Comanche Gold (6 page)

Tom McMannus went so pale that the spray of
freckles across his nose stood out in bold relief. He studied
Tucson’s uncompromising face for a minute as he thought it over,
then he squared his shoulders and said, “I accept the condition. If
I go rogue, I’ll take what I get. Now,” he asked, “what's the
second condition?”

Tucson relaxed and smiled. “That you drop the
mister, and just call me Tucson.”

* * * *

Tucson and Tom McMannus swung by the stable
and collected their horses. Then, after a quick stop at Kipper's
Mercantile for cartridges they headed out of town. McMannus took
the lead as he guided Tucson to the spot to the north of Howling
Wolf where he did his target practice. The day was a scorcher; the
sky was the dull color of molten iron, and the heat pounded against
Tucson’s shoulders like a fiery fist. Although the stallion was
chomping at the bit, he kept it reined in so that it wouldn't
exhaust itself.

About half a mile outside of town the trail
widened, and Tom McMannus dropped back beside Tucson. “Did you
really know Wild Bill Hickok?” he asked.

Tucson nodded. “Yes...Hickok and I went way
back.”

“Was he really as good as they say he
was?”

“As far as I'm concerned,” Tucson answered,
“Hickok was the best.”

“Folks say he lost his nerve at Abilene,”
McMannus went on, “during his fight with Phil Coe when he
accidently killed his friend, Mike Williams.”

“Hickok never lost his nerve!” Tucson snorted
in disgust. “He was just sad over what he'd done, that's all.”

“It seems to me that he must’ve panicked,”
McMannus observed sagely, “or he would've known that it was
Williams who was comin’ up on him.”

“Listen, Tom,” Tucson said, looking hard at
the younger man. “A gunman has to have reflexes honed to a fine
edge. If he doesn't, he'll be dead soon. Hickok had already told
Williams not to cross the street that night. He had no reason to
believe Williams would disobey him. Hickok was facing a violent
mob, and Phil Coe had already fired on him. When Williams ran up
behind him, Hickok did exactly what he should have done. To have
hesitated to make sure who it was could have gotten him killed.”
Tucson stopped and thought for a minute, then added quietly, “But
Wild Bill never forgave himself for killing his friend, no matter
how much I tried to convince him otherwise.”

“Maybe...” McMannus replied dubiously, still
unconvinced. “But you can't deny that Hickok backed down from John
Wesley Hardin.”

Tucson groaned. “That's just Texas pride
talking.”

“But Hickok let Hardin stay in Abilene with
his guns on,” McMannus insisted. “He didn't have the guts to take
'em off him.”

“I wasn't in Abilene when Hardin was there,”
Tucson replied. “But I've heard all the stories, and I've heard
what Hardin had to say about it—after Hickok was dead. But there's
one detail that should put it all to rest. When Hardin shot a man
down later that night in a restaurant, he knew Hickok would be
coming after him, and there would have to be a showdown. Rather
than face Hickok, Hardin high-tailed it back to his cow-camp,”
Tucson concluded with finality, “and never went back into
Abilene.”

Frowning to himself, McMannus stopped talking
and let the subject drop.

They topped a rise and looked down into an
arroyo running from east to west with a shallow stream meandering
along its sandy bottom. It was like a long jagged wound cutting
into the red flesh of the earth. Tom McMannus pointed to a sand bar
directly below them.

“There it is,” he said, then led the way down
a narrow trail worn into the cliff-wall.

At the bottom, they left the horses in the
sparse shade of an overhanging rock, where they could nibble at
some mesquite. Tucson looped the reins around the saddle horn and
dismounted, then took the box of shells from the saddle bag.
McMannus skipped from rock to rock in the stream until he reached
the sand bar, while Tucson followed. When they were standing on the
bar, McMannus pointed to the far wall of the canyon, where the clay
was chipped and pitted.

“That's my firing range,” he said with a
grin. “I'll go on over and set up a couple of targets.”

McMannus leaped over the stream, picked up a
sharp stick then drew two circles on the arroyo wall about two feet
in diameter. Then he came back and stood beside Tucson. The range
was about twenty yards.

Tucson moved a few feet away and faced
McMannus, his thumbs hooked into his gun-belt. “Okay, Tom,” he
said. “Show me what you can do.”

