Comanche Gold Page 6

  It was after sundown when Tucson got back to Howling Wolf, so he didn't bother going to the boarding house for supper. He took his time putting the stallion into its stall in the livery stable, giving it plenty of hay and oats and rubbing it down. Then he strolled over to the Elkhorn Saloon, thinking he'd get himself a steak.

  As he moved through the double doors and to the side, he noted that the place was already jumping. Maybe it was payday, because there were plenty of cowboys lining the bar and crowding around the Faro tables, or kicking up their heels with the women. Tucson sensed that he was a source of curiosity as he made his way to the end of the bar, where the same empty space from the night before awaited him.

  It wasn't obvious, nobody stared, but he could see the men watching him out of the corners of their eyes.

  Wolf Cabot stood down at the opposite end of the bar, nursing a glass of whiskey. He was deep in conversation with two other men, and wasn’t paying any attention to Tucson. Midway down the brass rail, a tall Mexican in a fancy leather jacket and tight pants was drinking tequila and sucking on a lemon. His high heeled boots had spurs with huge silver rowels. A filigreed sombrero hung down his back on a leather thong. The ivory handled Colt tied to his right leg told Tucson that this was the gunman Prince had mentioned—Ramon Vasquez.

  Mike, the bartender, met him as he leaned his elbows on the polished mahogany counter.

  “Top o’ the evenin’ to ye, sir,” he said with a friendly smile. “What'll it be tonight?”

  “Howdy, Mike,” Tucson replied, slapping a silver dollar down on the bar. “I need a cool beer as soon as you can get it to me—I’m parched! Then I want a thick steak, medium well, with plenty of potatoes and onions. I'm so hungry,” he chuckled, “I could devour a whole steer!”

  Mike grinned and nodded his head. “You came to the right place, sir,” he said. “I'll get the beer right away,” he added as he turned away. “The steak will take about fifteen minutes.”

  Tucson lifted the mug with his left hand and poured the cool wet beer down his dry throat. But even as he gulped it down, he kept his eyes on the men at the bar.

  To all appearances, neither Wolf Cabot nor Ramon Vasquez was paying any attention to him. Wolf was still talking to the men around him, and the Mexican was laughing with one of the women, who leaned heavily on his shoulder. Vasquez was handsome in a reptilian sort of way. His eyes were dark and strangely slanted, and a stringy black mustache drooped down along the corners of a thin, vicious mouth.

  Tucson had finished his beer and was signaling Mike for another, when Prince came out of the door on the other side of the room and walked over to where he stood. The other men at the bar made room for the gambler as he put his boot up on the brass rail. He was dressed in the same black broadcloth coat, but had on a different fancy vest, and his legs were encased in cream colored trousers. A long thin cigar smoldered between his lips.

  “Evening, Kid,” he said pleasantly, flicking ash from his cigar onto the floor.

  Tucson nodded. “Evening, Prince.”

  The gambler opened his mouth to speak, then closed it as Mike put a big platter overflowing with a beefsteak, fried onions and potatoes in front of Tucson. He laid a knife and fork beside the platter, and said, “Eat hearty, sir.” Then he walked back down the bar.

  Prince grinned with amusement as he watched Tucson dig in. He cut up the steak first then handled the fork with his left hand while his eyes ceaselessly roamed the room.

  “Catherine Murry must not be feeding you very well these days,” Prince laughed, after a few minutes.

  “It’s not Mrs. Murry’s fault,” Tucson got out around a mouthful of food. “I got back into town too late for supper, so I figured I'd grab a bite here at the Elkhorn instead.”

  “Good,” Prince responded between puffs on his cigar. “I run a full-service establishment. If you can't get what you want here in the Elkhorn, you can't get it anywhere in west Texas.”

  Tucson nodded as he ate. It was clear the gambler had something on his mind, but Tucson was satisfied to let him come to it in his own time.

  Then Prince said, “By the way, have you given any more thought to what I mentioned last night?”

  “About hiring out my gun?”

  “Yes...”

  “No,” Tucson replied flatly. “I already gave you my answer.”

  Prince's eyes went hard as he drew deep on his cigar. “You were seen riding onto the Comanche reservation today,” he stated suddenly.

