Comanche Gold (7 page)

Calling themselves Nermernuh, The People, the
Comanche had ruled the Great Plains for hundreds of years before
the arrival of white men. They had repeatedly defeated the Spanish
conquistadors in their bid for North American empire, and stymied
the Mexicans who took over the southwest when the Spanish left.
They halted the Canadian French, and drove them north again, and
frustrated every attempt by the Anglo-Americans to tame them, until
the invention of repeating rifles and pistols. Even then, Tucson
reflected, the frontier civilians were unable to come to terms with
the Comanche. It took a full scale war waged by the American Army
after the Civil War to finally destroy their fighting spirit.

Now there was only a remnant left of the once
mighty Comanche Nation, scratching out a bare existence on a few
reservations here and there across the west. Tucson was realist
enough to know that the Comanche’s defeat was inevitable, but the
misunderstandings on both sides of the conflict made the results
worse than they had to be.

They rounded a hill, reined in their mounts
along the crest then looked down into a shallow canyon.

Squalid shacks, constructed of wood and hide,
interspersed with native teepees made of skins, were scattered in a
haphazard line along an almost dry stream. Ragged children and
bone-thin dogs were running everywhere, while in the shade of the
hovels women dressed in colorful homespun bent over cooking fires
or chopped food for the pots. Some were stretching skins on wooden
racks, while others knelt at the side of the stream, washing
clothes.

The impact of the poverty and degradation of
the village struck Tucson with the force of a blow, but even that
wasn't as bad as the rank stench hanging over the canyon like
rotting death. The Comanche had a habit of not cleaning up after
themselves, which wasn't so bad when they were out on the
plains...when a campsite became too contaminated, they just moved
on to another spot.

But now they couldn't move, and so they
squatted in their own filth.

To the far west and upwind of the village,
Tucson noted a wooden cabin with a corral in back, where two horses
dozed beside a shed. It was the best building in the camp, with a
plume of smoke rising from the chimney, and Tucson guessed it was
the home of the Indian Agent.

Two Bears broke in on his thoughts. “Soaring
Eagle not live in the village,” he said, pointing further north.
“His lodge that way. We must go there.”

Two Bears, Tucson and Cuchillo rode on while
the remainder of the braves took the trail that led down into the
camp. A quarter of an hour later they reined in outside a large
teepee set in the cover of a stand of oak trees. Made of buffalo
hides, the lodge was dyed white and covered with innumerable black
zig-zag patterns, like lightning.

They dismounted, and Two Bears held up his
hand. “Wait here by horses, Storm Rider. I will let Soaring Eagle
know you are here.”

Two Bears was back outside in a minute,
followed by a grey-haired old woman in a deerskin dress who stood
less than five feet tall. After glancing briefly, but deliberately,
at Tucson with sharp black eyes, she turned and walked away with a
hobbling gait toward the village.

Two Bears motioned for Tucson to follow him
inside.

The interior of the teepee was dark and
stuffy, and even with the smoke-hole at the top it was full of wood
smoke from the cooking fire in the middle. Once Tucson's eyes
adjusted to the gloom, he saw an ancient Comanche sitting on a pile
of old buffalo skins on the opposite side of the lodge.

Soaring Eagle's face was a mass of wrinkles,
and his mouth was a horizontal gash. Despite the heat, he was
wrapped in a colorful blanket. His grey hair was parted in the
middle and braided. The braids hung down along each shoulder, and
were encased in tubes of rabbit fur. A choker of human teeth
encircled his grizzled neck, and Tucson guessed the teeth had
belonged to Pawnees—a hereditary enemy of the Comanche.

Soaring Eagle and Tucson studied each other
in silence for a long time. Despite the Comanche chief’s great age,
Tucson couldn't remember when he had seen another man who radiated
such awesome power. Two Bears and Cuchillo stood on each side of
the entrance, watching quietly.

Finally, Soaring Eagle nodded and pointed to
a spot next to him, then said something in Shoshone dialect.

Slowly and carefully, as if he were
performing a ritual, Tucson bent and untied the leather thong that
kept his holster strapped to his leg then unbuckled his gun-belt.
Looking around, he saw a wooden peg hanging off one of the
cedar-wood support poles. Stepping to it, he hung the gun up then
went and sat down in the spot indicated by Soaring Eagle.

