Tucson lay on his stomach at the edge of the arroyo with his binoculars pressed to his eyes, using his sombrero to shade them so that there was no reflection from sunlight against the lenses. It was late afternoon, and the slant of the sun gave a good view of the dry wash where three men lounged around a campfire. Two of the men were bearded, while the third man, who appeared to be significantly younger than the others, was clean-shaven. They all wore sweat-stained Stetsons, range clothes and had six-shooters strapped down to their legs.
That’s the Murdock brothers, alright, Tucson thought, but—he took his eyes away from the binoculars and scanned the arroyo from east to west—there was supposed to be a fourth.
Only three horses were picketed nearby, grazing on the sparse grass and mesquite bushes. He rolled over onto his side and studied the terrain behind him. Twenty feet away, the huge black stallion grazed peacefully behind a giant Yucca. Beyond, stretching north to the Rio Grande, was a desolate stretch of sand, rocks and cactus, broken only by the occasional canyon and arroyo such as the one here where the Murdock brothers were camped.
Deciding that no one was sneaking up on him, Tucson rolled back onto his stomach and looked again down into the camp. Nothing had changed—all was as it had been before. Clearly, the Murdocks were not expecting trouble. They were laying around the fire, joking and laughing among themselves. Tucson glanced again at the sun—it was a couple of hours until sundown. He had no intention of bracing three gunmen in broad daylight, and besides, the fourth brother could show up at any time. Deciding that there was nothing for it but to wait until nightfall, he put the binoculars into their case and slid back from the edge of the canyon. When he was a safe distance away, he stood up and walked down to where the stallion was standing ground-hitched.
Hanging the binoculars by their strap from the saddle horn, he reached into a saddlebag, pulled out a dry strip of venison jerky and had supper. As he stood in the shade thrown by the stallion, munching the venison and washing it down with water from his canteen, he thought back about how he had come to be there.
* * * *
It was late in the morning when Tucson rode into the southern Arizona town of Pleasanton. Both he and the stallion were covered with the white alkali dust of the desert. He had come down from the mountains to the north and had been riding across the desert for the last couple of days. Pleasanton was a medium sized town, clean and orderly, with a friendly marshal. There was a railhead on the eastern edge that catered to cattlemen, mine owners and rich tourists, and there was a bank where Tucson had an account and a good hotel where he was known. A stagecoach, with armed guards, came through twice a week shipping out gold and silver from the mines and bringing in funds for the bank. It was a town where Tucson felt at home, and he made it his headquarters when he was in that part of Arizona.
He reined in at Johnson's Livery Stable at the edge of town and climbed stiffly down from the saddle. The stable owner, a big, burly man, dressed in a leather apron and about as tall as Tucson, came out of the double doors to greet him.
“Howdy, Kid,” he called out cheerfully. “I ain’t seen you in a coon’s age.” He stopped, looked Tucson over, then grunted, “Jeez, Kid, you and yer hoss look like you’ve been doin’ some hard ridin’.”
Tucson took off his sombrero and beat it against his black leather jacket and dark serge trousers, throwing up a cloud of dust. “I came in through the desert,” he said with a grimace. “It's hot and dry out there.”
“Well,” the stableman turned and gestured with his thumb to the interior of the stable, “there’s a stall in there for yer hoss, an’ plenty o’ water in the trough to wash it down with.”
“Thanks, Jack,” Tucson said, and clapped the man on the shoulder. “I'll take care of my horse first, then I’m going over to the Pleasanton Hotel and take a long, hot bath.”
Two hours later, after washing all the dirt and dust off the stallion, combing all the burrs out of its long mane and tail, and making sure it had plenty of hay and oats, Tucson sauntered down the sidewalk toward the hotel with his saddlebags slung over his shoulder and carrying his Winchester in his left hand. Even though he was in what he considered a friendly town, Tucson stayed on the alert, assessing the men who came toward him, moving cautiously around groups, and keeping an eye on the other side of the street and the second-story windows. Being aware of his surroundings was an inflexible habit with Tucson, wherever he was, and it had saved his life more than once.
Coming to the Pleasanton Hotel, he turned in then immediately stepped to the side with his back against the wall, letting his eyes adjust to the dark, cool interior while he checked things out. The Pleasanton wasn’t fancy, but it was clean—no fleas in the beds—and it had a good saloon attached where there was always a high-stakes poker game in progress.
With a sigh of satisfaction, he moved on to the check-in desk.
“Howdy, Clyde,” he said to the middle-aged clerk standing behind the desk, as he lowered his saddlebags and rifle onto the counter.
Clyde looked up, and his homely face split in a pleased grin. “Well, Mr. Tucson,” he said. “What a pleasant surprise.” He glanced at Tucson’s dusty clothes. “What brings you to this part of the world?”
“Rest and recreation, Clyde,” Tucson replied with a grin. “Rest and recreation...”
“Certainly, Mr. Tucson,” Clyde responded, as he spun the register around. “We just happen to have your favorite room, with a good view of Main Street, available. The previous occupant left town yesterday.”
“That's good news,” Tucson said, as he signed his name. He glanced up at Clyde. “I want a bath as soon as you can get the hot water up to my room, and I need to get these clothes laundered.”
“Of course, of course...” The clerk struck the bell sitting on the counter and immediately a young Mexican boy came running around the corner. Clyde gave him his orders and the boy ran off. Turning back to Tucson, he said, “Your bath should be ready just about the time you get up to your room, sir.”