  Tucson pushed the platter, empty but for a T-bone picked clean, across the bar and lifted his beer. After a long swallow, he gave Prince a stony stare. “I go where I please.” His voice was low, like the first warning of a rattler. “What is it to you if I went onto the reservation?”

  “You're a white man, new to these parts,” Prince replied with a shrug. “It's curious, that's all. There's been some trouble out there. Did you talk to any of the Comanche?”

  Tucson placed his beer carefully down onto the bar then faced the gambler. “You and I need to get something straight,” he said, still speaking softly. “Where I go, what I do, and who I talk to is my business.” A slight edge of steel crept into his voice. “If you’re foolish enough to stick your nose into my business, Prince, you'll get it broken.”

  The gambler’s face was expressionless as he stared at Tucson for several seconds; then he snubbed his cigar in an ashtray on the bar and turned away. “Suit yourself, big fella,” he threw back over his shoulder as he moved toward the Faro tables.

  Everybody at the bar was studiously minding his own business.

  Tucson finished his beer and slid the mug across the counter. Thinking he'd get in a few hands of poker, he began walking toward the card tables.

  He was skirting the dance floor when Ramon Vasquez pushed away from the bar and turned in Tucson's direction. Tucson saw it coming, but made no attempt to step aside. Vasquez, seemingly by accident, knocked against Tucson's shoulder as he went by, spinning him around.

  Everyone in the saloon fell silent as all eyes fixed on the two men.

  “Hey, hombre,” Vasquez said with a heavy accent. “You must have had too many beers. You should watch where you are going.”

  There was a gilt mirror on the wall over Vasquez's shoulder. Keeping one eye on the Mexican, Tucson watched in the mirror as Wolf Cabot slipped away from the bar and moved into the doorway behind him. He stopped just inside the room where it was dark and pulled his gun, sighting on Tucson's back as Vasquez spoke again.

  “Are you the Tucson Keed?” he asked, in a surly voice. “Are you the beeg man? Maybe if you apologize for your rudeness,” he sneered, “I will let you walk out of here alive.”

  While the Mexican was playing out his little drama, Tucson was raging inside himself. Like some greenhorn, he had stupidly allowed himself to be whipsawed! As soon as he and Vasquez went for their guns, Wolf would put a slug into him from behind. Not even Tucson was fast enough to get both of them at the same time. They must have waited for the sign from Prince before they made their move. Wolf would figure that no one would notice him during the action, and he would be able to get away clean.

  Tucson saw his death sentence reflected in the cold black eyes of the Mexican.

  “Well, Keed?” Vasquez gloated. “I hear you are an Injun lover. Well, Injun lovers got no guts. Watch out, hombre, you look like you are going to piss your pants!”

  Tucson stared unblinkingly into the sneering face of Ramon Vasquez. Even when he faced almost certain death, his instinct was to meet it head on. “I can be friends with Indians,” he hissed. “I can even be friends with Mexicans. But I could never be friends with a low-down dirty snake like you.”

  As fury flared up in the Mexican's eyes, Tucson suddenly jumped to the side, at the same time pulling his Colt. While Vasquez went for his gun, a shot rang out from the doorway where Wolf was standing, but the bullet went wide and shattered the mirror on the wall. Still in the air, Tucson's Colt cleared leather and spat f
lame as he snapped a slug into the middle of Vasquez's chest, throwing the Mexican back off his feet and onto the floor.

  The roar of gunfire shook the chandeliers and rattled the windows, and gun-smoke hung in the air like the pall of death. Panic-stricken patrons and screaming women dove in all directions to get out of the line of fire.

  As Tucson's shoulders hit the floorboards he rolled, and Wolf's second shot plowed up splinters from the spot where he had been. Without pause, Tucson came up onto one knee, fired from the hip and caught Wolf in the chest, punching him back several paces. Tucson fired again and the slug took Wolf in the forehead, flipping him over backwards and out of sight into the darkened room.

  Spinning back around, Tucson caught Vasquez just as the gunman was struggling to raise his Colt for a shot. Without hesitation, Tucson pulled the trigger and the Mexican’s head exploded—a grisly mess of blood and brains splattered over the floorboards. The rowels of Vasquez’s spurs beat out a ragged tattoo in the sawdust for a moment, then he lay still.

