Comanche Gold (16 page)

“You two keep your minds off food,” Prince
barked fiercely, “and onto the Kid here! He's as dangerous as a
sidewinder, and twice as fast. You give him half a chance and he'll
be all over you like stink on shit. And believe me,” Prince’s face
set in lines of granite, “if he doesn't kill you, Ed will.”

Red walked around Tucson, went to the other
chair and lowered himself into it. He eyed Tucson sullenly. Tucson
didn't bother to meet his glance. He was already feeling to see how
much play there was in his bonds. There wasn't any...but he kept
flexing his hands and wrists anyway to see how much he could
stretch them.

Prince came over and stood in front of
Tucson. He thrust his hands into his trouser pockets while he
stared at Tucson for several minutes, as if he was thinking
something over. “You have any idea what this is all about, big
man?” he asked finally. “You know why you're here?”

“Yeah,” Tucson spoke for the first time. “You
and the rest of these low-down skunks work for Charles Durant. He
ordered you to pick me up and here I am.”

Prince nodded. “That was a stupid stunt you
pulled, Kid, threatening him like that. What did you think he was
going to do, roll over for you?”

Tucson shook his head resignedly. “No... I
expected him to do exactly what he did do. I just thought I'd be
able to handle it a little better, that’s all.”

This last statement brought guffaws from Red
and Charlie, who had been listening to them with interest. Prince
glanced around at them and smiled, then swung back to Tucson.

“You got any idea what's in store for you?”
he asked.

Tucson shrugged. “I suppose you're going to
try to kill me.”

“Try?” Charlie chortled. “Big man, you're
mighty sure o’ yourself!”

“You're right about that,” Prince said to
Tucson, ignoring Charlie's outburst. “You’re going to die. But
Durant doesn't want it to happen until tomorrow morning after the
bank opens. He's making sure nothing leads back to him. So you've
got until ten in the morning to make peace with yourself for being
so stupid.”

It occurred to Tucson to mention the gold as
a way to sow dissension in the ranks. He was still sure that the
lower level gunmen didn't know anything about it. After meeting Ed
Thompson, though, he thought it was a pretty good bet that he knew.
Thompson looked like one tough hombre, which he'd have to be to
keep this crew of hard cases in line.

But if the men found out about the gold,
there would be no way to keep the news from leaking out. If that
happened, the Comanche’s plans would be ruined for good. Tucson
shrugged inwardly and made his decision to keep quiet. If he died,
there might still be a chance that the Comanche could prevail. If
he let it out as a distraction, it was a cinch to get spread
around, and even if he lived, the Comanche would lose.

Tucson couldn't let them pay for his
carelessness.

“Well,” he said at last. “I found out a long
time ago that it's a mistake to crow too soon. The game isn’t over
until the last card falls.”

“I've got to hand it to you, Kid.” Prince’s
mouth quirked with admiration. “You've got balls. But we'll see if
you still have them tomorrow morning when we stand you up against a
wall.”

Then he turned on his heel and walked out of
the tool room, closing the door behind him.

Chapter
Ten

Tucson slumped in his chair with his left leg
thrown out in front of him and his right cocked to the rear. His
head had dropped onto his right shoulder while he slept. It was
quiet in the tool shed, the only sounds being the dry chipping as a
guard whittled on a piece of wood with a pocket knife, the
occasional rustling of the newspaper being read by the other guard,
and the soft snoring coming from Tucson.

But while Tucson was giving the impression of
being asleep, he was in fact extremely active. He had pulled his
right leg back to the rear of the chair to bring the hide-out knife
in his boot closer to his bound hands. By slumping down, he had
brought his hands even closer. He pretended to be asleep to lull
the guards into thinking they could safely take their eyes off him.
Occasionally, he would slit his eyes and glance at the two men
surreptitiously from beneath the brim of his sombrero. The guard
whittling was half turned away from him, engrossed in his work,
while the other was tilted back against the wall, his nose buried
in the paper.