McMannus stood square to the targets then
pulled his Colt and brought it up level with his shoulder. With
slow deliberation, sighting through one eye, he put five bullets
into the target on the right. The slugs all landed in a tight
pattern in the middle of the circle.

As the smoke cleared, McMannus ejected the
spent shells from his Colt and punched in fresh rounds. “Well?” he
asked proudly. “How was that?”

Tucson was enormously unimpressed. “You'll do
just fine in a target competition,” he remarked dryly. “Now, let’s
get serious—show me your quick-draw.”

Stung by the criticism, the boy turned back
to the target with increased concentration. As he watched, Tucson
began to see what he had been looking for. McMannus dropped into
the gunfighter's crouch, hunching forward slightly with his knees
flexed. His blue eyes glittered like chilled steel as his fingers
hovered over his gun-butt.

Then, with blinding speed, he pulled and
fired all five shots in quick succession. Tucson watched the slugs
hit the target. They all landed within the circle, but there was no
particular pattern to them.

He waited for McMannus to reload then he held
out his hand. “Give me your gun,” he said.

McMannus flipped the Colt in the air, caught
it by the barrel then handed it to Tucson. Tucson took it and
looked it over critically.

It was a nickel-plated, Colt .45 Peacemaker
with ivory grips. Tucson hefted it for balance, checked the trigger
pull and the hammer pressure. Then, without seeming to aim, he
fired five rounds so fast that there was no noticeable space
between the shots. When the smoke cleared away, there was a tight
pattern of holes in the left-hand circle.

Tucson ejected the shells and handed the gun
back to McMannus to reload. “What you've got there,” he commented
disparagingly, “is a piece of junk.”

McMannus' jaw dropped. “Gawdalmighty, Tucson!
You call this a piece of junk after what you just did with it?” He
pointed to the Colt in Tucson's holster. “It's a Peacemaker, just
like yours.”

Tucson pulled his Colt. “Mine’s a
Peacemaker,” he agreed, “but it's not like yours.” With a deft
motion, he reversed the gun in his hand, careful to keep the barrel
pointed away from him, and offered it to McMannus, butt-first.
“Feel the difference,” he said.

McMannus hefted the gun and looked it over.
Instead of nickel plating, like his, the metal was deep blue. The
two grips were of rosewood—shiny and smooth from years of use. The
barrel had been shortened and the sight removed. He tested the
action and found it worked as smooth as silk.

“Go ahead,” Tucson urged. “Try it out.”

McMannus dropped the gun into his holster
then turned and faced the far wall. After a moment’s pause, as he
concentrated on the target, he pulled and fired. He didn't shoot as
rapidly as Tucson, but this time his rounds formed a pattern in the
center of the target. Visibly impressed, he ejected the shells and
reloaded.

“A gunman has to personalize his weapon,”
Tucson pointed out, as he took his Colt from McMannus and dropped
it back into its holster. He lifted the boy’s gun and pointed to it
with his finger as he spoke. “Your trigger pull is too heavy,” he
said, “and the mainspring is too tight. You need to strip the gun
down and work it over with a file until the action's just right for
you. Get that factory mainspring replaced with a special one
that'll let you cock the hammer more easily and smoothly. And you
might want to shorten the barrel and file down the sight, but all
that's up to you. Another thing,” Tucson added. “Experiment with
different shells and powder loads. That way you'll find the mixture
with the stopping power you want.”

McMannus' eyes went round with amazement. “I
didn't know there was so much to it,” he exclaimed. “But is
everything else okay?”

“I didn't say that!” Tucson replied. He
walked around to the other side of McMannus and pointed to his
holster. “You wear your holster too low. You want it at about the
middle of your forearm, so you can take your gun naturally as the
hand comes up. Have your thumb on the hammer as it clears leather
so the gun cocks automatically as you bring it forward. When it
comes level with the hip, pull the trigger smooth and steady.”

“Do I need to get faster?” McMannus
asked.

Tucson shook his head. “You're fast enough
already, Tom. You'd be surprised how little raw speed means in a
gunfight. A lot of times the fastest man makes the most mistakes.
Of all the factors that go into making a gunfighter, I'd say cool
deliberation is the most important.” He stopped and thought for a
minute. “I think that's what Hickok had above most of the other
gunmen. In a fight, he never seemed to rush, but he always got
there on time. Nothing seemed to rattle him, and when he shot, he
got his man. No,” Tucson concluded. “Leave speed alone for now, and
concentrate on the other things I told you.”

