Comanche Gold Read Free Page A

the
sideboard along the wall.
    The others continued to stare at him in
silence.
    He glanced down the board, meeting their
eyes. “Don't let me interrupt your meal,” he said quietly.
    The subtle sense of steel edging the softness
of his voice awakened the others from their distraction, and they
hastily returned to their food. Conversation was soon bubbling
around the table again. Tucson put a slab of beefsteak on his plate
then filled the other half with corn, potatoes and onions. He
reached for the pitcher of milk and filled his glass. Then, with
the appetite of a man who hadn't eaten since before sunup, he dug
in.
    The conversation stayed general and had the
easy, comfortable feeling of people who knew each other well.
Although he listened to the talk with interest, Tucson remained
silent and concentrated on his food. Except for occasional,
surreptitious glances directed at him by the other boarders,
especially by the two women, they seemed satisfied to leave him
alone.
    After about half an hour, with sighs of
satisfaction and compliments to Mrs. Murry over the food, the
others began getting up and leaving the table.
    Finally, only Mrs. Murry, the older
gentleman, the boy with the gun, and Tucson remained at the
table.
    As Mirah filled his coffee cup, the gentleman
leaned back in his chair and lit a cigar. Through the cloud of
smoke he eyed Tucson with interest. “Welcome to our small but
rapidly growing town, sir,” he declared in a mellow voice. “My name
is George Bentley. I own The Bulletin—Howling Wolf’s only
newspaper. This handsome young lad with the yellow hair sitting
beside you is Tom McMannus. If you don't mind my asking,” his eyes
sharpened, “did I hear correctly when Mirah called you,
Tucson?”
    Tucson took a leather cigar case from an
inside pocket of his jacket, opened it, selected a long, thin
cheroot then clamped it between his teeth. Taking a wooden match
from a glass sitting on the table, he snapped it into flame with
his thumbnail then waved it slightly to dissipate the sulphur.
    Once he had the cheroot going, he looked
directly at the other man. “That's right.” Then he shook his head
as Mirah started to pour coffee into the cup at his elbow. “No
thanks.” He smiled up at her. “I don't drink the stuff.”
    George Bentley leaned across the table. “You
wouldn't by any chance be the Tucson Kid, would you?”
    Tucson's eyes, squinted against the smoke,
went cold. “I've been called that,” he replied evenly.
    Bentley leaned back in his chair and drew
vigorously on his cigar. Mrs. Murry's jaw dropped and her face took
on a stricken expression. Tom McMannus spun sideways in his chair,
leaned his elbow on the table and stared at Tucson in frank
fascination.
    The object of their attention felt the
uncomfortable sensation in his guts that he always got when people
found out who he was.
    “I've heard of you,” Bentley intoned, running
his fingers through his thinning grey hair. “I recall that you made
quite a name for yourself when you were still a boy, scouting
against the Apaches over in Arizona. You took on the Ames brothers
in New Mexico, and shot up the McCarthy gang in Wyoming so badly
they haven't been heard of since.
    “Folks are still telling the story about how
you outdrew Jeb Hollander in Abilene some years back,” he went on
enthusiastically. “Before you came along, Hollander was considered
the fastest, deadliest gunman on the frontier—next to Wild Bill
Hickok, of course. Which reminds me,” he added, pointing his cigar
at Tucson. “It's said that you were friends with Hickok before he
went and got himself killed over in Deadwood.” Bentley drew deeply
on his cigar then shot a mouthful of blue smoke toward the ceiling.
“Yes, sir,” he concluded, “you could say that I've heard of
you.”
    Still holding the coffee pot, Mirah walked
around and stood on the other side of the table, staring at Tucson
in open invitation, moistening her full lips with the pink tip