Comanche Gold by Richard Dawes

man. No,” Tucson concluded. “Leave speed alone for now, and
concentrate on the other things I told you.”
    They spent another couple of hours on the
sand bar as Tucson patiently demonstrated how to fire from various
positions—lying down, rolling, kneeling, and behind the back. Then
he stopped, reloaded his Colt and looked up at the sky. The sun was
dropping toward the horizon.
    “That should do it for today,” he said,
sliding his gun back into its holster. “Get your Colt into shape
and work on the things I showed you, then we can get together
again.”
    “I sure do appreciate what you've shown me so
far,” McMannus said sincerely. “I'll get to work on my gun
tomorrow. If there's anything I can do to return the favor, let me
know.”
    “There may be something you can do for me
down the road,” Tucson replied. “For now, though, you can just tell
me how to get to the Twin Trees Reservation.”
    McMannus stared at him strangely; then he
shrugged and pointed east. “About a mile from here there's a ford
where you can cross the stream. Head north until you come to the
Old Spanish Trail, and take it northeast. It'll run you right into
the reservation.”
    The two men returned to their horses and took
the trail out of the arroyo; then they parted—McMannus riding back
to Howling Wolf and Tucson heading upstream.
     

 
    Chapter
Four
     
    The air had cooled down some, and a light
breeze ruffled the tops of the prairie grass that stretched away to
the east and west. Massive cloud formations hung suspended in the
sky like huge white castles frozen in time. Tucson found the ford
and crossed the stream. Half an hour later, he hit the Old Spanish
Trail and turned north. Buzzards hovered over a jagged, barren
range of low hills to the east, and rolling prairie stretched as
far as Tucson could see to the west.
    Although he had kept alert as he rode, Tucson
was surprised when a group of mounted Indians suddenly dropped out
of the brush skirting the Trail and formed a line in front of him.
He reined in the stallion and halted about ten feet from them.
There were fifteen horsemen, with an impressive looking brave on a
buckskin gelding out in front who seemed to be the leader.
    Then Tucson noticed the boy, Cuchillo, riding
an old pinto, and he smiled in greeting.
    The brave on the buckskin spoke. “I am Two
Bears,” he called out in a guttural voice. “This is our land. Why
you come onto reservation?”
    Keeping his right hand on his thigh close to
his Colt, Tucson pointed with his chin toward Cuchillo. “My name's
Tucson. The boy there knows me. Soaring Eagle sent for me.”
    Cuchillo nudged his pinto up beside the older
brave. “I know him, Father. He's the gunman I told you about who
stood up for me in the saloon in Howlin’ Wolf.”
    When Two Bears glanced back at Tucson, his
broad features were transformed from challenge into admiration.
“You say Soaring Eagle sent for you?” he asked.
    “Yes.”
    A general murmur passed through the group of
horsemen behind Two Bears.
    The brave nodded. “Then you must be Storm
Rider—it is you we have been waiting for.”
    “That’s what I’m called by the Tribes,”
Tucson responded. “I'd appreciate it if you'd take me to Soaring
Eagle.”
    Two Bears brought his horse next to the
stallion, and stared fixedly up at Tucson as if he were assessing
him. His hair was shot with grey, his features had the broad
heaviness of the Comanche, and when he opened his mouth there was a
gap where his two upper front teeth had been knocked out. His chest
was deep and he had the lean legs of the born horseman.
    Seemingly satisfied, he extended his hand and
said, “Welcome, Storm Rider. We are glad you able to come here.
Soaring Eagle say he saw you in Spirit Vision. We hoped you would
get his message. We need your help.”
    “I'll do whatever I can for you,” Tucson
replied, warmly gripping Two Bears' hand. “But I'll have to know
what you need,” he added, “before I can commit