Comanche Gold (4 page)

The boy glanced up while his hands continued
to work automatically. “Yeah...”

“What's your name?”

“My father calls me Cuchillo,” he grinned,
“’cause I'm as thin as a blade.”

“Okay, Cuchillo,” Tucson said. “What’s a boy
your age doing out here working in a saloon at night?”

Cuchillo lifted his thin shoulders almost to
his ears in a shrug. “I’m out here to make money—what else!” He
finished buffing the boot, then said, “Next one.”

As Tucson positioned the other boot on the
box, he motioned to the bartender for another beer. “Your English
is pretty good,” he commented conversationally to the boy.

“I ain't got no choice,” Cuchillo replied
offhandedly, as he smeared blacking onto the boot with his
fingertips. “I go to the reservation school. They make us learn
it.”

Tucson chuckled and took another swallow of
beer.

When Cuchillo was through, he came to his
feet and flashed Tucson a proud smile. “Ain't that the best shine
you ever had, mister?”

Tucson moved his boots from side to side,
admiring the effect. “That
is
the best shine I’ve ever had,”
he agreed. “They catch the light like a couple of mirrors.”

“Then gimme a dime,” Cuchillo demanded,
holding out his palm.

Tucson's brows went up in surprise. “That's a
mighty high price for a shoeshine. Maybe for that much money,” he
suggested, “you can throw in a little information.”

“What do you wanta know?”

“How far is it out to the reservation?”

“It's about five miles north of here,”
Cuchillo answered. “You gotta take the Old Spanish Trail. It'll
lead you right to it.”

Tucson nodded and was reaching for a coin,
when a heavy hand descended onto Cuchillo's shoulder and he was
pushed brutally aside. The boy was lifted off his feet and thrown
against the wall where he crashed to the floor.

Startled, Tucson jerked his head up to see a
tall, heavy-set man, dressed in shirt, vest and chaps, with a Colt
.45 strapped low on his right hip.

Yellow, snaggled teeth flashed in a snarl as
the man turned on the boy. “Git out o’ my way you little red
nigger!” he growled. “Learn to step aside for your betters. You
shouldn't be comin' in here around white men no ways.”

In a blur of speed, Tucson torqued his body
from the hips, brought his left fist up in a tight arc and struck
the man's jaw with a vicious uppercut.

His eyes glazing from the blow, the man was
lifted off his feet and thrown onto the floor where he slid a
couple of feet on his back in the sawdust. After lying still for a
second staring up at the ceiling, he shook his head to clear it
then lifted himself up onto his elbow.

Rubbing his jaw with his other hand, he
stared angrily up at Tucson. “Whatcha do that for, mister?” he
demanded. “You some kind o’ Injun lover or somethin'?”

Every person in the saloon stopped what they
were doing to watch the confrontation between the two men. Tucson’s
voice was hard as he spoke into the hushed silence. “It's not who I
love, but who I don't have any use for.” He stared coldly down at
the man. “I don’t have any use for coyotes like you who push kids
around when they're big enough and old enough to know better.”

Rage twisted the man's ugly features as he
came back to his feet. As he faced Tucson there was murder in his
eyes and his hand hovered over the bone grips of his Colt. “Nobody
puts their hands on Wolf Cabot,” he snarled. “I've skinned men
alive for less.”

Not bothering to respond, Tucson dropped
instantly into the gunfighter's crouch. His fingers felt
electrified as they teased the rosewood grips of the gun on his
hip. Throughout the saloon, the silence deepened as the two men
stared into each other's eyes.

The skin over Tucson’s high cheekbones was
stretched taut and his mouth had thinned to a straight line. In the
flickering shadow thrown by the brim of his sombrero, his features
had taken on the grim appearance of a skull. As Wolf Cabot stared
into that remorseless face, he began to have second thoughts. Drops
of sweat beaded his forehead and the anger contorting his face gave
way to caution, then to fear. Dragging in a ragged gulp of air, he
straightened up and let his hand fall away from his gun.

A groan of startled disappointment swept
through the spectators.

“I don't want no trouble, mister,” Wolf
whispered hoarsely.

“You won't have any trouble as long as you
apologize to the boy.” Tucson's voice was as cold as chilled steel
as it rang out over the room.

“I won't do no such thing!” The gunman almost
sobbed with mortification.