Two Bears sat on the other side of the old
chief while Cuchillo squatted beside the entrance.

Two Bears looked across at Tucson. “Soaring
Eagle refuses to learn English or Spanish. He wants me to interpret
for him.”

Tucson nodded.

“Soaring Eagle say he recognizes you as Storm
Rider, the great warrior he see in Spirit Vision,” Two Bears said,
after the old chief had spoken. “He thanks you for coming so
soon.”

“What's the problem?” Tucson asked.

Two Bears listened closely as the old chief
spoke for several minutes. His voice was thin with age, but it
throbbed with unmistakable power.

Finally, Two Bears turned back to Tucson.
“Three moons ago, The People found gold on the reservation.” He
paused as Tucson's head jerked up with interest, then went on. “At
first we were happy. Gold is only thing white man respect. We think
gold buy things Nermernuh need to survive. But then we think if
white man know there gold here, we be moved again, maybe somewhere
even worse, and white man steal our gold. Soaring Eagle understand
we need white man to act for us. He send brave with gold nugget at
night to house of big banker in Howling Wolf: Charles Durant.”

Two Bears had trouble making his tongue
pronounce the banker’s name.

“I've heard of him,” Tucson commented. “What
happened?”

Two Bears shrugged. “We never see brave
again.” He listened to Soaring Eagle as the old chief spoke, then
added, “Since brave disappear, white men seen on reservation and
three braves killed.”

“Is that why you and your band stopped me
today?” Tucson asked. “You were guarding against any white men
coming onto your land?”

Two Bears nodded his massive head. “Nermernuh
no stand by while white man kill our people.” Soaring Eagle
interrupted again, and Two Bears stopped to listen. “Soaring Eagle
say he think white man want Nermernuh to go on warpath. That give
soldiers excuse to come kill us. Then they would be free to take
our gold.”

Tucson stared at the fire as he thought it
over. “So you think Charles Durant took the gold you sent him,
killed the brave so no one would know he had seen him, and is now
sending his agents onto the reservation to discover the source,” he
said. “Maybe the braves that were killed saw them looking, and were
disposed of to keep them from talking. And Soaring Eagle thinks the
killings could incite your people to rebel. That would give Durant
an excuse to call in the Army, and have all of you either
exterminated or moved. Then,” he concluded, “He’d be free to come
onto this land and find the gold. Is that it?”

Two Bears nodded.

“Well,” Tucson asked with a shrug, “what do
you want me to do?”

“Soaring Eagle know that for Nermernuh to
rebel would be end of The People,” Two Bears replied. “We do
everything we can to keep braves from fighting back, but they take
no more. We need a white man we can trust to go see banker and
force him to stop coming on Nermernuh land.”

Tucson pushed his sombrero to the back of his
head and a thick strand of black hair fell over his forehead. He
glanced from Two Bears to Soaring Eagle; then he shook his head. “I
don't know what good I could do you,” he said slowly. “What about
Marshal Calloway? Have you seen him about this?”

“Agent talked to marshal,” Two Bears replied
with a frown. “But we have no proof. Killings made to look like
accident. Lawman do nothing.” He shook his head contemptuously.
“White man's law no good to Nermernuh. White men only laugh at
us.”

Tucson sat silently while he put it all
together. He knew Two Bears spoke the simple truth when he said
that the white man's law didn't extend to Indians. To most white
men, the only good Indian was still a dead one. If the Comanche
deaths had been made to look accidental, there was nothing Marshal
Calloway could do about it, and he probably didn't care. But what
could he, Tucson, possibly do to help? If he talked to Charles
Durant, the banker would laugh in his face, deny everything, and
show him the door.

On the other hand, if Tucson did nothing,
Durant's idea would probably work. The Comanche would either be
killed or moved somewhere else...probably to a place even more
desolate than where they were now...and Durant would get the gold.
Tucson had been sickened by the living conditions of the Indians,
and he knew that the gold was the only chance they had to survive,
and maybe prosper.

Well, Tucson decided, he would just have to
see if there was something he could do to solve the problem.

