Comanche Gold (9 page)

“Vasquez worked for the Lazy T,” Tucson
observed imperturbably. “A man called Ed Thompson owns it. What's
he like?”

Finally realizing that Tucson was driving at
something, Calloway made an effort to calm himself down. “Ed's
alright,” he answered finally. “He’s kind of a hard case, but he's
okay.”

Tucson studied the smoke drifting toward the
ceiling from his cheroot. “The Lazy T butts up against the Comanche
reservation, doesn't it?”

“Yeah,” Calloway replied. “There's only a
range o’ hills separatin' ‘em.”

Tucson lowered his gaze and stared at the
marshal. It was clear, he decided, that Calloway didn't know
anything about the gold, or about anyone trying to steal it from
the Comanche. He seemed honest enough—he just wasn’t very bright or
overly interested in protecting the Indians. Tucson crossed
Calloway off the list of possible conspirators, but he decided not
to tell the marshal anything. As the law in Howling Wolf, he would
expect to call the shots, and that would only get in Tucson's
way.

Tucson leaned across the desk and stubbed his
cheroot out in the ashtray. “Sorry, Marshal. I didn't mean to get
you all riled up. I was just poking around. But, to answer your
question directly,” he flashed a friendly smile, “no, I can't think
of any reason why Prince would want me dead.”

Calloway’s fingers drummed on the desktop
while he studied Tucson, searching for any hidden meanings. Then he
let it go with a shrug, picked up the quill and bent over the form.
“In that case, we'll put down the story Prince gave as the official
reason for the shootout.”

“That suits me fine,” Tucson replied with a
sigh. “By the way,” he asked offhandedly, “do you know anything
about Charles Durant?”

Calloway pushed his Stetson back off his
forehead and scratched his head. “For someone who just blew into
town yesterday,” he exclaimed perplexedly, “you sure know an awful
lot about what goes on here. Whadaya want to know about Durant
for?”

Tucson lifted his shoulders innocently. “I
just overheard some cowboys in the Elkhorn talking about the
banker. They said he's a man on the rise. He might even make it to
the governor's mansion someday. I thought you might have an opinion
about him.”

Calloway grunted, not satisfied with Tucson's
explanation. “Charles Durant made his pile in land speculation in
Kansas and Missouri after the war. He hit Howlin' Wolf about five
years ago, opened up the United Commerce Bank and funded most o’
the people who wanted to start a business here. You could even say
that we owe our success mostly to Charles Durant.” He chuckled and
leaned back in his chair. “He's mighty respectable now, but I hear
tell Durant was a real cocklebur when he was young. He used to
fight in the prize ring—almost became the champ. Some say he made
the cash he used in his land deals by runnin' whore houses durin’
the war.” He paused, reflected for a moment then added, “He's gotta
be one o’ the gawddamned strongest men I ever met! He must be in
his mid-forties now, an’ he can still twist a horseshoe all out o’
gawdamned shape.”

“He sounds interesting,” Tucson commented,
leaning forward as if to rise. “Is that it, then, Marshal? Can I go
now?”

“Yeah, that should do it.” Calloway watched
him from under shaggy brows. “But you'll have to be in court
tomorrow mornin’ when the judge reads this report. It's just a
formality, you understand. It was clearly self-defense. Be there at
ten tomorrow mornin’”

“Sure,” Tucson replied. “Where is it?”

Calloway jerked his thumb over his shoulder.
“The court house is right next door. You can't miss it.”

* * * *

Tucson eased himself through the front door
of the boarding house and closed it quietly behind him. Standing
motionless in the darkness, he scanned the shadows while his senses
strained to pick up anything unusual. The place was quiet; the
faint aroma of food still hovered in the air from supper. Deciding
that there were no hidden dangers, Tucson glided soundlessly across
the floor toward the stairs. As he passed the end of the front
desk, he glanced to his left at the door that led into the kitchen,
and noticed a thin line of light across the bottom.

The door had no knob and was double hinged so
it could swing both ways. Very gently, Tucson pushed it inward and
looked inside. On the left, rows of pots and pans hung from iron
hooks set into the wall. A huge open hearth stood against the back
wall, with an iron oven beside it. A water pump and a big wooden
tub sat on the right. To the left, against the wall, was a desk
where Catherine Murry sat leaning over a ledger, her head propped
up on her left hand. A kerosene lamp hanging from a wall mount
splashed a circle of yellow light over the desk.

