Comanche Gold (15 page)

Cuchillo sat up straight and squared his
shoulders. “Y'know,” he said, looking up at Tucson with renewed
hope gleaming in his dark eyes. “I've had visions since I was
small. What I saw scared my father, but Soaring Eagle always told
me that I'd been chosen just as our ancient medicine men had been
chosen. Since the Comanche have fallen so low, I didn’t really
believe him. But what you said makes me think that maybe Soaring
Eagle was right.”

“Listen,” Tucson said earnestly. “The white
man's medicine is strong right now. Because they're so successful
at laying waste to the earth they don't realize how sick they
really are. But the day will come when they begin to see it. Then,
what the Nermernuh have and what the other Tribes have, may help.
You need to preserve the traditions of your people for the future.
Make your medicine, then keep it strong and pass it on to your son
or to another who's been chosen as you've been chosen.”

“Yeah,” Cuchillo replied enthusiastically.
“You're right.”

“Another thing,” Tucson added. “You should be
the one to see Catherine Murry about being the agent for your
people. Folks are used to seeing you around Howling Wolf and won't
think anything of you going there regularly. You can tell Soaring
Eagle that that was my suggestion.”

They parted company at the rim of the arroyo
where Cuchillo was going to seek his vision. Tucson watched for a
moment as the boy put his pinto over the edge and started down the
trail to the bottom; then he turned the stallion around and headed
back south.

* * * *

Tucson scanned the countryside as he rode
along the Old Spanish Trail. It was pushing into late afternoon,
the shadows thrown by the chaparral were lengthening, and the
almost unbearable heat was beginning to lift. Struck by the long
rays of the sun, the range of mountains far to the east sparkled
and glittered like a pile of jewels.

But, although Tucson maintained his habitual
watchfulness, his mind was troubled by his conversations with
Soaring Eagle and the boy, Cuchillo.

He seriously doubted if gold would solve any
of the problems the Comanche faced. They would have to be very
careful to keep word from getting out about its source. The
money-greed of the whites was obsessive; nothing this side of hell
could hold them back once they got a whiff of gold in their
nostrils.

Still, he thought, the Comanche had to do
what they believed was best. Who knows, they just might succeed.
And they were right about one thing - only money, and plenty of it,
would get them the treatment they deserved.

Tucson’s eyes went bleak as he reflected on
the inhumanity of the white man's treatment of the defeated
Indians. They had been denied any graceful, dignified way to
assimilate into their conqueror's culture. They had been treated
like erring children, or ravenous animals. Their religious customs
had been forbidden as heathenish, and their marriage ceremonies had
been tossed aside as immoral. Their medicine, which had kept them
healthy for hundreds of years, was seen as useless superstition.
And finally, their children were taken away from their parents and
sent to white schools, and their supplies and rations had been
taken away as a form of punishment.

With a sigh of sadness, Tucson’s thoughts
moved on to the total psychological devastation suffered by the
Indians. Their personal and tribal identities as well as their
whole way of life had been obliterated and proven to be powerless
against the onslaught of the whites. There was nowhere left for
them to go and nothing for them to do but die, which was what they
were doing.

Tucson went out of his way to help the Tribes
whenever and wherever he could; but he was only one man, and he
knew that all of his efforts would never be enough. He hoped that
more—many more—young men like Cuchillo would grow up wise enough to
help their people avoid total annihilation. If they could help
their people to survive, it was just possible that things would
change enough to allow The People to recover their dignity and
sense of themselves as human beings.

* * * *

Tucson's gaze sharpened as the Trail began to
wind its way between two hills. The chaparral was especially thick
along the slopes and there was an ominous stillness to the
atmosphere. The stallion was skittishly throwing back its head and
shaking its mane.

Unwilling to take any chances, Tucson reined
the stallion off to the side, intending to circle the hills and
come back to the Trail where the going was safer.

Suddenly, a rifle shot rang out from a thick
clump of brush along the slope and a slug kicked up a cloud of dirt
in front of the stallion's hooves. The horse reared, neighing and
pawing the air, while Tucson whipped out his gun and scanned the
trail.

Then a voice, strangely familiar, called out
to him, “All right, Kid, you're covered by ten guns. You can drop
your Colt and live for a while, or you can be stupid and die right
now. Make up your mind quick!”

Tucson didn't need to think very hard about
that one. As long as he was alive he had a fighting chance—dead,
his chances were over. He dropped his Colt into the dust and raised
his hands. “Okay,” he said disgustedly. “You got the drop on
me.”

Miraculously, as if the chaparral had
suddenly blossomed, ten men appeared in the brush. They were
dressed like cowmen in wide-brimmed Stetsons, vests over their
shirts, and leather chaps, but there the similarity ended. Their
eyes were as cold as marbles, their faces were set in cruel lines,
and each of them held a six-gun or a rifle pointing straight at
Tucson.

They were obviously a gang of hired
killers.

Then another man appeared from behind a clump
of brush and Tucson was able to place the voice.