They spent another couple of hours on the
sand bar as Tucson patiently demonstrated how to fire from various
positions—lying down, rolling, kneeling, and behind the back. Then
he stopped, reloaded his Colt and looked up at the sky. The sun was
dropping toward the horizon.

“That should do it for today,” he said,
sliding his gun back into its holster. “Get your Colt into shape
and work on the things I showed you, then we can get together
again.”

“I sure do appreciate what you've shown me so
far,” McMannus said sincerely. “I'll get to work on my gun
tomorrow. If there's anything I can do to return the favor, let me
know.”

“There may be something you can do for me
down the road,” Tucson replied. “For now, though, you can just tell
me how to get to the Twin Trees Reservation.”

McMannus stared at him strangely; then he
shrugged and pointed east. “About a mile from here there's a ford
where you can cross the stream. Head north until you come to the
Old Spanish Trail, and take it northeast. It'll run you right into
the reservation.”

The two men returned to their horses and took
the trail out of the arroyo; then they parted—McMannus riding back
to Howling Wolf and Tucson heading upstream.

Chapter
Four

The air had cooled down some, and a light
breeze ruffled the tops of the prairie grass that stretched away to
the east and west. Massive cloud formations hung suspended in the
sky like huge white castles frozen in time. Tucson found the ford
and crossed the stream. Half an hour later, he hit the Old Spanish
Trail and turned north. Buzzards hovered over a jagged, barren
range of low hills to the east, and rolling prairie stretched as
far as Tucson could see to the west.

Although he had kept alert as he rode, Tucson
was surprised when a group of mounted Indians suddenly dropped out
of the brush skirting the Trail and formed a line in front of him.
He reined in the stallion and halted about ten feet from them.
There were fifteen horsemen, with an impressive looking brave on a
buckskin gelding out in front who seemed to be the leader.

Then Tucson noticed the boy, Cuchillo, riding
an old pinto, and he smiled in greeting.

The brave on the buckskin spoke. “I am Two
Bears,” he called out in a guttural voice. “This is our land. Why
you come onto reservation?”

Keeping his right hand on his thigh close to
his Colt, Tucson pointed with his chin toward Cuchillo. “My name's
Tucson. The boy there knows me. Soaring Eagle sent for me.”

Cuchillo nudged his pinto up beside the older
brave. “I know him, Father. He's the gunman I told you about who
stood up for me in the saloon in Howlin’ Wolf.”

When Two Bears glanced back at Tucson, his
broad features were transformed from challenge into admiration.
“You say Soaring Eagle sent for you?” he asked.

“Yes.”

A general murmur passed through the group of
horsemen behind Two Bears.

The brave nodded. “Then you must be Storm
Rider—it is you we have been waiting for.”

“That’s what I’m called by the Tribes,”
Tucson responded. “I'd appreciate it if you'd take me to Soaring
Eagle.”

Two Bears brought his horse next to the
stallion, and stared fixedly up at Tucson as if he were assessing
him. His hair was shot with grey, his features had the broad
heaviness of the Comanche, and when he opened his mouth there was a
gap where his two upper front teeth had been knocked out. His chest
was deep and he had the lean legs of the born horseman.

Seemingly satisfied, he extended his hand and
said, “Welcome, Storm Rider. We are glad you able to come here.
Soaring Eagle say he saw you in Spirit Vision. We hoped you would
get his message. We need your help.”

“I'll do whatever I can for you,” Tucson
replied, warmly gripping Two Bears' hand. “But I'll have to know
what you need,” he added, “before I can commit to anything.”

“Come with us,” Two Bears said, kicking his
horse in the ribs. “Soaring Eagle will see you now.”

* * * *

Tucson rode between Two Bears and Cuchillo,
with the rest of the Comanche braves riding in a group behind them.
Although the late afternoon coolness rested over the prairie, they
still kept to the shadows thrown by the clumps of mesquite growing
along the edge of the Trail. Glancing around at the others, Tucson
couldn't help but compare these ragged Indians, just surviving on
their barren reservation, to the mighty warriors they once were in
the prime of their history.