Tucson cracked an eyelid, peered at the clock on the bedside table and noted that it was 9:00am. Flopping onto his back, he laced his fingers together beneath his head and thought back over the previous night’s adventure. He grinned to himself when he recalled the ease with which Cathy Harrison twisted Detective Connolly around her finger. Once she'd convinced him to let Tucson go home with her and her brother, they climbed into their buggy and drove it off the ferry with Tucson riding along behind on the stallion.
After they left the waterfront, the brick-paved streets became relatively quiet and empty, and the stallion’s hooves echoed hollowly off the darkened buildings. As they climbed one of the many hills upon which San Francisco was built, the houses lining the road became larger and more ornate. As he looked around at the mansions, it became clear to Tucson that the Harrison's were rich. His suspicions were confirmed when, at the very crest of the hill, their buggy turned right onto a gravel-paved drive that wound back behind one of the largest mansions in the neighborhood.
Before he followed the carriage back, Tucson reined the stallion to a halt and gazed out over the city. The hill fell away sharply to the north, and every square foot seemed to be occupied by some kind of building. To the northwest, it appeared to be private homes and small businesses, mostly quiet and dark at that time of morning. Off to the northeast, the buildings became tall and expensive where financial institutions, big corporations, shipping companies and expensive restaurants were located. Tucson could practically smell the immense amounts of money that changed hands there. For the most part, that section of the city was also dark and quiet, with only a few lighted windows glimmering in the darkness.
But beyond, closer to and lining the waterfront, the lights still blazed and the people still swarmed over the streets in their obsessive quest for pleasure. From that distance, the raucous sounds blaring from the saloons, dance halls and bawdy houses were muted, but Tucson could feel it vibrating on the night air like an electric current.
To a man like Tucson, who was used to the solitude and majestic vistas of the vast deserts, prairies and rugged mountains of the west, the city of San Francisco, with its buildings crammed up against each other, its pavements, and its teeming population was an almost overwhelming experience—and not a very pleasurable experience at that.
A feminine voice broke in on his ruminations. “Are you coming back, Mr. Tucson?”
Tucson glanced around to see Cathy Harrison standing in the drive, partially hidden by the shadows thrown by the house. He grinned self-consciously and nudged the stallion in the ribs. “Sorry, ma’am,” he said. “I guess I got a little distracted looking at the cityscape.”
He followed Cathy back to a stable the size of a small house, where a yawning black man dressed in a striped jersey and cotton pants was lighting the lanterns hanging on the walls. The buggy had been backed into a space to one side of the front where a young black boy was busy unhitching the two-horse team. To the other side of the entrance a fancy, open carriage with plush seats sat with its traces resting on the sandy ground.
Tucson dismounted and led the stallion inside the stable. Rows of stalls lined each side of the building, and as far as Tucson could see, most of the stalls were occupied by blooded thoroughbreds. Jim Harrison threw open a gate and gestured to Tucson.
“You can put your horse in here, Mr. Tucson,” he called. “I’ll have the boy throw some hay and oats into the trough.”
Tucson nodded and backed the stallion into the clean and spacious stall. Now that the danger was over, Jim Harrison seemed like an ordinary young man, neither better nor worse than many other young men Tucson had come across in his travels. But it was impossible for him not to reflect, as he pulled the saddle and blanket from the horse and threw them over a rail, that danger and violence tended to bring out a person’s real character.
“Don’t try to rub it down or anything,” Tucson said, to the young black boy who was pitching hay into the stallion’s trough. “My horse doesn’t take kindly to strangers. I’ll come back tomorrow and take care of it myself.”
“Yes, suh,” the boy replied, and Tucson threw his saddlebags over his shoulder, turned and walked out of the stable.
“Cathy’s already gone inside,” Jim Harrison said, as he fell in beside Tucson. “She’s getting some coffee going and laying out something to eat.” Then he stopped and faced Tucson, his face turning red with embarrassment. “By the way,” he mumbled uncomfortably. “I want to thank you for what you did for me back on the ferry. It shouldn’t have taken me so long to thank you, but I was pretty shaken up by what happened. Anyway,” he glanced sheepishly at Tucson, “I want you to know that you saved me from a pretty scary situation.”
