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  Pouring some water into the basin, he took a wash cloth and gave himself a quick rub-down. Then he picked up his guns, padded over to the bed and placed them on the nightstand where he could get to them fast if he needed to, then he stretched out on the bed. His head had just touched the pillow, when he heard a soft scratching at the door.

  He came back up fast with the cocked .45 in his fist and pointed at the door. Moving carefully so the bedsprings wouldn’t squeak, he got up and tiptoed across the room then pressed his back against the wall. Reaching out, he turned the knob and let the door swing open slowly.

  A shadowy figure in a long skirt floated into the room and looked around. Tucson sighed with relief, but he didn't relax completely.

  “Mirah...!” he whispered fiercely. “What the hell are you doing here at this hour?”

  The girl spun around in surprise, saw him leaning against the wall then split the darkness with the flash of her smile. “Why, honey,” she breathed, her dark eyes raking hungrily over his naked body. “Why are you holdin' that gun on me? I don't mean you no harm.” Her smile broadened. “In fact, I came up here to give you and me both a treat.”

  Tucson lowered the Colt and allowed Mirah to approach him. Moving with the sensual grace of a cat, she came up inside his arms and slid her palms over his muscular chest. “So many scars...!” she murmured passionately, as her hands moved from his chest to his ribbed stomach, paused for a moment then dropped lower.

  Scorching flames ignited in Tucson’s groin, then flared up to engulf his entire body. Bending down, he crushed his mouth brutally against Mirah’s eager lips. He tasted pepper and felt the darting heat of her tongue.

  Lifting her in his arms, he carried her to the bed and threw her down on the mattress. She reached up and pulled him down on top of her. For several minutes they kissed passionately, their bodies intertwined. With shaking fingers, Tucson unbuttoned her blouse and felt her heavy breasts leap into his palms.

  With his mouth clamped hungrily over Mirah’s huge dark nipple, Tucson ripped the rest of her clothes from her glistening body. Her chocolate skin was as smooth as satin beneath his touch, and his palm sparked with electricity as it slid down the soft curve of her stomach and plunged into the dark shadows between her quivering thighs.

  “Oh, take it, honey, take it...!” Mirah moaned against his throat, as her lush body bucked and shook.

  In the grip of a frenzy of passion that threatened to overwhelm him, Tucson rolled over and climbed between her waiting thighs. Mirah’s eyes were slits of yellow fire as she stared up at him, and her lips were pulled back from her teeth in a grimace of pleasure that was almost pain.

  Her hips pounded against his with a savage rhythm that kept moving faster and faster; and Tucson responded with powerful, brutal strokes that drove deeper and deeper into her soft flesh. After what seemed an eternity of unendurable pleasure, with her nails raking spasmodically across his shoulders like the sharp claws of a cat, Tucson pressed his lips against hers as they both rose to climax at the same time.

  Time stopped and the world crashed around them. Their lips pressed together and their bodies fused, they rolled back and forth across the sweat-soaked sheets, abandoned to the throes of ecstasy.

  Finally, the world re-formulated around them, and Tucson rolled off Mirah’s body and flopped over onto his back, his chest heaving like a bellows. Rivulets of sweat ran down Mirah’s heavy breasts and rippling stomach, and her thighs still quivered with reaction.

  Then, as they both lay there staring dazedly at the ceiling, her brown hand stole across the sheet and squeezed his.

  Chapter Three

  It was about noon when Tucson left his room. He descended the stairs so quietly that Mrs. Murry, who was standing behind the front desk putting mail in the slots, didn't hear him until he was leaning on the counter behind her.

  “Good morning,” he said.

  “Oh!” she cried, spinning around in surprise. “I didn't know you were up, Mr. Tucson. I hope you got a good morning's sleep.”

  Tucson scrutinized her face for hidden meanings, but found only amused irony. “Yes, I did,” he replied easily. “Your bed is very comfortable.”

  She was looking especially pretty just then, and he paused to admire her. Her dress was clean and fresh and her hair, although still piled atop her head, seemed neater; and there was color on her cheeks and full lips.

  Noticing his scrutiny, she flushed, looked away, then spoke again. “I heard about what you did last night.”