The guards alternated every two hours, and
there had been three changes since Tucson had been brought in. His
bonds were closely examined at each guard change. Tucson estimated
it to be a little after midnight. He had waited so long to make his
move, to give the crew a chance to get settled into a routine, with
most of them asleep. It was about an hour since the last guard
change, and Tucson hoped he had another hour ahead of him to get
loose.

Moving as slowly as he could, he stretched
his fingers down toward his boot. The circulation to his hands had
been cut off by his bonds, and they were swollen and red. There was
a good chance his stiffened fingers wouldn't even be able to grip
the knife-hilt—but it was a risk he would have to take. Checking
the guards to make sure they suspected nothing, Tucson felt his
fingertips touch the rough fabric of his trouser-cuff. He rested
there for several heartbeats, giving the gunmen time to get used to
his position, then he inched the cuff up and reached
underneath.

He could just brush the upper end of the
knife-hilt with his fingers, but he couldn't grip it—he had to
stretch lower.

It took a good ten minutes for him to descend
another half-inch; then his two middle fingers got a grip on the
rounded wooden hilt. Holding the rest of his body stationary, and
with no break in the steady rhythm of his snoring, he curled his
fingers up into his palm, bringing the knife up with them. Once
there, he held the hilt in place with his thumb, then lowered his
fingers again and gripped the knife by the blade. Another finger
curl and the whole knife disappeared up his sleeve.

With a snort and a cough, Tucson shifted
position, bringing his right leg around to the front then sagging
back in the chair so that his hands were once again behind him and
out of sight of the guards. They looked up suspiciously as he
moved, then relaxed again as he resumed snoring.

“Get a load o' this guy.” One of them
chuckled, jerking a thumb toward Tucson. “He's under a death
sentence, and he still sleeps the night away.”

“Yeah,” grunted the other, as he turned the
page of his newspaper. “Some balls...”

“The Kid’s got a big rep,” the first guard
continued, “but we took him out on the trail so easy it was like he
was some punk kid.” His mouth twisted into a sneer. “He don’t look
so tough to me.”

The other man didn’t bother to look up from
his paper as he spoke. “The Kid’s tough alright. I hear tell he
took on the gang of the bandit, Augustine Baca, down in Mexico a
while back an’ wiped out the whole greasy bunch of ‘em. Some more
Mexican bandits followed him on back up here into the States to get
revenge—an’ ever one of ‘em ended up dead.” He turned a page of the
newspaper. “This hombre’s tougher an’ meaner than a sack-full o’
rattlers.”

The first guard whistled with surprise. “You
don’t say...!”

While the two men talked, Tucson had kept
busy. But, as he had feared, it was slow going getting his swollen
fingers to manipulate the knife. If it dropped, clattering to the
floor, he would be discovered, and he wouldn't get a second chance.
Carefully, he let it slide slowly down out of his sleeve then
reversed it so that he held it by the hilt. Then, moving only his
wrists, he began sawing away at the bonds.

The carefulness with which he had to work,
while still appearing to be asleep, bathed Tucson’s face in sweat;
it dripped down his nose and slid off onto the floor. A new danger
was that the guards might notice the sweat, investigate, then
discover the knife. But they seemed to be lulled by his lack of
movement and his steady snoring.

One of the bonds gave way, and Tucson felt
such an incredible rush of relief that it almost made him sick to
his stomach. Lying in a relaxed position while his hands worked
away at the ropes, with time running out, was one of the most
difficult things he had ever done. Then, after what seemed an
eternity, the last rope parted. Tucson pressed his arms against the
back of the chair in an attempt to keep the rope from falling to
the floor, but he couldn’t hold it and it dropped to the boards
with a soft plop.

He tensed, waiting to see if the guards
noticed it, but they were still engrossed in what they were doing
and didn't even glance at him.

Gripping the knife with his thumb, he spent
several precious minutes flexing his fingers while the blood flowed
back into them. The needles prickling his hands were excruciating,
but the rhythm of his snoring never faltered. When he felt ready,
he snorted and coughed again and came up into a sitting position,
with his boot-heels back against the chair legs, ready to
spring.

