Comanche Gold (18 page)

Thompson and his gang were coming up fast;
evidently the rancher knew the trail and was going to lead his men
down into the arroyo. As McMannus fell to the ground beside him,
drawing his Colt, Tucson took aim with the Winchester and squeezed
the trigger.

Thompson's horse must have thrown its head up
at just that moment, because the bullet that would have taken the
rancher in the chest hit the horse in the forehead, killing it
instantly. Thompson was an expert horseman and knew what he was
doing. As his horse stumbled, he got his boots out of the stirrups
then rolled when he hit the ground. His men, shouting and cursing,
swerved to miss him. Rolling to a stop, Thompson came up into a
kneeling position and called to his men to back off and take
cover.

Sighting through the swirling dust, Tucson
fired another round that caught Thompson in the left shoulder,
spinning him around and laying him out. McMannus was firing at the
fleeing gunmen, and two more fell from their saddles.

Then darkness swallowed them up and they were
out of range. As the horsemen disappeared, Tucson glanced back to
where Ed Thompson had been lying, but he was gone. He must have
crawled away with his men under the cover of dust and darkness.

Tucson automatically reloaded his rifle as
his eyes scanned the terrain, but he couldn't see anything. A
breeze swept through the chaparral and ruffled the prairie grass.
It carried the sounds of creaking leather, the chink of bridle
chains, and Ed Thompson's deep voice barking orders.

Then it all stopped, and an ominous silence
fell over the prairie.

McMannus looked around at Tucson, and his
blue eyes were haunted. “You could've gotten away if it wasn't for
me!” he cried bitterly. “I could see that your horse wasn't even
workin' hard, and mine was almost done in. I wanted to help you,”
he wailed, “but it's because o’ me that we're in this fix.”

Tucson shrugged, his eyes ceaselessly probing
the darkness. “There's no use going into that now,” he replied
quietly. “You put your life on the line to save my hide, Tom.” His
eyes were steady as he glanced at McMannus. “When a man does that
for me, I don't ever forget it.”

McMannus smiled gratefully. “Thanks, Tucson!”
His voice was a little choked. Then, “What do we do now? We can't
stay down here forever. We'll fry when the sun comes up.”

Tucson snorted. “Thompson will have us picked
off long before sunrise.” The shadows emphasized the harsh lines of
his face as he stared bleakly out over the prairie. “I'll bet
they're sneaking up on us right now,” he muttered. “When they get
close enough, they'll make a charge.” His eyes shifted to the boy.
“We won’t be able to get them all before we're overrun.”

“Gawdalmighty, Tucson!” McMannus almost
shouted with alarm. “Why did you have us pull into this arroyo,
then? Now we're trapped!”

“Your horse was done in,” Tucson replied
simply. “We'd both be dead now if we had kept running. This was our
only chance. Besides,” he chuckled mirthlessly, and in the dim
light his face became a death mask, “we're not waiting for Ed
Thompson and his gang to come in here after
us
. We're going
out there and get
them
.”

“Out there...?” McMannus stared at Tucson as
if he were insane. “There must be twenty of 'em out there. A
snowball in hell would have a better chance than us.”

Tucson pulled his eyes away from the prairie
and gazed levelly at McMannus. “You can stay here if that’s your
decision, Tom, but if you want to be a lawman you've got to learn
to take chances—that is, chances that
have
to be taken.
Anyway, I figure we've killed maybe five of them. That leaves about
fifteen men against two. Those odds aren't too bad.”

McMannus looked down at the ground for a
moment then he shook his head. “I'm sorry, Tucson,” he muttered.
“You're right. What do you want me to do?”

“You go that way.” Tucson pointed to the
south. “I'll go north. Then we swing around, outflank them and take
them from behind.”

“How'll we know when each of us is in
position?”

“You wait until I start the fandango,” Tucson
replied. “Don't make a move on them until I come up.”

“How'll you know I'm there?” McMannus asked.
“Somethin’ might happen to slow me down.”

“I'll just figure you made it,” Tucson
replied. “And don't make me wrong!”

* * * *

As Tucson crawled through the prairie grass,
gravel bit into his elbows and knees and the chaparral scratched
his face and tugged at his clothes. It was lucky the moon had set;
his black sombrero, black leather jacket and dark trousers made him
almost invisible in the night.

