The Copper City

by Chris Scott Wilson

  Quantro grabbed an armload of brush and tugged it loose. When it came away he dumped it on the ground and took hold of another lump. That came away too, then another and another.

  “What is it?” Pete called softly, pulling down his hat brim to shade his eyes.

  “The buckboard.”

  Now he mentioned it, Pete could make out the shape as it emerged from its camouflage.

  “I’d worked it out from the sign that they’d switched to packhorses, but I needed to see it.” Quantro clucked his tongue and the buckskin left Pete’s side to plod over to its master. Pete rode over as Quantro climbed back into the saddle.

  “They’ve broken the silver out into saddlebags,” Quantro said, indicating the smashed bullion boxes scattered in the wagon bed of the abandoned buckboard. “Four men, four horses and four packhorses, I figure. I don’t know how big that much silver looks at one go. Maybe they even had to bury some.”

  “You want to take a look-see?”

  “Not right now. It doesn’t matter. If it’s not all there when we catch up with them, we can always come back here.” He gazed expressionlessly over the wild land and Pete knew he was fixing landmarks in his mind, just in case they did need to come back.

  “Nobody will find it here. Only us.”

  “Which way they headed?”

  “North.”

  “How far are we behind ’em?”

  “Two, maybe two and a half hours. Breaking open the boxes’ll have slowed them down, but now they’ve got the packhorses they can cover rougher ground, no fears about busting wheels. So now they’ll head directly where they’re going, and they’ll be getting there faster.”

  “You reckon they’ll keep on the trail after dark?”

  “Yes, and so will we.” He looked at the cloudless sky. “Long as the moon’s up. Only time we’ll stop is when we lose the sign.” He glanced across at the cigarette still hanging from Pete’s lips. “You going to light that thing?”

  Pete frowned, then plucked the forgotten cigarette from his mouth and looked at it with distaste. “Hell, no, I don’t think I will.”

  “Well, pass it over here, then.”

  Pete held it out.

  “You got a match?”

  Pete sighed. “You got anything?”

  Quantro ignored him, leaning over to reach the flame. He drew down a lungful of smoke. “Yes, I’ve got something. “

  “What?”

  Quantro grinned. “A good nose for tracking bad men.”

  ***

  Upton loosened the saddle-cinch two notches, standing by his horse as it stretched down to drink from the pool. He had slaked his own thirst and his refilled canteen was back on the saddle horn. The day was cooling fast and his shirt was growing stiff with dried sweat. They had ridden hard, not even halting at noon.

  As he waited for his horse to finish, he cast an eye over the pack animals waiting in line for their turn to water. They didn’t look good. The silver, transferred from the bullion boxes to their saddles was too much for them. They’d last longer if there were one or two more animals to share the load. His gaze drifted to Jeffers and Webster. Maybe, with their horses…

  “How far to the border, d’you reckon?”

  Upton’s train of speculation broke and he turned to see Dobey next to him, rubbing a wet bandana through the trail dust caked into his face. “Five or six miles. Not much further.”

  “We going to make camp here?”

  “Naw. We’ll just water the horses, then walk them for a while and push on through the night. If anyone is trailing us, we’ll be in Arizona by midnight.”

  “We been thinking about that,” Jeffers interrupted, squeezing between the crowded horses in the narrow canyon. “If this Quantro feller you keep talkin’ about is following, well, he ain’t the law of any kind, is he?”

  Upton shook his head.

  “Well, then, it don’t matter a damn whether we cross the border or not. That ain’t gonna stop him.”

  Upton squinted. “You tryin’ to say something?”

  Jeffers drew back his shoulders as if to emphasize his height and strength. “Me and Webster figure why cross the border? None of the Mexicans are after us. No posses. You had the note of authority to take the money from the bank, all legal like. So there’s only this Quantro feller to think about. What will he figure on us doing? Crossing the border, that’s what.” He smiled smugly at his logic. “So me and Jimmy here, we got to thinking. Why don’t we just head on out to Nogales, or even better, Sasabe. Let him go bustin’ his ass looking for us all over the territories and we’ll be sitting comfortable, getting drunk, and fighting off the women in Mexico.”