“Why are the Tongs after you?” Tucson asked quietly.
The boy shrugged and turned toward the house. “I owe them a little bit of money—gambling debts. I guess they’re tired of waiting.”
Tucson let the subject drop and followed Jim into the house. They went in the back door and stepped into the kitchen. It was huge, and outfitted as if it were meant to service a restaurant. Off to the side, on a table against the wall, Cathy had set out a platter with cut meats and beside it a basket full of sliced bread. As they entered, she lifted a pot of coffee and smiled. “Would you like something hot in your stomach?”
“That sounds good!” Jim exclaimed, rubbing his hands together.
Tucson shook his head. “No coffee for me, thanks. I’ll just make a sandwich with this bread and meat.”
“Help yourself,” Cathy replied, as she filled a cup for her brother. “I just threw a few things together. There’s no point in waking the servants; they have to get up in a few hours to start breakfast anyway.”
Jim drank deep of the coffee then smacked his lips. “If you don’t mind, sis, I’ll take my coffee upstairs to my room. I’m beat after all we’ve been through tonight. I want to get out of these filthy clothes and take a bath.”
“You poor dear!” she cried sympathetically. “You go on up and get plenty of rest, and we’ll see you later at breakfast.”
Munching thoughtfully on his sandwich, Tucson watched the boy walk out through the swinging door leading into the interior of the house. He wondered if Jim’s parents coddled him as much as his sister did. If so, that would go a long way to explaining why he was so weak. He swung back around and discovered Cathy regarding him reflectively. Their gazes met, and something moved in the depths of her green eyes...then she glanced away.
“Thank you, ma’am,” he said, lifting the last of his sandwich. “I haven’t eaten since yesterday morning and this sure hits the spot.”
She poured herself a cup of coffee then held it between her two palms, as if she were warming her hands. “Why don’t you drop the ‘ma’am’ and just call me Cathy?” she murmured, as she took a sip of the hot liquid.
“I’d be glad to,” Tucson grinned, “if you’ll drop the ‘Mr.’ and just call me Tucson.”
“It’s a deal...” She smiled back, then pointed to a chair. “Why don’t you sit down?”
They seated themselves at the table and Tucson finished the last of his sandwich.
“Do you have a last name?” Cathy asked, eying him over the rim of her cup.
“Nope...” Tucson answered simply, brushing some bread crumbs off the front of his leather jacket.
“You handled yourself tonight as if you’re used to dealing with dangerous situations,” she observed softly. “Are you what Frank Connolly called you—a gunman?”
Tucson pushed his sombrero to the back of his head and a thick strand of black hair fell over his forehead. The girl studied the harsh, sinister features of his face, suddenly revealed in the light, with frank curiosity.
He shrugged. “It’s like you said. I’ve faced a few dangerous situations in my time.”
Something moved again in her eyes; then she put her cup down on the table. “Well,” she murmured, “it’s lucky that Frank was the investigating officer tonight, so I could get him to let you and Jim come back here instead of taking you to the police station.”
“You sure kept him under control,” Tucson said, grinning. “What’s your relationship with Detective Connolly?”
“Well...!” she exclaimed, her eyes widening. “That is direct!”
“You two obviously know each other,” Tucson responded evenly. “He’s just as obviously in love with you. It seems to be a natural question to ask.”
“I suppose you’re right,” she answered with a chuckle. “Well...Frank Connolly is a friend of the family. His father and mine are old friends and business partners. Frank, Jim and I grew up together. We all went to school together, although Jim was a few grades behind. And, I suppose, my father would like us to get married someday.”
“Is that your wish?”
Cathy gazed at the wall behind Tucson’s head as she thought it over. “Frank is intelligent and is good at what he does,” she answered, at last. “My father thinks he has quite a future ahead of him—if he makes the right decisions. He believes Frank might even be able to pursue a political career. So,” she smiled, “he would probably make a good catch.”
“None of which answers my question,” Tucson pointed out.