  Thinking she was referring to Mirah, Tucson paused then answered cautiously, “And what would that be?”

  “Don't be so modest, Mr. Tucson!” Mrs. Murry admonished him, shaking her finger. “You know very well what you did. You stood up last night at the Elkhorn Saloon for that Indian boy, Cuchillo.”

  “Oh, that...” Tucson breathed a sigh of relief then shrugged his shoulders dismissively. “How did you find out about it?”

  Mrs. Murry smiled and her hazel eyes sparkled with admiration. “The whole town is talking about it. You can't take a man like Wolf Cabot to task like that, in front of so many people, and not have it get around.”

  “I suppose not,” Tucson nodded resignedly. “Still, since the boy was a Comanche, bracing Cabot over him didn't make me very popular.”

  “I wouldn't want to be popular with people who would make a distinction like that,” she sniffed angrily. “I think it was very noble of you!”

  Tucson's face turned red with discomfort, and her smile became warmer.

  “Well, thank you, Mrs. Murry,” he got out. “I appreciate your vote of confidence.”

  “Why don't you call me Catherine,” she suggested.

  “Alright,” he replied. “If you'll drop the mister and just call me Tucson.”

  “You’ve got a deal.” A warm silence fell between them; then Catherine glanced toward the door. “By the way,” she whispered conspiratorially, “Tom McMannus has been standing out on the sidewalk all morning waiting for you to come down.”

  Tucson straightened up and looked out the glass door where the boy stood facing out into the street, leaning morosely against a porch support.

  “I think he spent a sleepless night,” Catherine said bemusedly, “worrying about last evening, and feeling ashamed.”

  Tucson turned toward the door. “Maybe I'd better go on out and talk to him.”

  He stepped out onto the sidewalk and felt the heat like a blow along the whole length of his body. The street was busy, with buggies, wagons, horsemen and pedestrians moving along the roadway. The loud crack of a whip snapped through the air as a muleskinner guided his team through the crowd - the other wagons and horses made room for the huge freighter to pass by.

  Tom McMannus swung around and stared at Tucson anxiously as he stopped beside him and reached inside his jacket for his cigar case. Tucson glanced sideways at the boy as he took out a cheroot and clamped it between his teeth.

  McMannus' face went from bright red to sickly white, and his hands opened and closed spasmodically.

  “How are you feeling this morning, Tom?” Tucson asked, snapping a match on his thumbnail and applying it to the tip of his cigar.

  “Mr. Tucson...!” McMannus' voice came out in a strangled croak. “I know what I did last night was a stupid fool's move. I wouldn't have blamed you if you'd plugged me. It would've been no more than I deserved. But I want you to know that I never intended to shoot you. I just wanted to be able to say that I'd gotten the drop on the Tucson Kid.” The boy stopped talking and gulped hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing painfully. “I apologize for what I did.” He hung his head miserably. “I sorely hope you won't hold it against me.”

  Tucson blew out a stream of smoke and watched it drift on the breeze. Then he eyed McMannus sternly. “A move like that is worse than stupid—it's suicidal! Anyone else would've dropped you like a dirty shirt.” He shook his head disgustedly. “I still don't know why I didn't snuff you on the spot. I'd probably have saved t
he world a whole lot of trouble if I had.”

  McMannus stared down at the sidewalk, unable to speak.

  Tucson squinted at him, then a faint smile touched his thin lips. “What do you do for a living, boy?” he asked.

  McMannus looked up. “I do a few things to get by. I work in the stockyards a little, when they need an extra man. I chop wood and do some light repair work for Mrs. Murry. And I ride shotgun for the freight company whenever I can.”

  “Sounds to me like you're having trouble finding yourself,” Tucson grunted.

  “Oh, I know what I want to do, alright,” McMannus exclaimed, his blue eyes lighting with enthusiasm. “And I want to do it real bad.”

  “And that is?”

  “I want to be a lawman,” McMannus declared proudly.

  Tucson looked him up and down. “How old are you?”

  McMannus drew himself up to his full height, which brought the top of his Stetson to just above Tucson's shoulder. “I'll be eighteen next month.”

