The Copper City

by Chris Scott Wilson

  Swinging the hammer horizontally tore at his shoulder muscles. He gritted his teeth, determined to do the job. Soon, sweat ran freely down his face, dripping off his nose, and his clothes began to stick fast in every place they touched his body. The dust, battered airborne by the hammer blows, rose up in a murky cloud to clog his nostrils and blind him. By the time he had completed the drilling for the first charges, he was aching from head to foot. He waited in the shadows while his partner carefully set the sticks in place and attached individual fast fuses, then followed him away from the face, running out the long slow fuse. He crouched against the wall of the tunnel while the dynamite man prepared the end so it would catch alight quickly. When everything was set, his partner winked at him, telling him to run. As Quantro moved down the tunnel, his mate struck a match then touched the flame to the fuse.

  “Fire in the hole!” he shouted as it began to splutter. Then he was on his feet and sprinting along the tunnel to catch up Quantro. He slapped him on the shoulder, yelling, “Get down and cover your ears!” They both crouched by the wall.

  The charges blew.

  Nearly deafened, Quantro was almost knocked over on his back by the pressure waves. A wall of dust billowed toward them along the tunnel to envelop them in its choking mist. Coughing, they waited until the dust settled. The miners filed past them with their armory of picks and shovels to break up the rough boulders of copper-bearing rock that the explosion had brought down. Expecting to be allowed time to draw breath, Quantro sank to his haunches with his back to the wall when the army of miners had passed, resting his elbows on the shaft of the hammer. Immediately the air began to clear a little, Scheller the foreman came barreling down the tunnel.

  He jerked a thumb. Quantro groaned inwardly.

  “You. On your feet.”

  “I just knocked in all the…”

  Scheller grimaced. “I know what you did. Get on down there and load ore. You, them and me, we’re all on tonnage. The more ore we get out of this damn hole, the more we get paid. Got it?”

  Quantro got it. He rose wearily to his feet and trudged down the tunnel.

  ***

  They both slept the sleep of the dead that night. Pete hadn’t fared any better. He’d been put on pushing the ore trucks out into the open, tipping them, then pushing them back down the mine again. It was a never-ending job and each truck seemed to be heavier than the last. He knew the work wasn’t harder than he was used to that was so tiring; it was the fact he was using a different set of muscles to work with.

  When they arrived back at the campsite after dark, they did barely more than utter single words at each other while they wolfed down the meal White-Wing had prepared. She had eagerly awaited their arrival, but her face had fallen at the sight of the two dirty, exhausted men. As soon as they cleared their plates they hit their bedrolls, both snoring almost immediately.

  Two weeks after they started at the mine, Quantro walked into the big miner he had coldcocked in the Copper Queen. The long days of hard work had toned up his muscles and now he didn’t become so drained by his efforts. He had even begun to dredge up some humor as he toiled in the dark hole. His partner, the dynamite man, was easy to work with and Quantro had also found Scheller to be fair, even if he pushed them hard.

  That morning they had already run two blasts and he was returning along the tunnel to wait for his partner when he came upon the big man. He was standing in a group of miners waiting to go up to the face.

  “You!”

  Quantro stopped and turned, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his wrist. He jerked his head in question.

  “Don’t I know you, Blondie?”

  “Don’t know that you do,” Quantro answered, making to move on. A huge paw clamped down on his right shoulder.

  “Stop, Blondie. I know you.”

  Quantro was tired, aching to sit down and let the ringing of the hammer die in his ears, and to allow his shoulder muscles to relax after the shuddering vibrations that had racked through him each time he struck the drill against the unyielding rock face. “Take your hand off me.”

  The big man didn’t move, just stared intently into his face.

  Quantro looked at the hand. “Won’t tell you twice. Don’t tell nobody twice.”

  The big miner’s face cracked into an evil grin. He chuckled with pleasure at his unexpected find. “Now I know you, Blondie. You’re the one that gave me the lump on my head the other night.”

  “You could be right.”

  “Ha! Now I think I get my own back.”

