Comanche Gold Page 7

  Calloway’s fingers drummed on the desktop while he studied Tucson, searching for any hidden meanings. Then he let it go with a shrug, picked up the quill and bent over the form. “In that case, we'll put down the story Prince gave as the official reason for the shootout.”

  “That suits me fine,” Tucson replied with a sigh. “By the way,” he asked offhandedly, “do you know anything about Charles Durant?”

  Calloway pushed his Stetson back off his forehead and scratched his head. “For someone who just blew into town yesterday,” he exclaimed perplexedly, “you sure know an awful lot about what goes on here. Whadaya want to know about Durant for?”

  Tucson lifted his shoulders innocently. “I just overheard some cowboys in the Elkhorn talking about the banker. They said he's a man on the rise. He might even make it to the governor's mansion someday. I thought you might have an opinion about him.”

  Calloway grunted, not satisfied with Tucson's explanation. “Charles Durant made his pile in land speculation in Kansas and Missouri after the war. He hit Howlin' Wolf about five years ago, opened up the United Commerce Bank and funded most o’ the people who wanted to start a business here. You could even say that we owe our success mostly to Charles Durant.” He chuckled and leaned back in his chair. “He's mighty respectable now, but I hear tell Durant was a real cocklebur when he was young. He used to fight in the prize ring—almost became the champ. Some say he made the cash he used in his land deals by runnin' whore houses durin’ the war.” He paused, reflected for a moment then added, “He's gotta be one o’ the gawddamned strongest men I ever met! He must be in his mid-forties now, an’ he can still twist a horseshoe all out o’ gawdamned shape.”

  “He sounds interesting,” Tucson commented, leaning forward as if to rise. “Is that it, then, Marshal? Can I go now?”

  “Yeah, that should do it.” Calloway watched him from under shaggy brows. “But you'll have to be in court tomorrow mornin’ when the judge reads this report. It's just a formality, you understand. It was clearly self-defense. Be there at ten tomorrow mornin’”

  “Sure,” Tucson replied. “Where is it?”

  Calloway jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “The court house is right next door. You can't miss it.”

  * * * *

  Tucson eased himself through the front door of the boarding house and closed it quietly behind him. Standing motionless in the darkness, he scanned the shadows while his senses strained to pick up anything unusual. The place was quiet; the faint aroma of food still hovered in the air from supper. Deciding that there were no hidden dangers, Tucson glided soundlessly across the floor toward the stairs. As he passed the end of the front desk, he glanced to his left at the door that led into the kitchen, and noticed a thin line of light across the bottom.

  The door had no knob and was double hinged so it could swing both ways. Very gently, Tucson pushed it inward and looked inside. On the left, rows of pots and pans hung from iron hooks set into the wall. A huge open hearth stood against the back wall, with an iron oven beside it. A water pump and a big wooden tub sat on the right. To the left, against the wall, was a desk where Catherine Murry sat leaning over a ledger, her head propped up on her left hand. A kerosene lamp hanging from a wall mount splashed a circle of yellow light over the desk.

  Tucson stepped further into the kitchen and Catherine jerked up with a startled gasp. “My God!” she exclaimed crossly. “You're the quietest man I've ever met. Don't you ever let a person know when you're coming?”

  “Not if I can help it.” Tucson grinned, then pulled out his watch and looked at it. “It's after eleven. Do you usually stay up so late?”

  Catherine sighed heavily and closed the ledger. “It's getting toward the end of the month,” she replied. “I was just going over the books.”

  Tucson moved the rest of the way into the kitchen and let the door swing shut behind him. Going to the desk, he threw his leg over the corner and rested his weight against it. “How are things going?” he asked seriously. “Is everything alright?”

  “It's the same old story.” Catherine leaned back, crossed her arms over her breasts and looked up at him. “My late husband and I went into quite a bit of debt to start this place when we moved here several years ago. We thought we'd be able to pay it all back in a couple of years, and then we'd be all right. But,” she sighed again, her hazel eyes clouded with worry, “with him dying, and the price of maintenance and supplies, and interest payments, I haven't been able to get my head above water. And now,” her hand drifted back to the ledger, “the bank's starting to get impatient.”

