“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.
Tucson watched it for any sign of alarm when it passed by the open gate of Durant's estate. It stopped and sniffed at the bronze plaque at the entrance then, evidently not finding anything of interest, trotted on. Tucson watched it until it moved out of sight behind another house then, deciding that the coast was clear, he dismounted.
With a last word to the stallion to stand fast, Tucson hunched down and left the cover of the warehouse at a run. Crossing the open space of the roadway, he came to a halt next to the hedge bordering the neighborhood. Peering around the corner, he couldn't detect any change in the stillness. He passed around the hedge and glided like a wraith among the trees dotting the area, pausing at each one to reconnoiter, checking to the front and to the rear.
It would seem that Durant had total confidence in Prince's ability to eliminate Tucson, because it appeared that the banker had taken no precautions to protect himself in case of a slip-up.
Tucson grinned coldly and his eyes glowed in the half-light with a yellow fire. Charles Durant's carelessness was going cost him his life.
Still, Tucson took no unnecessary chances as he passed through the gate of Durant's estate and sprinted up the driveway. He kept to the deeper shadows of the hedge lining the drive until he got to the porch, then squatted down and took one last look around. There was still no sign of sentries, and the windows of both floors were black. Tucson strained his ears for any sound, but all he could hear was the chirping of crickets.
He moved stealthily up the steps and tried the door, but it was locked. Reaching into an inside pocket of his jacket, he pulled out a long thin sliver of metal and inserted it into the lock. After moving it around for
a minute, he heard a soft click, and the door swung quietly open.
Pulling his Colt, Tucson knelt in the entranceway as his ears strained for any sound that would indicate he had been discovered. Still nothing – the house was as silent as a tomb.
Moving cautiously, Tucson went up the stairs, testing each step with his foot before he trusted it with his full weight. At the second floor landing, he stopped to orient himself. A hallway ran to the right and to the left. After a moment's deliberation, Tucson decided to go to the right. Thick carpet covering the floor muffled his footsteps. Coming to a door on the left wall, Tucson turned the knob and pushed it open.
The room was huge, and curtained windows lined all of one wall. Lying in a large canopied bed to the right, Tucson recognized the massive bulk of Charles Durant. The banker was sleeping peacefully on his back, snoring softly. Tucson tiptoed to the bed and gazed down at the sleeping man. The harsh lines of Durant's face had been washed away by sleep, and he looked almost innocent.
Tucson put the cold barrel of his Colt against Durant's temple and pulled the hammer back to full cock. The sharp sound in his ear brought the banker out of his slumber. His eyes opened and he stared uncomprehendingly up at the canopy above his head. Then his gaze shifted; he recognized Tucson and at the same time realized that it was the cold steel of a gun barrel that was pressing against his temple.
A low moan of terror rumbled up from his throat.
“Keep quiet!” Tucson hissed, increasing the pressure on Durant’s head. “If you shout for help, I'll pull the trigger right now.”
The banker glared up at Tucson in the darkness. “What do you want?” he croaked.
“I know that you ordered Prince and Ed Thompson to kill me,” Tucson answered. “And, like I told you before, I know about your plot to steal the Comanche’s gold. And you’ll remember that I told you to be out of Howling Wolf by sundown last night, or I'd shoot you on sight. Well,” he flashed a murderous grin, “you're still in Howling Wolf - and I'm here to execute you.”
Beneath the covers, Durant's body jerked spasmodically. “You can't just kill me in cold blood!”
“And how were you going to kill me?” Tucson demanded in turn.
“Whatever anyone may have said about me ordering you killed,” Durant replied urgently, “is a lie! I had no reason to want you killed,” he insisted. “Someone's just trying to throw you off the track.”
Reaching down, Tucson gripped the edge of the bedspread and ripped it off Durant. The banker lay on the sheet in his silk pajamas, shaking with terror.
“Get up,” Tucson ordered.
Durant threw his muscular legs over the side of the bed, dropped his feet into a pair of slippers, then stood up and reached for his dressing gown that was wrapped around a bed post.
“Leave it alone,” Tucson told him coldly. “Where you’re going, you won’t need it.” He jerked his head toward the door. “Let's go on down to your study. And remember—if you shout, I shoot.”
Durant led the way out of the room and along the hall then down the stairs. The color flooding the back of his neck and the way his hands were clenched made it clear that anger was beginning to replace his fear. Tucson stayed a step behind Durant so he wouldn't be caught by surprise if the banker made a sudden move. Durant reached the foot of the stairs, turned to the left and crossed the entranceway then pushed through the double doors into his study.
“Light a lamp,” Tucson told him, as he stood back in the entrance.
Durant went to his desk, took a match from a holder and lit the lamp sitting on the desktop. Then he turned back to Tucson, his heavy brows lifted quizzically. “What now...?” he asked.
Tucson stepped forward, watching the banker closely. “Open the safe...” he said.
The redness drained from Durant's face. “What safe?” he asked, in a strained voice. “I don't have a safe here.”
Tucson pointed his Colt at Durant's kneecap. “I'll tell you what I'm going to do,” he said casually. “Every time you lie to me, I'm going to shoot you in one of your limbs. That'll be more fun than killing you quickly anyway,” he added, his mouth twisting cruelly. “Now, one more time,” his finger tightened on the trigger, “where's your safe?”