  “Maybe you will, maybe you won’t,” Quantro whispered, shrugging away the hand. How come these things always came back to bite you on the ass? As it slipped from his shoulder he twisted away. The big man came forward, dropping his pick. Quantro dropped the long drill and backed off across the narrow tunnel, the fourteen-pound hammer still in his right hand.

  The miner lunged, swinging wildly. The blow caught Quantro on the side of his head. He staggered, the big man’s laughter suddenly distant. He shook his head in an attempt to clear it. His eyes eased back into focus to see the huge, hairy face bearing down on him.

  Second nature brought up his hands to defend himself. He realized he was clinging to the hammer. He whipped it up and rammed the end of the shaft into the miner’s gut. The big man gasped. Foul breath washed from his mouth, forced in a rush between his rotten teeth.

  The muscles of his bulging stomach must have been tighter than they appeared. After one faltering step he seized the hammer shaft. With enormous strength he wrenched it from Quantro’s hands.

  With horror, Quantro watched him whirl the hammer around like a battle-ax above his head. He moved to jump sideways but found himself hemmed in by the ring of miners pressing forward to gain a better view. Their bloodlust was rising. Caught in the circle of leering faces, evil in the half light of the tunnel, Quantro realized that nothing short of a bullet would stop this huge angry bear.

  He had no gun. They were forbidden underground.

  Quantro sifted the precious few alternatives he had. He decided to go for the legs. If he could throw him off balance before he launched the hammer, then there was a chance. As he made to dive, the big man completed his final swing then hurled the deadly missile.

  Quantro was already into the act of his lunge when the big man roared. His hands released the hammer and he swerved sideways, his knees bending, released from the strain of holding ground. His timing thrown, Quantro slammed awkwardly into the solid muscle of the man’s thigh. The maw of the tunnel swallowed up the hammer and it landed with a clatter somewhere in the darkness.

  The bad landing jarred Quantro’s jawbone. His teeth rattled like piano keys in the back of his head. Huge hands grabbed the back of his sweat-soaked shirt and hauled him from the floor. A boot crashed into his ribs and he flopped against the tunnel wall. Dazed, chest aching, he was barely aware of the miner standing over him, still breathing shallowly.

  “I don’t need no hammer to kill you, Blondie.”

  I’m in bad trouble, was all Quantro could think.

  Hands grabbed him again. He was effortlessly lifted to his feet. Even then, he could see he was being set up. There seemed nothing he could do about it. A fist crashed into his face, followed by another to the shoulder. His head snapped back, then slumped forward as he began to slide down the wall.

  Exultant, the miner was throwing punches as swiftly as he was able. Blows pounded Quantro’s numb body as his mind closed up to send him on the path to oblivion. In his excitement, the big man mistimed a stroke. His fist crashed into the wall just as Quantro dropped like a stone. He howled, leapt back, nursing his clawed hand.

  The other miners shouted and jeered, patting the big man’s back as he beamed, the congratulations easing the pain of his hand.

  “What the hell’s going on here?” a voice demanded, cutting through their pleasure. They fell into an uneasy silence as Scheller emerged from the gloom, bristling with anger. “Why are
n’t you bums working?” he growled, pushing into the circle of fidgeting miners. He took one look at Quantro’s crumpled body before his eyes came to rest on the big man’s bleeding knuckles. His face twisted into a mask of disgust, then he spat into the shadows. When he turned back, his gaze fastened on the miner’s expressionless face. “I’ve had more than enough from you. You’re fired. Now get the hell out of here.”

  The big miner stood like an unscaled mountain, glowering down.

  Scheller sneered, staring back without a trace of fear. “I wouldn’t if I were you. I wouldn’t even think about it.”

  Suddenly the miner looked unsure of himself. A muscle jumped in his cheek, then he shrugged and stamped away, muttering. Scheller watched him go with something resembling satisfaction. He pointed at the nearest two men and gestured to Quantro. “You and you. Carry him out. When he comes around tell him he’s fired. No time for troublemakers down here. We got ore to shift.”

  When the two men bearing Quantro’s limp body emerged into the sunlight, Pete had just tipped a load of ore and was pushing the empty truck back into the tunnel. When he saw Quantro he left the truck and hurried over.