Reaching into an inside pocket of his jacket, Tucson pulled out his wallet and laid some bills on the counter. “Here’s a week in advance,” he said, pushing the money across. “If I decide to stay longer, I’ll give you plenty of warning.” As Clyde picked up the bills, recounted them and deposited them in a drawer, Tucson slid a twenty-dollar gold piece across the counter. “Buy something special for your wife,” he murmured. Then he picked up his saddlebags and rifle and started for the stairs.
“Thank you, Mr. Tucson,” Clyde called after him.
* * * *
It was late afternoon when Tucson stepped outside the hotel and paused on the sidewalk. Freshly shaved and bathed with clean clothes, his jacket and boots brushed, he felt like a new man. Reaching inside his jacket, he pulled out his leather cigar case, snapped it open and selected a long black cheroot. Striking a match on a support post, he touched the flame to the tip and drew the aromatic smoke deep into his lungs.
What he needed now, he thought, as he blew a long stream of blue smoke into the sky, was a thick steak with plenty of potatoes and onions.
On his way to his favorite restaurant, he paused as he passed the telegraph office. A thought occurred to him and he stepped inside. A young man wearing a green eye-shade looked up as he entered.
“Yes, sir,” he said cheerfully. “How can we help you today?”
Tucson moved to the counter, took a slip of paper and a pen lying there and began to write. “I want this message sent to the Palace Hotel in Denver, Colorado,” he said, as he wrote. “I get mail delivered there.” He slid the paper across the counter. “Ask them to forward any mail I may have down here to the Pleasanton Hotel.”
“Certainly, sir,” the clerk answered, taking the note and the gold piece Tucson pushed across to him. “Mail comes in on the train,” he added, “so whatever mail you have in Denver should be here within a few days.”
“Good enough...” Tucson responded, then spun on his heel and left the office.
As he stepped out the door, he almost collided with a portly man in a brown business suit and vest. With the speed and grace of a big cat, Tucson instinctively glided to the side as his right hand dropped to the Colt .45 belted around his lean waist.
The man jumped back and hastily lifted his hands. “Hold it there, Kid,” he cried. “I’m unarmed and I come in peace.”
Tucson straightened up from his crouch and looked the man over.
Of medium height, he had brown hair that was thinning at the temples and a handlebar mustache. The skin of his face was pink and taut, and his pudgy hands were soft—he had the look of a man who spent most of his time in-doors.
“What do you mean, you come in peace?” Tucson asked suspiciously.
“I apologize for this awkward introduction,” the man answered. “But the truth of the matter is that I was looking for you. I heard you were in Pleasanton. The clerk at your hotel told me that you headed in this direction, and I came along in hopes of finding you.” He smiled pleasantly and held out his hand. “My name is Charles E. Franklin, and I am the President of the United Bankers Association of Arizona.”
Tucson glanced quickly up and down the street to make sure no one was skulking about then he took the banker’s hand. “What do you want with me?” he asked, releasing the hand as quickly as he could. “Am I over-drawn at the bank, or something?”
“Not at all, not at all...” Franklin laughed—it was a heavy sound. He gestured down the street. “I have a private car at the train station. I wonder if you would care to come with me where we can talk privately.” He pulled a gold watch out of his vest pocket, snapped it open and looked at the time. “I believe we will be just in time for supper,” he said, with a smile. “I would appreciate it if you would be my guest. I have a business proposition to put before you, and we can discuss it over dinner.”
“Now you’re speaking my language,” Tucson smiled in turn. “Lead the way.”
* * * *
The main room of Charles Franklin’s private car was paneled in walnut, covered with plush blue carpeting, and had silken curtains at the windows. As Tucson entered behind the banker, he could smell the wealth that oozed out of the very atmosphere. Franklin moved to the side where a bar was set up against the wall, and Tucson got a look at who was sitting straight ahead on a satin couch against the wall beneath a window.
Ash-blonde hair was piled atop a perfectly shaped head, and deep blue eyes stared at him from above a straight, upturned nose, while full red lips smiled at him in welcome. Her green silken dress was cut square across the bodice, giving just a hint of cleavage between two of the biggest and best-shaped breasts Tucson had ever seen. Her aura of feminine sexuality was so powerful and all-pervasive that Tucson felt himself respond in spite of the situation.
About to pick up a decanter, Charles Franklin turned his head in the woman’s direction. “Oh, yes,” he said pleasantly, “this is Anne Sheldon, my...assistant.”
Tucson took off his sombrero as he stepped forward. “My name’s Tucson,” he said, bowing over the hand she held out to him. “I’m very pleased to meet you.”
“And I, you,” she replied, squeezing his hand and holding his eyes with hers. “Charles and I have heard so much about you.” She glanced at the banker. “It’s not often that we get to meet a legend, is it Charles?”
Franklin turned again, with a decanter in his hand. “No, it isn’t,” he replied. “And the pleasure is all ours.” Glancing at Tucson, he added, “I have in my hand a two hundred year old Brandy that has to be experienced to be believed...can I pour you a snifter?” He gestured to a chair in the corner. “Please, Kid, take a seat and make yourself comfortable.”
Tucson dropped into the chair, crossed a shin over his knee and perched his sombrero on top. “Sure,” he replied. “Brandy would be fine.”
Franklin crossed the room and first gave Anne her Brandy then came to Tucson and handed him his. The three of them paused for a moment to swirl the liquor in the bottom of their snifters and inhale the bouquet; then they sipped it appreciatively.
