The Copper City

by Chris Scott Wilson

  Pete’s eyebrows went up. “What about me? Way I remember it, I’m the old one in this partnership.”

  “You know what they say, the old ones always know how to make the best campfire coffee. They’ve had more practice.”

  Pete snorted. “Good thing, too. Couldn’t drink the swill you dish up, no how.”

  Quantro slapped his back. “You get the fire going while I hunt up some sign.” Before Pete could answer, Quantro walked away, clucking his tongue for the buckskin to come. With quick, economical movements, he saddled and bridled the stallion. When it puffed out its chest, he smiled to himself, then elbowed it sharply in the ribs. As it deflated, he pulled the saddle cinch two notches tighter.

  ***

  The skillet was sizzling over the tiny fire when Quantro rode back into the canyon. Since he had been tracking he had taken to wearing his kabuns, knee-high Apache style moccasins, mainly for comfort. Now he slid noiselessly out of the saddle and padded towards Pete’s back.

  The older man was hunched over the skillet, turning the slabs of spitting bacon. He turned fractionally sideways and spat.

  “Won’t catch me out like that, boy. Heard you coming from a long ways. Without the head I had yesterday from that pole-ax mixture Upton dropped us, my faculties are workin’ just fine.”

  Quantro didn’t answer, just hauled up to the fire sniffing the bacon. “I found ’em.”

  Pete was straight-faced. “Figured you had.”

  “How come?”

  “Like you said yourself, you got a good nose for bad men.”

  Quantro snorted. “Oh, yeah?”

  “’Sides, if you hadn’t found ’em you wouldn’t be back by now.”

  “You want the news or don’t you?”

  “Go ahead, soon’s you pass your plate over here ’less you want to chew on hot fat with your fingers.”

  Quantro handed him the plate. “I headed straight north. Picked them up right away soon as the hard ground faded out ’bout a mile away.”

  “Figured you would.”

  Quantro ignored him. “Tracks were interesting.”

  “Uh?”

  “They turned back around and headed back here. They’re here now, watching us.”

  Pete’s expression never altered. “Yep. I know.”

  Knowing Upton was at that very moment probably sighting his rifle down on them, Quantro kept his anger down to a harsh whisper, delivered from the side of his mouth. “What d’you mean, you know?”

  “Figured it out last night when we got here,” Pete replied, apparently unconcerned. “When you found those bodies this mornin’, that just confirmed it.”

  “If you figured it out last night, why in God’s name didn’t you tell me?”

  Pete glanced sideways. “Well, you’re the big scout ’round here. That’s your job, to figure out what the opposition’s doing.”

  “Jesus,” Quantro said to himself. He couldn’t keep his gaze from slipping to the canyon rim.

  “Here,” Pete said, holding out the tin plate, the bacon fried to a crisp. “I et mine before. Too hard like that for my old teeth.”

  “You won’t have any teeth left if you keep things like that from me,” Quantro muttered. “Anyhow, seeing you’re so all fired intelligent, how come they didn’t hit us last night?”

  “Too dark.”

  “This morning, then?”

  “You went out to hunt up their sign.”

  “So?”

  “They want us together. Makes things a lot less messy.”

  “But I’m here now.”

  “Yep.”

  Quantro stuck his fork into the first piece of bacon. With it halfway to his open mouth he stopped. He frowned, eyes going to Pete’s face, then down to Pete’s hand as it crawled casually toward the rifle on the ground beside him. Their eyes met.

  “You got it,” Pete said under his breath.

  “Oh, Christ,” Quantro muttered as a rifle barked and the tin plate was snatched from his hand by the bullet. The freshly cooked bacon was tipped on to the sandy floor of canyon before his horrified eyes.

  He leapt sideways, grabbing his own Winchester from his knees. He came up running, dodging bullets. He slipped, cursing, skidding to the safety of a boulder by the pool.

  He suddenly remembered the fork. The bacon was miraculously still on it. At least he hadn’t lost all his breakfast. A bullet chipped a sliver of rock from the boulder above his head as he put the fork to his mouth. The bacon was hot. It burned his tongue. Wincing as he cautiously chewed, he worked the Winchester’s action.

