Free Comanche Gold by Richard Dawes Page A

and
picked up a quill. Frowning with concentration, he dipped it into
an ink bottle and wrote the date.
    Then he asked, “Full name?”
    Tucson reached into the pocket of his jacket,
pulled out his cigar case, selected a cheroot then offered one to
Calloway. The marshal took it and lit a match, held it to Tucson's
cigar until it was going, then lit his own.
    Tucson blew a stream of blue smoke toward the
ceiling. “My name's Tucson,” he said.
    Calloway glanced up and raised his heavy
brows quizzically. “That’s it...nothin' else but Tucson?”
    “Nothing else...”
    “What about place o’ birth?”
    “I believe that would be Arizona.”
    “Date...?”
    “Don't know...”
    Calloway threw the quill down on the form in
exasperation. “What about your parents. Didn't they ever say?”
    “I never knew my father,” Tucson responded,
studying the glowing tip of his cheroot. “I’m the son of a widow.
My father was killed in an Apache raid while my mother was still
pregnant. My mother died of fever when I was about six or so, and I
raised myself from then on.”
    “I heard tell that you used to scout for the
Army against the Apaches when you were still a boy,” offered
Calloway.
    “I have a knack for tracking,” Tucson replied
with a nod. “I think the Army did me some good,” he added. “It gave
my life some structure at an age when I needed it.”
    The marshal leaned back in his chair, crossed
his arms over his massive chest, and studied Tucson with interest.
“That was some fancy gun-work you pulled off tonight at the
Elkhorn,” he observed finally. “Ramon Vasquez and Wolf Cabot were
two o' the best gunmen around—besides me, o’ course,” he added with
a grin. “And you took 'em both out at the same time.”
    Tucson shrugged. “I was lucky there was a
mirror on the wall behind Vasquez, so I knew what Wolf was planning
to do.”
    “Still...” Calloway shook his head
wonderingly. “I wish I'd been there to see it.” He stroked his
craggy chin with a blunt forefinger then asked, “Do you buy the
story Prince gave as to why them two jaspers made a play for
you?”
    “I don’t know...could be,” Tucson replied
slowly, thinking it over. “Prince warned me that Wolf was the kind
of skunk who held a grudge, but then Wolf worked for Prince.”
    “Yeah,” Calloway agreed. “I don't recollect
Wolf ever doin' nothin' Prince didn't tell 'im to do.” He puffed
reflectively on his cheroot. “There any reason why Prince would
want you dead?”
    “I hear that a few braves have been killed at
the reservation recently,” Tucson mentioned, with apparent
irrelevance.
    The marshal leaned forward and rested his
elbows on the desktop, his blue eyes screwed up questioningly.
“What the hell's that got to do with anythin'?”
    “You know anything about it?”
    Calloway puffed vigorously on his cigar while
he tried unsuccessfully to probe behind Tucson's eyes. “Sam
Spiegleman, the Injun Agent for the reservation, mentioned it to
me,” he admitted grudgingly. “But from what I could tell...” He
waved his cheroot in the air. “...the deaths were all accidental.
One Comanche got hisself drowned, another fell off his horse and
was stomped to death, and the third dropped over a cliff—mebbe he
got drunk or somethin’.”
    Tucson gazed out the windows at the dark
street. The barking of a dog and the sounds of carousing down in
the saloons carried over the night air. Then he squinted humorously
at Calloway. “The Comanche were the greatest horsemen the plains
ever produced. When did you ever hear of one them falling off his
horse? And considering how dry this country is, how deep was the
water the other Indian drowned in?”
    “You tryin' to tell me how to do my job?”
Calloway spat, his face going red with anger.
    Tucson didn't change expression. “Do you know
if Prince had any connection to the Comanche reservation?”
    The marshal blew out a gust of cigar smoke as
he made a strenuous attempt to