The Copper City

by Chris Scott Wilson

  Quantro motioned to the bartender for a bottle of whiskey. “I’m going to get some shuteye. Going to be a long day tomorrow.”

  “Me too, I reckon. Not that I need as much beauty sleep as you. Me, I’m pretty enough.”

  “You say pretty enough or pretty rough?” Quantro jibed as he grabbed the whiskey and made for the stairs. Almost at the top he stopped and made a last survey of the room. Nothing. He scowled and was about to continue when the first door in the passage opened. A saloon girl came out carrying a bowl. She was close to tears, Quantro thought as she squeezed past them and hurried down the stairs.

  “You see what was in the bowl?”

  “Too busy looking at her,” Pete confessed.

  “There was a bloody bandage in it.” Quantro eased along the wall to the door and listened. He heard groans. He jerked his head at Pete, and placed the whiskey bottle on the floor out of harm’s way. Pete moved to the other side of the doorway. They both drew their guns.

  Quantro leaned across to slowly turn the handle. The door gave. With a glance at Pete he flung it open and burst into a blur of action. Within a second he was inside the room, the .44 Colt up and lined on the bed. Still moving, he cleared the doorway so the wall was at his back. Pete sprang through after him.

  They both crouched, guns ready.

  In the bed an old man wearing a nightgown and a tasseled cap blinked at them with watery eyes. His mouth hung open in surprise, a toothless cavern. Hesitantly, his hands crawled skyward.

  Quantro relaxed, allowing his arm to fall, then holstered his gun. He sighed, eyes flickering to Pete, who shrugged, embarrassed as he put away his own weapon.

  “Our mistake,” Quantro mumbled, already on his way out into the passage. Pete pushed himself away from the wall, then tilted his hat to the back of his head. He pursed his lips and jerked a thumb at the doorway.

  “The girl with the bowl.”

  “Pretty, wasn’t she?”

  “Don’t you think you’re a little old for that?”

  The toothless gums clamped together and a twinkle appeared briefly in the old man’s eyes. “The doc says my eyes are too bad for playing cards, and that whiskey’s bad for my liver. One time I used to like a cigar but now just one puff makes me cough from morning till night. I ever get too old for girls, son, I might as well be dead.”

  Pete considered him a moment then smiled. “Old timer, you got a point there.”

  Quantro was leaning against the wall out in the corridor, having already retrieved the whiskey bottle from the floor. He didn’t look any too happy.

  Pete made a gesture. “We all have our off days.”

  “Every day?” Quantro levered himself off the garish wallpaper. At the other end of the corridor Pete fished the room key out of his pocket and was about to insert it into the lock when Quantro laid a restraining hand on his arm. Pete frowned, but Quantro placed a finger to his lips and pointed downwards.

  Light showed through the gap under the door.

  Quantro checked the number. It was the right room. He waved Pete to one side of the doorway while he took the other, again placing the whiskey bottle on the floor. He drew his Colt and followed the routine they had just used at the old man’s room. When the mechanism of the door handle clicked free he paused for an instant, keeping back out of the line of fire. When nothing happened he sprang into the room. Landing in a crouch, the Colt’s hammer cocked, he covered Pete’s entry.

  The only reaction from the room’s occupant was a hollow, racking cough from the bed.

  When there was no gunfire to welcome them, Quantro stepped towards the bed where the dim light from the bedside lamp outlined a figure laid full length. The man seemed to be on his side, hands clutching at his stomach, his face away from the light.

  Reaching the table, Quantro held his gun next to the man’s head at point-blank range while he used his free hand to turn up the lamp’s wick. As the spread of light increased he was able to make out the figure’s details more clearly. Whoever it was, he was badly wounded. Blood trickled between the fingers pressed to his stomach. Gut shot. The face was still in shadow.

  Quantro leaned over him, holding up the lantern.

  The wounded man coughed again, this time weaker than the last, his shoulders bunching as his stomach muscles contracted, hands clutching even tighter against his bloody shirt. As the light splashed across his face his eyes lazily opened, no recognition in the pupils, vision turned inwards against the enveloping pain. He wore no weapon, his gunbelt hanging from the head rail of the bed, the leather darkly stained with blood.