  “Which bank?” Tucson asked.

  “Charles Durant’s United Commerce Bank...”

  “Why not discuss the situation with Durant?” Tucson offered. “I've heard he's a reasonable man.”

  Catherine shook her head, her mouth thinning with contempt. “I have talked to Durant. And he's willing to extend my notes—for a consideration.” She swung her chair around and confronted Tucson directly. “But let me tell you something. I run an honest place here. I give damn good value for every dollar I bring in.” Her eyes flashed defiantly. “I would rather go broke with my head up than stay afloat doing what Charles Durant wants me to do.”

  Tucson nodded, his face reflecting the admiration he felt for her. “Well, don't lose hope,” he said cheerfully. “I have a feeling something will break for you pretty soon. Just hold on for a while longer.”

  “What do you mean?” she demanded, her brow furrowing.

  “I don't mean anything in particular.” Tucson slid his leg off the desk and stood up. “It's just that I get a feeling sometimes—and it usually turns out the way I expect.” He glanced over at the water pump. “I missed my bath today. Would you mind if I took a couple of buckets of water upstairs with me? I'd like to wash the dust off before I turn in.”

  Catherine smiled, revealing straight white teeth. “You'll find some hot water on the stove,” she said, pointing behind her. “I thought you might want a bath, so I kept the water warm. Help yourself.”

  While Tucson busied himself transferring water to a couple of wooden buckets, Catherine spoke again. “I'm riding out to a ranch about five miles outside of town tomorrow,” she said. “I’m taking some cookies to a woman who just gave birth to a baby girl. I was wondering if you'd like to ride along with me.” She hesitated then added quietly, “I could show you some of the country.”

  Tucson glanced over his shoulder and shot his most devilish grin at her. Catherine blushed furiously.

  “I'd be happy to ride along with you tomorrow,” he answered, as he lifted the buckets of water and started for the door. “I don't have any plans for tomorrow anyway.” Then he remembered the courthouse and stopped in his tracks. “I almost forgot,” he added apologetically. “We’ll have to leave after ten o'clock. I have a date with the judge in the morning.”

  “Oh?” Catherine’s fine brows lifted inquisitively. “Are you in some kind of trouble?”

  “No,” Tucson replied casually, as he started again for the door. “It's just a formality. I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

  Chapter Six

  The sun was well up and hot when Tucson and Catherine Murry rounded the stock yards at the edge of Howling Wolf and took the road leading southwest. Sandy desert stretched as far as the eye could see. The monotony of sparse, hardy prairie grass, mesquite and prickly cactus was broken here and there by a tall blade of yucca or a stunted oak.

  Catherine rode beside Tucson in a split skirt and jacket over a ruffled blouse. A wide-brimmed sombrero shaded her face from the sun, and black leather gloves protected her hands. Her horse was a spirited Appaloosa mare that seemed unusually interested in the stallion.

  They had ridden about half a mile in silence, when Catherine said, “That's quite a horse you have there, Tucson. What do you call it?”

  “I don't call it,” he replied. “I whistle.”

  Catherine chuckled. “I meant, what's its name?”


  “It doesn't have one.”

  “You mean you haven't even bothered to give your horse a name?” Catherine asked in surprise.

  Tucson arched an eyebrow at her, then replied, “I don't feel the need to put a name on everything. The stallion comes when I whistle and it gets me where I need to go. It's a system that seems to work for both of us.”

  Catherine smiled and shook her head. The movement shifted the loosely braided hair hanging down her back, and Tucson admired the reddish highlights picked out by the sun.

  “I understand your reasoning,” she said softly. “I can tell that freedom means a lot to you. Not naming your horse is your symbolic way of leaving it as free as you can under the circumstances.” When Tucson didn’t respond, she shifted the subject. “I heard about what happened at the Elkhorn Saloon last night. Is that why you needed to see the judge this morning?”