Tucson hadn't come out of his crouch. He gave
the impression of a coiled electric wire that the slightest touch
would set off. “You can do one of two things, Wolf,” Tucson told
him, an icy grin warping his wide mouth. “You can apologize—or you
can slap leather.”

For an instant Wolf's hand drifted back
toward his gun-butt, but his eyes went sick as Tucson's grin
broadened—it was as if a beast of prey had bared its fangs.

Turning away, Wolf ran a shaking hand over
his sweating brow; then he looked toward the boy. Cuchillo was
standing against the wall, watching the scene with wide eyes.

“I'm sorry, boy,” Wolf croaked, his voice
choked with shame.

“Now get out!” Tucson ordered. “If you ever
put a hand on the boy again, or anyone else who can't defend
himself, you’ll answer to me.” Yellow fire flared in his eyes. “And
next time I won't be so easy on you.”

Wolf hung there for a second longer, torn
between his shame and his fear of death. Then he spun around and
blindly pushed his way through the crowd and stumbled out the
door.

The onlookers stood quietly for a few more
minutes, staring wonderingly at Tucson; then the piano started up
again and they went back to their activities.

As Tucson relaxed and turned back to the bar,
he glanced down the line of drinkers and noticed a few unfriendly
glares tossed his way. He might be only a boy, but Cuchillo was
still an Indian, and Wolf Cabot was a white man. Tucson hadn’t made
himself any friends by siding with the Comanche.

Shrugging indifferently, he tossed off the
last of his beer then turned to the boy.

Cuchillo stood beside him, gazing up at him
worshipfully.

“Get out of here, now,” Tucson said, putting
a dime in the boy’s palm then placing his hand on his shoulder.
“Even with my warning, I wouldn't put it past Wolf Cabot to come
back and ambush you. Leave now before he thinks of it. Do you have
a horse handy?” he asked.

Cuchillo nodded. “I got a pony tied around
the corner. Don't worry, mister, I'll watch out.”

“Good,” Tucson replied. “Get out and don't
come back for a while. Give this a chance to die down. And step
wide around Cabot from now on.”

Cuchillo nodded his head, picked up his box,
slung the strap over his shoulder and turned to go. “Thanks a lot,
mister,” he said gratefully. “I won't never forget that you stood
up for me.”

* * * *

After the Indian boy had left, a slim, dapper
man of medium height, dressed in a black broadcloth coat and a
fancy vest, who looked like a professional gambler, stepped up to
the bar next to Tucson. His blue eyes were cold and steady as they
stared up into the other's face. An arched nose, wide mouth, and
cleft chin gave him an air of strength in spite of his clothes.

The gambler gestured to the bartender
hovering nearby. “Mike, give our hero another of whatever he's
drinking.”

“Yes, sir,” Mike answered briskly, and moved
away to the spigots.

Tucson raised his brows in an unspoken
question.

“My name's Prince,” the gambler said, in a
cool, clear voice. “I own the Elkhorn Saloon.”

Tucson nodded. “Much obliged for the drink.
I'm...”

“I know who you are,” Prince cut in. “You're
the Tucson Kid.”

Tucson's eyes narrowed. “Have we met?”

“We haven't actually met.” Prince nodded his
thanks to the bartender as he set a mug of beer on the bar in front
of Tucson. “But I was running a Faro game in Abilene the night you
took out Jeb Hollander.” He looked Tucson up and down. “It's seldom
you have a chance to see a classic stand-up gunfight between two
gunmen like you and Hollander. I saw it all and it was the best
fight I've ever seen. The memory will last me a lifetime.”

Tucson saluted him with the beer and took a
deep swallow.

“That was a good show you put on with Wolf,”
Prince continued, chuckling. “He’s a bad man with a gun and I've
never seen him back down before. I guess he's not as stupid as I
thought he was.”

“You know him well?” Tucson asked coldly.

“Wolf works for me.”

Tucson put his beer down and faced the
gambler. “Do you have a problem with my performance?”

“Not at all—not at all...” Prince raised his
hands palms out. “It's good for Wolf to be taken down a peg or two.
Only a couple of men in these parts could stand up to him with a
gun.”

“Who are they?” Tucson asked.

Prince pursed his lips as he thought it over.
“Well, there's Marshal Calloway—he's mighty fast. And cool as a
cucumber. Then there's Ramon Vasquez, a vaquero riding for the Lazy
T. Vasquez's faster and meaner than a sidewinder.” Prince shrugged.
“Out of all of them, though, I'd say Wolf Cabot is the most
dangerous. He holds grudges...and he won't let anything keep him
from paying them off.”