  Upton spat into the dust, then put his hands on his hips and nodded slowly. “That’s quite a pretty speech, Jeffers. I don’t think I’ve heard you string more than five words together in all the time I’ve known you. Not bad. Not bad at all.”

  Jeffers relaxed noticeably, a grin plucking at the corner of his mouth.

  “One thing you forgot.”

  Jeffers’ eyes narrowed. “What’s that?”

  “This Quantro can read sign. He’s a man hunter. He’ll figure it.”

  Jeffers’ frown disappeared and he smiled again. “Hell, who is he, Daniel Boone? Or maybe Davy Crockett? He wear one of those raccoon hats with the tail hangin’ down his back? Nobody, not even an Apache, could track us over this ground. And not in the dark.”

  “Maybe he can, maybe he can’t,” conceded Upton. “I got a better idea. Why don’t we split up? You and Webster head for Nogales, and me an’ Dobey’ll run for the border. That’ll split the trail. He can’t follow both of us.”

  Jeffers pursed his lips. “Yeah, that’s good.” He turned to Jimmy Webster. “We’ll do that. If this Quantro’s such an all fired eagle-eye, then he can choose who he’s gonna trail.”

  Webster nodded. “I guess we’ll be moving out. We want to leave him some sign before dark so he’s sure to see it.”

  “Yeah, you’d better had,” Upton said with an expression the two men missed as they turned to their horses. “You dumb bastards,” he added under his breath.

  Jeffers had one foot in the stirrup and a hand on the saddle horn when Upton’s Colt cleared leather. The canyon was filled with sound as the gun roared. Jeffers screamed as the bullet slammed into his ribcage. He crumpled. His hand fell away from the saddle and his boot slipped out of the stirrup so that he slid under his horse. The animal took two or three steps, edging sideways. Jeffers groaned, eyes closed as he lay on the rocky ground.

  On the blind side of Jeffers’ horse, Webster was already in the saddle. As soon as he heard the first shot, he put two and two together and came up with four. Without waiting to catch his packhorse’s lead-rope, he jerked back on the reins and his mount reared into a turn. Before Jeffers’ body had hit the ground, Webster was laid flat along his horse’s mane, spurring it down the canyon at full gallop.

  Upton swore at Webster’s fast reactions. He dropped his Colt back into its holster, then snaked a hand to the Winchester in the saddle scabbard. In a flash it was in his hands, the horse swinging toward him. Instead of pushing it away, he swung the rifle barrel up over the horse’s neck and used the saddle as a rest. He worked the action as he sighted.

  The Winchester barked.

  The bullet cracked past Webster’s ducked head to ricochet off the canyon wall. Upton couldn’t afford to miss the next shot. He hadn’t the time to go chasing Webster all over the desert. He dropped his aim, working the lever. The spent cartridge ejected into the air and before it completed its twisting journey to the ground, he had pulled the trigger again.

  Webster’s horse whinnied shrilly. Its legs began to fold under it while dust still churned from its flailing hooves. The front legs buckled first, the head smashing into the ground. Momentum carried the rump high, backbone almost bent double, whiplashing. Webster was thrown from the saddle, pin wheeling in the air. The horse badly executed a half somersault until it collapsed
into itself. It lay in a tangled heap, legs thrust out at awkward angles. Webster crumpled beyond it, unmoving.

  Upton waited a second to see if Webster ran. When he didn’t, he turned to Dobey, who had stood rigid through the short seconds of the gunfight. “Dobey, watch Webster. If he moves shoot him.”

  Dobey swallowed and walked around the horses to get a good view of the body farther along the canyon.

  Upton crossed to where Jeffers lay in the dust. His eyes were still closed, but his chest moved under the strain of his sawing breath. A red stain was spreading slowly through the thin cotton of his work shirt.

  “Jeffers? You hear me?”

  Jeffers groaned. It was neither an admission nor a denial. His eyelids fluttered once. Upton asked him again. Nothing.

  “No matter, boy.” He leaned forward and placed the barrel of his Winchester against Jeffers’ forehead. “Last time you go any place.”

  Then he pulled the trigger.

  He eyed his handiwork, then set out for where Webster lay. As he passed Dobey he made a flat-handed gesture with his left hand. “Stay here.”

