Comanche Gold Page 5

  McMannus flipped the Colt in the air, caught it by the barrel then handed it to Tucson. Tucson took it and looked it over critically.

  It was a nickel-plated, Colt .45 Peacemaker with ivory grips. Tucson hefted it for balance, checked the trigger pull and the hammer pressure. Then, without seeming to aim, he fired five rounds so fast that there was no noticeable space between the shots. When the smoke cleared away, there was a tight pattern of holes in the left-hand circle.

  Tucson ejected the shells and handed the gun back to McMannus to reload. “What you've got there,” he commented disparagingly, “is a piece of junk.”

  McMannus' jaw dropped. “Gawdalmighty, Tucson! You call this a piece of junk after what you just did with it?” He pointed to the Colt in Tucson's holster. “It's a Peacemaker, just like yours.”

  Tucson pulled his Colt. “Mine’s a Peacemaker,” he agreed, “but it's not like yours.” With a deft motion, he reversed the gun in his hand, careful to keep the barrel pointed away from him, and offered it to McMannus, butt-first. “Feel the difference,” he said.

  McMannus hefted the gun and looked it over. Instead of nickel plating, like his, the metal was deep blue. The two grips were of rosewood—shiny and smooth from years of use. The barrel had been shortened and the sight removed. He tested the action and found it worked as smooth as silk.

  “Go ahead,” Tucson urged. “Try it out.”

  McMannus dropped the gun into his holster then turned and faced the far wall. After a moment’s pause, as he concentrated on the target, he pulled and fired. He didn't shoot as rapidly as Tucson, but this time his rounds formed a pattern in the center of the target. Visibly impressed, he ejected the shells and reloaded.

  “A gunman has to personalize his weapon,” Tucson pointed out, as he took his Colt from McMannus and dropped it back into its holster. He lifted the boy’s gun and pointed to it with his finger as he spoke. “Your trigger pull is too heavy,” he said, “and the mainspring is too tight. You need to strip the gun down and work it over with a file until the action's just right for you. Get that factory mainspring replaced with a special one that'll let you cock the hammer more easily and smoothly. And you might want to shorten the barrel and file down the sight, but all that's up to you. Another thing,” Tucson added. “Experiment with different shells and powder loads. That way you'll find the mixture with the stopping power you want.”

  McMannus' eyes went round with amazement. “I didn't know there was so much to it,” he exclaimed. “But is everything else okay?”

  “I didn't say that!” Tucson replied. He walked around to the other side of McMannus and pointed to his holster. “You wear your holster too low. You want it at about the middle of your forearm, so you can take your gun naturally as the hand comes up. Have your thumb on the hammer as it clears leather so the gun cocks automatically as you bring it forward. When it comes level with the hip, pull the trigger smooth and steady.”

  “Do I need to get faster?” McMannus asked.

  Tucson shook his head. “You're fast enough already, Tom. You'd be surprised how little raw speed means in a gunfight. A lot of times the fastest man makes the most mistakes. Of all the factors that go into making a gunfighter, I'd say cool deliberation is the most important.” He stopped and thought for a minute. “I think that's what Hickok had above most of the other gunmen. In a fight, he never seemed to rush, but he always got there on time. Nothing seemed to rattle him, and when he shot, he got his man. No,” Tucson concluded. “Leave speed alone for now, and concentrate on the other things I told you.”

  They spent another couple of hours on the sand bar as Tucson patiently demonstrated how to fire from various positions—lying down, rolling, kneeling, and behind the back. Then he stopped, reloaded his Colt and looked up at the sky. The sun was dropping toward the horizon.

  “That should do it for today,” he said, sliding his gun back into its holster. “Get your Colt into shape and work on the things I showed you, then we can get together again.”

  “I sure do appreciate what you've shown me so far,” McMannus said sincerely. “I'll get to work on my gun tomorrow. If there's anything I can do to return the favor, let me know.”

  “There may be something you can do for me down the road,” Tucson replied. “For now, though, you can just tell me how to get to the Twin Trees Reservation.”