The Brandy was unbelievably smooth on Tucson’s tongue, and he felt its warmth slide all the way down to his stomach. He glanced up at Franklin with a smile. “You’re right,” he said. “This did have to be experienced to be believed.”
The banker, who had been watching him expectantly, smiled with pleasure. Just then, a black man in a white jacket opened an inside door, stuck his head in and addressed the banker. “Mr. Franklin, suh, supper’s on the table.”
“Thank you, Jules,” Franklin replied; then he offered his hand to Anne. “Come, my dear, I am positively starving!”
They passed into the next room where a table covered with a white tablecloth and set with three places sat in the middle of the floor. A black woman in a black dress and a white apron stood beside a cart on wheels where various savory smelling covered pans and dishes had been placed. As Franklin, Anne and Tucson took their places around the table, the man and woman began serving them.
As the servants moved silently around the table, placing food before each of them on gilded China plates, Tucson had to admit that he was impressed. He noticed that the silverware was indeed silver, and each piece was engraved with the monogram, CF. There was roast beef, mashed potatoes and gravy, freshly baked bread and biscuits and three types of vegetables.
The black man stopped beside Franklin’s chair and held out a bottle of wine for his inspection. “The vintage you requested, suh,” he said softly.
Franklin glanced at the label and nodded, then he leaned across to Tucson. “Dig in, Kid. Let’s don’t stand on ceremony. I imagine after that ride across the desert, you’re famished.”
“I have to admit,” Tucson grunted, as he heaped his plate with roast beef, “that this beats dried jerky and a cold can of beans.”
As the three of them settled down to eating, Tucson digested his impressions. Charles Franklin was clearly a wealthy man, and he liked to take his comforts with him when he traveled. Speaking of comforts, Tucson glanced sideways at Anne. Franklin had introduced her as his assistant but it was clear that she had a more intimate purpose for being there. He couldn’t blame Franklin on either count—if a man could afford it, why not live the way he wanted to?
But the question still remained—what did the banker want with Tucson?
He noticed that Anne handled her knife and fork with grace and precision, took small bites and used her napkin. It would seem that she had an upper class upbringing and education—she was obviously not a common whore. At the same time, she and Franklin weren’t married. Tucson could only suppose that the trade-off was that the banker could offer her the kind of life she preferred—a life of ease.
As she lifted her glass of wine to her lips, Anne suddenly fixed her blue eyes on him. “Is it possible that all the stories we’ve heard about you are true?” she asked.
Embarrassed, Tucson laughed and shrugged. “Maybe about a third of them. People have a habit of tagging stories onto me that fit their picture of who they think I should be.”
Her eyes held his over the rim of her glass. “I wonder...” she murmured.
“Well,” Franklin put in, “enough of them are true that I believe you are the man for the job I want to offer you.” He nodded as Jules and the woman removed the dishes from the table, then leaned forward and planted his elbows on the tablecloth. “I’ve got a problem, Kid, and I need it solved—fast!”
Suddenly, the banker was all business. Tucson was impressed with his ability to shift gears on a dime. “I’m listening...” he said evenly, wiping his mouth with his napkin and dropping it on the table.
“Have you ever heard of the Murdock brothers?” Franklin asked.
“Vaguely...” Tucson answered. “Aren’t they a family of bank robbers?”
“Yes, they are - hence, my problem...” Franklin gazed at the wall for a moment then re-focused on Tucson. “The United Bankers Association, of which I am president, represents most of the banks in Arizona. Recently, the Murdock brothers have taken to robbing several of the banks here in the southern part of the state.”
“Just the south...?” Tucson asked.
Franklin nodded. “The Murdock's hit the banks holding payrolls for the big cattle ranches in this part of Arizona, and the silver mines.”
“That suggests an inside job,” Tucson put in. “They’d have to know when the banks are storing that much cash.”
“Of course...” the banker made a throwaway gesture with his hand. “I already have Pinkerton detectives working on that end of the problem, but,” he pointed a stubby finger at Tucson, “I need a man with your tracking abilities and your skill with a gun to track the Murdock brothers down and bring them back—dead or alive.”
“Why don’t you have the Pinkerton’s do that?” Tucson asked.
Franklin leaned back in his chair and studied Tucson speculatively. “We believe the Murdock's high-tail it down into Mexico after their raids,” he replied, finally. “I would prefer not using the Pinkerton's in an operation where we have to go into a foreign country without securing official permission.” Tucson nodded his understanding, and Franklin added carefully, “I don’t want you to take this as an insult, Kid, but part of what recommends you for this job, aside from your tracking abilities and your skill with a gun, is your willingness to work outside the strict parameters of the law.”
Tucson glanced at Anne and discovered that she was staring at him fixedly. When their eyes met, he felt the electrical charge all the way down to his toes. His gaze shifted back to the banker, who was watching him closely. “Don’t worry,” he said. “No offense taken.”
“Well...?” Franklin prompted.
Tucson toyed with the stem of his wine glass. “First of all,” he answered, “how many brothers are there, and how much are you willing to pay?”
