Comanche Gold Read online

  The others at the table maintained a thoughtful silence after he had finished. Bentley was scribbling furiously in his notepad with his pencil. Tom McMannus sat disconsolately holding his head in his hands, staring at his plate as if he were going to cry. Catherine watched Tucson, her hazel eyes glowing affectionately and a warm smile playing about her lips.

  Tucson returned her look. What they had shared that afternoon was a pleasant undercurrent between them.

  Just then Mirah burst into the room carrying a plate full of biscuits. When she spotted Tucson, she stopped and stared then flashed a broad smile at him. Her brown eyes held more than a hint of suggestiveness.

  “Well, look who's come back,” she exclaimed, placing the biscuits in the middle of the table. “How ya’ll been, Mistah Fightin’ Man?”

  “Just fine, Mirah,” Tucson answered uncomfortably, wishing she'd take some of the heat out of her eyes. “How are you?”

  “Oh, I'm fine, too.” As she moved back toward the kitchen she swung her hips a little more than necessary.

  Tucson glanced covertly down the table at Catherine. She was watching the door to the kitchen as it swung back and forth behind Mirah with a speculative expression on her face. She looked quickly at Tucson, then dropped her eyes back to her plate.

  Tucson shrugged his shoulders philosophically. There was nothing he could do now to alter events, so he might as well let future developments take care of themselves.

  * * * *

  Tucson left the table right after supper and went back out to the corral. The sun had already set, but a pale afterglow shimmered along the western horizon. He was putting the saddle back on the stallion when Tom McMannus came outside looking for him.

  The boy’s Stetson was pushed to the back of his head, revealing curly blonde hair, and he was chewing on a toothpick. “Where are you headed, Tucson?” he asked, with friendly curiosity. “Ain't it a little late to be goin' for a ride?”

  Without stopping, Tucson pointed with his chin to the Colt strapped to McMannus’ side. “Have you been working with that hog-leg the way I told you?”

  McMannus did a quick draw and twirled the gun around on his fore-finger. “I sure have!” he declared proudly. “I shortened the barrel by an inch and worked over the firing mechanism. Now it’s better balanced, and the action's smoother'n a spanked baby's butt.”

  “Good job,” Tucson approved, as he slipped the bit into the stallion's mouth. “Now go on out to your firing range and get used to the new feel. You've got to know your gun perfectly—it's your best friend. Your right hand should feel uncomfortable unless it's wrapped around the grips.” He stopped and considered for a moment, came to a decision, then said, “Look Tom,” his face was serious as he stared at the boy, “I need to confide in you, and you need to keep what I say confidential. Can you do that?”

  “Of course, Tucson...!” McMannus said, sounding hurt. “You can trust me with anythin'.”

  “Alright,” Tucson replied. Then, gesturing for McMannus to follow, he walked back behind the stallion. “Come here and look at this track.” He waited for McMannus to get into position then he pointed his finger at the sandy ground. “Look at the print the stallion makes with its right rear shoe,” he said. “See that band crossing the right curve?”

  “Yeah,” McMannus responded dubiously, scratching his head. “So what...?”

  “When you see that print,” Tucson told him, “you'll know that it was made by my horse. That way you can track me if you need to.”

  McMannus looked even more puzzled than before. “Why would I want to do that?”

  “I'm going over to meet with Charles Durant tonight,” Tucson explained. “I expect everything to go all right. But if I'm not back by tomorrow morning, you go on over to Durant's house, pick up this print, and track me to wherever I might be. Understand...?”

  “No, I don’t understand,” McMannus answered. “What could happen to you over at Durant's mansion?”

  “Probably nothing,” Tucson replied patiently. “Like I said, I'm just being careful. Will you do that for me?”

  “Why sure...” McMannus said, pride creeping into his voice at being asked for a favor by his hero. “I'll check in first thing in the mornin’. Don’t you worry, Tucson. If you ain't in, I'll start trackin’.”

  “That’s fine,” Tucson said, then put his boot in the stirrup and lifted up into the saddle. “Then I'll see you later.”