Pausing for breath beneath a yucca, he cocked
an ear to listen.

A faint metallic ‘chink’ reached him from the
right, like the sound spurs made when they struck a rock. He had
known Thompson and his gunmen would be coming to get him and
McMannus. The rancher couldn't afford to let this fight drag on too
long—the sounds of gunfire may have already been heard in Howling
Wolf.

Marshal Calloway could even then be riding
out to find out what was going on. At this point, it was Ed
Thompson who was running out of time.

The important thing had been to get out of
that arroyo. It was a good place for a short term defense, but
under a full scale attack it was a death trap. Tucson caught the
sounds of whispering and the brush of several bodies passing
through the chaparral. He buried his face in the dirt and let them
go by, his nerves tingling at the nearness of his enemies.

When he was certain they had passed him, he
came up into a crouch and moved south until he cut their trail—seen
easily even in the darkness—then turned back west, following them.
He had no intention of fighting them in the brush. He would wait
until they were close to the arroyo, where the chaparral thinned
out, then he would make his attack.

The sound of a boot slipping in gravel
brought him around with his gun up. A few yards to his left,
crouching behind a bush, was Tom McMannus, his Colt out and ready,
staring at him apprehensively.

Tucson pointed west, and began moving.

McMannus came up alongside him, and the two
of them went on together. Tucson glanced appraisingly at the boy.
He was breathing heavily from nerves, but otherwise he appeared
steady enough. This was going to be McMannus’ trial by fire, Tucson
reflected, and he hoped the boy would be equal to the test.

Their lives depended on it.

The gunmen ahead dropped onto their stomachs
as the chaparral thinned out and they approached the arroyo. Tucson
looked beyond them to the crest. In the faint starlight, he could
just make out a Stetson and his sombrero where they had left them
propped up on sticks so they could just be glimpsed above the rim
of the canyon. Tucson's Winchester was lying beside them in the
dirt, pointing straight ahead.

Tucson grinned to himself. It was a pretty
simple ruse, and it wouldn't fool Ed Thompson for more than a
minute - but that was all the edge Tucson needed.

He spotted Thompson in the middle, favoring
his left shoulder as he wriggled under a clump of brush. The
rancher was motioning to his men to spread out. Tucson watched them
getting into position as they came up onto their knees in
preparation for a charge.

“Get ready,” he whispered to McMannus. “This
is it.”

The stillness was suddenly shattered as Ed
Thompson's voice boomed out. “Come on out, Kid,” he shouted at the
arroyo. “There ain't no way you kin last once we charge. Give up
now and save yourself a whole lot o' trouble.”

Tucson's lips peeled back from his teeth in a
pantherish snarl as he thumbed the hammers of his Colts back to
full cock. When he spoke, his voice rang out with a metallic edge,
like a hammer striking an anvil. “Sorry, Ed. It's time you paid the
piper.”

For a split second, the whole crew of gunmen
froze into immobility.

In that instant, Tucson dropped to his knee
beside a bush and started firing. McMannus knelt beside him and
began shooting methodically at the men caught silhouetted against
the open ground.

Pandemonium broke out as the gunmen spun
around, trying to catch a glimpse of their attackers as they dodged
the sleet of lead coming at them. Tucson concentrated his fire on
Ed Thompson first. As the rancher came about, Tucson's bullet hit
him between the eyes, and his head exploded, showering the
chaparral with blood and bone fragments.

Three men fell to the ground as McMannus
continued to place his shots.

Even as Ed Thompson’s headless body dropped
twitching to the sand, Tucson fired three more times—a gunman
doubled over from a gut-shot then flipped into the bushes as
Tucson’s second bullet took his head off to the jaw. Tucson’s third
slug caught another gunman in the throat—he dropped to his knees,
gagging horribly and spewing blood from his mouth, then he dropped
face-down into the sand.

“Roll...!” Tucson called to McMannus; then he
leaped to his right, rolled, came up on one knee and resumed
firing.