  “Pete? You see where he’s shooting from?”

  Pete loosed off a shot toward the top of the canyon. “See them two rocks, one shaped like a bear’s head? There’s one of them behind there. Saw me a flash of light up there a while back.”

  “Okay, I’ve got him.”

  “Hey, Quantro?” Pete called again, sighting down his rifle barrel.

  “What?”

  “Didn’t your ma never teach you not to speak with your mouth full?”

  The reply was drowned by gunshot.

  ***

  “Damn,” Upton cursed, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his wrist. It wasn’t yet hot, but the waiting had made him nervous. It wouldn’t have been so bad if Jeffers and Webster were still with him. He didn’t want any mistakes. He wanted Quantro dead and out of it. He knew nothing of Dobey’s capabilities, supposing of course that he had any. Yesterday he had just stood by stupidly during the gunfight with Jeffers and Webster.

  Upton knew all too well Quantro’s skills. Apart from the story of his hunting down four killers, there was also the incident in Cananea when he had gunned down the two drifters who had tried to rape the Mexican woman. He had heard the sheriff comment on Quantro’s speedy and accurate shooting. In fact the lawman had been so impressed he had gone through all the wanted flyers to see if there was a price on Quantro’s head. There hadn’t been, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t wanted in the territories over on the American side of the border.

  Riding away from the canyon last night, Upton had given some thought to what Jeffers had said before he died. About the border not stopping Quantro. It was true. When Upton had envisaged the robbery, the whole of the planning had been based on the assumption that if they were chased, it would be by the Mexican authorities, the red-shirted Federales. The nearness of the border had been an attraction. A short, hard ride and they would be safe.

  Quantro had spoiled all that. Riding towards the border, Upton had suddenly had the chilling thought that Quantro would keep on following, no matter what, and that the rest of his life would be spent looking over his shoulder, waiting for the moment when Quantro would emerge out of the past. Listening to the doleful plodding of the packhorses behind him, Upton had come to the conclusion there was only one solution to the problem. Meet it head on. Let Quantro catch him and get it over with now.

  Better still, meet Quantro on his own, Upton’s terms.

  That’s why he was here now, sweating with fear as he peered down into the canyon. By the time they had doubled back on their tracks and reached the canyon it had been well after nightfall. They had made a halt on the top rather than brazen directly into the camp. Upton had scouted the rim, spying only the tiny pinpoint of light that was embers of what could only have been a very small cooking-fire, close to the pool.

  From that distance he had been unable to distinguish between the sleeping men and the impenetrable inky shadows that filled the bottoms. He had climbed down to slowly penetrate the canyon, a vague hope of killing Quantro and his partner while they slept. The two horses, foraging loosely, had heard him in the darkness, their wandering hooves suddenly still. There had been the beginnings of a snicker in the stallion’s throat. If the animals woke Quantro, then the fight would have been on his terms, and Upton would have lost his edge. And Quantro wasn’t a man he wanted to second guess in the dark.

  He needed all the edge he could get.


  Retracing his steps back up to the rim he had figured the best chance he had was to wait for sun-up, then catch them by surprise. The last thing Quantro would expect was that he, Upton, had come back to face him and have it out. Of course, it would not be as simple as that. Quantro would not see him. A well-placed shot out of nowhere and Upton’s problems would be over. All except getting rid of Dobey, that was. But that could be taken care of later.

  They had made dry camp, well back from the rim. Upton took the first watch. Nothing had moved out in the desert and he’d had to keep moving every few minutes to keep out the cold. With no fire there wasn’t even coffee to help him stay awake. Shortly after midnight he had woken Dobey with instructions to wake him a couple of hours before sun-up so he could take his own turn in the blankets.

  He had woken just as dawn was breaking. Dobey’s back was to him, sitting on a rock, hunched into his coat, rifle across his knees.

  “What’s happened?”

  Dobey had blinked slowly once and shrugged, reluctant to admit he had fallen asleep. Upton had suppressed his anger and gone to scout the canyon rim. He cursed to himself, lying against the rock. He had planned on catching Quantro and Wiltshire before they had chance to move. The odds were they would want to be out on the trail by dawn, chasing hard, like a pair of blue tick hounds.

