Free Comanche Gold by Richard Dawes

the
forehead, flipping him over backwards and out of sight into the
darkened room.
    Spinning back around, Tucson caught Vasquez
just as the gunman was struggling to raise his Colt for a shot.
Without hesitation, Tucson pulled the trigger and the Mexican’s
head exploded—a grisly mess of blood and brains splattered over the
floorboards. The rowels of Vasquez’s spurs beat out a ragged tattoo
in the sawdust for a moment, then he lay still.
    As Tucson swung back around, he tossed the
.45 into his left hand and jerked the .32 from the shoulder
holster. Keeping the room covered with his Colts, he searched for
Prince through the blue cloud of powder-smoke that hung suspended
in the air.
    He wouldn't put it past the gambler to take
advantage of the confusion and try to put a bullet into him, now
that Wolf and Vasquez had failed.
    But Prince came forward with both hands in
plain sight, then looked over the damage. Everyone else in the
saloon got back to their feet or came out from behind the bar and
surrounded them in awed silence, gazing with wide eyes from Tucson
to the two dead men sprawled on the floor.
    “Gawdalmighty!” one of the men breathed.
    “I ain’t never seen nothin’ like that
before!” another man whispered.
    Just then the bat-wing doors flew inward and
a big man in a grey Stetson, a black coat and jeans stuffed into
his high-heeled boots burst into the room. He wore a six-gun tied
down on his leg and he had a double-barreled shotgun tucked under
his left arm. There was a silver star pinned on his shirt.
    “What's goin' on in here?” he boomed in a
deep, authoritative voice.
    Only then did Tucson lower his Colts. He
returned the .32 to the shoulder holster, then ejected the spent
shells from the .45 and thumbed in fresh rounds.
    “These two sidewinders tried to whipsaw me,”
he replied in a tight voice, pointing to Ramon Vasquez, then
jerking his thumb over his shoulder at Wolf Cabot who lay
outstretched in the darkened room.
    Prince stepped forward. “I saw the whole
thing, Marshal. What Tucson is saying is correct. He was attacked
by Ramon Vasquez and Wolf Cabot.” He gestured to the men crowding
the bar. “We all saw it.”
    Calloway sucked on his tobacco-stained
mustache as he studied the scene; then his cold blue eyes
scrutinized Tucson. “So you're the Tucson Kid, eh?”
    “I've been called that,” Tucson responded,
holstering his gun.
    “Prince...” Calloway eyed the gambler. “Wolf
works for you. You got any idea why he'd want to kill the Kid
here?”
    “Tucson braced him here last night and ran
him out,” Prince answered. “My guess is that Wolf got Vasquez to go
in with him to kill the Kid off.”
    Calloway glanced down the bar. “You men see
this? Was it like Tucson said?” The men murmured their agreement.
“Okay,” Calloway said. “Prince, get some of your men to haul these
bodies over to the undertaker.” He turned to Tucson. “Kid, you're
gonna have to come with me. I believe it all happened like you
said, but I’ve got to fill out a report. I want you with me to
answer questions.”
    Tucson shrugged. “Whatever you say,
Marshal.”
    * * * *
    Fifteen minutes later Tucson and Calloway
were sitting in the marshal's office. Calloway was behind his desk,
muttering to himself as he rummaged around in the drawer for the
form he had to fill out. Behind him on the wall was a glass
enclosed case where he kept his rifles. Back to his left was the
doorway that led to the cells.
    A lantern sat on the desk, throwing a circle
of yellow light over the wooden floorboards.
    His chair tilted back on two legs and his
sombrero pushed to the back of his head, Tucson was stretched out
casually in front of the desk with his legs crossed at the ankles
and his boots resting on the desktop. He faced the glass windows
fronting on Main Street, and his back was protected by the rear
wall.
    Marshal Calloway finally found the form he
was searching for, spread it out on the desk then reached over