Comanche Gold
Authors: Richard Dawes
Tags: #indians, #thief, #duel, #reservation, #steal, #tucson, #comanche, #banker, #duel to the death, #howling wolf
A Tucson Kid Western
by Richard
Dawes
Published by
Melange Books, LLC
White Bear Lake, MN 55110
Comanche Gold, Copyright 2014
Richard Dawes
ISBN: 978-1-61235-989-2
Names, characters, and incidents
depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or
are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales,
organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental
and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher. No part of
this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any
means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording,
or by any information storage and retrieval system, without
permission in writing from the publisher.
Published in the United States of
America.
Cover Design
by
Becca Barnes
Table of
Contents
COMANCHE
GOLD
by Richard Dawes
In Comanche Gold, the Tucson Kid comes to
Howling Wolf where gold has been found nearby on the Comanche
reservation. The Comanche chief asks Tucson to protect the Indians
from the town banker who is trying to steal the gold. As he fights
for the Indians, Tucson faces the killers of the town’s gambler,
the crew of gunman hired by the banker, and finally fights a duel
to the death with the banker himself.
Chapter
One
Josh Talbot stood in the double doors of the
Talbot Livery Stable and Blacksmith, mopping the sweat from his
brow as he watched Curly Reeves put new shoes on a horse. The burly
blacksmith was hunched over with a hoof held between his knees in
his leather apron as he filed the rough edges off the shoe.
Glancing away from Curly, Josh looked down Main Street of the west
Texas town of Howling Wolf. The tall, alkali-covered buildings on
each side of the road seemed to hunch piteously beneath the driving
heat of the sun as it rolled like an orange ball across the pale
blue sky. Squinting against the dust devil spinning down the
street, he noticed a horseman just entering town from the west.
An expert judge of horses, Josh noticed the
rider’s mount first.
It was a massive black stallion, with long
legs, an arching neck and a thick flowing mane. Spirit and power
burst from the animal, and the long smooth muscles under its glossy
coat rippled and rolled like molten iron. It was a high stepper for
such a huge animal, with an almost dainty way of placing its hooves
down into the dust.
Josh dragged his eyes reluctantly away from
the horse and studied the rider who controlled it with effortless
ease.
A black, flat-crowned, wide brimmed sombrero
shaded a bronzed face that at first glance gave the impression of
an axe blade. Cold grey eyes ceaselessly studied both sides of the
street, checking buildings, alleys, windows, and the pedestrians
moving along or standing on the wooden sidewalks. Prominent
cheekbones framed a high-bridged nose, and a wide, thin-lipped
mouth was set like granite above a craggy chin.
Josh took note of the black leather jacket,
cut short at the waist, encasing the rider’s broad shoulders and
deep chest. A black gun-belt encircled his lean waist, and a Colt
.45 with blued steel and rosewood grips rested in the black holster
tied down to his right leg. Dark serge trousers covered his long,
horseman’s legs. As the rider moved inexorably up the street, he
radiated danger like a crouching panther or a coiled rattler, ready
to strike at the slightest provocation.
Glancing up at the sky, Josh was startled to
see the black, spectral shapes of vultures circling ominously above
the slaughterhouse and stockyards at the edge of town. From his
angle of vision, they gave the illusion of swarming directly over
the rider, forming a dark and grisly nimbus around his head.
Looking around, Josh noticed Mel Kippers,
busily sweeping the sidewalk outside his general store, pause to
stare curiously at the stranger. Two cattlemen, who had been deep
in conversation outside the Elkhorn Saloon, stopped in mid-sentence
and gaped at the rider as he passed. A couple of women in low-cut
dresses, who were hanging out of a second floor window above the
saloon, craned their necks to see him, their flashing eyes
following him with calculated interest.
Josh gulped nervously as the stranger turned
his level gaze toward the livery stable, studied him for a moment,
read the sign on the wall above his head then reined the stallion
toward him.
“Howdy, mister,” Josh called out in a thin
voice, feeling uncomfortable under the steady stare of the rider.
At close range, the dark aura of danger and menace emanating from
the man was almost overpowering. As hard as he tried, Josh couldn't
keep his voice steady. “Can I help y'all?” he quavered.
The stranger glanced at Curly, who had
stopped shoeing the horse and was looking up to see what was going
on, then his eyes swung back to Josh. “Do you own this stable?” he
asked, in a deep, resonant voice.
“I surely do!” Josh replied, gaining
confidence. “I'm Josh Talbot. You're welcome to stable your hoss
here while you're in town, if you've a mind.”
The stranger nodded. “What do you
charge?”
“Dollar a day—oats is two bits extra.”
“That'll do.” The rider looped the reins
loosely around the saddle horn, swung his leg over the cantle and
stepped down into the dust of the street. “I'd like to see that
stall now, if you don't mind,” he said. “My horse needs to get some
rest.”
“No problem a-tall,” Josh responded
good-naturedly, finally beginning to relax. He reached out for the
horse's bridle chains then jerked his hand back as the stranger
spoke again.
“Leave it be. It'll follow us alright. Just
lead the way.”
Josh shrugged and walked inside the stable.
The stranger followed, with the stallion ambling along behind.
The stable was a large, dark, barn-like
building, extending back through the block to another street in the
rear. There were several rows of stalls, most of them occupied,
with a deep loft all along the back where hay was stored. In front
on the left was the blacksmith area, with an anvil, a hearth and
bellows, and tools hung in an orderly manner on the wall.
