The Copper City

by Chris Scott Wilson

  “You just watch him good, that’s all.”

  Quantro laughed, feeling the effect of the liquor. “Old man, you worry too damn much. Worry tomorrow when we’ve got the silver.”

  “You fellers want a drink with me,” Buck Hulbert slurred as he waved like a reed before the wind, his feet somehow still anchored to the floor. “S’whiskey. Better’n that lame-brained stuff you fellers’re drinking.”

  “Whiskey?” Pete brightened. “You bet.” He pushed away the dregs of his tequila and gulped from the amber bottle Hulbert held out. “Good. Damn good.” He took another hit then passed the bottle to Quantro. “Here, do you good. Take the edge off that Mex booze.”

  Quantro drank. It went down like cream after the bite of the tequila. And there was a whole lot of dust to wash down after the long day’s ride from Cananea. Each mouthful went down a little bit easier. Soon there was a warm glow in his stomach and a welcome fuzziness that beat away the depression of sitting in a dirty cantina in a sun beaten, tired town called Santa Cruz that was probably the last place God made. And he must have been tired after making the rest of the world because he didn’t try too hard. As the whiskey worked its magic, even the rasping guitar of the Mexican in the corner took on a sweetness that nearly managed to make what he was playing sound like music. What the hell. He took another belt and passed the bottle. Pete grinned, slack lipped, and took his turn.

  After a while Quantro felt the need to visit the backhouse in order to relieve himself. When he stood up he found to his amazement he could almost walk straight. As he passed the bar he noticed that Upton was still leering at the Mexican woman. Now he was closer, Quantro could see she had a moustache.

  “She’ll eat you for breakfast,” he commented.

  “That’s what I was hoping,” Upton said straight-faced then guffawed at his own joke. “I was hoping she might eat me for supper too.”

  “Que? What?” the swarthy woman said, leaning forward.

  “Tell you later, honey,” Upton crooned. “Even better, I’ll show you…” He stroked her wiry hair.

  Quantro pushed his way out of the back door. He stood for a second, squinting into the darkness until he could make out the shape of the outhouse ten feet away. Then he took a step forward.

  He fell flat on his face.

  ***

  Quantro groaned.

  Someone slammed the flat of a shovel down on the back of his head. Or that’s what it felt like. He didn’t dare open his eyes. He had a premonition that particular movement would be extremely painful. Instead, he tried to focus his concentration on the problem of where he was.

  He was lying down. And whatever he was lying down on was hard. He was on his chest, face sideways. He moved his head and sand rubbed into his cheek. Then something wet touched his face. He shrank back but it touched him again. With infinite care he prized open one eyelid.

  It was the licking tongue of a mongrel dog.

  He was in the alley behind the cantina. The pressure in his bladder reminded him he hadn’t made it to the outhouse after all. How long had he been out? The dog, noticing he was awake, backed off warily, then scampered away. Quantro struggled to his feet, swaying as his head threatened to come loose and roll off into the dust. What a blinder. The inside of his skull felt like there was a full-throated Texas tornado howling around in there. He couldn’t remember ever feeling that bad before. His attention was suddenly recalled to the necessity of visiting the outhouse. Shielding his eyes, he staggered in that direction.

  He stood there, breathing out a sigh of relief when it occurred to him that something was distinctly odd. His brain must be sluggish not to have realized. If he wasn’t mistaken it had been daylight out there. He finished what he had come for, buttoned up, and pushed the door slowly open. Yes, it was daylight. They had to be at the bank by six o’clock to collect the silver. Groaning as he narrowed his eyes to gaze upward, he registered the position of the sun. It was climbing. By his reckoning it was about nine. Nine o’clock!

  Oh, Christ…

  ***

  Pete was slumped over the table, his head cradled on Quantro’s Winchester. Buck Hulbert lay face down on the floor, his head under a chair. Quantro shook Pete roughly.

  “Wake up. C’mon, Pete.”

  “S’matter?” Pete groaned, passing a furry tongue over the mountain range of his dry lips. His eyes looked as though they had tried to escape out of the back of his head and failed.