  McMannus stared at him strangely; then he shrugged and pointed east. “About a mile from here there's a ford where you can cross the stream. Head north until you come to the Old Spanish Trail, and take it northeast. It'll run you right into the reservation.”

  The two men returned to their horses and took the trail out of the arroyo; then they parted—McMannus riding back to Howling Wolf and Tucson heading upstream.

  Chapter Four

  The air had cooled down some, and a light breeze ruffled the tops of the prairie grass that stretched away to the east and west. Massive cloud formations hung suspended in the sky like huge white castles frozen in time. Tucson found the ford and crossed the stream. Half an hour later, he hit the Old Spanish Trail and turned north. Buzzards hovered over a jagged, barren range of low hills to the east, and rolling prairie stretched as far as Tucson could see to the west.

  Although he had kept alert as he rode, Tucson was surprised when a group of mounted Indians suddenly dropped out of the brush skirting the Trail and formed a line in front of him. He reined in the stallion and halted about ten feet from them. There were fifteen horsemen, with an impressive looking brave on a buckskin gelding out in front who seemed to be the leader.

  Then Tucson noticed the boy, Cuchillo, riding an old pinto, and he smiled in greeting.

  The brave on the buckskin spoke. “I am Two Bears,” he called out in a guttural voice. “This is our land. Why you come onto reservation?”

  Keeping his right hand on his thigh close to his Colt, Tucson pointed with his chin toward Cuchillo. “My name's Tucson. The boy there knows me. Soaring Eagle sent for me.”

  Cuchillo nudged his pinto up beside the older brave. “I know him, Father. He's the gunman I told you about who stood up for me in the saloon in Howlin’ Wolf.”

  When Two Bears glanced back at Tucson, his broad features were transformed from challenge into admiration. “You say Soaring Eagle sent for you?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  A general murmur passed through the group of horsemen behind Two Bears.

  The brave nodded. “Then you must be Storm Rider—it is you we have been waiting for.”

  “That’s what I’m called by the Tribes,” Tucson responded. “I'd appreciate it if you'd take me to Soaring Eagle.”

  Two Bears brought his horse next to the stallion, and stared fixedly up at Tucson as if he were assessing him. His hair was shot with grey, his features had the broad heaviness of the Comanche, and when he opened his mouth there was a gap where his two upper front teeth had been knocked out. His chest was deep and he had the lean legs of the born horseman.

  Seemingly satisfied, he extended his hand and said, “Welcome, Storm Rider. We are glad you able to come here. Soaring Eagle say he saw you in Spirit Vision. We hoped you would get his message. We need your help.”

  “I'll do whatever I can for you,” Tucson replied, warmly gripping Two Bears' hand. “But I'll have to know what you need,” he added, “before I can commit to anything.”

  “Come with us,” Two Bears said, kicking his horse in the ribs. “Soaring Eagle will see you now.”

  * * * *

  Tucson rode between Two Bears and Cuchillo, with the rest of the Comanche braves riding in a group behind them. Although the late afternoon coolness rested over the prairie, they still kept to the shadows thrown by the clumps of mesquite growing along the edge of the Trail. Glancing around at the others, Tucson couldn't help but compare these ragged Indians, just surviving on their barren reservation, to the mighty warriors they once were in the prime of their history.

  Calling themselves Nermernuh, The People, the Comanc
he had ruled the Great Plains for hundreds of years before the arrival of white men. They had repeatedly defeated the Spanish conquistadors in their bid for North American empire, and stymied the Mexicans who took over the southwest when the Spanish left. They halted the Canadian French, and drove them north again, and frustrated every attempt by the Anglo-Americans to tame them, until the invention of repeating rifles and pistols. Even then, Tucson reflected, the frontier civilians were unable to come to terms with the Comanche. It took a full scale war waged by the American Army after the Civil War to finally destroy their fighting spirit.

  Now there was only a remnant left of the once mighty Comanche Nation, scratching out a bare existence on a few reservations here and there across the west. Tucson was realist enough to know that the Comanche’s defeat was inevitable, but the misunderstandings on both sides of the conflict made the results worse than they had to be.

  They rounded a hill, reined in their mounts along the crest then looked down into a shallow canyon.

