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  “There's a tub in the room at the end of the hall.”

  “Do you have someone who can put some hot water in it for me?” he asked. “I'd like to take a bath.”

  “I'll see to it,” Mrs. Murry said. “Mirah, that's my helper, will knock on your door when it’s ready.”

  “That should do it,” Tucson replied. “By the way,” he added. “Would you mind having her fill the tub each day about this time? I like to take daily baths when I can.”

  Mrs. Murry’s brows arched in surprise. “I've never heard of anyone washing that often before. Most of the people around here bathe once a week at the most.”

  Tucson shrugged. “When I have no choice, I can go for as long as I need to. But when I can, I like to stay clean. So if you'll take care of it, I'd appreciate it.”

  Mrs. Murry nodded, then turned and left the room.

  After leaning his Winchester against the wall next to the bed, Tucson busied himself taking his few belongings from the saddlebags and transferring them to the drawers in the dresser. He had just finished when a knock sounded on the door. When he opened it he found a pretty mulatto girl about eighteen or nineteen standing in the hall. Dressed in a simple cotton blouse and a full skirt, she was long-legged and lithe, with high, up-tilted breasts and laughing brown eyes. Her black curly hair was covered with a blue scarf.

  “Your bath's ready, Mistah Tucson,” she said in a deep, lilting voice, as she boldly looked him up and down. Spinning around so that her skirt flared out from her slim ankles, she walked back down the hallway, swinging her rounded hips suggestively.

  Tucson watched her appreciatively until she reached the end of the hall, turned at the landing and glanced back at him with a broad smile, then disappeared down the stairs. Grinning to himself, Tucson went on to his bath.

  * * * *

  It was a quarter past six when Tucson stepped into the dining room. His black hair was washed and combed straight back, and his cheeks were freshly shaved. A clean white shirt gleamed beneath his jacket, and his trousers and boots had been brushed. Holding his gun-belt and sombrero in his left hand, he stopped inside the doorway and glanced at the people sitting around the table.

  There were a few bachelor merchants and laborers hunched over their plates; a couple of women who looked like someone's maiden aunts picked at their food; and then there was an elderly, distinguished looking gentleman sitting on the other side of the table to the left of Mrs. Murry, who sat at the far end.

  The only jarring note was the young man sitting on the right side of Mrs. Murry. Dressed like a cowboy, he wore an open-at-the collar shirt and a bandanna, a leather vest with silver conchos, and faded Levi's stuffed into a pair of fancy, high-heeled boots. His blonde hair curled over a broad forehead, and his open, good-natured face had a spray of freckles spread over the bridge of his nose.

  But it was the Colt .45 cinched around his waist that set alarm bells off in Tucson's head.

  The group had been talking and laughing, but when he entered they stopped and stared at him curiously.

  Mirah called out to him in her lilting voice as she put a heaping plate of potatoes on the table. “Come on in and set yourself down, Mistah Tucson...the food's gittin' cold.”

  Tucson hung his gun-belt and sombrero on a rack standing in the corner then took the vacant chair next to the young cowboy that allowed him to keep his back against the sideboard along the wall.

  The others continued to stare at him in silence.

  He glanced down the board, meeting their eyes. “Don't let me interrupt your meal,” he said quietly.

  The subtle sense of steel edging the softness of his voice awakened the others from their distraction, and they hastily returned to their food. Conversation was soon bubbling around the table again. Tucson put a slab of beefsteak on his plate then filled the other half with corn, potatoes and onions. He reached for the pitcher of milk and filled his glass. Then, with the appetite of a man who hadn't eaten since before sunup, he dug in.

  The conversation stayed general and had the easy, comfortable feeling of people who knew each other well. Although he listened to the talk with interest, Tucson remained silent and concentrated on his food. Except for occasional, surreptitious glances directed at him by the other boarders, especially by the two women, they seemed satisfied to leave him alone.

  After about half an hour, with sighs of satisfaction and compliments to Mrs. Murry over the food, the others began getting up and leaving the table.

  Finally, only Mrs. Murry, the older gentleman, the boy with the gun, and Tucson remained at the table.

  As Mirah filled his coffee cup, the gentleman leaned back in his chair and lit a cigar. Through the cloud of smoke he eyed Tucson with interest. “Welcome to our small but rapidly growing town, sir,” he declared in a mellow voice. “My name is George Bentley. I own The Bulletin—Howling Wolf’s only newspaper. This handsome young lad with the yellow hair sitting beside you is Tom McMannus. If you don't mind my asking,” his eyes sharpened, “did I hear correctly when Mirah called you, Tucson?”

  Tucson took a leather cigar case from an inside pocket of his jacket, opened it, selected a long, thin cheroot then clamped it between his teeth. Taking a wooden match from a glass sitting on the table, he snapped it into flame with his thumbnail then waved it slightly to dissipate the sulphur.

  Once he had the cheroot going, he looked directly at the other man. “That's right.” Then he shook his head as Mirah started to pour coffee into the cup at his elbow. “No thanks.” He smiled up at her. “I don't drink the stuff.”

  George Bentley leaned across the table. “You wouldn't by any chance be the Tucson Kid, would you?”

  Tucson's eyes, squinted against the smoke, went cold. “I've been called that,” he replied evenly.

  Bentley leaned back in his chair and drew vigorously on his cigar. Mrs. Murry's jaw dropped and her face took on a stricken expression. Tom McMannus spun sideways in his chair, leaned his elbow on the table and stared at Tucson in frank fascination.

  The object of their attention felt the uncomfortable sensation in his guts that he always got when people found out who he was.

  “I've heard of you,” Bentley intoned, running his fingers through his thinning grey hair. “I recall that you made quite a name for yourself when you were still a boy, scouting against the Apaches over in Arizona. You took on the Ames brothers in New Mexico, and shot up the McCarthy gang in Wyoming so badly they haven't been heard of since.

  “Folks are still telling the story about how you outdrew Jeb Hollander in Abilene some years back,” he went on enthusiastically. “Before you came along, Hollander was considered the fastest, deadliest gunman on the frontier—next to Wild Bill Hickok, of course. Which reminds me,” he added, pointing his cigar at Tucson. “It's said that you were friends with Hickok before he went and got himself killed over in Deadwood.” Bentley drew deeply on his cigar then shot a mouthful of blue smoke toward the ceiling. “Yes, sir,” he concluded, “you could say that I've heard of you.”

  Still holding the coffee pot, Mirah walked around and stood on the other side of the table, staring at Tucson in open invitation, moistening her full lips with the pink tip of her tongue.

  Uncomfortable, Tucson glanced away from her and looked apologetically at Mrs. Murry. “I'm sorry, ma'am,” he said. “But not all the stories told about me are true.”

  Tom McMannus spoke up, his voice throbbing with awe. “Most of 'em are, though, I'll bet!”

  Tucson felt like a bug skewered on a pin, and wished that Mrs. Murry would say something. Her face was deathly pale, and she stared at him through round eyes.

  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, t
he 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 h
imself 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.