A furrow appeared between Cathy’s fine brows. “I’m beginning to think that you are just a little bit too forward for a man I have only met tonight. Whether or not I wish to marry Frank Connolly is my business, thank you. And I'd appreciate it if you would mind yours!”
“You’re right,” Tucson replied, not at all embarrassed. “I’m sorry. Chalk my forwardness up to the lateness of the hour. Which brings me to the question of where I’m supposed to sleep?”
Anger cast a shadow over Cathy's cheeks as she got to her feet. “We have a guest room that you can use,” she said, in a chilly tone. “Come with me and I’ll take you to it.”
Tucson picked up his saddlebags from the chair where he had dropped them then followed her through the swinging door. They stepped into a dining room dominated by a long table covered with a white tablecloth with gold candelabra placed at both ends. After that, they passed along a hallway that opened into a hardwood-floored entranceway before a front door that was open to the ceiling. There was a closed door on the left while to the right was a spacious living room filled with overstuffed furniture and a grand piano set in one corner. An ornate stairway arched up to the right over the living room, leading to the upper stories, and Cathy led the way to it.
“The bedrooms are on the second floor,” she said over her shoulder.
“By the way,” Tucson asked, as he followed her up the carpeted stairs. “What were you and your friends celebrating tonight?”
“We went over to Oakland to celebrate Jim’s twenty-first birthday,” Cathy replied, turning to the right and moving down the hallway. “A new restaurant and nightclub has just opened up on the waterfront, and we thought it might be fun to go there for the party.”
Tucson’s boots sank almost to the ankles in the plush carpeting as he walked along behind her. She stopped before a door, turned the knob and pushed it open. Going inside, she crossed the room to a chest of drawers sitting along the opposite wall; she struck a match and lit the lamp sitting on top. Instantly, a luxurious suite leaped into view. There was a canopied bed on one side, an ornate cabinet against the wall, mirrors everywhere, and oriental carpets thrown over the hardwood floor.
Cathy gestured casually to a door opening off to Tucson’s left. “The bathroom is in there,” she said. “You’ll find a tub, a sink and hot and cold running water. Feel free to take bath if you wish.”
“I appreciate all of this,” Tucson said, gesturing with his hands to indicate the room.
“You saved my brother at the risk of your own life,” Cathy replied, her voice softening slightly. “This,” she gestured to the room, “is the least I can do.” As she moved toward the door, she added, “Breakfast will be served in the dining room at ten. You’ll be able to meet my father then, and you and Jim can answer any of Frank Connolly’s questions.”
With that, she walked out and closed the door behind her.
Still lying on his back, Tucson grinned up at the canopy as he remembered it all. Cathy Harrison was certainly a beautiful young woman, he thought, and very strong willed. She was definitely used to getting her own way. The ease with which she controlled Frank Connolly on that ferry was almost comical. Was that maybe why she wasn’t too keen on committing to a marriage with him? Anyway, it was going to be interesting to see where Tucson’s relationship with her went—if it went anywhere. After all, although he had spent the night, that didn’t mean he would be welcome in her home any longer. Only time would tell how that part of it worked out.
Sighing with anticipation, he tossed back the covers, threw his long, muscular legs over the edge of the bed and stood up. After stretching, he rummaged around in his saddlebags, pulled out his shaving kit then padded into the bathroom.
* * * *
Shaved, bathed, with his trousers and boots brushed and a clean shirt on beneath his leather jacket, Tucson descended the stairs carrying his sombrero in his left hand. As he rounded the balustrade at the bottom and passed through the entranceway, he could hear a hum of voices coming from the dining room.
Frank Connolly must already be here, he thought. He hadn’t realized that he was so late.
As he stepped into the dining room the conversation ceased, and he moved to the coat rack standing against the wall to hang up his sombrero in silence. Out of the corners of his eyes, he could see Cathy and her brother sitting on the far side of the table next to a tall, elderly man at the end, while Frank and another man who seemed vaguely familiar were seated on the near side with their backs to him. There was a bundle wrapped in burlap sitting on the floor next to Frank’s chair, and a manila folder lay on the tablecloth at his elbow.