  “You thought it would happen after we left town, but it’s happened already. Likely, they’ve been and gone.”

  “What’re you talking about?” Pete frowned from a face that looked like melted wax.

  “It was the whiskey. Must have had pole-ax juice in it. It hit me like a hammer.” He had a sudden thought. “Upton sent Hulbert over with it. That’s for sure.”

  “Hulbert never drank any, did he?” Pete contributed his brain beginning the painful experience of having to function again. “We drank it all between us. Just you and me.”

  “Hulbert’s under the table there,” Quantro contradicted. “He can’t have been part of it. He must have had some too.” He bent down and shook Hulbert’s shoulder. He didn’t move. “Out cold.” He shook him again, more roughly this time, and when there was still no response he turned him over. The front of his shirt was soaked with blood and his glazed eyes stared upward sightlessly. Somebody had stuck a knife in him.

  “He’s dead. That settles it. Get up, Pete. We got us a visit to make at the bank.”

  Pete pushed himself up from the table, blinking and shaking the molasses out of his head. He winced at each movement, eyes down to slits. “Gotta get a drink to fasten my head back on.”

  The Mexican woman was behind the bar, looking even worse than she had the night before. She jerked her head in question as Quantro dropped a silver dollar on the plank.

  “Whiskey, comprendo?” He wagged two fingers, then pointed to himself and Pete.

  “Whiskey? Ninguino, no.” She waggled her head emphatically. “Tequila, si, whiskey, no.”

  “We had a bottle last night,” Pete said edgily. He pointed to the empty on the table.

  “Hombre, suyo compadre, the man your friend.” She mimed a man peeking down the front of her dress.

  Pete couldn’t work it out. “What in hell’s she talking about?”

  “She says Upton brought the whiskey in with him. That proves it.” He looked at the woman again. “Dos, two, tequilas.” She poured two shots. It went down in one gulp, burning like a river of molten lava, but it seemed to do some good.

  “The bank,” Quantro said, stalking back to the table to pick up his Winchester.

  It was past opening time but there weren’t many customers.

  Judging by the state of most of the people out on the street, Quantro supposed they didn’t have enough money left over from staying alive to entrust to the bank. He went directly to the counter. “The manager, pronto.”

  The clerk looked at Quantro. He saw a raw-eyed, grizzle-jawed man with long blond hair hanging lankly at his shoulders. In his hands was a rifle that looked as though it had been used frequently. It looked like a hold-up. He blinked, frightened, eyes like bulls eyes behind his wire-rimmed spectacles.

  “Si, Señor, I will fetch.” He scurried away through a door at the rear. When he returned it was with a tall, thin man who had a hooknose and slicked-back hair. He strode importantly toward them, the pants of his baggy pinstripe suit flapping around his legs. In his hand was a gun. This one wasn’t frightened. He stopped at the counter, the gun resting squarely at Quantro’s stomach, ready to do business. When the clerk hovered nervously, he waved him away.

  “Yes, gentlemen? Can I be of service?” There was barely a trace of native Mexican in his voice.

  “For openers you can put down the gun,” Quantro said.

  The manager looked down at his pistol as though unaware it had been there in his hand all the time. He motioned with it to Quantro’s rifle. “Only if you re
turn the compliment.”

  Quantro put the Winchester on the counter. The manager smiled and holstered his pistol, inside his jacket. No wonder the suit’s baggy, Quantro thought, I wonder what he’s got inside those pants. A shotgun?

  “We’re from the Cananea Copper Company. We’re here to pick up the silver shipment.”

  The manager gave little away. “How am I to know that? You come in here like bandits, waving guns and terrorizing my staff.”

  “You’d better believe it,” Quantro said. “We came into town with a man called Upton. He carried the authority to pick it up.”

  “Yes?”

  Quantro sighed. “Look, as soon as I find out what’s happened here, I’m going to go over to the telegraph office and notify Mr. William Green that his shipment of silver to pay the miners has been stolen by a certain Mr. Upton. If you don’t believe we’re from the company, you can come over yourself and check us out. A Mr. Harley in Cananea will verify who we are. My name is Quantro and this is Mr. Wiltshire. We’re personal guards to Mr. Harley.”