  “Why don't you ask Marshal Calloway for a job?”

  McMannus grimaced then kicked angrily at the porch support with the toe of his boot. “Damn it all! I've asked him a whole lot o’ times. But he says I'm too young, and I don't have any experience. He thinks I'd get myself killed and maybe him too.”

  “Judging from last night,” Tucson observed dryly, between draws on his cheroot, “he's probably right.”

  “Jeezus..!” McMannus cried out. “Can't we forget about that?”

  Tucson watched a shopkeeper across the street bring a rack of dresses out onto the sidewalk in front of his store then motion to some women passing by to look them over. Then he turned back to McMannus. “Okay, Tom...” he said kindly. “We'll let it pass for now. Maybe you've learned your lesson.”

  He started to walk away, but stopped when the boy spoke again. “Mr. Tucson,” he stammered, “I...I wanted to ask you something.”

  Tucson turned back. “What is it?”

  “Do...do you think you could see your way through to...to showing me a few things? With...with a gun I mean.”

  Tucson stopped in the middle of a draw on his cigar. “Are you joking?”

  “No, I ain't joking!” McMannus insisted. “I told you that I want to be a lawman. I already got some experience ridin’ shotgun. But I thought...I thought maybe with what you could show me, I could convince Calloway to give me a chance.” He threw his arms out in exasperation. “If nobody'll give me a chance, or any help, how am I ever gonna get to do what I want to do?”

  Amused by the outburst, Tucson appraised Tom McMannus again. Despite the fool's trick the night before, Tucson liked the boy. He was just a little young yet and, like he said, inexperienced. Tucson didn't have any particular respect for lawmen, but if that was what McMannus wanted to do, maybe he had it in him to be a good one.

  “I might be able to show you a few things,” he said slowly.

  “Oh, Jesus, Mr. Tucson...!” McMannus exploded. “Would you really help me? It'd be the biggest thing that ever happened to me.”

  “Right,” Tucson grunted. “But before we go any further, there are two important conditions that I insist on, or it's no go.”

  “What are they?”

  Tucson took the cheroot from his mouth and faced the boy squarely. “The first condition,” he said, “is that if I teach you, it creates a connection between us. It means that I'm responsible for you in some way. So I'm telling you now,” his grey eyes went as hard as steel, “that if, after today, I ever hear of you taking advantage of a man, or pushing a fight, I'll come after you and take back what I've taught you.”

  “You mean I can't pull my gun first?” McMannus asked, baffled.

  “No, that's not what I mean,” Tucson replied. “Sometimes, if you know what's coming down, you've got to pull first. If you wait for the other man to go for his gun, reaction lag can get you killed. No,” he concluded, “I mean exactly what I said: if you take advantage, or start pushing, or become a killer, I'll come after you.”

  McMannus’ face took on a worried expression. “What do you mean, 'take it back?'“

  Tucson's harsh features set in lines so hard that his face could have been chiseled in stone. “It means that wherever you are I'll find you. And depending on what you've done, I'll either kill you outright, or I'll cripple you so bad you'll never handle a gun again.”

  Tom McMannus went so pale that the spray of freckles across his nose stood out in bold relief. He studied Tucson’s uncompromising face for a minute as he thought it over, then he squared his shoulders and said, “I accept the condition. If I go rogue, I’ll take what I get. Now,” he asked, “what's the second condition?”

  Tucson relaxed and smiled. “That you drop the mister, and just call me Tucson.”

  * * * *

  Tucson and Tom McMannus swung by the stable and collected their horses. Then, after a quick stop at Kipper's Mercantile for cartridges they headed out of town. McMannus took the lead as he guided Tucson to the spot to the north of Howling Wolf where he did his target practice. The day was a scorcher; the sky was the dull color of molten iron, and the heat pounded against Tucson’s shoulders like a fiery fist. Although the stallion was chomping at the bit, he kept it reined in so that it wouldn't exhaust itself.

  About half a mile outside of town the trail widened, and Tom McMannus dropped back beside Tucson. “Did you really know Wild Bill Hickok?” he asked.

  Tucson nodded. “Yes...Hickok and I went way back.”