Franklin smiled. Now Tucson was speaking his language. “There are four of them,” he replied briskly. “Clint’s the oldest—and the meanest, and the best with a gun—he’s the leader. Chet is the second oldest—he’s almost as mean as Clint but can’t match him with a gun. Then there’s Monroe—he’s a little more happy-go-lucky than the others are, and probably goes along for the fun of it. Finally,” he sighed, “there’s the youngest one they call, ‘Goon,’ I guess because he seems to be pretty stupid. He usually stands outside in the street and watches the horses.” He paused then said, “I’ll pay you five thousand dollars a head, twenty thousand dollars total. And,” his eyes sharpened, “it doesn’t matter to the Association whether you bring them back dead or alive.”
“I’ll leave at dawn,” Tucson replied.
* * * *
Tucson got to the hotel about nine o’clock; the foyer was well-lit and cool, and a middle-aged couple was signing in at the register. He glanced in at the saloon. The bar was crowded with cowmen, miners and businessmen, a few women circulated around the tables where more men were drinking, a pianist and a banjo player were off in a corner making music and, at a table at the far end of the room, a poker game was in progress.
With a thrill of excitement coiling in his belly, Tucson moved to the bar and ordered a beer, then sauntered over to the poker table to look over the action. There were five men at the table; three businessmen in suits, a wealthy cattleman in a pearl-grey Stetson and a suede jacket, and, sitting against the wall, what looked like a cowhand in town for a night’s entertainment. He was young and obviously out of his depth.
The play was serious. The men were focused on their cards, with plenty of gold coins stacked in front of each. As Tucson watched, the young cowhand made too large a bet—Tucson could see at a glance that he was bluffing—he was trying to buy the pot. Unfortunately, he was up against men who knew what they were doing. The young man was seen and raised by the other players until he was tapped out. Then he had the humiliating experience of turning over his cards to show that all he had was a pair of deuces.
“God damn it to hell!” he exclaimed, throwing in his cards as one of the other men raked in the coins. “That finishes me...” he added disgustedly, pushing back his chair and rising to his feet. “It looks like another month in the bunkhouse for me.”
The others laughed as he walked away.
“Come back any time,” one of them called after him.
Moving to the empty chair, Tucson paused and looked around the table. “Do you gents mind a little fresh blood in the game?” he asked.
The men looked him over. “Hell, Kid,” one of them spoke up. “You know you’re always welcome here.”
Tucson smiled, placed his beer on the table, sat down and pulled out his wallet.
* * * *
It was about midnight, and Tucson had just raked in another pot, when through the door between the saloon and the hotel he noticed a blonde woman with a dark shawl thrown over her shoulders step into the hotel lobby. She stood hesitantly in the middle of the room, looking around. When she turned in his direction, Tucson saw that it was Anne Sheldon, Charles Franklin’s mistress.
“That’s it for me, boys,” he said quickly, as he scooped his winnings into his sombrero.
“Jeezus, Kid...!” one of the gamblers complained. “When are you gonna give us a chance to get that money back?”
“The next time I’m in town,” he replied, rising to his feet and moving around the table. “But for now,” he added with a grin, “I have other things to do.”
He circled the tables on his way to the hotel; Anne saw him and smiled with relief. The night clerk was coming around the sign-in desk to speak to her, but when he saw Tucson approaching, he returned to his station behind the counter and discreetly studied the register.
“I wasn’t quite sure how to contact you,” she said, smiling as he stopped beside her. “All I knew was that you were staying at this hotel.”
“Well,” Tucson replied, smiling back, “you found me.” Glancing around, he asked, “Where’s Franklin?”
Anne’s full lips pouted. “He’s back at the train station—asleep.”
“Would you like to go into the saloon for a drink?” Tucson asked.
“I don’t think a lady is supposed to go into such places,” Anne laughed. “Besides,” she placed her hand on his arm, “I was hoping we could go somewhere a little more private.”
Tucson felt the electricity of her touch, and nodded understandingly. “I know just the place,” he said, then took her elbow and guided her toward the stairs.
As they passed the front desk, the night clerk had his back to them and was studying the mailboxes.
His room was on the second floor at the front of the building. He paused at the door, put the key in the lock then threw it open. Gesturing for Anne to enter first, he went in behind, inhaling her perfume. A dresser with a mirror and a washbasin was against the street wall and a large bed sat against the wall on the right. Anne stopped in the middle of the room and turned around. After placing his sombrero, still full of his winnings, on the dresser, Tucson stepped up to her, took her in his arms and kissed her.
The promise he had seen in her red lips earlier in the evening was fulfilled as she returned his kiss passionately. The blood in his veins turned molten as their tongues met, her large breasts pressed against his chest, and her wide hips ground into his groin.
Then she broke away and turned her back to him. “Unlace me,” she urged. “Quickly...”
Tucson untied the laces that held up her dress, and, with a silken whisper, it slid to the floor. Turning back, Anne faced him and with agonizing slowness, slipped the bodice off her shoulders and bared her huge breasts. Tucson gasped. They were as perfect then as they had seemed when she was wearing her dress. They rode high, with absolutely no sag, and had enormous nipples. She kept pushing down, and the fabric slid over her lush hips, exposing the yellow patch between her full thighs, then her pantaloons dropped around her slender ankles and Tucson gazed upon feminine perfection.
“Do you find me beautiful?” she asked, with a confident smile.
“I never thought the word ‘beautiful’ could seem so inadequate,” Tucson muttered, as he unlaced his leather jacket, threw it aside then shrugged out of the shoulder rig that held his Colt .32 under his left arm. Moving to the night table next to the bed, he placed the .32 and his .45 on top within easy reach then peeled off the rest of his clothes.
As he did so, Anne went to the bed, threw back the covers then lay down on her back.