Seeing the deadly purpose in Tucson's eyes, Durant didn't hesitate any longer. He walked quickly to a painting hanging on the wall, lifted a catch and pulled it open. A small circular metal safe was set into the wall behind it. He was visibly shaking as he turned his head to look at Tucson.
“Open it,” Tucson ordered.
With a heavy sigh, Durant swung back and spun the tumblers. A moment later, he turned the handle and it was open.
“Pull all of the contents out, carry them over and put them on your desk,” Tucson said.
He came around to the side and aimed his Colt at Durant's head as the banker put both of his arms inside the safe, removed a pile of papers, walked to his desk and then stacked them on the top.
“Stand back against the curtains,” Tucson ordered. “And if you make one false move, I won’t hesitate to put a slug into you.”
Tucson waited while Durant complied with his command; then, keeping the desk between himself and the banker, he approached and looked down at the stack of papers. Keeping his eyes on Durant, he poked through the pile with his left hand. There, about midway down the stack, he found a beaded rawhide pouch. Lifting it out, he inserted two fingers into its mouth and scissored it open.
When he turned it over, a large nugget of pure gold fell onto the desktop.
Tucson's head jerked up and death flamed in his eyes.
“So, you were innocent, were you!” he hissed, as his Colt came up and centered on the banker’s chest. “You're just a lying snake, Durant.” His finger curled around the trigger. “I'm going to enjoy killing you.”
“No—wait!” Durant gasped, his face deathly pale as he pressed back against the curtain. “Let's talk this over. We can make a deal.”
“There's nothing left to say,” Tucson replied coldly. “And I don’t make deals with murdering skunks.”
“There's a lot to say,” Durant insisted urgently. His eyes became crafty as he searched for a way out. “I've got a lot of money,” he offered. “Much more money than you could make in a lifetime. I'll let you have it.” He gestured with his hands, as if he were giving something to Tucson. “You won't have to worry for the rest of your life.”
“I'd still have to leave a sidewinder like you loose in the world,” Tucson replied, shaking his head. “It's just not worth it.”
“Alright, then...” Durant was talking fast now. “I'll make you a sporting proposition.”
In spite of himself, Tucson's curiosity was captured. “What proposition?” he asked.
For the first time that morning, Durant smiled, and as the lamplight played over the craggy features of his face, he took on the appearance of pure evil. He knew Tucson's interest had been piqued, and his confidence was returning fast. He gestured toward the Colt that Tucson was pointing at him.
“You gunmen are all alike,” he said disparagingly. “You practice constantly until you can outdraw everyone else, then you try to make people think you're courageous because you can pull a gun and kill a man who can't match your speed.”
Seeing that the banker was trying to bait him, Tucson snorted disdainfully. “You'd be surprised how little speed alone has to do with it.”
“That's easy for you to say while you're holding a gun on me,” Durant argued.
“What do you want me to do?” Tucson asked. “Do you want me to give you a gun?”
“I'm no match for you with a firearm,” Durant replied, as he raised his hands and curled them into fists. “I challenge you to stand up to me with your bare hands.” His voice had regained its usual authority. “Fight me man to man—winner take all.”
Tucson shook his head. “I'd be a fool to take that challenge. You outweigh me by at least fifty pounds.”
“You'd be surprised how little size alon
e has to do with it,” Durant sneered, imitating Tucson.
Tucson studied Durant's massive shoulders and arms that strained the silken fabric of his pajamas, and his scarred fists that looked as big and hard as oaken mallets. His every instinct told him not to be stupid. Durant's size, strength, and his background in the prize ring all gave him far too great an advantage.
The banker would tear his head off.
But, even though he knew that Durant was only baiting him, Tucson’s pride had been pricked by his slighting reference to Tucson’s speed as a gunman. And finally, it just wasn't his style to kill an unarmed man.
With an inward groan, Tucson realized that he was going to take Durant's challenge. Only by putting it all on the line with one roll of the dice could he be the man that he chose to be.
* * * *
Feeling in control now that he was operating in his element, Durant smiled confidently as he went to the other side of the room and stripped away his pajama top. The massive muscles of his chest, shoulders and arms, as he flexed them to get them warmed up, writhed like snakes beneath his pale skin.
Tucson set his Colt down on the desktop, still pointing at Durant, and unbuckled his gun belt. Then he took off his leather jacket, slipped out of his shoulder rig and put them in a pile on the desk. Finally, he removed his shirt and dropped it over the rest. Then he stepped around the desk, kicked aside a bearskin rug, and positioned himself in the middle of the floor, standing with his fists resting on his narrow hips.
Durant's eyes widened when he caught sight of Tucson's leanly muscled body—the body of a born fighting man—with the many scars that indicated extensive combat experience.
Then his confident smile returned, and he came forward with his fists up.
His boxing experience was immediately apparent in the way he settled into a stance with his fists raised to protect his face and his elbows lowered to guard his ribs. As he shuffled purposefully toward Tucson, his eyes blazed with an indomitable fighting spirit.
Daunted by Durant’s formidable appearance, Tucson sidestepped evasively.
Comanche Gold Page 14