillo.”

“Oh, that...” Tucson breathed a sigh of
relief then shrugged his shoulders dismissively. “How did you find
out about it?”

Mrs. Murry smiled and her hazel eyes sparkled
with admiration. “The whole town is talking about it. You can't
take a man like Wolf Cabot to task like that, in front of so many
people, and not have it get around.”

“I suppose not,” Tucson nodded resignedly.
“Still, since the boy was a Comanche, bracing Cabot over him didn't
make me very popular.”

“I wouldn't want to be popular with people
who would make a distinction like that,” she sniffed angrily. “I
think it was very noble of you!”

Tucson's face turned red with discomfort, and
her smile became warmer.

“Well, thank you, Mrs. Murry,” he got out. “I
appreciate your vote of confidence.”

“Why don't you call me Catherine,” she
suggested.

“Alright,” he replied. “If you'll drop the
mister and just call me Tucson.”

“You’ve got a deal.” A warm silence fell
between them; then Catherine glanced toward the door. “By the way,”
she whispered conspiratorially, “Tom McMannus has been standing out
on the sidewalk all morning waiting for you to come down.”

Tucson straightened up and looked out the
glass door where the boy stood facing out into the street, leaning
morosely against a porch support.

“I think he spent a sleepless night,”
Catherine said bemusedly, “worrying about last evening, and feeling
ashamed.”

Tucson turned toward the door. “Maybe I'd
better go on out and talk to him.”

He stepped out onto the sidewalk and felt the
heat like a blow along the whole length of his body. The street was
busy, with buggies, wagons, horsemen and pedestrians moving along
the roadway. The loud crack of a whip snapped through the air as a
muleskinner guided his team through the crowd - the other wagons
and horses made room for the huge freighter to pass by.

Tom McMannus swung around and stared at
Tucson anxiously as he stopped beside him and reached inside his
jacket for his cigar case. Tucson glanced sideways at the boy as he
took out a cheroot and clamped it between his teeth.

McMannus' face went from bright red to sickly
white, and his hands opened and closed spasmodically.

“How are you feeling this morning, Tom?”
Tucson asked, snapping a match on his thumbnail and applying it to
the tip of his cigar.

“Mr. Tucson...!” McMannus' voice came out in
a strangled croak. “I know what I did last night was a stupid
fool's move. I wouldn't have blamed you if you'd plugged me. It
would've been no more than I deserved. But I want you to know that
I never intended to shoot you. I just wanted to be able to say that
I'd gotten the drop on the Tucson Kid.” The boy stopped talking and
gulped hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing painfully. “I apologize for
what I did.” He hung his head miserably. “I sorely hope you won't
hold it against me.”

Tucson blew out a stream of smoke and watched
it drift on the breeze. Then he eyed McMannus sternly. “A move like
that is worse than stupid—it's suicidal! Anyone else would've
dropped you like a dirty shirt.” He shook his head disgustedly. “I
still don't know why I didn't snuff you on the spot. I'd probably
have saved the world a whole lot of trouble if I had.”

McMannus stared down at the sidewalk, unable
to speak.

Tucson squinted at him, then a faint smile
touched his thin lips. “What do you do for a living, boy?” he
asked.

McMannus looked up. “I do a few things to get
by. I work in the stockyards a little, when they need an extra man.
I chop wood and do some light repair work for Mrs. Murry. And I
ride shotgun for the freight company whenever I can.”

“Sounds to me like you're having trouble
finding yourself,” Tucson grunted.

“Oh, I know what I want to do, alright,”
McMannus exclaimed, his blue eyes lighting with enthusiasm. “And I
want to do it real bad.”

“And that is?”

“I want to be a lawman,” McMannus declared
proudly.

Tucson looked him up and down. “How old are
you?”

McMannus drew himself up to his full height,
which brought the top of his Stetson to just above Tucson's
shoulder. “I'll be eighteen next month.”

“Why don't you ask Marshal Calloway for a
job?”

McMannus grimaced then kicked angrily at the
porch support with the toe of his boot. “Damn it all! I've asked
him a whole lot o’ times. But he says I'm too young, and I don't
have any experience. He thinks I'd get myself killed and maybe him
too.”

“Judging from last night,” Tucson observed
dryly, between draws on his cheroot, “he's probably right.”

“Jeezus..!” McMannus cried out. “Can't we
forget about that?”

Tucson watched a shopkeeper across the street
bring a rack of dresses out onto the sidewalk in front of his store
then motion to some women passing by to look them over. Then he
turned back to McMannus. “Okay, Tom...” he said kindly. “We'll let
it pass for now. Maybe you've learned your lesson.”

He started to walk away, but stopped when the
boy spoke again. “Mr. Tucson,” he stammered, “I...I wanted to ask
you something.”

Tucson turned back. “What is it?”

“Do...do you think you could see your way
through to...to showing me a few things? With...with a gun I
mean.”

Tucson stopped in the middle of a draw on his
cigar. “Are you joking?”

“No, I ain't joking!” McMannus insisted. “I
told you that I want to be a lawman. I already got some experience
ridin’ shotgun. But I thought...I thought maybe with what you could
show me, I could convince Calloway to give me a chance.” He threw
his arms out in exasperation. “If nobody'll give me a chance, or
any help, how am I ever gonna get to do what I want to do?”

Amused by the outburst, Tucson appraised Tom
McMannus again. Despite the fool's trick the night before, Tucson
liked the boy. He was just a little young yet and, like he said,
inexperienced. Tucson didn't have any particular respect for
lawmen, but if that was what McMannus wanted to do, maybe he had it
in him to be a good one.

“I might be able to show you a few things,”
he said slowly.

“Oh, Jesus, Mr. Tucson...!” McMannus
exploded. “Would you really help me? It'd be the biggest thing that
ever happened to me.”

“Right,” Tucson grunted. “But before we go
any further, there are two important conditions that I insist on,
or it's no go.”

“What are they?”

Tucson took the cheroot from his mouth and
faced the boy squarely. “The first condition,” he said, “is that if
I teach you, it creates a connection between us. It means that I'm
responsible for you in some way. So I'm telling you now,” his grey
eyes went as hard as steel, “that if, after today, I ever hear of
you taking advantage of a man, or pushing a fight, I'll come after
you and take back what I've taught you.”

“You mean I can't pull my gun first?”
McMannus asked, baffled.

“No, that's not what I mean,” Tucson replied.
“Sometimes, if you know what's coming down, you've got to pull
first. If you wait for the other man to go for his gun, reaction
lag can get you killed. No,” he concluded, “I mean exactly what I
said: if you take advantage, or start pushing, or become a killer,
I'll come after you.”

McMannus’ face took on a worried expression.
“What do you mean, 'take it back?'“

Tucson's harsh features set in lines so hard
that his face could have been chiseled in stone. “It means that
wherever you are I'll find you. And depending on what you've done,
I'll either kill you outright, or I'll cripple you so bad you'll
never handle a gun again.”