Tucson paused at the side of the bed and drank in her incredible beauty. “Doesn’t Franklin give you enough?” he asked with a grin.
“He tries,” she pouted. “Unfortunately, three times a week usually satisfies him, but,” her eyes became points of blue fire, “I need more!” She lifted her arms to him. “Now come here and give it to me.”
* * * *
Dawn was a golden band on the eastern horizon when Tucson rode out of Pleasanton heading west. Charles Franklin had told him that the last bank the Murdock brothers had robbed three days earlier was in the town of Garfield about two hundred miles northwest of Pleasanton. They were last seen riding south, and the assumption was that they were heading for Mexico. Tucson rode due west hoping to cross their trail as they traveled south and he would be able to track them to wherever they were going. He didn’t expect them to be taking a road—it was more likely they'd be riding overland—but the road Tucson was on was a major highway heading west toward Phoenix, and the Murdock’s would have to cross it somewhere.
All he had to do was keep his eyes peeled until he spotted their tracks.
As he held the stallion down to a spirited walk, Tucson’s mind drifted back to Anne Sheldon and the romp they'd had the night before. She was passionate, with a powerful sex drive, and she had kept him at it until the wee hours of the morning. Tucson wasn’t exactly undersexed himself, but he had begun to tire about the same time she had fallen back exhausted on the sweat-stained sheets and declared herself satisfied.
“I can’t remember the last time a man satisfied me the way you did tonight,” she murmured, her eyes half closed and her voice husky.
Tucson lay on his side, his head resting on his elbow and gazed down at her. Her hair was tousled, her make-up was smeared, her mouth was bruised, and her lush body was covered with sweat. He reached out, grabbed one of her huge breasts and squeezed it hard. “You’re a lot of woman,” he grunted, kneading the gelatinous globe. “You about wore me down to a nub.”
She chuckled, then asked, “How long do you think you’ll be gone?”
“I have no idea,” Tucson replied with a shrug. “There are too many variables to even make a guess.”
“Charles is having a meeting here in Pleasanton with some of the other bankers in the region,” she said, her fingers sliding sensually along the lean muscles of his chest and stomach. “He estimates we’ll be here for at least another week.” She glanced meaningfully into his eyes. “If you get back within the week, it would be nice to get together again.”
Tucson leaned over, took her nipple in his teeth and bit down. “If I’m back before you leave,” he muttered, “I’ll probably be recovered enough for another bout.”
As his eyes probed the trail and the countryside, searching for tracks, Tucson reflected that most likely no single man would ever be able to satisfy Anne Sheldon. She would turn any man foolish enough to try into a physical wreck. Still, he grinned to himself, that wasn’t his problem. He was already looking forward to bedding her again if he returned to Pleasanton before she and Charles Franklin left town.
* * * *
It was early afternoon when Tucson spotted the tracks of four horses cutting across the road heading south. From the blurred quality of the prints, it was clear that whoever made them was riding fast. He reined the stallion to the north above the road so he could get a clearer picture of the tracks. The country was made up of rolling hills of sand covered with hardy prairie grass, mesquite, stunted oaks and cactus. He rode on until he got to a place where the group had slowed down to pass between two boulders, and the hoof-prints showed up stark and clear in the packed sand. Looking to the north, the tracks went back as far as he could see; gazing to the south, they continued on toward Mexico until they faded from sight in the distance.
Confident that he had cut the trail of the Murdock brothers, Tucson nudged the stallion with his heels and rode south.
All through the rest of the day, Tucson tracked the bank robbers through the harsh, rugged terrain of southern Arizona. When the ground was soft sand, he was able to ride swiftly; but occasionally the trail crossed vast slabs of granite, or passed through dry washes where the tracks disappeared among the rocks. Then he had to dismount and go slowly on foot, the stallion following along behind, and search for sign.
His sharp eyes took in everything—hoof-scarred rocks, displaced pebbles, bruised leaves, even the dislocated tine on a cactus could tell him which way to go. Once, he lost them completely in the mesquite and gravel until he spotted the droppings of a horse almost hidden in the brush. Picking up a stick, he broke the turd apart and could tell that it had been dropped by a horse just a few hours before.
Nodding to himself, he mounted up and rode on.
It was obvious that the Murdock brothers didn’t expect anyone to be on their back-trail. If Tucson had difficulty tracking them, it was because of the rugged terrain—it was not because the bank robbers were making any effort to cover their tracks. They had ridden this way many times before without getting caught, and they saw no reason why this time should be any different.
Tucson’s grey eyes went cold and his mouth warped in a hard grin. Little did they know that this time it would be different.
It was mid-afternoon when he swam the stallion across the Rio Grande. The Murdock's had picked well. There was a wide curve in the river and the water was shallow. Still, Tucson went warily. For the entire time it took to cross the river, he was an easy target for any of the brothers who might be watching their back trail.
The sun was sinking in the west when Tucson reached the arroyo. He had seen the smoke rising from their campfire over a mile away and had come on slowly, his every nerve on high alert. Finally, after ground hitching the stallion behind a giant Yucca, he had taken his binoculars and crawled on his belly to the arroyo’s edge.
* * * *
It was a couple of hours past sunset and the three-quarter moon was well up in the sky when Tucson stood up from beneath the mesquite bush where he had been squatting and brushed himself off. Although he had been resting in preparation for what lay ahead, his sharp eyes had never ceased searching the country for any sign of the fourth Murdock brother. But the man was nowhere to be seen, so Tucson set his mind to the problem of confronting the other three.