  “What happened?” he asked, surveying the wreckage of Quantro’s puffed and bloody face. The two miners told him the story as they looked for a piece of quiet ground where they could lay down their burden. Unconscious, Quantro lay unmoving but for the rising and falling of his chest, breath rasping between his teeth because his nose was clogged and bloody.

  “You over there! Wiltshire!” an angry voice called. “Get back to your truck here. You’re holding up the line.”

  Pete, kneeling on the ground as he wiped at Quantro’s face with a bandana, looked back over his shoulder.

  “Get somebody else. I just quit.”

  There was a mumble of complaint, and then the caller drifted away. Quantro jacked up an eyelid as Pete looked down at him. He tried to speak but only a whisper came from his throat before he sank back into unconsciousness.

  Over by the mine company’s office there was a jangle of harness as a carriage pulled up. It carried two men, both wearing suits and smoking cigars. There were four outriders with the carriage, men with restless eyes who sat their horses easily with the patience of men used to being paid for waiting around. They were well armed and their holsters looked well used.

  One of the gunmen, seeing Pete, heeled his horse away from the carriage. When the long shadow of the animal fell over the two men below him, the rider reined in, then rested his hands on the saddle horn. His eyes were hidden by the shade thrown from his hat brim.

  “You work here?”

  Pete shook his head. “I just quit.”

  The rider’s hands moved a fraction. “Then get off the mine property. You ain’t needed here.”

  “I’ll need a hand with my partner here…”

  The rider touched his spurs to the horse until the big animal was crowding Pete. He couldn’t step back without treading on Quantro. The gunman urged on his horse again. Pete stood his ground until the flared nostrils of the animal were only inches from his face.

  “Upton! Back off!”

  Pete leaned around to peer past the horse’s shoulder. Harley, the man from the Copper Queen, was striding over. It was then Pete saw the carriage for the first time. He had been too occupied with Quantro. Now he saw its occupant was leaning back into the cushions, puffing at a fat cigar to match the one in Harley’s hand.

  Harley came to a halt beside the rider. “Back off, Upton.”

  The rider scowled, then touched a hand to the brim of his hat in the barest of salutes. He wheeled his horse and walked it back to his companions. Harley turned to Pete with a frown.

  “I know you, don’t I?”

  “You do. The Copper Queen, couple of weeks back. You offered to buy us a drink after my partner took care of a troublesome miner.”

  Harley looked down at Quantro. “Jesus, what a mess. Who did it?” Then before Pete could answer, Harley answered himself. “Don’t tell me, the miner caught up, eh?”

  “Right first time.”

  The businessman examined Quantro’s slack face. “This happen down the mine?” When Pete nodded, he scowled. “Okay, where’re you both sleeping?”

  “Gotta camp outside town.”

  “Thought as much. Well, he’s in no state to turn down my offer this time. There’re some company houses across the railroad tracks, on Capote hill. There’s a couple empty. Get him there. I’ll get the foreman to see to it.”

  “You’re forgetting one thing,” Pete said, scratching at his whiskers.

  “What’s that?”

  “Neither of us works for the company any longer. He just got fired, and I just quit.”

  Harley’s frown eased into an expansive smile. “Don’t worry about that. I’ll take care of it.” He strode back to the carriage where he spoke to the passenger, then went over to the office.

  Moments later the clerk emerged to fetch a team of horses that he hitched to a buckboard then led them over to Pete.

  “Mr. Harley said I was to help.”

  Pete grinned. Harley worked fast. “You sure can. He’s too heavy for my old bones.”

  ***

  “He’ll be okay,” the doctor declared, stepping away from the cot. He rolled down his shirtsleeves after drying his hands on a strip of cloth that served as a towel. “Apart from his face there’s just some bad bruising. I don’t think the ribs are broken but I’ve strapped them up in case.” He smiled reassuringly at White-Wing, who was standing close by wearing her best worried frown. “He’ll be back on his feet in no time.”

  “Right glad to hear it Doc,” Pete said, relieved that the damage was not as bad as it appeared. “You care for some coffee?”

