Comanche Gold Page 3

  Other tables occupied the rest of the room where cowboys in from the ranches, dusty laborers, muleskinners and regular town-folk danced and caroused. Women with painted faces and colorful, low-cut dresses circulated through the crowd. Most of them were slatternly, but a few were rather pretty. They hung on the men, cadging drinks for themselves or trying to get them to take a trip upstairs.

  Tucson pushed through the doors and moved to the left toward the bar. There was an open space at the end by the wall, and he walked to it. Once there, he rested his boot on the brass rail, his elbows on the counter, and waited for one of the two bartenders to notice him. It didn't take long. The nearest one, a short, burly man with a handle-bar mustache, saw him and came over.

  “Top o’ the evenin’ to ye, sir...” He spoke with a strong Irish brogue. “What’ll ye have?” he asked, as he wiped the counter top with a damp cloth.

  “Beer...”

  The bartender nodded, walked over to the spigots, picked up a mug and drew a beer. He put it down in front of Tucson. “That'll be a nickel, sir.”

  Tucson pulled a coin out of his pocket and flipped it at the bartender. “Keep the change,” he said.

  The bartender caught it, nodded his thanks then moved off to serve other customers.

  As Tucson lifted the beer to his mouth, he noticed a few of the men down the bar staring at him quizzically. He stared back coldly until they dropped their eyes and resumed their conversations. Glancing over the room, he grinned as he watched two Mexican quarrymen kicking up their heels as they danced a jig with each other. Then his eyes narrowed speculatively as he assessed the women. None of them were worth bothering about, so his gaze moved on toward the poker tables.

  His attention was caught by an Indian boy with a wooden box hanging from a leather strap slung over his shoulder. He was working his way around the tables, asking the patrons if they wanted their shoes shined. Dressed in leather pants, breech clout and a plaid flannel shirt, the boy couldn't have been more than twelve or thirteen. His black hair was cut straight across his shoulders and was held back with a cloth headband. No one took him up on his offer, so he worked his way on up to the bar and looked over the customers.

  His black eyes met Tucson's, and he came toward him. “Want a shine, mister?” he asked in a voice too deep for his size. He had the high cheekbones, slightly slanted eyes and broad features of the Comanche.

  “Sure,” Tucson replied.

  The boy gave him a big grin, dropped his box on the floor, knelt down and took out the boot blacking. “Put your boot on the box, mister,” he said brightly, “and it'll get the best shine it ever had.”

  Tucson sipped his beer and watched the boy work industriously on his boot. “Are you from the Twin Trees reservation?” he asked.

  The boy glanced up while his hands continued to work automatically. “Yeah...”

  “What's your name?”

  “My father calls me Cuchillo,” he grinned, “’cause I'm as thin as a blade.”

  “Okay, Cuchillo,” Tucson said. “What’s a boy your age doing out here working in a saloon at night?”

  Cuchillo lifted his thin shoulders almost to his ears in a shrug. “I’m out here to make money—what else!” He finished buffing the boot, then said, “Next one.”

  As Tucson positioned the other boot on the box, he motioned to the bartender for another beer. “Your English is pretty good,” he commented conversationally to the boy.

  “I ain't got no choice,” Cuchillo replied offhandedly, as he smeared blacking onto the boot with his fingertips. “I go to the reservation school. They make us learn it.”

  Tucson chuckled and took another swallow of beer.

  When Cuchillo was through, he came to his feet and flashed Tucson a proud smile. “Ain't that the best shine you ever had, mister?”

  Tucson moved his boots from side to side, admiring the effect. “That is the best shine I’ve ever had,” he agreed. “They catch the light like a couple of mirrors.”

  “Then gimme a dime,” Cuchillo demanded, holding out his palm.

  Tucson's brows went up in surprise. “That's a mighty high price for a shoeshine. Maybe for that much money,” he suggested, “you can throw in a little information.”

  “What do you wanta know?”

  “How far is it out to the reservation?”

  “It's about five miles north of here,” Cuchillo answered. “You gotta take the Old Spanish Trail. It'll lead you right to it.”

  Tucson nodded and was reaching for a coin, when a heavy hand descended onto Cuchillo's shoulder and he was pushed brutally aside. The boy was lifted off his feet and thrown against the wall where he crashed to the floor.

  Startled, Tucson jerked his head up to see a tall, heavy-set man, dressed in shirt, vest and chaps, with a Colt .45 strapped low on his right hip.

  Yellow, snaggled teeth flashed in a snarl as the man turned on the boy. “Git out o’ my way you little red nigger!” he growled. “Learn to step aside for your betters. You shouldn't be comin' in here around white men no ways.”

  In a blur of speed, Tucson torqued his body from the hips, brought his left fist up in a tight arc and struck the man's jaw with a vicious uppercut.

  His eyes glazing from the blow, the man was lifted off his feet and thrown onto the floor where he slid a couple of feet on his back in the sawdust. After lying still for a second staring up at the ceiling, he shook his head to clear it then lifted himself up onto his elbow.

  Rubbing his jaw with his other hand, he stared angrily up at Tucson. “Whatcha do that for, mister?” he demanded. “You some kind o’ Injun lover or somethin'?”