  He had been half right. As he lay on the rim he could see Quantro was already gone. Wiltshire was collecting brushwood to build a fire. Upton jacked a round into his rifle’s chamber before sighting down on the man below for a few seconds. He decided against it. If Quantro was in earshot, which was quite likely as gunfire would carry a long way on the still morning air, then he would come back alert, hunting and ready to kill. No, it was better if he caught them together. Two well-aimed shots and he would be in the clear.

  It hadn’t taken long for Quantro to return. Upton had watched him ride in and approach the fire. He had made a sign to Dobey to get ready. He would give the two men below time to settle down. A couple of minutes then it would begin.

  The nerves had started coiling up then. He had watched Wiltshire hand Quantro the plate. He had settled his rifle-butt into his shoulder. Nice and easy. Allow for windage and drop. A downhill shot. Not ideal conditions, but then a man couldn’t have everything. Nice and…

  Dobey’s rifle barked. Upton screamed a curse. The coil of his nerves sprang free, then he was pouring lead down into the canyon as fast as he could work the Winchester. He almost howled with frustration as Quantro skidded behind a boulder, unscathed. What was even more surprising was the older man, Wiltshire, had reached cover first.

  He shot a look of disgust at Dobey, who stared right back. Stupid son of a bitch. How dumb can you get? Why hadn’t he waited? He knew the plan. Why hadn’t he done what he was told? A bullet ricocheted off the rock in front of Upton. He flinched as fragments battered the crown of his hat.

  Damn, Quantro had him spotted already. He retreated then moved along the rim to fresh cover. He bellied down behind a wide slab of rock, leaning out to fire twice in quick succession. A bullet cracked overhead in way of reply. He veered back and caught his breath. When he leaned out again he saw a figure move below him. He fired just as something tore at his arm, like the sharp tug of a freshening breeze. He thought nothing of it. He fired then ducked back.

  Dobey was shooting like he had a crate of ammunition open at his elbow. Upton shook his head. If he shot like that when he couldn’t see anything, how in hell would he shoot when he could see something? Upton edged back until he could see the boy, away to his right. He made a sign that said “take it easy,” thinking as he did that his right arm felt a little stiff.

  When he looked at it, his shirt was torn and blood was running in a stream below his elbow. It didn’t hurt. It just felt uncomfortable. Just a nick. He peeled back the torn sleeve. His arm was bleeding freely, teeming down his upper arm. He found the sight remarkably ugly. Other people’s blood and gore he didn’t mind, especially if he had been the cause of their discomfort, but his own was a different matter. That made things personal.

  He pulled out the tail of his shirt and ripped off a strip to serve as a bandage. He mopped up the blood as best he could, then attempted one-handed to tie the material around the wounded arm.

  The idea was simpler than the reality.

  ***

  “Gone quiet, ain’t it?” Pete said. “You think they’ve run out of bullets?”

  “Step out in the open if you’re that eager to find out,” Quantro counseled.

  “Hope this don’t go on long,” Pete continued. “I left the coffee-pot on the fire and it’ll boil dry.”

  Quantro sniffed the aroma, now heavily disguised under the stench of gunpowder from the shooting. “Could’ve used a cup. Thirsty work, this.”

  “What d’you reckon they’ll do?”

  “How the hell do I know?”

  “You’re the pistolero, not me. I’m just an old prospector.”

  “A righteous old prospector,” Quantro mumbled, taking advantage of the lull to sneak a quick look around his rock. A bullet smacked into the dry earth by his shoulder, then he heard the gunshot and spotted the puff of smoke up on the rim.

  “You reckon we’re pinned down here?” Pete said conversationally, sniffing.

  “What you mean, you old coot, is can I circle ’round and have at them from behind? Is that it?”

  “Something like that.”

  Quantro looked back and forth along the canyon walls. Maybe, just maybe, he could get out of there without being shot to pieces. It would take some fast legwork and some very quick shooting from Pete. He put his idea into words.

