Comanche Gold Read Free Page B

of
her tongue.
    Uncomfortable, Tucson glanced away from her
and looked apologetically at Mrs. Murry. “I'm sorry, ma'am,” he
said. “But not all the stories told about me are true.”
    Tom McMannus spoke up, his voice throbbing
with awe. “Most of 'em are, though, I'll bet!”
    Tucson felt like a bug skewered on a pin, and
wished that Mrs. Murry would say something. Her face was deathly
pale, and she stared at him through round eyes.
    Then McMannus spoke again. “Say, Mr. Tucson,
ain't it kind o’ dangerous for you to be sittin’ around here
without your gun?”
    Tucson glanced at the boy and saw the glassy
stare filming his eyes that he had seen in the eyes of many young
gunmen eager to make a reputation. He sensed honesty and decency in
the kid, and didn't want to hurt him. Hopefully, the boy wouldn't
push him too hard.
    Tucson folded his arms over his chest, rested
his elbows on the table then looked at McMannus. “If you want to
reach old age, son, don't ever underestimate anyone.”
    “But with your rep,” the boy pressed, his
face flushed with excitement, “if you were caught without your gun,
someone could take advantage of it. Like right now. What if I was
to get it into my head to take you out?”
    “Tom!” Mrs. Murry cried in alarm. “Don't say
such things. And don't you dare try it!”
    Tucson could sense the boy steeling himself
to make a move. Even if he didn't really intend to kill Tucson, he
was finding it irresistible not to at least pull his Colt and
threaten him. It was a dream-come-true, and he was getting ready to
take advantage of it.
    Tucson slid around in his chair, and as he
faced the boy his right hand pulled easily and naturally from under
his left arm, and they were all startled to see the Colt .32 appear
in his fist. As he pointed it at Tom McMannus' chest, Mirah
screamed and dropped the coffee pot on the floor. George Bentley
choked on his cigar, and Mrs. Murry's hand flew to her pale face,
the fingers pressed to her lips.
    Tom McMannus’ face turned green and he looked
like he was going to vomit.
    “With your left hand,” Tucson told him in a
voice of iron, “unbuckle your gun-belt very slowly and throw it on
the floor back over in the corner.”
    His eyes sick with humiliation, McMannus
unbuckled his gun-belt, slid it out from around his waist, then
tossed it behind him onto the floor.
    “Now get up from the table and walk out of
here,” Tucson ordered.
    “What about my gun?” the boy whispered.
    “You can collect it at the front desk from
Mrs. Murry in a couple of hours,” Tucson replied. “But for now, if
you want to live to see the sun rise tomorrow, just get up and walk
out.”
    Shaking from head to foot, McMannus stood up,
and with a sob of mortification rushed from the room and continued
on out the front door. A collective sigh of relief went up from the
others as Tucson returned the .32 to the holster in its original
place inside his jacket.
    He glanced at Mrs. Murry, who was staring at
him with eyes as wide as saucers. “I'm sorry, ma'am,” he said
apologetically. “I promised you that I'd keep my gun in its holster
while I’m here. But the boy was getting ready to make a very
foolish move, and I thought he needed a lesson. Maybe if he learns
from this mistake he won't underestimate another man, and he might
live a little longer. It never occurred to me to hurt him,
though.”
    After taking a moment to come back to her
senses, Mrs. Murry shook her head as if to clear it. “I know,” she
said. “Actually, I thought you handled Tom rather gently...which is
not,” she added sternly, “what I'd have expected from your
reputation.”
    Tucson's wide mouth quirked ruefully. “Like I
said, ma’am, not all the stories told about me are true.”
    “Perhaps not,” Mrs. Murry replied. Then she
glanced up at Mirah, who was still gazing at Tucson with her mouth
hanging open. “Mirah, girl...! Get a move on and clean up the
spilled coffee. Then help me clear this