  Squalid shacks, constructed of wood and hide, interspersed with native teepees made of skins, were scattered in a haphazard line along an almost dry stream. Ragged children and bone-thin dogs were running everywhere, while in the shade of the hovels women dressed in colorful homespun bent over cooking fires or chopped food for the pots. Some were stretching skins on wooden racks, while others knelt at the side of the stream, washing clothes.

  The impact of the poverty and degradation of the village struck Tucson with the force of a blow, but even that wasn't as bad as the rank stench hanging over the canyon like rotting death. The Comanche had a habit of not cleaning up after themselves, which wasn't so bad when they were out on the plains...when a campsite became too contaminated, they just moved on to another spot.

  But now they couldn't move, and so they squatted in their own filth.

  To the far west and upwind of the village, Tucson noted a wooden cabin with a corral in back, where two horses dozed beside a shed. It was the best building in the camp, with a plume of smoke rising from the chimney, and Tucson guessed it was the home of the Indian Agent.

  Two Bears broke in on his thoughts. “Soaring Eagle not live in the village,” he said, pointing further north. “His lodge that way. We must go there.”

  Two Bears, Tucson and Cuchillo rode on while the remainder of the braves took the trail that led down into the camp. A quarter of an hour later they reined in outside a large teepee set in the cover of a stand of oak trees. Made of buffalo hides, the lodge was dyed white and covered with innumerable black zig-zag patterns, like lightning.

  They dismounted, and Two Bears held up his hand. “Wait here by horses, Storm Rider. I will let Soaring Eagle know you are here.”

  Two Bears was back outside in a minute, followed by a grey-haired old woman in a deerskin dress who stood less than five feet tall. After glancing briefly, but deliberately, at Tucson with sharp black eyes, she turned and walked away with a hobbling gait toward the village.

  Two Bears motioned for Tucson to follow him inside.

  The interior of the teepee was dark and stuffy, and even with the smoke-hole at the top it was full of wood smoke from the cooking fire in the middle. Once Tucson's eyes adjusted to the gloom, he saw an ancient Comanche sitting on a pile of old buffalo skins on the opposite side of the lodge.

  Soaring Eagle's face was a mass of wrinkles, and his mouth was a horizontal gash. Despite the heat, he was wrapped in a colorful blanket. His grey hair was parted in the middle and braided. The braids hung down along each shoulder, and were encased in tubes of rabbit fur. A choker of human teeth encircled his grizzled neck, and Tucson guessed the teeth had belonged to Pawnees—a hereditary enemy of the Comanche.

  Soaring Eagle and Tucson studied each other in silence for a long time. Despite the Comanche chief’s great age, Tucson couldn't remember when he had seen another man who radiated such awesome power. Two Bears and Cuchillo stood on each side of the entrance, watching quietly.

  Finally, Soaring Eagle nodded and pointed to a spot next to him, then said something in Shoshone dialect.

  Slowly and carefully, as if he were performing a ritual, Tucson bent and untied the leather thong that kept his holster strapped to his leg then unbuckled his gun-belt. Looking around, he saw a wooden peg hanging off one of the cedar-wood support poles. Stepping to it, he hung the gun up then went and sat down in the spot indicated by Soaring Eagle.

  Two Bears sat on the other side of the old chief while Cuchillo squatted beside the entrance.

  Two Bears looked across at Tucson. “Soaring Eagle refuses to learn English or Spanish. He wants me to interpret for him.”

  Tucson nodded.

  “Soaring Eagle say he recognizes you as Storm Rider, the great warrior he see in Spirit Vision,” Two Bears said, after the old chief had spoken. “He thanks you for coming so soon.”

  “What's the problem?” Tucson asked.

  Two Bears listened closely as the old chief spoke for several minutes. His voice was thin with age, but it throbbed with unmistakable power.

  Finally, Two Bears turned back to Tucson. “Three moons ago, The People found gold on the reservation.” He paused as Tucson's head jerked up with interest, then went on. “At first we were happy. Gold is only thing white man respect. We think gold buy things Nermernuh need to survive. But then we think if white man know there gold here, we be moved again, maybe somewhere even worse, and white man steal our gold. Soaring Eagle understand we need white man to act for us. He send brave with gold nugget at night to house of big banker in Howling Wolf: Charles Durant.”

