Comanche Gold (12 page)

“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 stallion 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 decided 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.”