  As Tucson swung back around, he tossed the .45 into his left hand and jerked the .32 from the shoulder holster. Keeping the room covered with his Colts, he searched for Prince through the blue cloud of powder-smoke that hung suspended in the air.

  He wouldn't put it past the gambler to take advantage of the confusion and try to put a bullet into him, now that Wolf and Vasquez had failed.

  But Prince came forward with both hands in plain sight, then looked over the damage. Everyone else in the saloon got back to their feet or came out from behind the bar and surrounded them in awed silence, gazing with wide eyes from Tucson to the two dead men sprawled on the floor.

  “Gawdalmighty!” one of the men breathed.

  “I ain’t never seen nothin’ like that before!” another man whispered.

  Just then the bat-wing doors flew inward and a big man in a grey Stetson, a black coat and jeans stuffed into his high-heeled boots burst into the room. He wore a six-gun tied down on his leg and he had a double-barreled shotgun tucked under his left arm. There was a silver star pinned on his shirt.

  “What's goin' on in here?” he boomed in a deep, authoritative voice.

  Only then did Tucson lower his Colts. He returned the .32 to the shoulder holster, then ejected the spent shells from the .45 and thumbed in fresh rounds.

  “These two sidewinders tried to whipsaw me,” he replied in a tight voice, pointing to Ramon Vasquez, then jerking his thumb over his shoulder at Wolf Cabot who lay outstretched in the darkened room.

  Prince stepped forward. “I saw the whole thing, Marshal. What Tucson is saying is correct. He was attacked by Ramon Vasquez and Wolf Cabot.” He gestured to the men crowding the bar. “We all saw it.”

  Calloway sucked on his tobacco-stained mustache as he studied the scene; then his cold blue eyes scrutinized Tucson. “So you're the Tucson Kid, eh?”

  “I've been called that,” Tucson responded, holstering his gun.

  “Prince...” Calloway eyed the gambler. “Wolf works for you. You got any idea why he'd want to kill the Kid here?”

  “Tucson braced him here last night and ran him out,” Prince answered. “My guess is that Wolf got Vasquez to go in with him to kill the Kid off.”

  Calloway glanced down the bar. “You men see this? Was it like Tucson said?” The men murmured their agreement. “Okay,” Calloway said. “Prince, get some of your men to haul these bodies over to the undertaker.” He turned to Tucson. “Kid, you're gonna have to come with me. I believe it all happened like you said, but I’ve got to fill out a report. I want you with me to answer questions.”

  Tucson shrugged. “Whatever you say, Marshal.”

  * * * *

  Fifteen minutes later Tucson and Calloway were sitting in the marshal's office. Calloway was behind his desk, muttering to himself as he rummaged around in the drawer for the form he had to fill out. Behind him on the wall was a glass enclosed case where he kept his rifles. Back to his left was the doorway that led to the cells.

  A lantern sat on the desk, throwing a circle of yellow light over the wooden floorboards.

  His chair tilted back on two legs and his sombrero pushed to the back of his head, Tucson was stretched out casually in front of the desk with his legs crossed at the ankles and his boots resting on the desktop. He faced the glass windows fronting on Main Street, and his back was protected by the rear wall.

  Marshal Calloway finally found the form he was searching for, spread it out on the desk then reached over and picked up a quill. Frowning with concentration, he dipped it into an ink bottle and wrote the date.

  Then he asked, “Full name?”

  Tucson reached into the pocket of his jacket, pulled out his cigar case, selected a cheroot then offered one to Calloway. The marshal took it and lit a match, held it to Tucson's cigar until it was going, then lit his own.

  Tucson blew a stream of blue smoke toward the ceiling. “My name's Tucson,” he said.

  Calloway glanced up and raised his heavy brows quizzically. “That’s it...nothin' else but Tucson?”

  “Nothing else...”

  “What about place o’ birth?”

  “I believe that would be Arizona.”

  “Date...?”

  “Don't know...”

  Calloway threw the quill down on the form in exasperation. “What about your parents. Didn't they ever say?”

  “I never knew my father,” Tucson responded, studying the glowing tip of his cheroot. “I’m the son of a widow. My father was killed in an Apache raid while my mother was still pregnant. My mother died of fever when I was about six or so, and I raised myself from then on.”

