Free Comanche Gold by Richard Dawes Page B

control his temper. “Not that I know
of,” he muttered through clenched teeth.
    “Do you know anyone else in town that might
be interested in them?” Tucson pursued.
    “Gawddammit—no...!” Calloway exploded, and
slammed his huge fist down on the desk. “Nobody cares about a bunch
o’ gawddamn, flea-bitten Injuns livin' out on a gawddamn
reservation stuck out in the middle o’ gawddamn no-where. Nobody
ever even goes the gawddamn hell out there!”
    “Vasquez worked for the Lazy T,” Tucson
observed imperturbably. “A man called Ed Thompson owns it. What's
he like?”
    Finally realizing that Tucson was driving at
something, Calloway made an effort to calm himself down. “Ed's
alright,” he answered finally. “He’s kind of a hard case, but he's
okay.”
    Tucson studied the smoke drifting toward the
ceiling from his cheroot. “The Lazy T butts up against the Comanche
reservation, doesn't it?”
    “Yeah,” Calloway replied. “There's only a
range o’ hills separatin' ‘em.”
    Tucson lowered his gaze and stared at the
marshal. It was clear, he decided, that Calloway didn't know
anything about the gold, or about anyone trying to steal it from
the Comanche. He seemed honest enough—he just wasn’t very bright or
overly interested in protecting the Indians. Tucson crossed
Calloway off the list of possible conspirators, but he decided not
to tell the marshal anything. As the law in Howling Wolf, he would
expect to call the shots, and that would only get in Tucson's
way.
    Tucson leaned across the desk and stubbed his
cheroot out in the ashtray. “Sorry, Marshal. I didn't mean to get
you all riled up. I was just poking around. But, to answer your
question directly,” he flashed a friendly smile, “no, I can't think
of any reason why Prince would want me dead.”
    Calloway’s fingers drummed on the desktop
while he studied Tucson, searching for any hidden meanings. Then he
let it go with a shrug, picked up the quill and bent over the form.
“In that case, we'll put down the story Prince gave as the official
reason for the shootout.”
    “That suits me fine,” Tucson replied with a
sigh. “By the way,” he asked offhandedly, “do you know anything
about Charles Durant?”
    Calloway pushed his Stetson back off his
forehead and scratched his head. “For someone who just blew into
town yesterday,” he exclaimed perplexedly, “you sure know an awful
lot about what goes on here. Whadaya want to know about Durant
for?”
    Tucson lifted his shoulders innocently. “I
just overheard some cowboys in the Elkhorn talking about the
banker. They said he's a man on the rise. He might even make it to
the governor's mansion someday. I thought you might have an opinion
about him.”
    Calloway grunted, not satisfied with Tucson's
explanation. “Charles Durant made his pile in land speculation in
Kansas and Missouri after the war. He hit Howlin' Wolf about five
years ago, opened up the United Commerce Bank and funded most o’
the people who wanted to start a business here. You could even say
that we owe our success mostly to Charles Durant.” He chuckled and
leaned back in his chair. “He's mighty respectable now, but I hear
tell Durant was a real cocklebur when he was young. He used to
fight in the prize ring—almost became the champ. Some say he made
the cash he used in his land deals by runnin' whore houses durin’
the war.” He paused, reflected for a moment then added, “He's gotta
be one o’ the gawddamned strongest men I ever met! He must be in
his mid-forties now, an’ he can still twist a horseshoe all out o’
gawdamned shape.”
    “He sounds interesting,” Tucson commented,
leaning forward as if to rise. “Is that it, then, Marshal? Can I go
now?”
    “Yeah, that should do it.” Calloway watched
him from under shaggy brows. “But you'll have to be in court
tomorrow mornin’ when the judge reads this report. It's just a
formality, you understand. It was clearly self-defense. Be there at
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