“Alright,” he said finally. “I'll look into
things.” He searched the wrinkled face of Soaring Eagle. “I can’t
promise anything at this point, Great Chief. Let's just see how
things develop.”

Soaring Eagle waited as Two Bears translated
Tucson’s words then his shriveled lips stretched in a pleased
smile.

“Soaring Eagle say he happy now,” Two Bears
translated, after the old chief had replied. “He say you powerful
warrior who defeat all enemies. He know this before he ask you to
come here. He say sun shine again on Nermernuh.” He paused, then
asked, “What pay you want?”

“Originally,” Tucson snorted, “I hadn't
intended to ask for anything. But if you've found gold here, I'll
take expenses.” Two Bears looked puzzled, so he explained, “I want
to be paid what it costs me to be here and do the job.”

Two Bears spoke to Soaring Eagle, and the old
chief reached inside his blanket, came out holding a gold nugget in
his gnarled fingers, and extended it toward Tucson.

Tucson took it, rotated it in his fingers and
sucked in his breath at the weight of it. Then he said, “This'll do
just fine.”

Chapter
Five

It was after sundown when Tucson got back to
Howling Wolf, so he didn't bother going to the boarding house for
supper. He took his time putting the stallion into its stall in the
livery stable, giving it plenty of hay and oats and rubbing it
down. Then he strolled over to the Elkhorn Saloon, thinking he'd
get himself a steak.

As he moved through the double doors and to
the side, he noted that the place was already jumping. Maybe it was
payday, because there were plenty of cowboys lining the bar and
crowding around the Faro tables, or kicking up their heels with the
women. Tucson sensed that he was a source of curiosity as he made
his way to the end of the bar, where the same empty space from the
night before awaited him.

It wasn't obvious, nobody stared, but he
could see the men watching him out of the corners of their
eyes.

Wolf Cabot stood down at the opposite end of
the bar, nursing a glass of whiskey. He was deep in conversation
with two other men, and wasn’t paying any attention to Tucson.
Midway down the brass rail, a tall Mexican in a fancy leather
jacket and tight pants was drinking tequila and sucking on a lemon.
His high heeled boots had spurs with huge silver rowels. A
filigreed sombrero hung down his back on a leather thong. The ivory
handled Colt tied to his right leg told Tucson that this was the
gunman Prince had mentioned—Ramon Vasquez.

Mike, the bartender, met him as he leaned his
elbows on the polished mahogany counter.

“Top o’ the evenin’ to ye, sir,” he said with
a friendly smile. “What'll it be tonight?”

“Howdy, Mike,” Tucson replied, slapping a
silver dollar down on the bar. “I need a cool beer as soon as you
can get it to me—I’m parched! Then I want a thick steak, medium
well, with plenty of potatoes and onions. I'm so hungry,” he
chuckled, “I could devour a whole steer!”

Mike grinned and nodded his head. “You came
to the right place, sir,” he said. “I'll get the beer right away,”
he added as he turned away. “The steak will take about fifteen
minutes.”

Tucson lifted the mug with his left hand and
poured the cool wet beer down his dry throat. But even as he gulped
it down, he kept his eyes on the men at the bar.

To all appearances, neither Wolf Cabot nor
Ramon Vasquez was paying any attention to him. Wolf was still
talking to the men around him, and the Mexican was laughing with
one of the women, who leaned heavily on his shoulder. Vasquez was
handsome in a reptilian sort of way. His eyes were dark and
strangely slanted, and a stringy black mustache drooped down along
the corners of a thin, vicious mouth.

Tucson had finished his beer and was
signaling Mike for another, when Prince came out of the door on the
other side of the room and walked over to where he stood. The other
men at the bar made room for the gambler as he put his boot up on
the brass rail. He was dressed in the same black broadcloth coat,
but had on a different fancy vest, and his legs were encased in
cream colored trousers. A long thin cigar smoldered between his
lips.

“Evening, Kid,” he said pleasantly, flicking
ash from his cigar onto the floor.

Tucson nodded. “Evening, Prince.”

The gambler opened his mouth to speak, then
closed it as Mike put a big platter overflowing with a beefsteak,
fried onions and potatoes in front of Tucson. He laid a knife and
fork beside the platter, and said, “Eat hearty, sir.” Then he
walked back down the bar.