  “Was he really as good as they say he was?”

  “As far as I'm concerned,” Tucson answered, “Hickok was the best.”

  “Folks say he lost his nerve at Abilene,” McMannus went on, “during his fight with Phil Coe when he accidently killed his friend, Mike Williams.”

  “Hickok never lost his nerve!” Tucson snorted in disgust. “He was just sad over what he'd done, that's all.”

  “It seems to me that he must’ve panicked,” McMannus observed sagely, “or he would've known that it was Williams who was comin’ up on him.”

  “Listen, Tom,” Tucson said, looking hard at the younger man. “A gunman has to have reflexes honed to a fine edge. If he doesn't, he'll be dead soon. Hickok had already told Williams not to cross the street that night. He had no reason to believe Williams would disobey him. Hickok was facing a violent mob, and Phil Coe had already fired on him. When Williams ran up behind him, Hickok did exactly what he should have done. To have hesitated to make sure who it was could have gotten him killed.” Tucson stopped and thought for a minute, then added quietly, “But Wild Bill never forgave himself for killing his friend, no matter how much I tried to convince him otherwise.”

  “Maybe...” McMannus replied dubiously, still unconvinced. “But you can't deny that Hickok backed down from John Wesley Hardin.”

  Tucson groaned. “That's just Texas pride talking.”

  “But Hickok let Hardin stay in Abilene with his guns on,” McMannus insisted. “He didn't have the guts to take 'em off him.”

  “I wasn't in Abilene when Hardin was there,” Tucson replied. “But I've heard all the stories, and I've heard what Hardin had to say about it—after Hickok was dead. But there's one detail that should put it all to rest. When Hardin shot a man down later that night in a restaurant, he knew Hickok would be coming after him, and there would have to be a showdown. Rather than face Hickok, Hardin high-tailed it back to his cow-camp,” Tucson concluded with finality, “and never went back into Abilene.”

  Frowning to himself, McMannus stopped talking and let the subject drop.

  They topped a rise and looked down into an arroyo running from east to west with a shallow stream meandering along its sandy bottom. It was like a long jagged wound cutting into the red flesh of the earth. Tom McMannus pointed to a sand bar directly below them.

  “There it is,” he said, then led the way down a narrow trail worn into the cliff-wall.

  At the bottom, they left the horses in the sparse shade
of an overhanging rock, where they could nibble at some mesquite. Tucson looped the reins around the saddle horn and dismounted, then took the box of shells from the saddle bag. McMannus skipped from rock to rock in the stream until he reached the sand bar, while Tucson followed. When they were standing on the bar, McMannus pointed to the far wall of the canyon, where the clay was chipped and pitted.

  “That's my firing range,” he said with a grin. “I'll go on over and set up a couple of targets.”

  McMannus leaped over the stream, picked up a sharp stick then drew two circles on the arroyo wall about two feet in diameter. Then he came back and stood beside Tucson. The range was about twenty yards.

  Tucson moved a few feet away and faced McMannus, his thumbs hooked into his gun-belt. “Okay, Tom,” he said. “Show me what you can do.”

  McMannus stood square to the targets then pulled his Colt and brought it up level with his shoulder. With slow deliberation, sighting through one eye, he put five bullets into the target on the right. The slugs all landed in a tight pattern in the middle of the circle.

  As the smoke cleared, McMannus ejected the spent shells from his Colt and punched in fresh rounds. “Well?” he asked proudly. “How was that?”

  Tucson was enormously unimpressed. “You'll do just fine in a target competition,” he remarked dryly. “Now, let’s get serious—show me your quick-draw.”

  Stung by the criticism, the boy turned back to the target with increased concentration. As he watched, Tucson began to see what he had been looking for. McMannus dropped into the gunfighter's crouch, hunching forward slightly with his knees flexed. His blue eyes glittered like chilled steel as his fingers hovered over his gun-butt.

  Then, with blinding speed, he pulled and fired all five shots in quick succession. Tucson watched the slugs hit the target. They all landed within the circle, but there was no particular pattern to them.

  He waited for McMannus to reload then he held out his hand. “Give me your gun,” he said.