“Since he works for you,” Tucson suggested
quietly, “maybe you could rein him in a little.”

“Oh, I'll try,” Prince replied. “I'll order
him to leave it be. But like I said,” he smiled, and it gave his
face a reptilian look,” he doesn't usually let anything stand
between him and settling a grudge. So if I were you I'd watch my
back.”

The two men stood quietly after that, Tucson
sipping his beer and Prince nursing a shot of whiskey. Then the
gambler glanced at Tucson and said, “If you don't mind me asking,
Kid, have you got any particular reason for being in Howling
Wolf?”

Tucson shook his head. “I’m just passing
through. I expect to be gone within the week.”

Prince digested that for a minute. “Do you
think you'd be interested if I offered you a job?”

“With a bad man like Wolf Cabot around,”
Tucson’s mouth quirked wryly, “what do you need me for?”

Prince smiled and made a toss-away gesture
with a pale hand. “Ten Cabots wouldn't add up to one of you, Kid,
and you and I both know it.” He hunched his shoulders toward
Tucson, and said seriously, “It might be that I could use a man
like you in my operation. What do you think?”

“What's the job?”

“I'd be hiring your gun, of course.”

Tucson looked at him in surprise. “Howling
Wolf is a nice, quiet town, with what sounds like a good marshal.
What do you need guns for?”

Prince spread his hands eloquently. “That’s
true. In general, things are quiet. And Todd Calloway keeps the
peace pretty well. But I run the Elkhorn, and I have a few other
business interests. There are times when things get out of hand. I
don't always like to depend on the marshal.” He paused, then added,
“I'd pay you top dollar.”

Tucson thought it over. It was clear to him
that Prince was hinting that he had some illegal enterprises going
that he didn't want Marshal Calloway to know about. Why else would
he have a man like Wolf Cabot working for him? He probably wanted
Tucson on his payroll as some kind of enforcer. And it suggested
that George Bentley was right when he said that Calloway was
honest. If Prince didn't want to call on him for certain things,
the marshal must not be on the take.

Then he shook his head. “Sorry, Prince...I
don't hire out my gun. You'll have to get someone else.”

Prince shrugged, motioned to Mike to give
Tucson another beer, then said, “Okay, big fella. But the offer
will stay open for a while. Think it over. You never know, the
money might come in handy.”

Tucson didn't respond, and Prince turned and
passed down the bar, stopped to chat with some men along the way,
then disappeared through a doorway on the other side of the
room.

Tucson watched the door close behind the
gambler, then looked over at the poker tables. Finishing his beer,
he set the mug down, nodded to Mike then started across the floor.
He kept as close to the wall as he could, his eyes scanning the
room. The men crowded around, watching him with unfeigned
curiosity. A couple of women moved toward him, their arms reaching
up to encircle his neck, but he stepped around them and kept
going.

When he reached the poker tables, Tucson
watched the play for a few minutes, then made his choice. “You
gents mind if I sit in for a while?” he asked of five men sitting
around a table with their noses buried in their cards.

They all looked up. “Not at all,” one of them
said. “We need some fresh blood in the game. Sit yourself
down.”

* * * *

It was after two in the morning when Tucson,
four hundred dollars richer, sighed tiredly, pushed his chair back
from the table and got to his feet. “I think that’ll do it for me,
gents,” he said to the men still sitting at the table, as he folded
the bills and put them into an inside pocket.

“I hope you're plannin' on givin' us a chance
to win our money back,” one of them commented sourly.

“Sure,” Tucson replied amiably. “I always
enjoy a friendly game.”

He stepped around some tables and over a
drunk stretched out on the floor, snoring blissfully, and walked
out the door. Stopping outside on the sidewalk, he sucked in some
fresh night air while he looked up and down the street. Howling
Wolf was sleeping peacefully. Most of the mustangs were gone from
the hitch rack and the storefronts were all dark.

Turning east, he walked along the sidewalk
until he got to the livery stable. Not bothering with the front
doors, he went down the alley along the side of the building until
he found an unlocked door. He went inside then moved toward the
stall where the stallion was dozing. The interior was dark, and the
acrid odors of fresh-cut hay and horse manure hung heavy in the
air.