Cursing and shouting in panic, jumping behind
any cover they could find, the gunmen were finally returning fire.
All the brush around Tucson and McMannus was being chopped and
shredded; gravel and dirt sprayed over them as the bullets plowed
into the ground. Although they were spraying the area with lead,
the gunmen were at a disadvantage. They were out in the open, and
they couldn't see Tucson and McMannus very well as they maneuvered
in the chaparral.

Tucson fired three shots in quick succession.
A gunman on the left spun around, his gun flying from his hand, his
shirt-front a grisly red wash, then he fell face down in the dirt.
Another doubled over with a bullet in his stomach, while a third
flipped over into the brush from a slug between his eyes.

McMannus hit a man in the leg, and he went
down screaming in pain. Another shot took a second gunman in the
throat; he sat down in the dust as if he couldn't believe what had
happened. He stayed that way for a moment then slumped over
sideways—dead.

Seeing the carnage, one of the surviving
gunmen threw down his Colt in panic and lifted his hands in the
air. “Don't shoot, Kid,” he shouted, his voice quavering with
terror. “Don't shoot. I give up.”

Tucson recognized the gunman as Charlie, one
of the guards who had watched him that night. He paused as the rest
of the crew stopped shooting, waiting to see what Tucson's response
would be.

McMannus held his fire and glanced over at
Tucson.

“Alright,” Tucson called back, still not
showing himself. “All of you throw down your guns.” When they
hesitated, he roared, “Now!”

One by one, they dropped their weapons and
raised their hands.

“Step back two paces,” Tucson ordered.

Once the men were safely away from their
guns, Tucson stood up and walked toward them, his Colts held level
and still cocked. McMannus came to his feet and moved beside him,
his gun ready. There were only seven men left. The rest lay twisted
and contorted in the underbrush like piles of bloody rags. The
gunman shot in the leg was still moaning.

Tucson halted and looked into the eyes of the
men facing him. They stared back, their faces twisted with shame
and terror.

“You sorry bunch of sniveling skunks don't
deserve to live!” Tucson muttered, biting his words off
contemptuously. “But I'm giving you all one last chance. Go get
your horses and ride out.” He pointed to the wounded man with his
Colt. “And drag this snake with you. Keep riding and don't come
back,” he warned them, his eyes blazing. “If I ever see any of you
again, I'll drop you where you stand.” He looked from one to the
other of them. “Do you all understand me?”

Still not quite believing their good fortune,
the men nodded hastily.

“What about the dead men?” one of them
asked.

Tucson's mouth thinned to a hard line. “The
buzzards have to eat, too.” Then he gestured with his Colt. “Now,
git...!”

Without another word, they lifted the wounded
man and stumbled hastily through the brush in the direction of
their horses.

Tucson and McMannus turned to watch them go,
then the boy spat on the ground. “Gawdamned sonsabitches! The whole
bunch of ‘em ought to be locked up where they won't hurt nobody
else.”

“Maybe,” Tucson commented dryly, as he
ejected the spent shells from his guns and punched in fresh rounds.
“But sometimes I think I'd rather kill a man outright than send him
to the living death of prison.” He glanced at McMannus and asked,
“Are you okay?”

McMannus held his arms out from his sides and
looked himself over. “I don't seem to be hit or nothin'. I’m just
dirty as hell.” Then he looked again at Tucson, his eyes beaming
proudly, and asked, “Well, how'd I do? Did I pass?”

“Yep...” Tucson slapped him on the shoulder.
“You passed with flying colors.”

Chapter
Eleven

With dawn only about an hour away, Tucson
left Tom McMannus at the edge of Howling Wolf and rode through the
back streets in the direction of the residential district where
Charles Durant lived. It was cool and quiet, there were no lights
in any of the houses, and the stars were flickering out as the sky
turned steel grey. Still, Tucson didn’t take any chances as he rode
through the silent streets. His right hand rested on the butt of
his Colt and he studied every alleyway before he passed by.

Then he reached the eastern edge of town and
halted the stallion in the shadow of an old warehouse.

As he eased himself in the saddle, Tucson
probed the darkness around Durant's mansion for any sign of
sentries, but he could detect nothing out of the ordinary. Then he
spotted a stray dog wandering along the road, sniffing at hedges
and stopping occasionally to relieve itself against the trunks of
trees.