Comanche Gold (20 page)

But as Durant’s guard came back up, Tucson
kicked him in the shin with his right boot then kicked him in the
other shin with his left boot. The banker grunted as tears of pain
filled his eyes, blurring his vision, and Tucson struck him another
power blow square in the face.

With that last punch, Tucson knocked Durant
backward and they both hit the double doors to the study with an
impact that shook the whole house and ripped them off the frame. In
the confusion, both men went down, but Tucson recovered first, and
he lashed out with his boot and caught Durant in the face as the
banker tried to rise.

Durant was lifted off his feet again, and he
landed heavily on the polished floor and slid several feet. His
face was a bloody mess as a flood of crimson poured from his
crushed nose and broken mouth.

But Durant was tough, and he was no stranger
to rough and tumble fighting. When Tucson came at him again, the
banker lifted his bare foot, caught Tucson in the chest and threw
him back. That gave Durant the space he needed to regain his
feet.

By the time Tucson recovered his balance, the
banker was swarming all over him. Tucson felt as if he had been
thrown into a buzz saw – as before, punches rained down on him from
every direction. He covered up as best he could and tried to get
away, but Durant seemed to know beforehand just what he was going
to do and how he was going to dodge, and was there to meet him with
a flurry of strikes.

Tucson felt like he had escaped from hell
only to be thrown back into the flames again.

A couple of ribs were cracked, an eye was
closing, and Tucson’s head was buzzing like he had a swarm of bees
inside his skull. When his leg struck a chair, he scuttled around
it then kicked it toward Durant, catching him across the knees and
making him stumble.

Seeing his chance, Tucson leaped toward
Durant and hit him with a right hand punch to the jaw that had all
of his weight behind it. Tucson felt the impact all the way up his
arm to his shoulder; it rocked Durant back on his heels, giving
Tucson his opportunity to mount his own offense.

Tucson knew he couldn't take much more of the
punishment Durant was dishing out. He had to end the fight soon or
he was going to be killed. Before Durant had caught his balance,
Tucson brought his boot up between the banker's legs and kicked him
hard in the groin a second time. Durant couldn’t take another
strike to his balls; he sagged to his knees with a strangled sob
and Tucson kicked him again in the face.

Durant's already ruined nose disappeared in a
spray of blood, and he catapulted backwards to land outstretched on
his back on the floor. But the banker was far from through. Even as
he hit the floor, he was rolling out of it and coming back to his
feet.

Tucson picked up the chair, swung it over his
head then brought it down with all his strength across Durant’s
shoulders. The banker was driven back down to the floor as two of
the chair-legs snapped across his back. This time Durant didn't
come out of it so soon, and Tucson lifted the shattered chair again
and brought what was left of it down on Durant's head.

Durant hung there for a second, braced on his
hands, his whole body shuddering with the effort to rise while a
torrent of blood poured from his ruined face onto the floor. Then
he collapsed, face down, and lay still.

Gasping for breath, feeling like he had just
been trampled by a stampeding herd of horses, Tucson threw the
smashed chair aside and staggered to the desk. Keeping his one good
eye on Durant, he felt around in the desk drawers until he found
the banker's bottle of whiskey.

Pulling the cork, he up-ended it and poured a
long jolt over his cut lips and down his parched throat. Then,
feeling somewhat revived, he put the bottle aside, picked up his
shirt and began pulling it on over his head.

Just then he heard boots pounding up the
front stairs, and he looked up to see Marshal Todd Calloway, Tom
McMannus, and Jessup burst into the room. While the three of them
stopped to take in the scene, Tucson picked up the rawhide pouch
with the gold nugget and slipped it into his pocket.

Then, while he tucked his shirt into his
trousers, he mumbled thickly, “Howdy, boys.” To Calloway, he asked,
“Is there a problem, Marshal?”

Both Calloway and Tom McMannus stared in
astonishment at the still form of Charles Durant, lying face down
on the floor in a thickening pool of his own blood.

Jessup rushed to the banker, knelt down on
one knee and checked to see if he was still alive.

Calloway stared at Tucson incredulously. “You
beat Charles Durant in a hand to hand fight?” he asked.