  “I heard tell that you used to scout for the Army against the Apaches when you were still a boy,” offered Calloway.

  “I have a knack for tracking,” Tucson replied with a nod. “I think the Army did me some good,” he added. “It gave my life some structure at an age when I needed it.”

  The marshal leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms over his massive chest, and studied Tucson with interest. “That was some fancy gun-work you pulled off tonight at the Elkhorn,” he observed finally. “Ramon Vasquez and Wolf Cabot were two o' the best gunmen around—besides me, o’ course,” he added with a grin. “And you took 'em both out at the same time.”

  Tucson shrugged. “I was lucky there was a mirror on the wall behind Vasquez, so I knew what Wolf was planning to do.”

  “Still...” Calloway shook his head wonderingly. “I wish I'd been there to see it.” He stroked his craggy chin with a blunt forefinger then asked, “Do you buy the story Prince gave as to why them two jaspers made a play for you?”

  “I don’t know...could be,” Tucson replied slowly, thinking it over. “Prince warned me that Wolf was the kind of skunk who held a grudge, but then Wolf worked for Prince.”

  “Yeah,” Calloway agreed. “I don't recollect Wolf ever doin' nothin' Prince didn't tell 'im to do.” He puffed reflectively on his cheroot. “There any reason why Prince would want you dead?”

  “I hear that a few braves have been killed at the reservation recently,” Tucson mentioned, with apparent irrelevance.

  The marshal leaned forward and rested his elbows on the desktop, his blue eyes screwed up questioningly. “What the hell's that got to do with anythin'?”

  “You know anything about it?”

  Calloway puffed vigorously on his cigar while he tried unsuccessfully to probe behind Tucson's eyes. “Sam Spiegleman, the Injun Agent for the reservation, mentioned it to me,” he admitted grudgingly. “But from what I could tell...” He waved his cheroot in the air. “...the deaths were all accidental. One Comanche got hisself drowned, another fell off his horse and was stomped to death, and the third dropped over a cliff—mebbe he got drunk or somethin’.”

  Tucson gazed out the windows at the dark street. The barking of a dog and the sounds of carousing down in the saloons carried over the night air. Then he squinted humorously at Calloway. “The Comanche were t
he greatest horsemen the plains ever produced. When did you ever hear of one them falling off his horse? And considering how dry this country is, how deep was the water the other Indian drowned in?”

  “You tryin' to tell me how to do my job?” Calloway spat, his face going red with anger.

  Tucson didn't change expression. “Do you know if Prince had any connection to the Comanche reservation?”

  The marshal blew out a gust of cigar smoke as he made a strenuous attempt to control his temper. “Not that I know of,” he muttered through clenched teeth.

  “Do you know anyone else in town that might be interested in them?” Tucson pursued.

  “Gawddammit—no...!” Calloway exploded, and slammed his huge fist down on the desk. “Nobody cares about a bunch o’ gawddamn, flea-bitten Injuns livin' out on a gawddamn reservation stuck out in the middle o’ gawddamn no-where. Nobody ever even goes the gawddamn hell out there!”

  “Vasquez worked for the Lazy T,” Tucson observed imperturbably. “A man called Ed Thompson owns it. What's he like?”

  Finally realizing that Tucson was driving at something, Calloway made an effort to calm himself down. “Ed's alright,” he answered finally. “He’s kind of a hard case, but he's okay.”

  Tucson studied the smoke drifting toward the ceiling from his cheroot. “The Lazy T butts up against the Comanche reservation, doesn't it?”

  “Yeah,” Calloway replied. “There's only a range o’ hills separatin' ‘em.”

  Tucson lowered his gaze and stared at the marshal. It was clear, he decided, that Calloway didn't know anything about the gold, or about anyone trying to steal it from the Comanche. He seemed honest enough—he just wasn’t very bright or overly interested in protecting the Indians. Tucson crossed Calloway off the list of possible conspirators, but he decided not to tell the marshal anything. As the law in Howling Wolf, he would expect to call the shots, and that would only get in Tucson's way.

  Tucson leaned across the desk and stubbed his cheroot out in the ashtray. “Sorry, Marshal. I didn't mean to get you all riled up. I was just poking around. But, to answer your question directly,” he flashed a friendly smile, “no, I can't think of any reason why Prince would want me dead.”