  He nudged the stallion with his heels, and it moved off. As he rounded the eastern corner of the house, Mirah suddenly stepped out from the corner where she had been standing and grabbed Tucson's stirrup.

  “Hey, Mistah Fightin' Man...” She gazed up at him with a big smile. “When are you goin' to come see me? I waited up for you last night.”

  “I’m sorry, Mirah,” Tucson replied, as he leaned down and gazed into her face. “You wore me down to a nub last time. I'm still resting up.”

  Mirah crossed her arms over her full breasts and twisted her torso back and forth. “I know what the real reason is,” she accused, her tone tinged with humor.

  “What?”

  “You're sweet on Mrs. Murry - ain't that right?”

  Tucson shrugged noncommittally. “Catherine's a mighty attractive woman.”

  “I know she is,” Mirah agreed, her smile getting wider. “And she ain't had a man since her husband died a little over two years ago. Mrs. Murry’s a good woman,” she added, “An’ she treats me better'n my own mama did. I don't mind if'n you like her. I suppose it's just natural. Besides,” she leered up at him, “I already got mine.”

  Tucson chuckled. “You're a damn good woman yourself, Mirah.” He reached down and, when she put her hand in his, he squeezed it affectionately. “I'll always remember that night with you,” he said sincerely. “I don't often meet a woman so fine.”

  Mirah's white teeth flashed in a happy smile. “You always know just what to say, Mistah Fightin' Man.” She jerked her thumb back in the direction of the house. “If you ever want any more, I live in that little room off the kitchen, there. Ya’ll can come 'round any time you want.”

  Tucson released her hand and straightened up in the saddle. “Thanks, Mirah...you never know, I might just do that.”

  He touched his fingers to the brim of his sombrero, nudged the stallion, and disappeared into the gathering darkness.

  * * * *

  The stallion's hooves echoed hollowly off the closed store-fronts along Main Street as Tucson rode east through town. Clouds had drifted across the moon, and the roadway was unusually dark. Even so, he kept well to one side of the street where it was darkest, a shadow moving among shadows.

  He recalled that Wild Bill Hickok had always ridden down the center of the street, convinced that that would give him the best protection from ambush. Tucson had always disagreed with him. Riding down the middle, you had windows on both sides to watch. Besides, out in the light, your vision couldn't penetrate the darkness enough to see down the alleys.

  At the thought of Hickok, Tucson felt a wave of sadness wash over him. Hickok and he had been friends for years. They had shared some adventures, many bottles and poker games, and a few women. He thought Hickok was one of the few gunmen who really understood what it was all about. When Jack McCall shot him in the back of the head at Deadwood, the world had become just a little bit lonelier for Tucson.

  As his eyes probed the darkness, Tucson felt the familiar sensation of electricity crackling at the base of his spine. It was a feeling he habitually got when he was preparing to face a dangerous situation. Not having met Charles Durant, he had no way of guessing how the banker would react to his visit; but he wouldn't be surprised if Durant became violent. Also, there was no way to know at this point how many men Durant kept around him for protection. Meeting with him alone, Tucson could be walking into a death trap. Thinking it over, he unconsciously loosened his Colt in its holster, and his wide mouth warped into a cold smile of anticipation.

  He reined the stalli
on in at the edge of the business district and studied the plush residential area spread out in the dim light. Eight or ten mansions were scattered about, the lights from their windows twinkling through the tall trees imported into the area at great expense. In the center, on a small rise that put it above all the others, fenced within its own estate, was the largest building of all.

  Tucson guessed that it must be the mansion of Charles Durant.

  When he was sure there was no one about, Tucson rode into the open, took the street leading toward the buildings, and didn't stop until he came to the front gate of Durant's residence. The fence was constructed of wrought iron, but the gate was hanging open as if to say that everyone was welcome.

  Just inside the entrance on the right, was a square brick monument. In the middle, etched in fancy letters on a brass plate, was the name: Charles Durant.

  “This is it, big fella,” Tucson murmured to the stallion, as he patted its arching neck. “This is where we beard the lion.”