  Every person in the saloon stopped what they were doing to watch the confrontation between the two men. Tucson’s voice was hard as he spoke into the hushed silence. “It's not who I love, but who I don't have any use for.” He stared coldly down at the man. “I don’t have any use for coyotes like you who push kids around when they're big enough and old enough to know better.”

  Rage twisted the man's ugly features as he came back to his feet. As he faced Tucson there was murder in his eyes and his hand hovered over the bone grips of his Colt. “Nobody puts their hands on Wolf Cabot,” he snarled. “I've skinned men alive for less.”

  Not bothering to respond, Tucson dropped instantly into the gunfighter's crouch. His fingers felt electrified as they teased the rosewood grips of the gun on his hip. Throughout the saloon, the silence deepened as the two men stared into each other's eyes.

  The skin over Tucson’s high cheekbones was stretched taut and his mouth had thinned to a straight line. In the flickering shadow thrown by the brim of his sombrero, his features had taken on the grim appearance of a skull. As Wolf Cabot stared into that remorseless face, he began to have second thoughts. Drops of sweat beaded his forehead and the anger contorting his face gave way to caution, then to fear. Dragging in a ragged gulp of air, he straightened up and let his hand fall away from his gun.

  A groan of startled disappointment swept through the spectators.

  “I don't want no trouble, mister,” Wolf whispered hoarsely.

  “You won't have any trouble as long as you apologize to the boy.” Tucson's voice was as cold as chilled steel as it rang out over the room.

  “I won't do no such thing!” The gunman almost sobbed with mortification.

  Tucson hadn't come out of his crouch. He gave the impression of a coiled electric wire that the slightest touch would set off. “You can do one of two things, Wolf,” Tucson told him, an icy grin warping his wide mouth. “You can apologize—or you can slap leather.”

  For an instant Wolf's hand drifted back toward his gun-butt, but his eyes went sick as Tucson's grin broadened—it was as if a beast of prey had bared its fangs.

  Turning away, Wolf ran a shaking hand over his sweating brow; then he looked toward the boy. Cuchillo was standing against the wall, watching the scene with wide eyes.

  “I'm sorry, boy,” Wolf croaked, his voice choked with sham
e.

  “Now get out!” Tucson ordered. “If you ever put a hand on the boy again, or anyone else who can't defend himself, you’ll answer to me.” Yellow fire flared in his eyes. “And next time I won't be so easy on you.”

  Wolf hung there for a second longer, torn between his shame and his fear of death. Then he spun around and blindly pushed his way through the crowd and stumbled out the door.

  The onlookers stood quietly for a few more minutes, staring wonderingly at Tucson; then the piano started up again and they went back to their activities.

  As Tucson relaxed and turned back to the bar, he glanced down the line of drinkers and noticed a few unfriendly glares tossed his way. He might be only a boy, but Cuchillo was still an Indian, and Wolf Cabot was a white man. Tucson hadn’t made himself any friends by siding with the Comanche.

  Shrugging indifferently, he tossed off the last of his beer then turned to the boy.

  Cuchillo stood beside him, gazing up at him worshipfully.

  “Get out of here, now,” Tucson said, putting a dime in the boy’s palm then placing his hand on his shoulder. “Even with my warning, I wouldn't put it past Wolf Cabot to come back and ambush you. Leave now before he thinks of it. Do you have a horse handy?” he asked.

  Cuchillo nodded. “I got a pony tied around the corner. Don't worry, mister, I'll watch out.”

  “Good,” Tucson replied. “Get out and don't come back for a while. Give this a chance to die down. And step wide around Cabot from now on.”

  Cuchillo nodded his head, picked up his box, slung the strap over his shoulder and turned to go. “Thanks a lot, mister,” he said gratefully. “I won't never forget that you stood up for me.”

  * * * *

  After the Indian boy had left, a slim, dapper man of medium height, dressed in a black broadcloth coat and a fancy vest, who looked like a professional gambler, stepped up to the bar next to Tucson. His blue eyes were cold and steady as they stared up into the other's face. An arched nose, wide mouth, and cleft chin gave him an air of strength in spite of his clothes.

  The gambler gestured to the bartender hovering nearby. “Mike, give our hero another of whatever he's drinking.”

  “Yes, sir,” Mike answered briskly, and moved away to the spigots.

  Tucson raised his brows in an unspoken question.

  “My name's Prince,” the gambler said, in a cool, clear voice. “I own the Elkhorn Saloon.”

  Tucson nodded. “Much obliged for the drink. I'm...”

  “I know who you are,” Prince cut in. “You're the Tucson Kid.”

  Tucson's eyes narrowed. “Have we met?”

  “We haven't actually met.” Prince nodded his thanks to the bartender as he set a mug of beer on the bar in front of Tucson. “But I was running a Faro game in Abilene the night you took out Jeb Hollander.” He looked Tucson up and down. “It's seldom you have a chance to see a classic stand-up gunfight between two gunmen like you and Hollander. I saw it all and it was the best fight I've ever seen. The memory will last me a lifetime.”