  As Quantro holstered his Colt, Pete crossed the room from his post by the door. He took one look at the man’s face and sniffed.

  “Well, he ain’t going to hurt nobody, least of all us.”

  “But what’s he doing here?” Quantro asked. “I thought you and me’d be the last folks he’d want to see.”

  Pete’s shoulders moved. “You’d better ask him.”

  Quantro’s eyes returned to the man on the bed.

  It was Dobey. And he was dying.

  But what was he doing here?

  CHAPTER 11

  “How long d’you think he’ll last?” Quantro asked, holding the lantern closer to the mess of innards that Dobey’s hands were trying their best to keep from falling out all over the bed.

  “Another five minutes if he’s lucky. Morning if he’s unlucky,” Pete muttered. “I’ve seen men gut shot who’ve lasted five days, but most don’t make it beyond a couple of hours. He ain’t got a chance. You’d be doing him a favor if you shot him now.” He crossed to the doorway to collect Quantro’s whiskey, then kicked the door shut and sat down in the room’s only chair. He bit at the cork and spat it into the corner. He rolled a mouthful of whiskey around his teeth before swallowing. “He ain’t going to tell us nothing.”

  Quantro studied Dobey’s face where the sweat stood out like raindrops on his forehead and his mouth twisted in agony. He had still given no sign he recognized them, or that he even knew they were there. It looked as though Pete was right, Dobey wasn’t going to come up with any answers. Even if the doctor had been in town, there was nothing he could have done. There was nothing anybody could do except watch him die.

  “Here.” Pete held out the bottle.

  Quantro took it and sat down on the floor, his back to the wall. The whiskey burnt a furrow all the way down to his stomach. He checked the label. Taos Lightning. It was too. He wondered when the thunder would come.

  The bottle was empty when Quantro’s head sagged forward, chin jammed against his chest, eyes captured by the army of sleep.

  A hand shook his shoulder roughly. He forced his eyes open. Pete stooped over him, jaw angular and urgent in the weak light.

  “What?” he muttered, trying to free his brain from the sucking swamp in his head.

  “He’s calling. Saying your name over and over again.”

  “Who?”

  “Dobey. He ain’t dead yet.”

  Quantro came off the wall, wincing as a crick shot an arrow of pain lancing through the back of his skull. Now he knew when the thunder came. Always after the lightning. He stood by the bed, peering down. Dobey’s eyes flickered open and widened so that his eyebrows pushed a flurry of wrinkles up his forehead. His eyeballs were bloodshot, feverish, turning toward the man bending over him. His mouth was tight, and when his lips parted short breaths whistled through his clenched teeth.

  “Quantro?”

  “I’m here.”

  “You didn’t catch up with me.” He said it with a fierce pride.

  “No.”

  “I came in myself.” Dobey’s mouth widened into an O as an invisible hand squeezed his ruined intestines. A rivulet of perspiration trickled from his plastered hairline. The spasm subsided and his stiffened body relaxed a little. His gaze turned to Quantro again.

  “Truth was, riding was making me sick to my stomach. I knew I’d never haul up on him.”

  “Upton?�
�

  Dobey gulped and nodded. “He shot me.”

  “I know.”

  “He killed Webster and Jeffers too, in the canyon where we tried to ambush you.”

  “I found them.”

  Dobey looked away into the gloom, eyes glazing and slipping out of focus. He snapped himself back, voice anxious. “You still here, Quantro?”

  “Yes.”

  “He’s scared of you. Said you killed six men. Says you’re as fast as chain lightning.”

  “I can shoot,” he admitted.

  Dobey groaned softly, hands tightening across his abdomen. His knees rose as he tried to escape the pain devouring him.

  Pete leaned around Quantro, his voice soft. “Time for idle talk is over, son. Tell us where he is.”

  Dobey’s face collapsed again and his eyes remained closed. “He turned off the trail. Heading south for the railroad. I figure he’s hightailed it for Watertank, maybe six miles to the south-east. He’ll be holed up there by morning.” His breath started to rasp again.