  Two Bears had trouble making his tongue pronounce the banker’s name.

  “I've heard of him,” Tucson commented. “What happened?”

  Two Bears shrugged. “We never see brave again.” He listened to Soaring Eagle as the old chief spoke, then added, “Since brave disappear, white men seen on reservation and three braves killed.”

  “Is that why you and your band stopped me today?” Tucson asked. “You were guarding against any white men coming onto your land?”

  Two Bears nodded his massive head. “Nermernuh no stand by while white man kill our people.” Soaring Eagle interrupted again, and Two Bears stopped to listen. “Soaring Eagle say he think white man want Nermernuh to go on warpath. That give soldiers excuse to come kill us. Then they would be free to take our gold.”

  Tucson stared at the fire as he thought it over. “So you think Charles Durant took the gold you sent him, killed the brave so no one would know he had seen him, and is now sending his agents onto the reservation to discover the source,” he said. “Maybe the braves that were killed saw them looking, and were disposed of to keep them from talking. And Soaring Eagle thinks the killings could incite your people to rebel. That would give Durant an excuse to call in the Army, and have all of you either exterminated or moved. Then,” he concluded, “He’d be free to come onto this land and find the gold. Is that it?”

  Two Bears nodded.

  “Well,” Tucson asked with a shrug, “what do you want me to do?”

  “Soaring Eagle know that for Nermernuh to rebel would be end of The People,” Two Bears replied. “We do everything we can to keep braves from fighting back, but they take no more. We need a white man we can trust to go see banker and force him to stop coming on Nermernuh land.”

  Tucson pushed his sombrero to the back of his head and a thick strand of black hair fell over his forehead. He glanced from Two Bears to Soaring Eagle; then he shook his head. “I don't know what good I could do you,” he said slowly. “What about Marshal Calloway? Have you seen him about this?”

  “Agent talked to marshal,” Two Bears replied with a frown. “But we have no proof. Killings made to look like accident. Lawman do nothing.” He shook his head contemptuously. “White man's law no good to Nermernuh. White men only laugh at us.”

  Tucson sat silently while he put it all together. He knew Two Bears spoke the simple truth when he said that the white man's law didn't e
xtend to Indians. To most white men, the only good Indian was still a dead one. If the Comanche deaths had been made to look accidental, there was nothing Marshal Calloway could do about it, and he probably didn't care. But what could he, Tucson, possibly do to help? If he talked to Charles Durant, the banker would laugh in his face, deny everything, and show him the door.

  On the other hand, if Tucson did nothing, Durant's idea would probably work. The Comanche would either be killed or moved somewhere else...probably to a place even more desolate than where they were now...and Durant would get the gold. Tucson had been sickened by the living conditions of the Indians, and he knew that the gold was the only chance they had to survive, and maybe prosper.

  Well, Tucson decided, he would just have to see if there was something he could do to solve the problem.

  “Alright,” he said finally. “I'll look into things.” He searched the wrinkled face of Soaring Eagle. “I can’t promise anything at this point, Great Chief. Let's just see how things develop.”

  Soaring Eagle waited as Two Bears translated Tucson’s words then his shriveled lips stretched in a pleased smile.

  “Soaring Eagle say he happy now,” Two Bears translated, after the old chief had replied. “He say you powerful warrior who defeat all enemies. He know this before he ask you to come here. He say sun shine again on Nermernuh.” He paused, then asked, “What pay you want?”

  “Originally,” Tucson snorted, “I hadn't intended to ask for anything. But if you've found gold here, I'll take expenses.” Two Bears looked puzzled, so he explained, “I want to be paid what it costs me to be here and do the job.”

  Two Bears spoke to Soaring Eagle, and the old chief reached inside his blanket, came out holding a gold nugget in his gnarled fingers, and extended it toward Tucson.

  Tucson took it, rotated it in his fingers and sucked in his breath at the weight of it. Then he said, “This'll do just fine.”

  Chapter Five