He tilted his head up and looked at the
guards through bleary eyes. “Hey,” he mumbled groggily. “Do you
think one of you hombres could get me a drink of water? My mouth
tastes like the whole Mexican army just marched through it in their
socks.”

The guards glanced at him; then the one who
had been whittling put his knife and the piece of wood aside with a
sigh, brought his chair forward and stood up. Walking to the corner
where a pail of water and a cup were placed, he dipped the cup then
came over to Tucson.

“Here,” he said, holding the cup to Tucson's
lips. “Drink...”

With steel-spring quickness, Tucson brought
the knife up and buried the blade to the hilt in the guard's neck;
then, with a vicious swipe he ripped it to the side and almost
decapitated him. As blood gushed over the floor boards, the guard,
clutching desperately at his neck, sank gurgling and coughing to
the floor.

But Tucson was already hurtling toward the
second guard.

“What the hell?” he cried, as he stared at
Tucson in frozen terror.

They were the last words he ever spoke. Like
the fang of a striking rattler, Tucson's knife bit deep into his
chest and transfixed his heart. Dying instantly, the gunman let the
newspaper slip from his fingers, sank back in the chair and stared
sightlessly into space.

Immediately dismissing both of the guards,
Tucson spun around and surveyed the situation.

There was a paint-covered window half-way up
the south wall. Tucson moved quickly to it and, as quietly as he
could, attempted to lift it. The wood was warped and the window was
jammed. After trying several times, with a grunt of disgust Tucson
gave up. That left the way he had come in as the only way
out—through the bunkhouse.

Tucson stooped and lifted the guns from the
holsters of the dead guards, checked the rounds in the cylinders
then put one in his gun-belt and slipped the other into his
shoulder rig. Then he blew out the lantern sitting on the table and
glided soundlessly to the door. Turning the handle carefully, he
opened it a crack then pressed his eye to the opening and gazed
into the bunkhouse. There was one lantern hanging on the wall; in
its dim light, Tucson counted twenty men sprawled out on the bunks
asleep.

He grinned with cold satisfaction—their heavy
snoring should cover any noise he would make.

But he knew better than to get careless.
Testing each board before he trusted it with his weight, he inched
toward the outside door. Once there, he took a last glance behind
him—no one had noticed him—then he slipped out and closed the door
softly behind him.

Leaning against the wall, he sucked in huge
gulps of fresh air. The night was cool and dark, with only the
sliver of a moon dangling in the sky above. The distant stars
glittered in the purple vault like a swarm of fireflies.

The first part of his escape was over, but
Tucson wasn't out of danger yet. There was still plenty he had to
do; for one thing, he had to take back his own guns. His eyes
narrowed to deadly slits as he stared across the clearing at the
main house.

The lights were still on in the ground-floor
windows. Maybe Prince and Ed Thompson were still up, sharing a
bottle and celebrating the success of capturing the Tucson Kid. As
he grinned with anticipation, Tucson’s teeth flashed in the
starlight like the fangs of a snarling wolf.

He had warned Prince that it was a mistake to
crow too soon. Well, the gambler was about to get a much needed
lesson, and Tucson was going to give it to him.

Lowering into a half-crouch, Tucson sprinted
across the clearing. He avoided the better-lit front of the house
and slipped into the shadows clustered about the rear. He stopped
at the corner and pressed himself against the wall, then looked
back. All was quiet; no one was sounding the alarm. Peering around
the corner, he saw a porch about halfway down the wall, almost
hidden in the shadows. He bent lower as he headed toward it,
scanning the ground as he went to make sure he didn't trip over
anything.

Then, suddenly, a huge dark shadow reared up.
Tucson heard a low growl and saw the flash of long fangs in the
darkness. It was a hound the size of a mastiff, and it didn't like
the smell of Tucson.

“Easy, boy,” Tucson whispered, in an attempt
to keep the animal from barking.

There was no rattle of chain, which meant
that the hound must be loose. Tucson knew he couldn't outrun it.
Still growling, the dog lowered itself to the ground in preparation
for a spring. Tucson braced his legs to meet the charge, and it
wasn't long in coming. The dog bounded across the short space
separating them then leaped for Tucson's throat.