Carefully, he glanced at the others out of the corners of his eyes and noticed their preoccupation as they stepped down from their horses.
Suddenly, he slapped the stallion on the flank with the palm of his hand. “Run, big fella!” he cried sharply. “Get on out of here!”
Startled by the slap and the urgency of its master's voice, the stallion jumped from a standing start into a gallop. In a second, it rounded the corner of the bunkhouse and disappeared into the gloom.
“What the hell...?” Charlie exclaimed angrily, drawing his gun and trying to sight on the stallion.
“Damn it,” Prince swore mildly. “I wanted that horse.” Then, to Charlie, he said, “Put up your gun. You'll never hit it in the dark.” He turned to Tucson with a rueful grin, “You’re not taking any chances, huh?”
Tucson only shrugged; he saw no point in wasting his breath.
He felt the hard prod of a gun barrel in the small of his back. “Okay, big man,” Red drawled in a feathery voice, as if there was something wrong with his vocal cords. “Git yer ass on inside thet shed.”
Charlie went ahead and opened the door; then Prince entered, followed by Tucson and Red. They turned to the right and Charlie opened another door, went into the tool shed and lit a lantern.
Then Prince walked in, motioning for Tucson and Red to follow. The room wasn't large. Saddles, bridles, branding irons, tools, all hung on the walls. A small card table sat against the wall on the right with a wooden chair in front of it. Another chair sat in a cleared area in the middle of the wooden floor.
“Alright, Kid,” Prince said, pointing to the chair in the middle. “You sit there.” Turning to Red, he said, “Get some rope off the wall and tie his hands behind him, and make sure it's tight! Charlie,” he glanced at the gunman, “get another chair from the bunkhouse so that both of you have a place to sit.”
Tucson tried to keep his hands a little separated, but Red jerked the line so hard it cut into the flesh of his wrists and stopped the circulation. Charlie came back in carrying a chair, set it down on the other side of the table against the wall then dropped into it with a sigh.
“I hope someone gits out here soon so I can git somethin' to eat,” he growled.
“Yeah!” whispered Red as he gave a final tug to Tucson's bonds. “I'm so gawddammed hungry my stomach's askin' my backbone if my throat's been slit.”
“You two keep your minds off food,” Prince barked fiercely, “and onto the Kid here! He's as dangerous as a sidewinder, and twice as fast. You give him half a chance and he'll be all over you like stink on shit. And believe me,” Prince’s face set in lines of granite, “if he doesn't kill you, Ed will.”
Red walked around Tucson, went to the other chair and lowered himself into it. He eyed Tucson sullenly. Tucson didn't bother to meet his glance. He was already feeling to see how much play there was in his bonds. There wasn't any...but he kept flexing his hands and wrists anyway to see how much he could stretch them.
Prince came over and stood in front of Tucson. He thrust his hands into his trouser pockets while he stared at Tucson for several minutes, as if he was thinking something over. “You have any idea what this is all about, big man?” he asked finally. “You know why you're here?”
“Yeah,” Tucson spoke for the first time. “You and the rest of these low-down skunks work for Charles Durant. He ordered you to pick me up and here I am.”
Prince nodded. “That was a stupid stunt you pulled, Kid, threatening him like that. What did you think he was going to do, roll over for you?”
Tucson shook his head resignedly. “No... I expected him to do exactly what he did do. I just thought I'd be able to handle it a little better, that’s all.”
This last statement brought guffaws from Red and Charlie, who had been listening to them with interest. Prince glanced around at them and smiled, then swung back to Tucson.
“You got any idea what's in store for you?” he asked.
Tucson shrugged. “I suppose you're going to try to kill me.”
“Try?” Charlie chortled. “Big man, you're mighty sure o’ yourself!”
“You're right about that,” Prince said to Tucson, ignoring Charlie's outburst. “You’re going to die. But Durant doesn't want it to happen until tomorrow morning after the bank opens. He's making sure nothing leads back to him. So you've got until ten in the morning to make peace with yourself for being so stupid.”