Pulling his Winchester from its scabbard beneath the stirrup, he circled in a wide loop to the east. Even though he was out of sight of the camp down in the arroyo, he moved at a half-crouch through the brush, taking advantage of every turn and twist in the terrain that would give him cover, never staying more than a moment in full moonlight. He hadn’t lasted that long in the game by being careless, and though he hadn’t spotted the fourth Murdock brother, that didn’t mean he wasn’t out there somewhere, waiting and watching.
About half a mile to the east, Tucson found a narrow trail that led down into the canyon. As far as he could tell, it was made of hard-packed sand with no rocks that could be accidentally kicked to give away his position. Most likely, it was a well-used game trail for the deer that were plentiful in that part of Mexico.
With a last look around, Tucson went over the edge and, still at a half-crouch, climbed down the trail. He was traversing the north face of the canyon, and the moon striking the edge threw long dark shadows that concealed him as he came down onto the sandy floor of the arroyo. The campfire was a dim flicker in the distance with vague shapes moving around it. Keeping to the darkness, Tucson crept forward, his rifle at the ready, with one eye on the ground in front of him and the other on the campfire as it got closer.
Finally, reaching a point where he could make out the features of the three men grouped around the campfire, Tucson stopped behind a boulder next to the canyon wall to assess the situation. The brothers were lounging in their bedrolls, tin dinner plates left from supper tossed among the rocks surrounding the fire, passing a whiskey bottle around.
One of the two bearded men took a drink then spoke as he passed the bottle to the other. “Do you reckon Clint’ll make it back tonight?”
The other man grabbed the bottle, took a long swig then passed it to the youngest, beardless brother. “Naw..!” he grunted. “Since when did you know Clint to get out ‘o bed with that senorita before sunup?”
“What does he do there?” the youngest brother asked, in a dull voice. He gazed distastefully at the bottle in his hand, then took a short, quick swallow. “He spends a lot o’ time with that woman when we come down here.”
The other two brothers burst out in coarse guffaws, then one replied, “Don’t you worry your thick head about it, Goon. What he’s doin’ ain’t nothin’ you’ll ever have to worry about.”
“Just the same,” the first speaker said, taking the bottle back from Goon, “I wanta git down to San Pedro quick so’s we can deposit this money in the bank and git on to funnin’ with our own senoritas.”
“Don’t worry,” the other responded. “Our hosses needed the rest. We got a hard ride ahead o’ us tomorrow. We’ll meet Clint at the usual spot then ride on down from there.” He put the bottle to his bearded lips. “The senoritas will be there waitin’ for us when we reach San Pedro.”
Tucson chose that moment to step out from behind the rock. “Lift your hands slow and easy, gents,” he called out, leveling the Winchester. “You’ve come to the end of the trail.”
* * * *
After a split-second of stunned surprise, the nearest brother rolled out of his blankets, threw the whiskey bottle at Tucson, came up onto one knee and went for his gun. Tucson squeezed the trigger and a long streak of yellow flame lanced the darkness. As the thunder of gunfire rolled off the walls of the arroyo, the man’s chest exploded in a spray of blood. Staggering backwards, he tripped over the rocks surrounding the fire, stumbled, and Tucson’s second bullet caught him between the eyes, ripping the top of his head off and splattering the other two brothers with blood and brains.
The second brother’s Colt was almost level when Tucson’s third slug took him in the guts; the impact slammed him back against the wall of the canyon. He hung there for a second, trying to raise his gun again to get off a shot. Tucson’s Winchester spoke a fourth time and the man’s head disappeared, leaving a gruesome reddish-grey mess dripping from the rocks behind him. As the bandit fell forward onto the sand, Tucson levered another bullet into the chamber and brought the rifle to bear on the youngest brother.
Through it all, the boy had just sat in his blankets watching dumbly as the action unfolded. Then, when he saw that his two brothers were dead, his right hand instinctively snaked toward his Colt.
“Don’t make me kill you, boy,” Tucson hissed through clenched teeth.
His eyes were slits of yellow fire, the skin over his high cheekbones was stretched taut and his mouth was a thin line. In the flickering light, his face had taken on the appearance of a skull. The boy stared into it, and then slowly took his hand away from his gun.
“With your left hand,” Tucson told him, as he came forward into the light, his rifle still at the ready, “unbuckle your gun belt and throw it toward me.”
When the boy complied, Tucson picked it up and tossed it off into the darkness. “Now back up to the canyon wall and sit down, with your hands up.”
The boy did as he was told, but he glanced to the side, saw the headless body of his brother and the grisly stain on the dirt wall that was still dripping, and he leaned over and threw up. Still keeping an eye on the youngest Murdock, Tucson went to the corpses of the other two brothers, took their Colts from their stiffening fingers and tossed them off down the canyon.
Then he came back and squatted beside the fire. “What’s your name, boy?” he asked, as he picked up some dried branches stacked nearby and threw them into the flames.
“Th-they call me, Goon,” the boy stammered. Tears were cutting trails through the dust on his cheeks and he was beginning to sob.
“What are the names of these two?” Tucson asked again.
“Chet an’ Munroe...”
“So Clint’s the one off visiting his woman friend?”
Goon just nodded. His arms were wrapped around his stomach, and he was hunched forward giving way to gut-wrenching sobs.