  “Yes...” Tucson replied. “But it wasn't a problem. The judge knew it was self-defense.”

  Catherine studied him for a moment, her eyes sparkling with interest. “Considering that you were in an argument with Wolf Cabot the night before, I wonder if trouble doesn't have a habit of following you around.”

  Tucson's gaze roamed over the desert as he thought it over. “I suppose you could say that it does,” he conceded finally. “As far back as I can remember, I've spent most of my time skirting danger.”

  “Yes,” Catherine agreed. “I can feel it around you. You wear danger the way another man would wear a cloak.” She paused a second, then added, “You remind me of the stories I used to hear about the wild Indians. I wonder if that's why you like them so much.”

  “I'm not sure that I like the Indians any better than I like anyone else,” Tucson replied. “Although I am disgusted by the way they’re being treated. But,” he raised his hand for emphasis, “I do relate to them as warriors. On that level, the Indians and I understand each other completely.”

  “Maybe you don't like them any more than you like others,” Catherine argued. “But none of the soldiers or civilians around here would feel any disgust at how they’re being treated or feel any empathy for them as warriors. To most people, the Indians are just animals, fit only to be exterminated.”

  Tucson shifted in the saddle to face her. “Most of the Indians,” he said slowly, as he searched for words, “especially the plains Tribes like the Comanche, were warrior societies. That meant their whole culture was wrapped around the war trail. The idealists who think that the Indians were peaceful and happy before the white man brought war to them are just deluding themselves.

  “Long before the Spaniards arrived,” he went on, “the Tribes warred on each other, and they perpetrated the same atrocities on each other that they inflicted later on the whites.” He shrugged. “It's just the way they do it. The American Government, mostly for economic reasons, tried for a long time to avoid an all-out war with the plains Tribes. But,” he shook his head sadly, “the Indians themselves, especially the Comanche, couldn't and wouldn't stop raiding because their whole way of life depended on it.” He looked into her eyes, hoping to make her understand. “There wasn’t any other way for a young brave to prove and affirm himself than through hunting and fighting.”

  Catherine exclaimed in surprise, “Now you seem to be blaming the Indians!”

  “I don't mean to be,” Tucson said, sitting back in the saddle. “I'm just trying to explain the way it was. It's because I also follow the Warrior's Way that I understand the Indians. Warriors, no matter where in the world they are, or at what period in history they live, have basically the same ethos. One warrior can go to another warrior society and understand its values.”

  “I don't think the soldiers ever understood the Indians,” Catherine observed sadly.

  Tucson snorted with disgust. “There's no connection whatsoever between modern soldiers and the Warrior's Way! Soldiers are paid machines fighting as a mass according to orders,” he pointed out. “The warrior puts his emphasis on individual combat and personal honor. That's why counting coup was so important to the Indians.” Without intending to, Tucson’s voice began to throb with enthusiasm. “To a Comanche, the Path of the Warrior was a sacred way of life that influenced his every action. I suppose,” he added, almost as a concession, “that the Texas Rangers came closest on the white side of the Indian Wars to being true warriors.”

  With nothing left to say, he stopped talking and they rode on in silence.

  Catherine had been gazing into the distance for several minutes when a frown tugged at the corners of her mouth. “I wonder,” she asked pensively, “if there'll ever be a time when we can do without guns and war. It seems to me that so many problems would be solved if we could just get rid of guns.”

  Tucson grinned at her. “Do you think the Indians, or the whites for that matter, would've been spared their tragedy if there'd been no guns or war?”

  “Of course I do!” Catherine glared at him, surprised at the question. “What else could I think?”

  Tucson shook his head. “What happened—the destruction of the Tribes—was the only way it could have gone down. Even without the wars, the gap between the two cultures, white and red, was just too wide.” Even as he made his argument, his eyes never ceased studying the terrain for any sign of danger. “There's no way the Indians could survive the culture shock of living next to white civilization,” he continued. “And don't forget, the Tribes weren't only defeated by war. They were decimated by white diseases they had no immunity to.