Just as he hung his sombrero on a hook, a familiar voice said, “Good morning, Kid.”
Tucson’s reaction was instantaneous; with the speed of a famished wolf, he glided in a single smooth movement back to the far end of the table where he had room to maneuver, his right hand snaking beneath his jacket as he went. As he came to rest facing the group, he was holding a Colt .32 in his fist. His eyes blazed with yellow fire while danger and menace rolled off him in dark waves.
“My god...!” Cathy Harrison exclaimed, in awe. “You are the Tucson Kid!”
“Easy, Kid...” the familiar voice said with a laugh. “No one here means you any harm.”
Tucson’s vision was spread over the entire table so he could detect and react instantly to any threatening movement. At the sound of that voice, he focused on the man sitting on the far side of Frank Connolly. Then he relaxed and came out of his crouch as his face split in a pleased grin.
“Sheriff Jack Morris...?” he asked in surprise.
Morris stood up and extended his hand. “I’m Police Commissioner Jack Morris now, Kid. I run the police department in San Francisco.”
Dressed in a brown business suit, Morris was of medium height, lean, with greying hair, a fleshy nose, thin mouth and a strong chin. One glance into his dark eyes was enough to tell the viewer that he was a man of intelligence and iron will.
“Well, I’ll be damned!” Tucson said, re-holstering his Colt then taking Morris’s hand. “I haven’t seen you in what—ten years?”
“At least...” Morris replied.
“What brings you here at this time of morning?” Tucson asked.
“You...” Morris answered. “But, before we get into that, you need to meet these young people’s father and my good friend, William Harrison.” He turned and gestured to the elderly man who had been sitting in silence watching and listening to the conversation. “Bill,” Morris said, “meet the Tucson Kid.”
William Harrison stood up and Tucson faced a man who was half-a-head taller than he was. Broad shoulders without a hint of stoop filled out his maroon velvet morning coat, and there was a broad chest and flat stomach beneath his vest. Thick, iron-grey hair graced a skull of massive proportions, and a mustache of the same hue hovered above a wide, thin-lipped mouth that looked as if it had been chiseled from marble. He had an aquiline nose, but it was the ice-blue eyes that framed it that captured Tucson’s attention. Almost hypnotic in their intensity, they radiated a sense of power and dominance that was almost unnerving.
As he shook Harrison’s dry, strong hand, Tucson felt his own will rise to face and push back against the possibly unconscious urge to dominate emanating from the older man. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir,” he murmured.
Harrison pumped his hand energetically. “The pleasure is all mine, Kid!” he exclaimed in a deep, resonant voice. “My son and daughter have been telling me what you did for them last night on that ferry. Aside from my amazement that one man could stand against a gang of Tong members and live, you have my undying gratitude for saving my son from being kidnapped. You can ask anything of me and if it’s within my power, it’s yours.” He gestured down the table. “Take a seat and share our breakfast.”
Tucson moved around the table where he could face Frank Connolly and Jack Morris and dropped into a chair. The table was spread with platters of eggs, both scrambled and fried, sausage, bacon and thinly sliced beefsteak, and bowls of creamed potatoes. There was a basket of sliced bread at one end and another basket of freshly baked biscuits at the other.
“We were just getting to your file,” Connolly said, opening the manila folder at his elbow and spreading it in front of him.
“My file...?” Tucson asked, as he heaped his plate with scrambled eggs, potatoes and sliced beef.
“I stayed interested in you after you left Arizona, Kid,” Morris interposed. “I kept newspaper clippings when I could get them and wrote down stories whenever I heard them. When I came here to San Francisco, I brought the file with me.”
“When I asked around the station about you,” Connolly put in, “Commissioner Morris thought you must be the Tucson Kid, and he was kind enough to let me see the file.”
Connolly had changed his suit; it was dark and expensive looking, with a brightly colored cravat peeking above a dark-blue vest. His hair was combed and pomaded and his handlebar mustache was trimmed and sharply pointed. It was clear that he was taking this opportunity to make a favorable impression on Cathy.
“Oh, do read it!” Cathy cried. “I want to hear everything.”