  “I got plenty of bullets,” Pete confirmed, sniffing. “Don’t know as I can shoot ’em off as fast as you.”

  “You’ll manage.”

  “I’ll allow I might.”

  Quantro glared at him. “You’d better.”

  Pete shrugged. “Been nice knowing you, boy.”

  “Don’t even joke about it,” Quantro snarled before falling into an uneasy silence. He knew Pete would handle it as best he could, but jokes about failing didn’t exactly set right at that particular moment. It seemed bad luck somehow, and making a run along the bottoms was going to use up all the luck he could get a pledge on.

  He gave a thought to his bum leg, the one that had been broken and set wrong nearly three years back. It was stiffening a little as a result of crouching awkwardly for such a long period. He turned his back to the rock and stretched out both his legs, bending the bad one slowly. It felt okay. Maybe it was a sign his luck was running good.

  Pete glanced over as he pushed bullets into his rifle’s magazine. He eyed Quantro seriously for a moment. “Luck, boy,” he said before he winked and brought up his rifle to his shoulder. “You ready?”

  Quantro finished reloading his Winchester, then twisted into a crouch, tensed to run. He nodded.

  “Now!”

  Quantro ran.

  Behind him, Pete hammered out shots as fast as he could work the lever action.

  And he prayed a little bit too.

  CHAPTER 8

  Quantro zigzagged down the canyon as fast as his legs could measure out strides. Fear was a full grown buffalo cow sitting on his chest, but adrenaline was a bountiful supply of energy that made his legs fly.

  He ran the wrong way.

  If Upton was expecting him to make a breakout, then he would think he would head for the canyon mouth and then circle from there. Going the wrong way might gain a second that could become vital. The buckskin was up around the bend where Pete’s pony was grazing. Once in the stallion’s saddle he could be out of the canyon in a matter of moments.

  He was wrong. His ruse didn’t throw Upton at all. But one factor in his favor was that by crossing the bottoms to the east wall, the same side as Upton, the two gunmen couldn’t hit him. The east wall was too steep. Or so he hoped. He would not find out until he tried it.

  If he was still in their sights, then t
hey would have him cold, for there was no cover at the foot of that wall. All the loose boulders were on the west side where the cliff was more broken, a steep but not vertical drop to the bottom.

  As soon as he broke cover, Upton and Dobey opened fire. Upton had hissed a warning of what might happen, so they were ready. Fortunately for Quantro, it was Dobey covering the way he had chosen to run. His reactions were not as honed as Upton’s, nor was his shooting. But once started, he shot fast.

  Quantro ducked across, dust devils springing up by his heels as he sprinted. With one shoulder scraping the wall he ran for the bend. Bullets cracked persistently overhead.

  There was sudden sharp pull on his left foot. He staggered, rifle swinging in counterbalance. He’d been hit. It took another five yards to fall back into the rhythm. A moment later, he was skidding around the bend. And safe.

  He fell against the wall, panting. Air rushed in great gulps down into his aching chest. Too many cigarettes, he thought absently. They’ll be the death of me, ruin my running. One of these days I’ll really need to make a run and that’ll be the day they get me. Then he remembered his foot. He raised his left leg for inspection. No blood, not even a hole in his high moccasin. Then he saw where a narrow chunk of leather had been gouged diagonally out of the extra sole he had added to make them tougher. A bullet char. Two inches higher and it would have been his ankle. Maybe his luck was running good.

  Now for the buckskin before Upton or Dobey ran along the rim to throw down shots on him. He shouted, competing with the gunfire still coming from where Pete was holding them off. The stallion came over. Quickly, he mounted and slid his Winchester into the saddle boot out of the way. He patted the horse’s neck as he waited.

  Then he heard it. The gunfire was beginning to wither away. Pete’s rapid covering-fire had long since become irregular as he took care in placing his shots, but now Upton and Dobey began to slow. With any luck, at least one of them would be reloading when he made his dash.

  Now. He kicked his moccasin heels into the stallion’s ribs and it leapt forward. Around the bend, then they were galloping between the walls, powerful hooves throwing up dust. All three rifles opened up, shooting across him as he threw himself low on the buckskin’s lashing mane.