Tucson stepped further into the kitchen and
Catherine jerked up with a startled gasp. “My God!” she exclaimed
crossly. “You're the quietest man I've ever met. Don't you ever let
a person know when you're coming?”

“Not if I can help it.” Tucson grinned, then
pulled out his watch and looked at it. “It's after eleven. Do you
usually stay up so late?”

Catherine sighed heavily and closed the
ledger. “It's getting toward the end of the month,” she replied. “I
was just going over the books.”

Tucson moved the rest of the way into the
kitchen and let the door swing shut behind him. Going to the desk,
he threw his leg over the corner and rested his weight against it.
“How are things going?” he asked seriously. “Is everything
alright?”

“It's the same old story.” Catherine leaned
back, crossed her arms over her breasts and looked up at him. “My
late husband and I went into quite a bit of debt to start this
place when we moved here several years ago. We thought we'd be able
to pay it all back in a couple of years, and then we'd be all
right. But,” she sighed again, her hazel eyes clouded with worry,
“with him dying, and the price of maintenance and supplies, and
interest payments, I haven't been able to get my head above water.
And now,” her hand drifted back to the ledger, “the bank's starting
to get impatient.”

“Which bank?” Tucson asked.

“Charles Durant’s United Commerce
Bank...”

“Why not discuss the situation with Durant?”
Tucson offered. “I've heard he's a reasonable man.”

Catherine shook her head, her mouth thinning
with contempt. “I
have
talked to Durant. And he's willing to
extend my notes—for a consideration.” She swung her chair around
and confronted Tucson directly. “But let me tell you something. I
run an honest place here. I give damn good value for every dollar I
bring in.” Her eyes flashed defiantly. “I would rather go broke
with my head up than stay afloat doing what Charles Durant wants me
to do.”

Tucson nodded, his face reflecting the
admiration he felt for her. “Well, don't lose hope,” he said
cheerfully. “I have a feeling something will break for you pretty
soon. Just hold on for a while longer.”

“What do you mean?” she demanded, her brow
furrowing.

“I don't mean anything in particular.” Tucson
slid his leg off the desk and stood up. “It's just that I get a
feeling sometimes—and it usually turns out the way I expect.” He
glanced over at the water pump. “I missed my bath today. Would you
mind if I took a couple of buckets of water upstairs with me? I'd
like to wash the dust off before I turn in.”

Catherine smiled, revealing straight white
teeth. “You'll find some hot water on the stove,” she said,
pointing behind her. “I thought you might want a bath, so I kept
the water warm. Help yourself.”

While Tucson busied himself transferring
water to a couple of wooden buckets, Catherine spoke again. “I'm
riding out to a ranch about five miles outside of town tomorrow,”
she said. “I’m taking some cookies to a woman who just gave birth
to a baby girl. I was wondering if you'd like to ride along with
me.” She hesitated then added quietly, “I could show you some of
the country.”

Tucson glanced over his shoulder and shot his
most devilish grin at her. Catherine blushed furiously.

“I'd be happy to ride along with you
tomorrow,” he answered, as he lifted the buckets of water and
started for the door. “I don't have any plans for tomorrow anyway.”
Then he remembered the courthouse and stopped in his tracks. “I
almost forgot,” he added apologetically. “We’ll have to leave after
ten o'clock. I have a date with the judge in the morning.”

“Oh?” Catherine’s fine brows lifted
inquisitively. “Are you in some kind of trouble?”

“No,” Tucson replied casually, as he started
again for the door. “It's just a formality. I’ll see you tomorrow
morning.”

Chapter
Six

The sun was well up and hot when Tucson and
Catherine Murry rounded the stock yards at the edge of Howling Wolf
and took the road leading southwest. Sandy desert stretched as far
as the eye could see. The monotony of sparse, hardy prairie grass,
mesquite and prickly cactus was broken here and there by a tall
blade of yucca or a stunted oak.

Catherine rode beside Tucson in a split skirt
and jacket over a ruffled blouse. A wide-brimmed sombrero shaded
her face from the sun, and black leather gloves protected her
hands. Her horse was a spirited Appaloosa mare that seemed
unusually interested in the stallion.