  Chapter Eight

  Up close, the house looked to be two stories, with slender columns reaching from the porch that ran along the front of the house, to the gabled roof high above. The curtained windows on the ground floor were lit, and a lantern glowed next to the front door. After looping the reins around the saddle horn, Tucson threw his leg over it and slid to the ground.

  He scratched the stallion between the ears. “Stay here, big fella. Who knows what the evening has in store for us.”

  Tucson mounted the front steps and lifted the ornate bronze knocker hanging on the front door and let it drop. The sound rang throughout the interior. After a short time, the door opened, a blade of light cut into the darkness, and an elderly black man appeared in the entrance. He was tall, slender, with a full head of white hair, and was wearing a dress suit.

  “Can I help you, suh?” he asked in a deep, cultured voice.

  “Yes,” Tucson replied. “I'd like to see Charles Durant.”

  The servant looked him over briefly then asked, “Do you have an appointment, suh?”

  “No,” Tucson replied. “But if you’ll tell Mr. Durant that Tucson is here to see him, I believe he'll want to talk to me.”

  The man moved to the side and motioned for Tucson to enter. As Tucson stepped into the foyer, the servant closed the door then held out his hand. “Can I take your hat, suh?” Tucson handed it to him, and he took it to a rack standing in a corner and hung it up. Then he turned back to Tucson. “Just a moment, suh, and I'll let Mistah Durant know you're here.”

  Once the old man had disappeared behind a pair of double doors to the right, Tucson glanced around. The foyer reached all the way to the ceiling, there were heavy velvet drapes at the windows, and what seemed to be fine art hanging on the walls. Rising on the left was a curved staircase with a carved walnut balustrade, and beneath it, in an intimate alcove, was a carpeted living room filled with a lot of plush furniture.

  Tucson’s mouth thinned. It was obvious that Charles Durant had pretensions to class.

  One of the doors opened and the servant appeared in the entrance, gesturing to Tucson. “Mistah Durant will see you, suh.”

  Tucson entered a spacious study lit by a cut glass chandelier hanging from the ceiling. Bookshelves filled with finely bound books lined one wall, an unlighted, massive stone fireplace stood on another, and on the right was an ornate desk at which sat Charles Durant.

  As Tucson walked across the carpeted floor, he was immediately struck by the raw elemental force that exploded from the banker. His massive, craggy face looked as if it had been roughed out of a block of granite with a chisel. Steel-grey, shaggy brows shaded two of the most piercing brown eyes Tucson had ever had riveted on him. A huge, high-bridged nose jutted over a mouth so thin it looked as if it had been slashed in with a razor. Shoulders that would have shamed a young bull strained the fabric of his dressing gown. Durant didn't rise to greet him, but from the size of his torso, Tucson estimated that he must be well over six feet tall.

  His grey-streaked dark hair and his grey eyebrows were the only signs of age about him.

  Durant waved a muscular hand in the direction of a cushioned chair sitting in front of his desk. Tucson noticed the scars over his knuckles and remembered that the banker had been a prize fighter in his youth. As he seated himself, Durant spoke, and his deep, gravelly voice matched the rest of him.

  “Jessup tells me you want to see me, Mr. Tucson. Are you quite sure this can't wait until business hours tomorrow?”

  Tucson shifted his gun belt forward slightly so that he could sit comfortably in the chair. Then he stared coolly into Durant's eyes. “There have been some deaths over on the Comanche reservation.”

  Durant didn't change expression. “Is that statement supposed to mean something to me?”

  “I thought maybe you'd know something about them.”

  Durant looked bored. “I'm afraid you'll have to leave.” He reached for the bell cord hanging next to the desk. “There's obviously nothing you and I have to discuss.”

  “I think there is,” Tucson shot back. When Durant's hand hesitated on the cord, Tucson spoke one word, “Gold...”

  Almost casually, Durant's hand dropped away then he turned back and focused his hard eyes on Tucson. “I'm always interested in gold,” he said, with a thin smile. “But if it’s gold you wish to discuss then you should really come and see me at my bank.”

  “The Comanche brave who came to see you with a gold nugget didn't stop by your bank did he?” Tucson asked, his voice going hard.