“So, the mighty Tucson Kid can walk into a
trap just like us ordinary folk,” Prince sneered, as he climbed
down the slope and onto the Trail. He was dapperly dressed as
usual, but now he wore a yellow duster to keep the dust off his
suit. He stopped when he got to Tucson's Colt, picked it up and
dropped it into the pocket of his duster.

Tucson met Prince's eyes steadily but he
didn't say anything. Inside he was disgusted with himself. For all
his awareness, he hadn't tumbled to the ambush until it was too
late. His job had just become all but impossible, that is, if he
even got out of this with his life.

“Listen to me, Kid,” Prince continued. “With
the thumb and forefinger of your left hand, reach inside your
jacket real slow and pull that .32 out here and drop it on the
ground.”

Tucson did as he was told and let it fall.
Prince scooped it up and dropped it into the other pocket of his
duster. Then he spoke over his shoulder to the two men closest to
him. “Charlie, you and Red stay here with me and help keep Tucson
covered.” He raised his voice and called to the others. “The rest
of you go on around the hill and get our horses and bring them back
here.”

The three men holding the guns, and Tucson
with his arms in the air, stayed as they were while the others
disappeared to get the horses. No one spoke, but Prince had a big
smile on his face. Then the other men were back, mounted, leading
the horses of the three covering Tucson.

The dust cloud from the horses was thick, and
Prince stifled a cough. “Alright, Kid,” he said, once he was
mounted. “I won't tie your hands now, but if you break bad, your
stallion won't get two paces before ten guns rip you to shreds. So
the calmer you stay, the longer you live—got it?”

They rode east over the hills and through the
chaparral.

With ten men (eleven including Prince) riding
behind him, Tucson felt like he was leading a parade. He assumed
they were on their way to the headquarters of the Lazy T. Since it
butted up against the reservation, they must already be on the
ranch. The gunmen rode in disciplined silence—no one cursed or
cracked jokes. They must be taking their job of guarding him very
seriously.

They were professionals, Tucson thought with
a dull, sinking feeling in his guts. That would make it tougher, if
not impossible, to get away. He didn't know how many more men were
at the ranch house, but there must be some. It looked like Charles
Durant had rigged a foolproof trap for him.

A thin trickle of sweat meandered from the
top of his spine down to the bottom, and Tucson knew that it wasn't
from the heat.

The sun was setting as they rounded a butte
thrusting its way up from the prairie floor into the purple sky. It
was a burst of multi-colored rock and soil fighting heroically to
preserve its identity against the merciless onslaught of
wind-driven sand. Tucson glanced sympathetically at the butte as
they rode by, watched its colors fading in the waning light, and
felt a pang of kinship for it.

Then he looked ahead and saw the
headquarters. A small range of rolling hills rose in a circular
bowl behind it, like a group of sentinels guarding a treasure, or a
setting for a gem. The ranch house was a two-story affair, with two
wings jutting off a central hall. A red barn and smithy were off to
the left and a long bunkhouse sat on the right. Huge corrals spread
out to the north and south, filled with horses and cattle. As the
group rode into the compound, Tucson noticed the smoke rising from
a small building beside the ranch house, and smelled the welcome
aroma of cooking food.

As they pulled their mounts to a halt at the
hitching rack in front of the house, a man stepped out of the door
and onto the porch. Tall and barrel-chested, he wore a white shirt
open at the throat and faded Levi's. His sweat-stained Stetson was
pushed to the back of his head, revealing a receding hairline. A
thick wad of chewing tobacco was stuck in his right cheek under a
swirling handlebar mustache.

“Howdy, Ed,” Prince called out.

“So this is the Tucson Kid!” Ed Thompson
commented in a harsh voice, his brown eyes looking Tucson over.

When Tucson didn’t answer, Prince spoke up.
“Yeah, Ed, the Kid walked right into the trap like some greenhorn.
If I hadn't seen him take out Ramon Vasquez and Wolf Cabot with my
own eyes, I'd think his rep was all talk.”

Ed Thompson had been studying Tucson's face.
“Nope,” he said decisively, spitting a long stream of brown juice
into the dirt. “The Kid here's the real thing. We need to keep 'im
under close guard all the time.” His glance went hard as it
traveled over the gunmen. “Any one o’ you men who gets caught
sleepin' on the job'll be beggin' fer death before I give to 'im.”
He jerked his thumb in the direction of the bunkhouse. “Take the
Kid and put him in the tool shed at the end o’ the bunkhouse. I
want two men watchin' 'im all the time. The rest o’ you men can
eat, then relieve the two guards and let them eat. Prince,” he
glanced at the gambler, “why don't you come on in and set a
spell?”

“I’d be glad to, Ed,” Prince replied with a
smile. “I'll take the Kid over to the shed and get him settled in
first, then I’ll come back.” He spoke to two of the men. “Red, you
and Charlie take first watch.” He glanced at the others. “The rest
of you get yourselves something to eat.”

With Prince beside him and Red and Charlie
behind him, Tucson turned the stallion about and rode over to the
bunkhouse. The light glowing from the windows cast a pale sheen
over the ground out front. The men's faces were a blur to Tucson as
he dismounted, wrapping the reins loosely over the saddle horn as
usual.

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.”