  The doctor pursed his lips, eyes wandering to the whiskey bottle he had used to sterilize Quantro’s cuts. “I’m partial to it real strong myself.”

  Pete had followed his glance. He laughed. “So am I. Juanita here makes the strongest coffee this side of the border. The Canadian border.” He gestured to White-Wing to fetch the pot, then he and the doctor went outside the little clapboard house and sat down on a bench set against the wall. Pete poured a generous measure into the steaming black java in the doctor’s tin mug. “D’you know this Harley feller well, Doc?”

  “Not really. Seems all right. I’ve never seen him do anything to make me change my mind on that.”

  Pete grunted. “Who’s the man with the fancy carriage? Harley was riding with him this afternoon.”

  The doctor polished his glasses, then wound the wire frames around the back of his ears before he offered his tin mug for a refill. “You must mean Bunco Bill.”

  “Bunco Bill? Never heard of him. I’ve heard of Buffalo Bill and Wild Bill, but not a Bunco Bill.”

  “His real name’s William Green.”

  Pete nodded. “It figures. The man who owns everything ’round here. All the stores and the mine too.”

  The doctor added more whiskey to his mug from the nearly empty bottle. “Yes, he owns practically everything. As well as the mine, he owns the smelting plants and the Cananea Cattle Company. Man isn’t satisfied with things; he owns people too.”

  Pete said nothing. He had watched the doctor’s hands shaking when he fixed up Quantro. He was obviously too fond of whiskey to get a job anywhere else. He was over the hill and he knew it. “Why d’you work here, Doc?” he asked softly.

  The doctor pursed his lips then smiled a little sadly. “Once, a long time ago, I did Bill Green a favor. Now he’s returned it.” He reached for the bottle again. This time he made no pretense of pouring it into the mug but took it straight from the neck. He drank like a man tasting his first water after a day in the desert. Now his secret was out yet again there didn’t seem much point in pretending. When the bottle was empty, he looked miserably at it. Slowly, he placed it on the ground beneath the bench. For a moment he rested his now steady hands on his knees as though checking that the medicine had had
the desired effect. Almost carefully, he picked up his bag and rose to his feet.

  “How much do we owe you?” Pete asked.

  The doctor shook his head. “Nothing. The company’ll take care of it.” He smiled a half smile as if he was going to say more, then instead walked away to his horse. He hooked his bag over the saddle horn, pausing before hauling himself tiredly into the saddle. He smoothed his moustache and squinted at Pete. “Just make him rest and he’ll be fine. Y’hear?”

  “I hear,” Pete answered.

  ***

  White-Wing liked the little clapboard house. If it hadn’t been that Quantro was so badly beaten, she would have enjoyed the move from the campsite by the creek even more. After her upbringing in the mountains of the Sierra Madre where her relatives had sought refuge from the searching and confining hands of the white man, the white man’s town and way of life was a maze of new experiences.

  Although it was of poor quality, she liked the texture of the dress Quantro had bought her, and now, under the name of Juanita, she could go out into the streets and buy food. Each new store was a challenge to her confidence and not once had her nationality been questioned. Her Spanish was as good as that of the Mexicans and most of the storekeepers employed by Green were American and so spoke only rudimentary Spanish themselves.

  It was understandable the men should notice her. They could hardly fail to. In a mining town such as Cananea women were a rare commodity, at least those that weren’t spoken for. The men were always on the street, lounging in the sun on the boardwalks. When she passed, their eyes would follow, drawn to the promise of what lay under her full skirts. And when their gaze crept up to her face, they would nod appreciatively at the beauty of her soft skin and her dark eyes framed by the lush curtain of her raven hair.

  She ignored them all, fearful they would uncover her Apache heritage. Besides, her heart was full of Quantro. He and Pete were different to all the white men she had known. These miners had no good in them. They were wild-eyed and free with their fists. More than once she had passed them brawling in the street. One would strike another, then suddenly the ruts of the dry road would be full of lurching, drunken men all swinging at one another. They seemed to enjoy it, but it did not appear playful to her, especially when she thought of Quantro lying in the narrow cot with his swollen mouth and battered face. And the way he winced and clutched at his ribs each time he struggled to pull himself upright.