  Tucson saluted him with the beer and took a deep swallow.

  “That was a good show you put on with Wolf,” Prince continued, chuckling. “He’s a bad man with a gun and I've never seen him back down before. I guess he's not as stupid as I thought he was.”

  “You know him well?” Tucson asked coldly.

  “Wolf works for me.”

  Tucson put his beer down and faced the gambler. “Do you have a problem with my performance?”

  “Not at all—not at all...” Prince raised his hands palms out. “It's good for Wolf to be taken down a peg or two. Only a couple of men in these parts could stand up to him with a gun.”

  “Who are they?” Tucson asked.

  Prince pursed his lips as he thought it over. “Well, there's Marshal Calloway—he's mighty fast. And cool as a cucumber. Then there's Ramon Vasquez, a vaquero riding for the Lazy T. Vasquez's faster and meaner than a sidewinder.” Prince shrugged. “Out of all of them, though, I'd say Wolf Cabot is the most dangerous. He holds grudges...and he won't let anything keep him from paying them off.”

  “Since he works for you,” Tucson suggested quietly, “maybe you could rein him in a little.”

  “Oh, I'll try,” Prince replied. “I'll order him to leave it be. But like I said,” he smiled, and it gave his face a reptilian look,” he doesn't usually let anything stand between him and settling a grudge. So if I were you I'd watch my back.”

  The two men stood quietly after that, Tucson sipping his beer and Prince nursing a shot of whiskey. Then the gambler glanced at Tucson and said, “If you don't mind me asking, Kid, have you got any particular reason for being in Howling Wolf?”

  Tucson shook his head. “I’m just passing through. I expect to be gone within the week.”

  Prince digested that for a minute. “Do you think you'd be interested if I offered you a job?”

  “With a bad man like Wolf Cabot around,” Tucson’s mouth quirked wryly, “what do you need me for?”

  Prince smiled and made a toss-away gesture with a pale hand. “Ten Cabots wouldn't add up to one of you, Kid, and you and I both know it.” He hunched his shoulders toward Tucson, and said seriously, “It might be that I could use a man like you in my operation. What do you think?”

  “What's the job?”

  “I'd be hiring your gun, of course.”

  Tucson looked at him in surprise. “Howling Wolf is a nice, quiet town, with what sounds like a good marshal. What do you need guns for?”

  Prince spread his hands eloquently. “That’s true. In general, things are quiet. And Todd Calloway keeps the peace pretty well. But I run the Elkhorn, and I have a few other business interests. There are times when things get out of hand. I don't always like to depend on the marshal.” He paused, then added, “I'd pay you top dollar.”

  Tucson thought it over. It was clear to him that Prince was hinting that he had some illegal enterprises going that he didn't want Marshal Calloway to know about. Why else would he have a man like Wolf Cabot working for him? He probably wanted Tucson on his payroll as some kind of enforcer. And it suggested that George Bentley was right when he said that Calloway was honest. If Prince didn't want to call on him for certain things, the marshal must not be on the take.

  Then he shook his head. “Sorry, Prince...I don't hire out my gun. You'll have to get someone else.”

  Prince shrugged, motioned to Mike to give Tucson another beer, then said, “Okay, big fella. But the offer will stay open for a while. Think it over. You never know, the money might come in handy.”

  Tucson didn't respond, and Prince turned and passed down the bar, stopped to chat with some men along the way, then disappeared through a doorway on the other side of the room.

  Tucson watched the door close behind the gambler, then looked over at the poker tables. Finishing his beer, he set the mug down, nodded to Mike then started across the floor. He kept as close to the wall as he could, his eyes scanning the room. The men crowded around, watching him with unfeigned curiosity. A couple of women moved toward him, their arms reaching up to encircle his neck, but he stepped around them and kept going.

  When he reached the poker tables, Tucson watched the play for a few minutes, then made his choice. “You gents mind if I sit in for a while?” he asked of five men sitting around a table with their noses buried in their cards.

  They all looked up. “Not at all,” one of them said. “We need some fresh blood in the game. Sit yourself down.”

  * * * *

  It was after two in the morning when Tucson, four hundred dollars richer, sighed tiredly, pushed his chair back from the table and got to his feet. “I think that’ll do it for me, gents,” he said to the men still sitting at the table, as he folded the bills and put them into an inside pocket.

  “I hope you're plannin' on givin' us a chance to win our money back,” one of them commented sourly.

  “Sure,” Tucson replied amiably. “I always enjoy a friendly
game.”

  He stepped around some tables and over a drunk stretched out on the floor, snoring blissfully, and walked out the door. Stopping outside on the sidewalk, he sucked in some fresh night air while he looked up and down the street. Howling Wolf was sleeping peacefully. Most of the mustangs were gone from the hitch rack and the storefronts were all dark.

  Turning east, he walked along the sidewalk until he got to the livery stable. Not bothering with the front doors, he went down the alley along the side of the building until he found an unlocked door. He went inside then moved toward the stall where the stallion was dozing. The interior was dark, and the acrid odors of fresh-cut hay and horse manure hung heavy in the air.

  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.