It occurred to Tucson to mention the gold as a way to sow dissension in the ranks. He was still sure that the lower level gunmen didn't know anything about it. After meeting Ed Thompson, though, he thought it was a pretty good bet that he knew. Thompson looked like one tough hombre, which he'd have to be to keep this crew of hard cases in line.
But if the men found out about the gold, there would be no way to keep the news from leaking out. If that happened, the Comanche’s plans would be ruined for good. Tucson shrugged inwardly and made his decision to keep quiet. If he died, there might still be a chance that the Comanche could prevail. If he let it out as a distraction, it was a cinch to get spread around, and even if he lived, the Comanche would lose.
Tucson couldn't let them pay for his carelessness.
“Well,” he said at last. “I found out a long time ago that it's a mistake to crow too soon. The game isn’t over until the last card falls.”
“I've got to hand it to you, Kid.” Prince’s mouth quirked with admiration. “You've got balls. But we'll see if you still have them tomorrow morning when we stand you up against a wall.”
Then he turned on his heel and walked out of the tool room, closing the door behind him.
Chapter Ten
Tucson slumped in his chair with his left leg thrown out in front of him and his right cocked to the rear. His head had dropped onto his right shoulder while he slept. It was quiet in the tool shed, the only sounds being the dry chipping as a guard whittled on a piece of wood with a pocket knife, the occasional rustling of the newspaper being read by the other guard, and the soft snoring coming from Tucson.
But while Tucson was giving the impression of being asleep, he was in fact extremely active. He had pulled his right leg back to the rear of the chair to bring the hide-out knife in his boot closer to his bound hands. By slumping down, he had brought his hands even closer. He pretended to be asleep to lull the guards into thinking they could safely take their eyes off him. Occasionally, he would slit his eyes and glance at the two men surreptitiously from beneath the brim of his sombrero. The guard whittling was half turned away from him, engrossed in his work, while the other was tilted back against the wall, his nose buried in the paper.
The guards alternated every two hours, and there had been three changes since Tucson had been brought in. His bonds were closely examined at each guard change. Tucson estimated it to be a little after midnight. He had waited so long to make his move, to give the crew a chance to get settled into a routine, with most of them asleep. It was about an hour since the last guard change, and Tucson hoped he had another hour ahead of him to get loose.
Moving as slowly as he could, he stretched his fingers down toward his boot. The circulation to his hands had been cut off by his bonds, and they were swollen and red. There was a good chance his stiffened fingers wouldn't even be able to grip the knife-hilt—but it was a risk he would have to take. Checking the guards to make sure they suspected nothing, Tucson felt his fingertips touch the rough fabric of his trouser-cuff. He rested there for several heartbeats, giving the gunmen time to get used to his position, then he inched the cuff up and reached underneath.
He could just brush the upper end of the knife-hilt with his fingers, but he couldn't grip it—he had to stretch lower.
It took a good ten minutes for him to descend another half-inch; then his two middle fingers got a grip on the rounded wooden hilt. Holding the rest of his body stationary, and with no break in the steady rhythm of his snoring, he curled his fingers up into his palm, bringing the knife up with them. Once th
ere, he held the hilt in place with his thumb, then lowered his fingers again and gripped the knife by the blade. Another finger curl and the whole knife disappeared up his sleeve.
With a snort and a cough, Tucson shifted position, bringing his right leg around to the front then sagging back in the chair so that his hands were once again behind him and out of sight of the guards. They looked up suspiciously as he moved, then relaxed again as he resumed snoring.
“Get a load o' this guy.” One of them chuckled, jerking a thumb toward Tucson. “He's under a death sentence, and he still sleeps the night away.”
“Yeah,” grunted the other, as he turned the page of his newspaper. “Some balls...”
“The Kid’s got a big rep,” the first guard continued, “but we took him out on the trail so easy it was like he was some punk kid.” His mouth twisted into a sneer. “He don’t look so tough to me.”
The other man didn’t bother to look up from his paper as he spoke. “The Kid’s tough alright. I hear tell he took on the gang of the bandit, Augustine Baca, down in Mexico a while back an’ wiped out the whole greasy bunch of ‘em. Some more Mexican bandits followed him on back up here into the States to get revenge—an’ ever one of ‘em ended up dead.” He turned a page of the newspaper. “This hombre’s tougher an’ meaner than a sack-full o’ rattlers.”