Tucson pitied the boy. There was no doubt that he was too stupid to clearly grasp what his brothers had gotten him into. But Tucson had a job to do, so he spoke again. “I need you to guide me to the house where your brother's staying.”
Goon stared at him through red-rimmed eyes. “Why? So you can kill him too?”
“Listen to me,” Tucson said, staring hard at the boy. “Your brothers would still be alive if they hadn’t thrown down on me. I don’t want to kill Clint, and I don’t want to kill you. If you show me where he is, I’ll do my best to take him alive.”
Goon just rocked back and forth, his grief-stricken eyes staring into the fire.
“Boy...!” Tucson’s voice barked out like a pistol-shot.
Goon’s head jerked up as if he had been slapped. He stared at Tucson, his lips quivering then he jerked his head to the southwest. “O-off down there about three miles,” he mumbled. “He goes to see some widow-woman that gots a small farm or somethin’.
Tucson stood up. “Come on... Let’s go get him.”
* * * *
Tucson reined in the stallion in the shadow of an ancient oak, eased himself in the saddle and gazed across the clearing at the white adobe farmhouse. Goon sat his horse beside him, his hands bound to the saddle horn. The moon still rode high in the sky; it splashed the farm and the surrounding country with a silvery glow. By its light, Tucson could see rows of corn behind the house, a corral with a shed where three horses stood hip-shot and dozing, and nearby a vegetable garden. It was a clean, well-maintained spread.
Two windows faced Tucson, and they were shuttered and dark, with no light showing between the chinks. Dark or not, he didn’t like the idea of crossing the open area in the moonlight to get to the house. With a sigh, he stepped down into the dirt and ground hitched the stallion, then he moved to the other horse.
“Take your foot out of the stirrup,” he said, then waited as Goon complied.
Putting his boot into the stirrup, he swung up onto the horse’s rump behind the boy. Pulling a bandanna from his pocket that he had picked up back at the campsite, he tied it around Goon’s mouth, effectively gagging him. Sliding back to the ground, he took a length of rope from one of his saddlebags and tied the boy’s feet together beneath his horse’s belly. Goon was gagged, his hands were tied to the saddle horn and his feet were secured so he couldn’t dismount.
“That should keep you,” Tucson grunted.
Pulling his Winchester, he thumbed in fresh cartridges from a box of shells he kept in his saddlebag. Then, with a last look around, he moved back around the oak tree and faded into the shadows thrown by the chaparral ringing the farm. He went slowly through the brush, pausing often to listen and to get his bearings. Peaceful silence shrouded the farm, broken only by the faint howling of a distant coyote. He moved like a wraith over the sand, his black sombrero, black leather jacket and dark trousers reducing him to a shadow drifting among shadows.
Finally, he pulled up behind the shed in the corral. With his back pressed to the boards, he slid carefully along the side until he could peer around the corner at the farmhouse. The horses had become restive with his presence, snorting nervously and shifting position to the other side of the corral. Beyond, the house was still dark and quiet. Tucson had come to the point where he had run out of cover. There was nothing for it but to rush across the clearing to the house. A trickle of sweat meandered down his spine.
If Clint Murdock was watching from the darkness behind those shutters, Tucson was a dead man.
Keeping the horses between him and the house for as long as he could, Tucson came to the rails of the corral. After taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly, he stooped to a half-crouch and started running. Rather than head for the front door, he sprinted for the corner of the building where he could stop and re-group. Caught in the bright moonlight, his heightened senses could make out every grain of sand on the ground and his running footsteps sounded as loud as cannon fire. Certain that he must have been seen or heard, Tucson came to a halt at the western corner of the house.
Standing with his back to the wall and his rifle pressed to his heaving chest, he tried to quiet the beating of his heart so that he could listen for any sound coming from within the building. Still, there was only silence. Cautiously, he slid around the corner and glided toward the front door. But he had only taken a few steps when the deep growling and barking of a dog erupted from inside the house.
Tucson’s worst fears were realized. He was caught out in the open with nowhere to run. If he tried, he'd be picked off easily as he crossed the moon-drenched clearing around the house. A woman’s voice sounded from within, quietening the dog. There was a rattling of a chain, a last growl, then silence.
Moving fast, Tucson reached the door, lifted his boot and kicked hard against the boards. At the same time the door crashed open, Tucson leaped to the side and landed heavily on the ground against the wall. He had jumped just in time, the roar of gunfire exploded from within and hot lead sprayed out through the opening. Rolling back along the ground, Tucson fell across the doorway. As a few more bullets snapped harmlessly over his head, he levered round after round into the house. The darkness within made aiming impossible, so he depended on fire power. He kept firing until the rifle was empty then he rolled on to the other side of the doorway. Coming up into a sitting position against the wall, he tossed the Winchester aside, pulled his Colt and waited.
Then he heard a woman sobbing. Inching his head around the door frame, he saw a woman in a white cotton nightgown kneeling next to a form lying on its back on the floor. Tucson stood up and stepped inside, his .45 cocked and ready. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he lowered the gun to his side. Clint Murdock, dressed only in a nightshirt, lay on his back in a pool of his own blood. His upper body was so ripped apart that his shattered ribs stuck upward like bony fingers, and his glistening intestines coiled on the wooden planks like a swarm of pink serpents.
The woman looked up at Tucson, her face contorted with grief. “You have killed my man!” she cried in Spanish. “You have killed my man!”