  Pete eyed Quantro. “Upton probably figured he’d lose us on the main trail. While we’re cutting sign he’s on the train and clear to hell out of it.”

  Quantro nodded, eyes jumping away from the dying man’s sweat-drenched face. “We can’t catch him up before he gets on the train. The horses wouldn’t make it.” He paused to think. “But there’s another way.”

  Pete frowned. “How’s that?”

  “This town, Charleston, is on the same line as Watertank. Any train that passes through there has to come through here, or the other way around. Now, if you were Upton and you reckoned the two men trailing you were here in Charleston, which train would you catch?”

  “The one going the other way,” Pete answered without hesitation.

  “Yes?” Quantro grinned wolfishly. “But what if you reckoned the men were smart enough to work out that’s what you were doing? And that they’d get on the train before it reached Watertank so they’d be sitting on it nice and calm, waiting for you to get on?”

  Pete pursed his lips. “If I’d thought of all that, then I’d get the train that was heading toward Charleston and lay low while it passed through, keeping an eye out to see if the two men did get on. If they did, I’d be in the best position to take care of them. Besides, I’d be hoping they wouldn’t think I was fool enough to come back through the town where I knew they were.”

  Quantro was silent, his gaze straying to where Dobey’s breathing was growing more labored by the second. “Upton’s sly enough to figure it that way, and you know how it is, when a man’s got a heap of money to protect he’s bound to get foxier by the minute.” He stopped talking, then left the bed to stand by the window and look out onto the street. “Leastways, I hope to hell that’s what he’s going to do.”

  “Otherwise what?”

  “Otherwise we’ve lost him.”

  ***

  Upton couldn’t make up his mind.

  He had spent most of the night churning it over as he rode his flagging horses, tugging along the string of weary pack animals behind him. Instinct urged him to take the first train running south away from Charleston. It was the route anybody would take, but his big fear was underestimating Quantro. He knew all about his having tracked down four men and taking two years over it. That meant Quantro could use his head and that he was almighty patient. Most men Upton could think of would have given up after six months at most.

  Thinking the whole thing out, Quantro and Wiltshire had to be in Charleston. Not even an Apache could have figured out where he’d left the main trail, and Charleston was the nearest place. But what if they figured out he was heading for Watertank? What would they do? It seemed a good possibility they’d catch the next train running down.

  Then it occurred to him they might wait, figuring he would try and bluff them. What then? The answer was easy. He would let both the northbound and the southbound go without boarding. That way he covered both ends. He could lie low, then if the trains ran twice a day he could get on the next one. If he holed up in a position to watch the halt at Watertank he might get lucky and see them get off the train. When they didn’t find him there, they would get on the next one back to Charleston. If that happened he could safely make the next southbound without any fear of them being on the same train.

  Pleased at the conclusion he had reached, he made camp in a small clearing protected by some scrub oak where he unloaded the packhorses and hobbled them. There was still maybe four hours to sun-up, so he placed his rifle close to hand and rolled into his blankets.

  His dreams were full of silver.

  ***

  Upton squatted on his heels next to the fire as he sipped his coffee. He had eaten, and now on a full stomach he felt well equipped to handle the day ahead. He cast an eye on the saddlebags and smiled.

  He had risen at dawn to stalk from the clearing down to the railroad depot, such as it was. At that hour the ticket office had been closed but there had been a time card tacked to the wall. After some difficulty he managed to decipher it into plain language. It said the first southbound from Charleston was due at nine o’clock, with a later one at four in the afternoon. The northbound passed through at ten, then again at six, just before sundown. Just right.

  Pleased, he had then surveyed the settlement, considering possibilities. Watertank was barely more than just that. A stopping-place for the locomotives to replenish their holding tanks. There was a small railroad shack backed up by two single-story adobe dwellings near the tracks. With no more to see, Upton set off back toward the clearing. He stopped and selected a spot where he would have an adequate field of fire and where the range would be just right to pick off Quantro and Wiltshire as they left the halt.

