Comanche Gold Read online

  Comanche Gold

  A Tucson Kid Western

  by Richard Dawes

  Published by

  Melange Books, LLC

  White Bear Lake, MN 55110

  www.melange-books.com

  Comanche Gold, Copyright 2014 Richard Dawes

  ISBN: 978-1-61235-989-2

  Names, characters, and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Published in the United States of America.

  Cover Design by Becca Barnes

  Table of Contents

  "Comanche Gold"

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  About the Author

  Previews

  COMANCHE GOLD

  by Richard Dawes

  In Comanche Gold, the Tucson Kid comes to Howling Wolf where gold has been found nearby on the Comanche reservation. The Comanche chief asks Tucson to protect the Indians from the town banker who is trying to steal the gold. As he fights for the Indians, Tucson faces the killers of the town’s gambler, the crew of gunman hired by the banker, and finally fights a duel to the death with the banker himself.

  Chapter One

  Josh Talbot stood in the double doors of the Talbot Livery Stable and Blacksmith, mopping the sweat from his brow as he watched Curly Reeves put new shoes on a horse. The burly blacksmith was hunched over with a hoof held between his knees in his leather apron as he filed the rough edges off the shoe. Glancing away from Curly, Josh looked down Main Street of the west Texas town of Howling Wolf. The tall, alkali-covered buildings on each side of the road seemed to hunch piteously beneath the driving heat of the sun as it rolled like an orange ball across the pale blue sky. Squinting against the dust devil spinning down the street, he noticed a horseman just entering town from the west.

  An expert judge of horses, Josh noticed the rider’s mount first.

  It was a massive black stallion, with long legs, an arching neck and a thick flowing mane. Spirit and power burst from the animal, and the long smooth muscles under its glossy coat rippled and rolled like molten iron. It was a high stepper for such a huge animal, with an almost dainty way of placing its hooves down into the dust.

  Josh dragged his eyes reluctantly away from the horse and studied the rider who controlled it with effortless ease.

  A black, flat-crowned, wide brimmed sombrero shaded a bronzed face that at first glance gave the impression of an axe blade. Cold grey eyes ceaselessly studied both sides of the street, checking buildings, alleys, windows, and the pedestrians moving along or standing on the wooden sidewalks. Prominent cheekbones framed a high-bridged nose, and a wide, thin-lipped mouth was set like granite above a craggy chin.

  Josh took note of the black leather jacket, cut short at the waist, encasing the rider’s broad shoulders and deep chest. A black gun-belt encircled his lean waist, and a Colt .45 with blued steel and rosewood grips rested in the black holster tied down to his right leg. Dark serge trousers covered his long, horseman’s legs. As the rider moved inexorably up the street, he radiated danger like a crouching panther or a coiled rattler, ready to strike at the slightest provocation.

  Glancing up at the sky, Josh was startled to see the black, spectral shapes of vultures circling ominously above the slaughterhouse and stockyards at the edge of town. From his angle of vision, they gave the illusion of swarming directly over the rider, forming a dark and grisly nimbus around his head.

  Looking around, Josh noticed Mel Kippers, busily sweeping the sidewalk outside his general store, pause to stare curiously at the stranger. Two cattlemen, who had been deep in conversation outside the Elkhorn Saloon, stopped in mid-sentence and gaped at the rider as he passed. A couple of women in low-cut dresses, who were hanging out of a second floor window above the saloon, craned their necks to see him, their flashing eyes following him with calculated interest.

  Josh gulped nervously as the stranger turned his level gaze toward the livery stable, studied him for a moment, read the sign on the wall above his head then reined the stallion toward him.

  “Howdy, mister,” Josh called out in a thin voice, feeling uncomfortable under the steady stare of the rider. At close range, the dark aura of danger and menace emanating from the man was almost overpowering. As hard as he tried, Josh couldn't keep his voice steady. “Can I help y'all?” he quavered.

  The stranger glanced at Curly, who had stopped shoeing the horse and was looking up to see what was going on, then his eyes swung back to Josh. “Do you own this stable?” he asked, in a deep, resonant voice.

  “I surely do!” Josh replied, gaining confidence. “I'm Josh Talbot. You're welcome to stable your hoss here while you're in town, if you've a mind.”

  The stranger nodded. “What do you charge?”

  “Dollar a day—oats is two bits extra.”

  “That'll do.” The rider looped the reins loosely around the saddle horn, swung his leg over the cantle and stepped down into the dust of the street. “I'd like to see that stall now, if you don't mind,” he said. “My horse needs to get some rest.”

  “No problem a-tall,” Josh responded good-naturedly, finally beginning to relax. He reached out for the horse's bridle chains then jerked his hand back as the stranger spoke again.

  “Leave it be. It'll follow us alright. Just lead the way.”

  Josh shrugged and walked inside the stable. The stranger followed, with the stallion ambling along behind.

  The stable was a large, dark, barn-like building, extending back through the block to another street in the rear. There were several rows of stalls, most of them occupied, with a deep loft all along the back where hay was stored. In front on the left was the blacksmith area, with an anvil, a hearth and bellows, and tools hung in an orderly manner on the wall.