  Webster lay on his back, head awry. His neck was obviously broken. But his eyes were open and they flickered to Upton as he came to stand over him.

  “Still with us, eh?” Upton leered. “Can you speak, you son of a bitch?”

  Webster’s mouth moved but nothing came out. He tried again, with the same result.

  Upton chuckled. “Suits you.” His eyes hardened and his lips tightened to a thin line. “Nobody runs out on me, boy, and don’t you forget it. You wanted to split away and take some of the silver, eh?”

  Webster stared upwards, paralyzed. But he could understand what was being said to him. He watched Upton leering down at him, then felt something hard and steely being jammed into his mouth. It broke off three of his front teeth, his tongue suddenly sticky with blood. Strangely detached, he realized what it was. It was the barrel of Upton’s rifle. His mouth was full of it. He began to choke. Absurdly, he wondered why his broken teeth didn’t hurt, or why he couldn’t feel any part of his body. As his thoughts swirled aimlessly, Upton’s harsh voice broke into his mind, pulling him back towards reality. Even the mouthful of barrel didn’t seem to bother him any more.

  “You bastard, Webster. You cowardly bastard. Nobody, but nobody takes my money away from me.”

  When Upton pulled the trigger Webster didn’t even hear the gunshot.

  His head just disintegrated.

  ***

  “What’s bothering him?”

  Quantro leaned forward to pat the buckskin’s neck. “He’s picked up the scent of water.” He settled back and gave the horse its head. Immediately, it turned off the trail into the mouth of a canyon, hooves chipping on the rocky ground. “Must be a spring down here. If it’s a good place we’ll make camp. I’ve lost the trail. Come daylight I’ll have to start casting where the ground softens out.”

  Quantro sniffed for smoke and strained his eyes in the growing gloom for a glimpse of firelight. It wouldn’t do to ride blind into Upton’s camp, uninvited as they were. The buckskin snickered and stretched its neck as it walked. They were getting close. Quantro hauled back and the horse stopped reluctantly.

  “Wait here, Pete. I’m going to take a look-see.” He slipped out of the saddle to stand by the buckskin’s head. He patted the animal’s neck reassuringly, then faded into the night.

  Stealthily, he crept towards the pool of water that glistened faintly in the moonlight. There were fresh tracks at the water’s edge but no sign of any life there now. He stopped and passed his fingertips over some of the hoof prints. Many of them were too deep to have been made by any other horses than those carrying bullion. So they had been here and were gone, running in the night.

  “They’ve been here.”

  Pete jumped at the voice that came at him out of the dark. He hadn’t heard Quantro coming back down the canyon. “I hear you.”

  “Come on down. We’ll make camp.”

  “Sure.”

  After watering the horses they unsaddled and spread their blankets on the ground. It was too dark to go hunting fuel for boiling coffee, so Quantro dug into a saddlebag and came up with some jerky.

  “Pete? You want to eat? Got some jerky here.”

  “I got something better,” Pete’s voice called softly out of the darkness beyond the horses. When he came within the range of Quantro’s night vision he was carrying an armload of brush.

  “What’s that?”

  Pete’s teeth gleamed in the dark. “Creosote.”

  “What the hell do you want that for? Won’t be enough of it to make a near decent fire.”

  “Enough for what we need. I’m going to do some cooking on it.”

  “On creosote brush? You’re foolin’.”

  Pete’s smile faded. “You shut up, boy, you might learn something.” He stopped and began to break up the twigs. “The Spanish word for this stuff is hediondilla, which means ‘little stinker’. It does too. But when you’ve tasted beans cooked on creosote you won’t want them cooked any other way.” He glanced at Quantro’s skeptical expression and smiled. “You’ll see. It’s good stuff. Some of the Indians use it to help rheumatism, too. I’m not sure how, but that’s what I’ve heard.”

  After the first tentative mouthful of hot beans under Pete’s amused glance, Quantro had to admit Pete was right. He chewed slowly, then without a word wolfed down the whole plateful.

  “Any more?”

  Pete sniffed and said dryly, “Creosote brush. You must be foolin’. Can’t cook on that,” in the tone of voice Quantro had used.