  His stand chosen, he cooked his breakfast.

  When he swallowed the last of the coffee, he tossed the grounds into the dust, and took out his pocket watch. 8:45 a.m. Time to get ready. He returned to the spot he had chosen and hunkered down.

  He checked his watch again. Five minutes to nine. Slowly, he jacked shells through the Winchester’s chamber, then collected them up and reloaded the magazine. Two minutes. He squinted into the distance. Nothing.

  At five after nine he heard the mournful wail of the train’s whistle. At ten after nine it appeared and hauled to a stop.

  Nobody got off.

  ***

  The sign above their heads read: Charleston Railroad Depot.

  “You sure you figured it right?”

  “Too late to ask me now,” Quantro replied acidly, then sucked on his cigarette. “If I was wrong, he’s the hell out of it.” He gazed along the tracks once more, noting how the perspective drew the iron rails together in the distance. He was more edgy than he cared to admit even to himself. He wanted to catch Upton badly. The man had killed in cold blood all along the trail and he had put one over on Quantro too in the form of the doped whiskey back in Santa Cruz. He needed to be caught. He was the last person to deserve the silver. “Where is that damn train?” He asked in what he hoped was a casual manner. “What time is it?”

  “Quarter after ten. Due any time now.”

  Quantro crushed out the cigarette butt with his heel. “If he’s on it, the silver’ll be too heavy for him to manage alone, so his horses’ll be on the train. First off we’ll take a look in the boxcars.”

  Pete swung his rifle up so the barrel could rest on his shoulder. “Damn trains. Never on time.”

  A man in a brown derby hat and suit approached the tracks. He took one look at their weapons then moved farther along before placing his bag at his feet.

  “Better move out of sight. If Upton is on that train and sees us waiting here he’s likely to start blasting.”

  They walked to where a spur ran off the main line before it entered the depot. Two empty cars stood on the rails, both with damaged side panels, awaiting repair. As they moved to stand out of sight of the main line, Pete sniffed and jerked his head. “Here she comes now.”

  Q
uantro looked off to where the smokestack of the loco could be seen puffing toward them perched high above the wide black cowcatcher. It took barely a minute to draw level. The writing on the railroad cars read Southern Pacific Railroad. There were three of them followed by two boxcars, an express car, and the brake van at the rear. Quantro and Pete stood back, using the shadows of the damaged cars as cover until the train slowed to a halt. As the brakes locked, Quantro moved.

  He ran, levering a shell into the Winchester’s chamber as he came around the end of the brake van. Past the express car, then he swiftly flicked off the hasp on the first boxcar. Pete covered him as he shoved open the door.

  Two horses, neither of them Upton’s.

  “Next one,” he ordered grimly, sliding the door shut.

  One horse, Appaloosa. That wasn’t Upton’s either.

  “Damn. Try the cars.”

  They ran along the side of the boxcar, then jumped on to the rear platform of the last passenger car in the line. Quantro flung open the door. He went in rifle first.

  Suddenly a bespectacled man in a guard’s uniform with only a flag in his hand barred the way. “Tickets, please.”

  In no mood for explanations Quantro pushed past him.

  “What the…?”

  “Shut up,” Pete commanded, waving his rifle barrel in the man’s face. The guard flattened against the wall.

  At the sound of their quick steps, passengers twisted in their seats to face them. Jaws dropped and eyes blinked. Complexions paled. A small boy had the courage born of innocence to ask, “Are them robbers?” in a loud whisper only to be hurriedly shushed by his mother. Quantro’s eyes raked the naked faces. Upton wasn’t there. He squeezed out on to the front platform of the car and vaulted over the rail on the rear platform of the next. The door handle jammed but released when he smashed the Winchester’s butt against it.

  The second car yielded no results.

  Cursing now, Quantro was through and into the final car. As he passed, a stout man jumped to his feet, his heavy gold watch chain swinging as he stepped out into the aisle. “Just what is the meaning of this, sir?” he demanded indignantly. Pete came up behind him and jabbed his rifle into the man’s kidneys.