  They stopped at an empty stall towards the rear and Josh opened the gate. It was raked clean, with plenty of room for the horse to turn around.

  Without speaking, the stranger pointed into the stall, and the stallion walked in.

  “That's a mighty tame cayoose you got there, stranger,” Josh commented. “You sure wouldn't know it to look at it.”

  “It's only tame with me,” the rider said quietly. “I've seen it rip the arm off a man it didn't know who made the mistake of putting his hand on it.”

  Josh stepped hastily back. “Well, now!” he yelped. “I don't know as I want an animal that mean around here.”

  “Don't worry,” the stranger replied reassuringly. “I'll come around every morning to feed it, and check back in the afternoon. All you have to provide is a roof and plenty of feed.”

  Josh scratched his grizzled chin dubiously with a gnarled finger, then shrugged and let it go. “By the way,” he said, squinting hard at the other. “If'n you're gonna stable your hoss here, I reckon it ain't impolite to ask if y’all got a name.”

  The rider paused as he fished in his jacket pocket and pulled out a ten-dollar gold piece. “Call me Tucson,” he answered, almost reluctantly. He flipped the coin at Josh, who plucked it nimbly from the air and tested it with yellow teeth. “Here's a week in advance,” he added. “If I d
ecide to stay longer I'll give you another week in advance.”

  Josh nodded and deposited the coin in his vest pocket. Then, his homely face twisted with curiosity, he asked, “That’s it? Your name’s just Tucson...?”

  The sense of a crouching panther returned as Tucson stared into Josh's eyes. “Yes,” he said softly. “That's it.”

  Josh gulped as he tried to force words out of a suddenly constricted throat. “Hey!” he cried. “That's good enough for me, Mr. Tucson. No problem here.” He started backing down the corridor. “I'll just let you and your hoss be an’ I’ll get on about my business.” He waved an arm as he walked quickly away. “You need anythin’, just holler.”

  “Thanks,” Tucson said, then turned and walked into the stall.

  * * * *

  Tucson removed the stallion's saddle and bridle, then, while the horse rolled around in the dirt, he forked plenty of hay into the trough along the side of the stall. Then he put a nose-bag full of oats over its muzzle, and carefully curried it down. He worked steadily over the stallion's coat until it gleamed like polished ebony; then he worked through the long mane and tail, combing out all the snarls and bristles picked up as they'd traveled through the desert. Once he was satisfied, Tucson took the nose-bag off and scratched the stallion between its ears. Then he slid the Winchester from its scabbard, slung his saddle bags over his left shoulder, closed the gate, and headed up to the front of the stable.

  As Tucson approached the entrance, Josh, who had been talking animatedly to three other men, suddenly broke off what he was saying and looked sheepishly at Tucson. Tucson studied them for a moment, recognizing the pale, bald man in the long white apron as the merchant who had been sweeping off the sidewalk when he rode in. The other two were the cattlemen who had been talking in front of the saloon.

  The way they stared at him, Tucson guessed that he must have been the main topic of conversation. He gestured to a wooden bucket of water sitting on a stump beside the door.

  “Do you mind if I have a drink?” he asked.

  “Not at all, Mr. Tucson...” Josh's thin voice shot out overly loud. “Help yourself to as much as you want.”

  Although he was tired, Tucson's well-knit body moved with the easy grace of a big cat. As he went toward the bucket, his grey eyes kept the group within his peripheral vision, alert for any false move. The men seemed aware of it; they stood stiffly, watching him with intense interest.

  The merchant spoke up in a high-pitched voice. “My name's Mel Kippers, Mr. Tucson,” he said. “I want to welcome you to the town of Howling Wolf. My store, Kippers' Mercantile, is down the street on the other side. It carries everything you're liable to need while you’re in town.”

  Tucson nodded vaguely as he leaned his Winchester against the stump, picked up the ladle resting over the bucket with his left hand and used it to clear the scum from the surface of the water. Then he dipped deep and lifted the cool liquid to his parched lips.

  “You traveled far?” one of the cattlemen asked.

  Tucson stared coldly at him over the ladle. “Far enough,” he replied, between gulps.

  The four men exchanged glances, then the second cattleman spoke. “You have business here in Howlin' Wolf, Mr. Tucson?”

  “Right now,” Tucson responded, carefully replacing the ladle over the top of the bucket, “my only business is to find some place to sleep.” His gaze shifted to Josh Talbot. “Is there a good, medium class hotel in this town you can recommend?”

  “There surely is,” Josh replied, raising his hand and pointing east. “Across Main Street and up two blocks is Murry's Hotel and Boarding House. Murry's dead now,” he added, “but his widow still runs the place. She keeps a good clean house and charges reasonable rates.”

  “That sounds like just what I'm looking for.” Tucson touched the brim of his sombrero and nodded to the four men. “Gents,” he said. “Nice meeting you.”

  When Tucson stepped out of the stable and onto the street, he paused on the sidewalk with his back to the wall and took in the situation. It was late afternoon, the fiery ball of the sun was rolling toward the horizon, the heat was beginning to slacken and the shadows along Main Street were getting longer.

  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 a
s 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?”