The first guard whistled with surprise. “You don’t say...!”
While the two men talked, Tucson had kept busy. But, as he had feared, it was slow going getting his swollen fingers to manipulate the knife. If it dropped, clattering to the floor, he would be discovered, and he wouldn't get a second chance. Carefully, he let it slide slowly down out of his sleeve then reversed it so that he held it by the hilt. Then, moving only his wrists, he began sawing away at the bonds.
The carefulness with which he had to work, while still appearing to be asleep, bathed Tucson’s face in sweat; it dripped down his nose and slid off onto the floor. A new danger was that the guards might notice the sweat, investigate, then discover the knife. But they seemed to be lulled by his lack of movement and his steady snoring.
One of the bonds gave way, and Tucson felt such an incredible rush of relief that it almost made him sick to his stomach. Lying in a relaxed position while his hands worked away at the ropes, with time running out, was one of the most difficult things he had ever done. Then, after what seemed an eternity, the last rope parted. Tucson pressed his arms against the back of the chair in an attempt to keep the rope from falling to the floor, but he couldn’t hold it and it dropped to the boards with a soft plop.
He tensed, waiting to see if the guards noticed it, but they were still engrossed in what they were doing and didn't even glance at him.
Gripping the knife with his thumb, he spent several precious minutes flexing his fingers while the blood flowed back into them. The needles prickling his hands were excruciating, but the rhythm of his snoring never faltered. When he felt ready, he snorted and coughed again and came up into a sitting position, with his boot-heels back against the chair legs, ready to spring.
He tilted his head up and looked at the guards through bleary eyes. “Hey,” he mumbled groggily. “Do you think one of you hombres could get me a drink of water? My mouth tastes like the whole Mexican army just marched through it in their socks.”
The guards glanced at him; then the one who had been whittling put his knife and the piece of wood aside with a sigh, brought his chair forward and stood up. Walking to the corner where a pail of water and a cup were placed, he dipped the cup then came over to Tucson.
“Here,” he said, holding the cup to Tucson's lips. “Drink...”
With steel-spring quickness, Tucson brought the knife up and buried the blade to the hilt in the guard's neck; then, with a vicious swipe he ripped it to the side and almost decapitated him. As blood gushed over the floor boards, the guard, clutching desperately at his neck, sank gurgling and coughing to the floor.
But Tucson was already hurtling toward the second guard.
“What the hell?” he cried, as he stared at Tucson in frozen terror.
They were the last words he ever spoke. Like the fang of a striking rattler, Tucson's knife bit deep into his chest and transfixed his heart. Dying instantly, the gunman let the newspaper slip from his fingers, sank back in the chair and stared sightlessly into space.
Immediately dismissing both of the guards, Tucson spun around and surveyed the situation.
There was a paint-covered window half-way up the south wall. Tucson moved quickly to it and, as quietly as he could, attempted to lift it. The wood was warped and the window was jammed. After trying several times, with a grunt of disgust Tucson gave up. That left the way he had come in as the only way out—through the bunkhouse.
Tucson stooped and lifted the guns from the holsters of the dead guards, checked the rounds in the cylinders then put one in his gun-belt and slipped the other into his shoulder rig. Then he blew out the lantern sitting on the table and glided soundlessly to the door. Turning the handle carefully, he opened it a crack then pressed his eye to the opening and gazed into the bunkhouse. There was one lantern hanging on the wall; in its dim light, Tucson counted twenty men sprawled out on the bunks asleep.
He grinned with cold satisfaction—their heavy snoring should cover any noise he would make.
But he knew better than to get careless. Testing each board before he trusted it with his weight, he inched toward the outside door. Once there, he took a last glance behind him—no one had noticed him—then he slipped out and closed the door softly behind him.
Leaning against the wall, he sucked in huge gulps of fresh air. The night was cool and dark, with only the sliver of a moon dangling in the sky above. The distant stars glittered in the purple vault like a swarm of fireflies.