  The manager studied Quantro for a moment, then decided he was genuine. “In that case you are a little late. The shipment was loaded at dawn this morning. I supervised it myself. They will be well away by now.”

  “That’s what we figured. You saw a note of authority?”

  “Yes. Mr. Upton carried it.” The manager shrugged. “He has been here several times before.”

  “I bet he has. How many men were there?”

  “Four.”

  “Transport? How was the silver loaded?”

  “It was packed in bullion boxes and loaded on a buckboard.”

  “It all went off according to schedule?”

  “Yes. As I told you, Mr. Upton had the necessary authority and I was justified in turning the shipment over to him.”

  “I know. Nobody’s blaming you.” Quantro turned to Pete. “Let’s go send that wire.”

  Upton Taken Off With Shipment + Stop + Hulbert Dead + Stop + We Are In Pursuit + Stop + Quantro and Wiltshire + Stop + Santa Cruz + Stop

  “That ought to do it,” Quantro said, passing the slip back over the counter. “Send it right now.” The clerk nodded.

  “What does ‘in pursuit’ mean?” Pete asked as they pushed out into the sunlight.

  “It means we’re following them.”

  “That’s what I figured,” Pete said glumly.

  Quantro unhitched the buckskin and swung up into the saddle. When Pete was mounted, they wheeled to ride down the street toward Cananea. “Say it, Pete,” he prompted.

  Pete scowled. “There’s no chance. They’ll be clear to the border by now.”

  “Maybe so, but we gotta do it.”

  “Then we’re headed the wrong way. The border’s in the other direction.”

  “Yes, but they’ll have gone out of town this way, then circled around. If we went the other way to save time, we’d just lose what we’d gained by having to cast for their sign.” He grinned when Pete made a face, then spurred the big stallion. By the time Pete caught up they were almost at the end of the street, faced by the open country.

  “Anyhow, why are we doing this? Why don’t we just go back to Cananea and hand the problem to Harley? It’s the company’s money, not ours.”

  “We gotta do it, that’s all.”

  Pete nudged his pony’s ribs so that it kept pace with the prancing buckskin. “That’s a mighty fine attitude. Loyalty to the company. Mighty fine.”

  Quantro shook his head, his eyes already raking the terrain ahead. “Not at all. I’ve no loyalty to the company.”

  “Not one little piece?”

  “No.”

  “Why then?”

  “Harley promised us a thirty-dollar bonus.”

  “Is thirty dollars worth a ride clear to the border just to lose them and have to turn back empty-handed?”

  “There’ll be more than thirty bucks in it by the time we’ve caught them up.”

  “What makes you so sure we will?”

  “I know, that’s all. I know.”

  Pete studied Quantro’s set jaw and the long blond hair blown off the gaunt face by the hot desert wind. Somehow he had the feeling that Quantro would catch them.

  And Pete wanted to be there to see it.

  CHAPTER 6

  Santa Cruz nestles in the southernmost tip of the Huachuca Mountains that stretch up to Arizona. It is all of twenty miles to the border if a straight line is drawn across the map. In reality, it is a whole lot farther.

  They followed the Cananea trail out of town, Quantro taking the north side, scouring the well-churned ground for the point where Upton and his men had split away.

  It was an hour before he found it.

  “Hold up, Pete.” Quantro pulled the buckskin to a halt and slid to the ground. His fingers probed the wheel ruts and hoof prints. As well as testing the firmness of the tracks, he looked for insect trails running across them.

  “They’re moving fast. And that’s one heavy wagon. Look at the depth of the ruts.”

  “Soon tire out the team.”

  Quantro scowled as he remounted. “You can bet if Upton had another two men ready, then they’ll have fresh horses stashed some place up ahead. We’ll be the ones riding blown horses.”

  “Better haul up on them mighty quick, then.”

  “I’ll allow that makes sense. But if they figure we’re following and they know we’ve got to catch up before they change horses, they could be waiting to blow us away.”