“No laws were broken, Marshal,” Tucson
informed him, slipping into his shoulder harness and picking up his
jacket. “We had a little sporting proposition going—and Durant
lost.”

Tom McMannus regarded Tucson with a lopsided
grin. “You look like holy hell!”

Tucson tried to grin back, but his face hurt
too much. “Yeah,” he replied ruefully. “I feel like hell, too.”
Running his fingers through his hair to get it out of his eyes, he
put on his sombrero. Finally, he jerked his thumb at Durant. “Our
deal was, if I won, Durant was going to leave town. It looks like
Howling Wolf will need a new banker.”

“What...?” Calloway's heavy brows rose in
astonishment. “Why in the gawdammed hell would Durant make a deal
like that?”

“Ask him,” Tucson responded.

Durant was sitting up by then, braced by
Jessup, and was listening to the conversation.

“That's a damned lie!” he mumbled angrily,
the words difficult to understand as they passed over his mangled
lips. His gaze was murderous as it swung between Tucson and
Calloway. “This man is a criminal.” He pointed his finger at
Tucson. “He broke into my house and forced me at gunpoint to fight
him. I had no desire to fight, Marshal,” he insisted, “but I had no
choice. I hoped all along that Jessup would have sense enough to go
get you before it was too late.”

Calloway squared his shoulders and looked
levelly at Tucson. “Well,” he said quietly, as his right hand moved
toward the Colt on his hip, “that puts a different color on
things.”

Tucson gazed calmly at the marshal. He knew
Calloway was fast with a gun and was just honest enough to take a
stand against Tucson even if it cost him his life. But at the
moment, after his battle with Durant, there was no way Tucson could
stand up to the marshal. Besides, Tucson always tried to stay on
the right side of the law, or at least, on the right side of what
the law could prove. He knew his best tactic just then was to try
to talk his way out of the situation.

“Durant has been part of a plot to take the
Twin Trees Reservation away from the Comanche,” he said. “He was in
it with Prince and Ed Thompson.” He paused to let the information
sink in, then added, “Both Ed and Prince are dead. You'll find
Thompson's body about five miles outside of town, and Prince should
still be at Ed's ranch.”

Calloway was having considerable difficulty
comprehending all that had been going on without his even being
aware of it. Although Tucson guessed that Tom McMannus had informed
him that Ed Thompson and Prince were dead, apparently this was the
first that the marshal had heard of the reasons behind it, and he
gaped incredulously at Tucson.

With Jessup’s help, Durant dragged himself to
his feet. But beneath the blood and the bruises, his face had gone
deathly pale with apprehension.

As he watched Calloway sort his way through
the events, Tucson renewed his decision not to mention the gold. To
do so would destroy any chance the Comanche had of making it work
for them. He doubted if Durant would mention it either. Since the
banker was trying to shift all the blame onto Tucson, it was clear
that he was still hopeful of finding a way to achieve his original
goal.

Still, as Tucson studied Durant, he could
tell the banker was beside himself with fury. Being beaten by
Tucson in a fist fight was bad enough, but seeing the gold about to
slip through his grasp was more than he could take. The blood was
mounting up his neck, and his swollen eyes were becoming wild.

“This is preposterous!” he burst out angrily.
“What in hell would I do with a worthless strip of barren land like
the Comanche reservation?”

Calloway had taken his hand away from his
gun-butt, but he had hooked his thumb into his belt very close. “It
looks to me,” he said slowly, “like I'm gonna have to take you two
into custody until all this gets sorted out. Durant,” he eyed the
banker bleakly, “I hate to do this, but I'm gonna have to ask you
to come along.” He swung back to Tucson. “Kid, I'd like for you to
come along peaceful-like. But,” the planes of his face went flat,
“one way or the other, I gotta take you in.”

Tucson shrugged, and kept his hand away from
his gun. The last thing he needed was to get into a fight with the
law. To do so would put him into deeper trouble than even he could
get back out of. He swung around the desk and started for the door.
“Sure, Marshal,” he said. “I'll cooperate.”

Durant moved toward the desk. “If you'll wait
a minute, Marshal,” he said, “I'd like to put these papers back
inside my safe. And I need to put on some clothes.”