She was looking bright and fresh in a yellow dress with a white collar. Her thick brown hair was brushed back from her face and rippled down her back in luxuriant waves.
“Yes,” Jim added. “Let’s hear it.”
Jim seemed to have recovered from the previous night’s adventure. His hair was washed and combed to the side of his forehead, and he wore a tanned leather jacket with a shirt open at the throat.
Tucson frowned with discomfort as he poured a glass of milk from a pitcher.
Connolly looked over the documents, then said, “Well, it seems the Kid was the son of a widow.” He glanced across the table at Tucson. “Your father was killed in an Apache raid while your mother was still pregnant. I’m sure sorry to hear that, Kid,” he murmured sincerely. Then, flipping over a few sheets, he began reading again. “You first made a reputation for yourself scouting against the Apaches down in Arizona—seems you have some kind of genius for tracking.”
“That’s where he and I first met,” Morris inserted; he looked over at Tucson with a smile. “I could see he had potential, and I did whatever I could to steer him right.”
“The verdict is still out on the results of your efforts,” Tucson commented around a mouthful of potatoes.
“Go on, Frank,” Cathy urged. “What else does it say?”
He flipped through a few more pages. “Wow...!” He glanced over at Tucson in admiration. “It was you who shot up the Ames brothers in New Mexico several years ago, and then you took out the McCarthy gang in Wyoming.”
“The McCarthy gang was a bunch of bank robbers and murderers,” Morris said, gesturing with his fork. “The Kid did the whole state a favor when he eliminated them.”
“You outdrew the notorious gunman, Jeb Hollander, in a stand-up gunfight one night in Abilene,” Connolly went on, reading through the pages. Then he glanced up at Tucson again. “It says here you were good friends with Wild Bill Hickok before he was killed in Deadwood.”
“Did you meet him when he was Marshal of Abilene?” Jim asked, gazing at Tucson in awe.
“Yep,” Tucson replied, hesitating as he lifted the glass of milk. “He came in the back door of the saloon just in time to see my fight with Hollander. He saw that it was a fair fight, and after I was cleared of all charges, he kind of took me under his wing and showed me a few things.”
“What was he like?” Cathy asked.
Tucson put down his glass. “Hickok was the best—both as a man and as a gunman.”
“Was he even better than you?” she asked slyly.
Tucson gazed straight into her eyes. “Much better...”
Connolly was leafing through the file. “It seems that you’ve never had a warrant sworn out against you,” he said wonderingly. “You’ve never actually been an outlaw.”
“Sorry to disappoint...”
“Still...” the detective held up a finger as he read on, “You were sentenced once to be shot by a firing squad in Mexico, but you were pardoned. Then you went on to wipe out the Mexican bandit, Augustine Baca and his outfit.”
He closed the file and stared at Tucson in amazement. “That’s quite a record.”
It wasn't lost on Tucson that William Harrison had been listening silently while Connolly read through the file. He toyed with the food on his plate with his fork and never took his cold blue eyes off Tucson.
Connolly reached down and lifted the burlap bundle onto the table. “Here’s your gun back, Kid,” he said, as he unwrapped it and passed the gun belt across to Tucson. “There’s no law against owning a gun in San Francisco—just don’t wear it on the street.”
Tucson’s brows went up and he glanced from the detective to Morris. “Then you’re not going to charge me with anything?” He took the gun almost reverently, and as his fingers touched the cold steel and the rosewood grips, he felt a wave of renewed strength and wellbeing wash over him.
“No...” Morris answered. “You did the city a favor by ridding it of those vermin.” He glanced at Harrison. “And you did Bill a favor by saving his son.” He chuckled. “It would be sorry thanks for all that if we pressed charges against you.”
“I won’t need any more information from you, Kid,” Connolly put in; then he glanced at the boy. “But I still need to ask you some questions, Jim.”
Jim’s narrow shoulders sagged. “Alright...” he mumbled.
William Harrison stood up and bent his piercing gaze on Tucson. “Kid,” he said. “While Detective Connolly is taking care of business, I wonder if you'd mind joining Commissioner Morris and me in my study. There’s a matter of some importance that we would like to discuss with you.”