  “A set-up?”

  Quantro gazed thoughtfully ahead. “We could ride right into it.”

  “We got to move fast so we can catch ’em before they get lost on the other side of the border.”

  “Patience,” Quantro counseled.

  Pete snorted. “Patience and we’ve lost ’em.”

  Quantro shot him a hard look. “No patience and you’re dead.”

  ***

  “You think they’ve found them yet?” Dobey asked, twisting in his saddle to look at their back trail.

  “Naw,” Upton replied, squinting ahead at the scrub covered hills.

  “But you’re sure we’re being followed?”

  “I can feel it.” Upton rubbed a hand across the back of his neck as though unseen eyes had burned his skin.

  “A posse?”

  “Naw. Quantro and that old coot who rides with him.”

  “Why them? Maybe when they found out we’d already taken the shipment they headed on back for Cananea.”

  Upton shook his head. “Naw. That Quantro’s different. He can add up what’s happening. I’m beginning to wish I stuck a knife into him out in the alley when I killed Hulbert.”

  “I figured Hulbert was okay.”

  “I’d already planned for Jeffers and Webster here to join up with us. Splitting it five ways would have been too generous. Four’s just right.” He grinned slyly, then winked slowly. “Anyhow, we might lose these two along the trail somewhere. You and me, that’s one lot of money between the two of us, ain’t it?”

  Dobey smiled. Yes, Upton was right, but he still disagreed with him killing Buck Hulbert. And just because Hulbert had passed some remark about that Mexican woman. Hulbert had been right too, she had been the ugliest looking female south of the border. Fact was, Dobey had seen prettier looking steers. When they got over the border now, things would be different. There would be fine-looking, no, beautiful women. With that kind of money they could buy all the women they could ever want. And it would take a man some time to get used to the idea.

  And he was going to enjoy getting used to it.

  Upton had fallen back into his customary silence. The way he figured it, a man would have to be plain foolish to waste his energy just by talking under this hot sun. So he retreated into his thoughts.

  Quantro worried him more than he cared to admit to Dobey. As soon as Harley had taken Quantro and Wiltshire on to the payroll, he had made it his business to find out what there was to know about the
m. Wiltshire was an open book. A few drinks and his whole history came out. A two-bit prospector, searching for a dream until his head was busted in by banditos by the waters of the Escondido. After being rescued, he had been living with Apaches in the mountains of the Sierra Madre until he met Quantro.

  Quantro was a different case altogether. A man hunter. Two years of tracking four men doggedly across as many territories until he caught up with each of them and paid them out in full. It made him a man to watch. Dangerous and patient. A deadly combination. Upton wished to God he had taken him out of the game back in Santa Cruz. He hadn’t wanted Quantro or Wiltshire along on the trip in the first place, but the three other men had made the journey before and Upton had feared they had figured his plan out. It had been easy to spike their food so they went down with food poisoning. He hadn’t figured on Harley picking Quantro and Wiltshire to replace them. He had hoped they wouldn’t be so fast to catch on to what was happening. Now he wasn’t quite sure. They had both seemed to be watching him extra carefully before he’d sent over Hulbert with the doped whiskey.

  He checked the sun. One thing, if they were after him, they’d both have heads as sore as bears. He could only hope that would slow them down.

  ***

  “It make any sense to you?” Pete asked, one leg hooked around the saddle horn of his motionless pony. On the ground in front of him, Quantro was casting back and forth across a mess of sign. Occasionally he frowned and stooped for a closer look.

  When he got no answer, Pete started to roll up a cigarette. His head still ached fiercely and his mouth tasted like the bottom of a buffalo wallow and he didn’t really want the cigarette anyway, but what else was there to do? As he completed his task and placed it between his dust-caked lips, Quantro straightened up. He backed off from the sign and circled toward a thicket.

  Cautiously, his Winchester at the ready, he trod warily over the dusty ground. Now Pete was attentive, the cigarette dangling unlit. He slid his rifle from the saddle boot and rested it across the horse’s neck.