They stopped at an empty stall towards the
rear and Josh opened the gate. It was raked clean, with plenty of
room for the horse to turn around.
Without speaking, the stranger pointed into
the stall, and the stallion walked in.
“That's a mighty tame cayoose you got there,
stranger,” Josh commented. “You sure wouldn't know it to look at
it.”
“It's only tame with me,” the rider said
quietly. “I've seen it rip the arm off a man it didn't know who
made the mistake of putting his hand on it.”
Josh stepped hastily back. “Well, now!” he
yelped. “I don't know as I want an animal that mean around
here.”
“Don't worry,” the stranger replied
reassuringly. “I'll come around every morning to feed it, and check
back in the afternoon. All you have to provide is a roof and plenty
of feed.”
Josh scratched his grizzled chin dubiously
with a gnarled finger, then shrugged and let it go. “By the way,”
he said, squinting hard at the other. “If'n you're gonna stable
your hoss here, I reckon it ain't impolite to ask if y’all got a
name.”
The rider paused as he fished in his jacket
pocket and pulled out a ten-dollar gold piece. “Call me Tucson,” he
answered, almost reluctantly. He flipped the coin at Josh, who
plucked it nimbly from the air and tested it with yellow teeth.
“Here's a week in advance,” he added. “If I decide to stay longer
I'll give you another week in advance.”
Josh nodded and deposited the coin in his
vest pocket. Then, his homely face twisted with curiosity, he
asked, “That’s it? Your name’s just Tucson...?”
The sense of a crouching panther returned as
Tucson stared into Josh's eyes. “Yes,” he said softly. “That's
it.”
Josh gulped as he tried to force words out of
a suddenly constricted throat. “Hey!” he cried. “That's good enough
for me, Mr. Tucson. No problem here.” He started backing down the
corridor. “I'll just let you and your hoss be an’ I’ll get on about
my business.” He waved an arm as he walked quickly away. “You need
anythin’, just holler.”
“Thanks,” Tucson said, then turned and walked
into the stall.
* * * *
Tucson removed the stallion's saddle and
bridle, then, while the horse rolled around in the dirt, he forked
plenty of hay into the trough along the side of the stall. Then he
put a nose-bag full of oats over its muzzle, and carefully curried
it down. He worked steadily over the stallion's coat until it
gleamed like polished ebony; then he worked through the long mane
and tail, combing out all the snarls and bristles picked up as
they'd traveled through the desert. Once he was satisfied, Tucson
took the nose-bag off and scratched the stallion between its ears.
Then he slid the Winchester from its scabbard, slung his saddle
bags over his left shoulder, closed the gate, and headed up to the
front of the stable.
As Tucson approached the entrance, Josh, who
had been talking animatedly to three other men, suddenly broke off
what he was saying and looked sheepishly at Tucson. Tucson studied
them for a moment, recognizing the pale, bald man in the long white
apron as the merchant who had been sweeping off the sidewalk when
he rode in. The other two were the cattlemen who had been talking
in front of the saloon.
The way they stared at him, Tucson guessed
that he must have been the main topic of conversation. He gestured
to a wooden bucket of water sitting on a stump beside the door.
“Do you mind if I have a drink?” he
asked.
“Not at all, Mr. Tucson...” Josh's thin voice
shot out overly loud. “Help yourself to as much as you want.”
Although he was tired, Tucson's well-knit
body moved with the easy grace of a big cat. As he went toward the
bucket, his grey eyes kept the group within his peripheral vision,
alert for any false move. The men seemed aware of it; they stood
stiffly, watching him with intense interest.
The merchant spoke up in a high-pitched
voice. “My name's Mel Kippers, Mr. Tucson,” he said. “I want to
welcome you to the town of Howling Wolf. My store, Kippers'
Mercantile, is down the street on the other side. It carries
everything you're liable to need while you’re in town.”
Tucson nodded vaguely as he leaned his
Winchester against the stump, picked up the ladle resting over the
bucket with his left hand and used it to clear the scum from the
surface of the water. Then he dipped deep and lifted the cool
liquid to his parched lips.
“You traveled far?” one of the cattlemen
asked.
Tucson stared coldly at him over the ladle.
“Far enough,” he replied, between gulps.
The four men exchanged glances, then the
second cattleman spoke. “You have business here in Howlin' Wolf,
Mr. Tucson?”
“Right now,” Tucson responded, carefully
replacing the ladle over the top of the bucket, “my only business
is to find some place to sleep.” His gaze shifted to Josh Talbot.
“Is there a good, medium class hotel in this town you can
recommend?”
“There surely is,” Josh replied, raising his
hand and pointing east. “Across Main Street and up two blocks is
Murry's Hotel and Boarding House. Murry's dead now,” he added, “but
his widow still runs the place. She keeps a good clean house and
charges reasonable rates.”
“That sounds like just what I'm looking for.”
Tucson touched the brim of his sombrero and nodded to the four men.
“Gents,” he said. “Nice meeting you.”
When Tucson stepped out of the stable and
onto the street, he paused on the sidewalk with his back to the
wall and took in the situation. It was late afternoon, the fiery
ball of the sun was rolling toward the horizon, the heat was
beginning to slacken and the shadows along Main Street were getting
longer.