Calloway and McMannus had turned to follow
Tucson. “Well, make it snappy,” the marshal said. “I don't want to
be waitin' all mornin’ for you.”

Tucson was almost to the shattered doorway
when he felt it coming. He instinctively leaped to the side,
turning and reaching for his Colt while he was still in mid-air.
But his aching body and his bruised hands slowed him down and he
landed on his back on the floor with his gun only half-drawn.

But it put him into position to see it
all.

When Durant got to his desk, he reached down
into the leg well and came up holding a Colt .45. As Tucson jumped
to the side, Durant opened fire on all three of them. Lead plowed
into the wall above where Tucson had been; another slug hit
Calloway high in the right shoulder and spun him around, while
another bullet hit him low in the side and threw him back against
the wall, where he slid to the floor.

But it was Tom McMannus who caught Tucson’s
attention. Spinning smoothly around in that hail of lead, his eyes
were the color of chilled steel as he dropped to one knee and
pulled his weapon. Although his hand was only a blur, it seemed as
if he were taking his time as the gun came up level with his hip
and he fired. His first bullet took Durant in the forehead and
hurled him back against the wall where he hung for an instant, just
long enough for two more slugs to rip into his chest. Then he slid
slowly down until he was sitting on the floor with his legs splayed
in front of him, blood from his shattered chest pouring into his
lap as his glazed eyes stared sightlessly into space.

“Gawdalmighty!” Calloway breathed in awe,
staring at McMannus as if he had never seen him before.

The boy came to his feet, automatically
ejecting the spent shells from his Colt and pulling fresh rounds
from his gun-belt and reloading. After dropping his gun back into
its holster, he turned to Calloway. “How you doin', Marshal?” he
asked.

Calloway grunted with disgust as Tucson knelt
down beside him and tore his shirt open to examine the wounds.

“They ain’t fatal,” he muttered. Then he
groaned disgustedly, “Jeezus, I was caught with my back turned like
a gawdamned tenderfoot!”

“Ease up on yourself, Marshal,” Tucson said,
smiling. “It happens to the best of us. You had no reason not to
trust Durant. He just went rogue, that's all.”

Calloway squinted up at him. “Well, him
tryin' to kill us puts the weight o’ the story on your side, Kid.
With nobody around to dispute you, I don't see how the judge can
see it any other way but yours.”

Tucson finished examining Calloway's wounds.
“You're right, Marshal,” he said. “You'll live—that is, as long as
you don't get lead poisoning. But you're going to be laid up for
quite a while, and the town's going to be minus a marshal.” He
jerked his thumb at McMannus. “It seems to me that you’ve got
yourself one hell of a deputy in Tom, here. Maybe it's time you
gave him a chance.”

Calloway glanced up into McMannus' grinning
face. “That was mighty fine gun-work you did there, Tom. I couldn't
o’ done it better when I was in my prime. And I thank you for
saving my life,” he added. “The least I can do is offer you a job.”
He smiled past the pain. “How would you like to be my deputy?”

“There ain't nothin' in this world that I'd
like better!” McMannus answered, looking like he was about to burst
with excitement. “The first thing I'm gonna do, though, is get you
back to the jail where the doctor can look at you.”

* * * *

Late in the morning, two days later, Tucson
and Tom McMannus stepped out of the courthouse and stopped on the
sidewalk. Crowds bustled up and down the street, and a long string
of mule-driven freight haulers filled the dusty road. Tucson
squinted up at the sun, already blistering hot, and fingered his
still-swollen eye. Moving stiffly from the bandages wrapped around
his cracked ribs, he reached into his pocket and took out his cigar
case.

“Thanks for backing up my story to the judge,
Tom,” he said, putting a cheroot between his teeth and lighting a
match with his thumbnail.

“The judge didn't like seein’ you back so
soon,” McMannus said with a chuckle. “But given the evidence, he
didn't have much choice but to find you innocent.”

“Yep,” Tucson agreed. “But if it hadn't been
for you backing me up, and the written deposition from Calloway, I
do believe he would have tried to find some reason to hold me.”

“Well, it's all over now,” McMannus said,
looking Tucson over appraisingly. “What’re you gonna do now? Rest
up a while longer over at the boardin’ house?”