  “Comanche...?” Durant asked, a puzzled expression crossing his face. “You should understand, Mr. Tucson, that I don't entertain dirty Indians here in my home.” He made a throwaway gesture with his hand. “I'm afraid you have me confused with someone else.”

  After a moment’s pause, Tucson decided to re-direct his line of questioning. “Did Wolf Cabot and Ramon Vasquez work for you?”

  Durant leaned back in his chair and regarded Tucson speculatively. “Yes,” he murmured finally, “I heard about that...the whole town's talking about how the Tucson Kid killed Wolf Cabot and Ramon Vasquez, two of the fastest gunmen around, at the same time. But I'm afraid you have mistaken information. Wolf worked for Prince at the Elkhorn Saloon, and Vasquez worked for Ed Thompson, the owner of the Lazy T Ranch.” Leaning forward, he placed his elbows on the desktop and scowled as he spoke. “Listen, Tucson Kid,” he emphasized the name, “I don't know what you're trying to pull or what game you're playing. But I'm getting tired of it. If you've got something important to say to me, say it, or get out.”

  “That’s fair enough, Mr. Durant.” Tucson emphasized the name. “I'll go ahead and level with you. I’m here as a representative of the Comanche. They discovered gold on their reservation. One of them brought a sample in to you, and he hasn't been seen since. Since that time, white men have been observed on the reservation, and three Comanche have been killed.” His grey eyes sharpened as he stared into the craggy face of the banker. “It just so happens that the Lazy T Ranch butts up against the eastern boundary of the reservation. It also just so happens that I was seen going onto the reservation. After that I was put upon by Ramon Vasquez and Wolf Cabot.” Tucson extended his hands questioningly, palms up. “Can you tell me why Ed Thompson kept a gunman like Vasquez on his payroll? And can you tell me why he and Wolf tried to ambush me in the Elkhorn Saloon?”

  Durant had lost his bored expression. “I told you,” he grated through clenched teeth, “those two didn’t work for me. How should I know why they tried to take you out?”

  “Then I'll tell you why,” Tucson replied, an edge of steel creeping into his voice. “You know all about it because both Prince and Ed Thompson work for you. They followed your orders in having Vasquez and Wolf brace me. Thompson keeps gunmen on his payroll because you want to keep men handy with guns around in case the Comanche blow off the reservation and come after you.” He paused as Durant’s features turned red with rage, then added, “You d
ecided to have me taken out as a precaution. No one knew why I was here, but since I was seen going onto the reservation, and one of the Comanche could have told me what was going on, it was just too risky to leave me alive. So,” he concluded, “you put out the order to have me killed.”

  Durant’s hands had clenched into two huge fists resting on the desktop. Then he glanced nervously at Tucson's right hand lying loosely next to his Colt and he made an effort to control his temper. “That's a lot of interesting speculation you’re throwing around,” he said, after clearing his throat. “But since you don't have even a shred of evidence to back it up, it makes me wonder why you're here saying this at all.” He jabbed a blunt forefinger at Tucson. “If you try to spread any of this around, I'll have Marshal Calloway on you faster than you can spit. At the very least, I'll slap a charge of slander on you.”

  “You won't charge me with anything,” Tucson replied coldly. “You can't afford to have any word leak out that there's gold on the reservation. After all, you're aiming at the governor's mansion. You want Comanche gold to buy your way there. And you can't take a chance that anyone will find out you're trying to steal it away from the Comanche. At a guess,” he suggested, “I'd say no one but you and Prince know exactly what's going on. A man like Prince doesn't cooperate without knowing the score. But what does he tell Ed Thompson's boys when they go onto the reservation?”

  Durant's face went from red to white as Tucson spoke, and his eyes became malevolent slits of lurid flame. The way he was hunched forward in his chair, it was clear that if it wasn't for Tucson's Colt, the banker would try to beat him to death.

  Tucson smiled, and it was a smile every bit as malevolent and deadly as Durant's eyes. They sat staring at each other in silence, and the ticking of the clock standing in the corner seemed unusually loud. Then Durant relaxed and sat back, his mouth warping into a twisted smile.