They had ridden about half a mile in silence,
when Catherine said, “That's quite a horse you have there, Tucson.
What do you call it?”

“I
don't
call it,” he replied. “I
whistle.”

Catherine chuckled. “I meant, what's its
name?”

“It doesn't have one.”

“You mean you haven't even bothered to give
your horse a name?” Catherine asked in surprise.

Tucson arched an eyebrow at her, then
replied, “I don't feel the need to put a name on everything. The
stallion comes when I whistle and it gets me where I need to go.
It's a system that seems to work for both of us.”

Catherine smiled and shook her head. The
movement shifted the loosely braided hair hanging down her back,
and Tucson admired the reddish highlights picked out by the
sun.

“I understand your reasoning,” she said
softly. “I can tell that freedom means a lot to you. Not naming
your horse is your symbolic way of leaving it as free as you can
under the circumstances.” When Tucson didn’t respond, she shifted
the subject. “I heard about what happened at the Elkhorn Saloon
last night. Is that why you needed to see the judge this
morning?”

“Yes...” Tucson replied. “But it wasn't a
problem. The judge knew it was self-defense.”

Catherine studied him for a moment, her eyes
sparkling with interest. “Considering that you were in an argument
with Wolf Cabot the night before, I wonder if trouble doesn't have
a habit of following you around.”

Tucson's gaze roamed over the desert as he
thought it over. “I suppose you could say that it does,” he
conceded finally. “As far back as I can remember, I've spent most
of my time skirting danger.”

“Yes,” Catherine agreed. “I can feel it
around you. You wear danger the way another man would wear a
cloak.” She paused a second, then added, “You remind me of the
stories I used to hear about the wild Indians. I wonder if that's
why you like them so much.”

“I'm not sure that I like the Indians any
better than I like anyone else,” Tucson replied. “Although I am
disgusted by the way they’re being treated. But,” he raised his
hand for emphasis, “I do relate to them as warriors. On that level,
the Indians and I understand each other completely.”

“Maybe you don't like them any more than you
like others,” Catherine argued. “But none of the soldiers or
civilians around here would feel any disgust at how they’re being
treated or feel any empathy for them as warriors. To most people,
the Indians are just animals, fit only to be exterminated.”

Tucson shifted in the saddle to face her.
“Most of the Indians,” he said slowly, as he searched for words,
“especially the plains Tribes like the Comanche, were warrior
societies. That meant their whole culture was wrapped around the
war trail. The idealists who think that the Indians were peaceful
and happy before the white man brought war to them are just
deluding themselves.

“Long before the Spaniards arrived,” he went
on, “the Tribes warred on each other, and they perpetrated the same
atrocities on each other that they inflicted later on the whites.”
He shrugged. “It's just the way they do it. The American
Government, mostly for economic reasons, tried for a long time to
avoid an all-out war with the plains Tribes. But,” he shook his
head sadly, “the Indians themselves, especially the Comanche,
couldn't and wouldn't stop raiding because their whole way of life
depended on it.” He looked into her eyes, hoping to make her
understand. “There wasn’t any other way for a young brave to prove
and affirm himself than through hunting and fighting.”

Catherine exclaimed in surprise, “Now you
seem to be blaming the Indians!”

“I don't mean to be,” Tucson said, sitting
back in the saddle. “I'm just trying to explain the way it was.
It's because I also follow the Warrior's Way that I understand the
Indians. Warriors, no matter where in the world they are, or at
what period in history they live, have basically the same ethos.
One warrior can go to another warrior society and understand its
values.”

“I don't think the soldiers ever understood
the Indians,” Catherine observed sadly.

Tucson snorted with disgust. “There's no
connection whatsoever between modern soldiers and the Warrior's
Way! Soldiers are paid machines fighting as a mass according to
orders,” he pointed out. “The warrior puts his emphasis on
individual combat and personal honor. That's why counting coup was
so important to the Indians.” Without intending to, Tucson’s voice
began to throb with enthusiasm. “To a Comanche, the Path of the
Warrior was a sacred way of life that influenced his every action.
I suppose,” he added, almost as a concession, “that the Texas
Rangers came closest on the white side of the Indian Wars to being
true warriors.”