  “The cholera and small pox plagues that swept the plains in '49 wiped out almost half the Comanche. They never recovered from it. No,” he concluded with finality, “the method might not have been so bloody and brutal, but the end result would have been the same.”

  “I see your point,” Catherine replied grudgingly. “But you also said that with guns the war was that much more brutal. Doesn't it seem obvious that whatever problems we have are made worse by our reliance on guns?”

  “I don’t know,” Tucson answered thoughtfully. “Some of the worst massacres I've ever heard of were caused by people using axes and knives. A gun will crumble into dust unless someone picks it up and pulls the trigger. As far as I can see,” he said, after a moment’s deliberation, “blaming guns for things is just another way of avoiding the main problem.”

  “What do you see as the main problem?”

  “The major mistake most of us make is in seeing problems and solutions as being ‘out there’—outside of ourselves.”

  Catherine burst out laughing. “That's an utterly strange thing to say!” She swept her gloved hand out in a gesture that included the whole countryside. “Where else would our problems and solutions be than out there?”

  “Within ourselves...” Tucson answered simply. “I think someone said once that character creates destiny.”

  Catherine’s jaw dropped, and she seemed on the verge of saying more, when they topped a rise and reined in their mounts. They sat their saddles and looked over the country spread out before them.

  The desert abruptly gave way to a shallow bowl about five miles in diameter, sloping gently down to a flat bottom where a ranch house sat among a cluster of oaks. A large horse corral and shed was set off to the rear, a barn was on the left and a bunkhouse was on the right. An atmosphere of prosperity and peace hung about the place.

  “That's the Rolling M Ranch,” Catherine told him. “This is the headquarters, but there's about five thousand acres all told. Chuck and Margaret Mitchell own it. Margaret just had the baby.”

  Tucson nodded silently, and they kicked their horses into a canter and rode down toward the buildings.

  * * * *

  Chuck Mitchell was out with his drovers rounding up cattle, but Margaret was in the house, attended by an old Mexican woman. Tucson stepped inside long enough to meet Margaret, but went back out to water the horses at the trough in front of the barn. Then he sat on the front porch of the house, smoking a cheroot and sipping the glass of cool lemo
nade brought out to him by the old Mexican woman.

  The place looked even better close up. There was a fresh coat of paint on the house, and the corral and barn were kept in good repair. The ranch reflected lots of care, patience and dedication. Tucson had been on the move all of his life; he never spent more than short periods of time in any one place. But he could appreciate a spread like this when he came across it.

  Sometimes, if the situation called for it, he could stay in one place for a while; but before long his feet would start to itch, he would get restless and have to be on his way. Tucson could appreciate what Chuck Mitchell had accomplished, but he couldn't quite understand the impulse behind it. For Tucson, riding the high places, the lonesome places, living free and easy, independent, touching the world lightly as he passed was the very breath of life to him, and he could be no other way.

  He had just thrown the butt of his cigar into the dirt in front of the porch when Catherine and Margaret Mitchell stepped out the door. Tucson stood to greet them. Margaret Mitchell was blonde and buxom and looked like she came from German stock. Her cheeks were rosy and she had laugh-lines at the corners of her blue eyes.

  “Thank you kindly for the cookies,” Margaret was saying to Catherine. “I know Chuck will love to have some when he gets back.” She reached out and pressed Catherine's arm. “And don't stay away so long. It gets lonely out here.”

  “I know,” Catherine replied with a smile, putting her sombrero on and adjusting the cord. “But running that boarding house is a full time job. I don't get much time off myself.”

  Margaret glanced at Tucson and extended her hand. “And you, too, Tucson. I'm sure Chuck would like to meet you. Come back any time, you hear?”

  “Thanks, Mrs. Mitchell,” Tucson replied, taking her hand in his. “I just might do that. You've got a nice place here.”

  Tucson and Catherine stepped down from the porch and mounted up. With a last wave to Margaret Mitchell, they reined the horses around and rode away.