* * * *
It was afternoon of the fourth day when Tucson made it back to Pleasanton. He created a sensation as he rode down Main Street with a boy bound to his saddle horn beside him and three horses strung out behind with dead bodies slung over their saddles. By the time he pulled up in front of the marshal’s office, most of the population of Pleasanton was crowded around. One of the men, overcome with curiosity, peeked under the slicker wrapped around one of the corpses then turned around suddenly and vomited in the dirt.
“Gawdalmighty...!” he exclaimed. “They ain’t no head on that body.”
Just then the crowd parted as a buggy driven by Charles Franklin, with Anne Sheldon beside him, cut through to the hitch rack. At the same time, the Town Marshal stepped out of his office to see what was going on. Lean and looking as tough as boot leather, he wore a black slouch hat and had a .44 Remington tied down to his right leg.
He squinted at Tucson and the boy, then glanced at the three corpses. Nodding to Charles Franklin as the banker climbed down from the buggy, he addressed Tucson. “I see you're up to your old tricks, Kid.” His voice was hard but friendly. He and Tucson had been friends for years. Marshal Clanton was one of the reasons Tucson considered Pleasanton a friendly town. “I expect these are the Murdock brothers,” he concluded.
Charles Franklin stepped onto the wooden sidewalk. He was freshly shaved and dressed in a light grey business suit, a vest and a silk cravat. “So you did it, Kid!” he burst out effusively. “You got the Murdock’s.”
“Yep...” Tucson sighed, as he swung down from the saddle. He jerked his thumb in the direction of the three corpses. “Clint, Chet and Munroe put up a fight so I had to take them out. But I was able to recover the money they got from their last job. It’s in the boy’s saddlebags.”
Franklin sniffed the air and wrinkled his nose. “Those bodies are getting ripe! The stench would gag a maggot.”
“Yep,” Tucson nodded. “You’d better plant them in the ground pretty quick.”
Franklin’s gaze came to rest on Goon. “So you’re all that’s left of the Murdock brothers.”
Goon didn't answer; he just stared straight ahead with a dull expression on his face.
Franklin looked questioningly at Tucson.
“I think the death of his brothers snapped what was left of the boy’s mind,” Tucson said, shaking his head sadly.
Marshal Clanton stepped off the sidewalk and took hold of Goon’s arm. “Come on, son,” he said kindly. “We need to get you inside.”
As Clanton took Goon into his office and the crowd began to disperse, Franklin turned to Tucson. “I knew I was picking the right man when I hired you for this job,” he said. “I owe you twenty thousand dollars. How do you want it?”
“I have a bank account here in town,” Tucson replied. “Let’s step over to the bank and you can make a direct deposit.”
“Excellent...!” Franklin clapped him on the shoulder. “I want to have a few words with Marshal Clanton,” he said. “If you wouldn’t mind waiting a few minutes, I’ll be right with you.”
“One more thing,” Tucson interrupted.
Franklin swung back. “Yes...?”
“As I said, the money from the Murdock brother’s last job is in the boy's saddlebag, but you can probably get a lot of the other money back from a bank a couple of day’s ride down into Mexico in a town called San Pedro.”
“Good work, Kid!” Franklin clapped him a second time on the shoulder. “I’ll put my agents to work on it immediately.”
As Franklin disappeared into the office, Tucson turned around to find Anne Sheldon, still sitting in the buggy, staring at him. She was beautiful in a blue silken dress with white ruffles at the collar and a hat of the same shade perched on her blonde hair. She held a fancy parasol over her head as protection from the hot sun. Tucson moved over beside the buggy and lifted his sombrero in greeting.
“You’re looking lovely today,” he murmured.
With a quick glance at the office door to make sure they wouldn’t be overheard, she leaned over and whispered, “You do live up to your reputation...”
“I thought I already demonstrated that,” Tucson answered with a grin.
She gazed at him and the heat streaming from her eyes almost melted his jacket. “Tonight...” she breathed. “...at the same time and place.”
“I’ll be there...” Tucson answered, as Charles Franklin walked out of the marshal’s office and started toward them.
* * * *
With his saddlebags slung over his shoulder and carrying his Winchester in his left hand, Tucson stepped into the cool interior of the Pleasanton Hotel and moved toward the front desk. He was looking forward to a bath, good food and an afternoon nap in a bed with clean sheets, and later—Anne Sheldon. The world was looking good to Tucson as he dropped his saddlebags on the counter and placed his rifle beside them.
“Welcome back, Mr. Tucson,” Clyde exclaimed, smiling brightly at him from the other side of the desk. “Congratulations, the whole town's talking about your latest adventure. I’m happy that all went well.”
“Thanks...” Tucson replied, smiling in turn. “If you’ll just give me my key and get some hot water up to my room as soon as possible, you’ll make my day.”
“Of course,” Clyde responded, and rang the bell on the counter. As Tucson turned to leave, the clerk had a sudden thought and called out, “Oh, I just remembered...” he held up a packet of envelopes, “...the mail you asked to be forwarded to you here from Denver arrived yesterday.”
Tucson swung back, took the packet and riffled idly through the envelopes. One, written in a feminine hand, caught his attention, and he tore it open. As he read, the skin over his cheekbones stretched taut and his eyes went hard. Putting the letter into his jacket pocket, he tossed the room keys back onto the counter, picked up his saddlebags and Winchester, spun on his heels and headed for the front door.
“Mr. Tucson...?” Clyde called after him.
“You can rent out my room,” Tucson threw back over his shoulder. “I won’t be back for a while.”