  “Okay, old-timer, you convinced me. I don’t get bellyache in the morning I’ll believe you.”

  “More chow’ll cost you a smoke.”

  Quantro tossed over his tobacco sack. “You got it, now pass those beans.”

  Pete caught the tobacco and put it behind his back, then leaned over the remnants of the fire to look into the kettle. When he looked up he smiled sweetly.

  “Ain’t that a shame. There ain’t none left.”

  ***

  Quantro woke and peered out from beneath the huddle of his blanket into the coming morning. There were still a few minutes before sun-up, the sky lightening in the east over the rim of the canyon, slowly herding the stars into purgatory for another day.

  He spared a quick thought for White-Wing, warm and snug in their cot back in the little house in Cananea, and cursed himself for having to spend a cold night on hard ground, chasing a murderer and thief who had stolen money it wasn’t his duty to get back. He scowled. He was here and he was doing it and it was cold, so what was the use of bellyaching about it? Not wanting to brood, he came up out of his blanket and started to work the stiffness out of his muscles.

  He shivered, the pre-dawn chill still crawling up his back as he went to the pool. The water had cleared again after the horses churned it up last night. He splashed a double handful into his face only to flinch from the iciness of it. He used his bandana as a towel, then looked around for the buckskin.

  The two horses had wandered along the canyon out of sight of the camp, in search of forage. He decided he’d better find out how far they had strayed. He didn’t want to be chasing them after sun-up, he wanted to be out on the trail. The closer he kept to Upton, the better chance he had of catching him.

  He left the pool and started off, walking between the high walls in the opposite direction to the entrance. Around a bed and there was the buckskin and Pete’s pony both cropping at a clump of bleached grass. He clucked and the stallion lifted its head. Still chewing, it ambled toward him. He stretched out to rub its neck as the horse nuzzled into his shoulder. Absently, his eyes wandered around the canyon walls, the rock features becoming more distinct with each second closer to the day.

  Pete’s pony started forward, then circled widely around a huge boulder that stood at the base of the rock wall, as if something it was afraid of lurked there. Probably a rattlesnak
e. Quantro’s hand dipped and came up holding his Colt. He pushed the stallion away and went over to take a look.

  He didn’t like what he found.

  “Pete! Pete! Get on over here!”

  CHAPTER 7

  Pete shucked out of his blanket, eyes wide. He was on his feet with his rifle in his hands before he realized he wasn’t still dreaming. Automatically, he had fallen into a straddle-legged crouch, ready to fight.

  “Quantro?” he called softly, looking around.

  “Over here. Come and look at this.”

  Relaxing, Pete set off toward the bend from where Quantro’s voice seemed to be coming. Dawn was upon them now, a rosy glow haloing the canyon. The first rush of adrenaline petered out and Pete’s emotions leveled off as he came within sight of the horses. Spying Quantro by the big boulder, he went over.

  “Look at this.”

  Pete’s eyes roamed over the two bloody bodies, one piled on top of the other in the shadow of the rock.

  “Upton’s men?”

  “Could be.”

  “Bickering among themselves now.”

  “Looks like Upton won. You know them?”

  Pete scowled at the sight of Jeffers’s shattered skull, then switched his attention to Webster. He shook his head. “Don’t reckon so. Wouldn’t know ’em if I found ’em dead in a canyon.” He turned his head and spat. “If they are Upton’s men, this is the best place for ’em. I won’t lose any sleep.”

  “Me neither,” Quantro agreed, “but if that bank manager back in Santa Cruz was right, now we know there’s only two of them left. Upton and Dobey. What d’you reckon on Dobey?”

  Pete took a last look at the bodies, then turned to walk away, motioning Quantro to join him. “Dobey seemed okay. Not the sort to have a hand in anything like this. Clean country boy type, y’know?” He scowled. “Nowadays you can’t tell. Put a gun in a kid’s hand and let him grow a moustache, an’ show him a pile of money and all of a sudden he’s a big desperado. You never can tell. After all, look at you.”

  “I ain’t got a moustache,” Quantro growled. “Besides which I can do without funnies this time of the morning, ‘specially when I’ve slept on cold ground. Makes me stiff.”