The first part of his escape was over, but Tucson wasn't out of danger yet. There was still plenty he had to do; for one thing, he had to take back his own guns. His eyes narrowed to deadly slits as he stared across the clearing at the main house.
The lights were still on in the ground-floor windows. Maybe Prince and Ed Thompson were still up, sharing a bottle and celebrating the success of capturing the Tucson Kid. As he grinned with anticipation, Tucson’s teeth flashed in the starlight like the fangs of a snarling wolf.
He had warned Prince that it was a mistake to crow too soon. Well, the gambler was about to get a much needed lesson, and Tucson was going to give it to him.
Lowering into a half-crouch, Tucson sprinted across the clearing. He avoided the better-lit front of the house and slipped into the shadows clustered about the rear. He stopped at the corner and pressed himself against the wall, then looked back. All was quiet; no one was sounding the alarm. Peering around the corner, he saw a porch about halfway down the wall, almost hidden in the shadows. He bent lower as he headed toward it, scanning the ground as he went to make sure he didn't trip over anything.
Then, suddenly, a huge dark shadow reared up. Tucson heard a low growl and saw the flash of long fangs in the darkness. It was a hound the size of a mastiff, and it didn't like the smell of Tucson.
“Easy, boy,” Tucson whispered, in an attempt to keep the animal from barking.
There was no rattle of chain, which meant that the hound must be loose. Tucson knew he couldn't outrun it. Still growling, the dog lowered itself to the ground in preparation for a spring. Tucson braced his legs to meet the charge, and it wasn't long in coming. The dog bounded across the short space separating them then leaped for Tucson's throat.
Tucson staggered back under the impact, but he managed to keep his feet. Slipping his hands up inside the dog’s forelegs, he sank his fingers deep into the rough fur cloaking its throat. On its hind legs, the dog was almost as tall as Tucson, and it was heavy. It took all of Tucson’s strength to keep its snapping fangs away from his face while he applied the necessary pressure to strangle it.
As man and beast struggled in the darkness, Tucson was painfully aware that he was
running out of time. The dead guards could be discovered at any minute and his advantage of surprise would be lost. Feeling the dog weakening, he made a last herculean effort and lifted it up into the air, swung its body out to the side, then slammed it down onto the ground on its back.
Tucson dropped his knee onto the dog’s chest with all of his weight behind it. There was a sickening crunch as its chest was shattered from the impact and shards of broken bones were driven like daggers into its lungs. Keeping up the pressure he was applying on its throat, Tucson watched as the dog’s eyes glazed over and the vicious snapping of its jaws began to slow.
Then, as red froth bubbled up from its crushed throat and flecked its fangs, the beast finally stopped thrashing and lay still. Tucson held on for another minute to make certain the dog was dead, then he released it and sank down to the ground beside it, breathing heavily from the exertion.
Gazing regretfully at the dead carcass, he ran his hand over its rough coat. “Sorry, boy,” he whispered, “but you left me no choice.”
Then he stood up, brushed off his hands and moved on toward the porch.
Keeping to the outer edges of the porch stairs, Tucson went up them without making a sound. He paused at the door and pressed his ear to the panel, but heard nothing. Trying the knob, he sighed with relief as it gave easily beneath his hand. Well-oiled hinges made it easy to slip noiselessly inside and close the door behind him.
He found himself in the kitchen, and the aroma of cooked food reminded him that he hadn’t eaten all day. Creeping to the door on the opposite wall, he opened it and slipped into a hallway. Male voices could be heard coming from the left; there was an open doorway where light spilled out into the hall.
Tucson pulled both guns, thumbed back the hammers to full cock then glided like a phantom down the hallway. He pressed his shoulders against the wall opposite the door and looked through into the room where Prince and Ed Thompson were sitting sharing a bottle of whiskey. Ed was slouched down on a leather couch facing toward Tucson, with his hat off and his bald head glistening in the light. Prince sat in a chair against the opposite wall, angled away from Tucson with his legs crossed, holding his glass in his hand.
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