The Copper City (12 page)

“You got it in one,” Quantro said bitterly.

CHAPTER 12

It was the longest six miles Quantro had ever ridden on a train. How could he have misjudged Upton? He was getting sick of this. He just wanted it done and over with. The only way he could reconcile his error was that Upton had played real foxy and had let the northbound
and
the southbound go through, hedging his bets. If that was so, he would still be at Watertank. He had better be, thought Quantro. And if he is, we've got him.

Behind them, the buckskin and Pete's paint pony were stabled in one of the boxcars, saddled and ready to jump out. Quantro watched the view of the San Pedro River until the tracks swung away from its banks, then he turned his hands to cleaning his guns. Pete had already attended to his and spent his time gazing restlessly at the passing scenery.

They didn't talk much. They didn't have much to say.

***

Upton sat up to ease the stiffness in his thighs. All this waiting was gnawing at his nerves. He had been sorely tempted to catch the early northbound, but only a fast rethink and the hard fact that his two pursuers hadn't been on the southbound had made him resist the urge. He hadn't come this far just to throw it all away for the sake of a few hours.

It had to end here. For once and all.

For the tenth time in as many minutes he checked his pocket-watch. 3:30. Still another half-hour. He listened to make sure it was still ticking. It was. This had to be the longest day he had ever spent. He had dragged out the loading of the pack animals as long as possible, and now they stood roped together in the clearing, ready to go.

But he had to clear up this mess first.

3:35. He swilled his mouth with water from his canteen. It tasted vile, but he swallowed it, thinking that after today he could buy the finest distillations ever to smooth a man's throat. For all those good things he would be able to buy, it was worth what he was going through now.

3:40. An iron fist opened and closed, gripping his vitals. Damn it, what was he getting all twisted up about? A simple case of two easy shots before they even knew what they were walking into? It was as simple as that. But no matter how many times he churned it over in his mind, replaying the action as it would happen, he was still unable to allay his fears. What would happen if…

And what if… If, if, if.

Too many damned ifs.

***

The four o'clock southbound was due in Watertank in precisely two minutes. The driver, a stickler for punctuality, watched the fireman slam the furnace door before swabbing his forehead with an oily rag. The driver smiled, then dug into his overall pocket for his watch. He used his thumbnail to prize open the lid. 3:58. He leaned out into the slipstream to peer into the distance beyond the bulk of the locomotive. Just right. They were going to be dead on time. Even considering minor hold-ups, refilling the holding tank, they should be on schedule when they pulled out.

Quantro's guns were long since clean. He spun the cylinder of his .44 Colt one last time as the conductor walked down the swaying car.

“Next stop Watertank. Next stop Watertank.”

Pete caught Quantro's eye. “How we playin' it?”

“As it happens.”

“You got it.” Pete looked ready to say more, but the shrill of the whistle from the driver's cab prevented any further conversation.

Quantro's shoulders moved. “Let's go.”

As the train slowed they moved to the door, ready to disembark. A glance over his shoulder told Quantro that there were others coming to their feet. Good. The more confusion the better. He turned back to Pete, who was studying the terrain through the window. Rising ground. Through the opposite window of the car, flatter ground was visible.

“If he's anywhere, it'll be up there,” Pete motioned.

“We'll get off the other side.”

“Okay.” They came away from the door, wary that if Upton was watching he would see them. The longer he was ignorant of their presence the better. The other passengers wore guarded expressions as they stepped aside from the two men who were pushing back through them.

The vibrations underfoot changed rhythm. The clacking of the wheels crossing the track joints slowed and the hypnotic side-to-side effect vanished as the car steadied. The wheels were locked.

“Brakes're on. Get to the horses as speedy as you can and get out of the open.”

Even before the train stopped, they jumped from the platform on the offside and stood by the track, waiting for the boxcars to draw level. The one carrying the horses had doors on both sides. Quantro used the framework of the chassis as a ladder, then levered off the hasp. Below him, Pete lent a hand to slide the door open. Inside, the buckskin and the paint stood uneasily, snorting, their restless hooves rattling on the thin woodwork.

Quantro gave Pete an arm up, swung inside the car, and climbed into the buckskin's saddle. “Ain't going to have no ramp, Pete. Have to jump them out.” Without waiting for Pete's reaction he bent low over the stallion's neck so his head wouldn't hit the roof of the car, then clucked his tongue.

The buckskin had no taste for trains. He had a liking for firm ground under his hooves and a leap was less formidable than spending any longer than necessary cooped up in the boxcar. Without hesitation, it bunched its shoulders before launching itself out into the daylight. The paint wasn't so eager. The first time it balked, but Pete shortened rein and raked his spurs across its ribs. The second time the pony didn't argue.

Quantro took off, riding for the rear of the train. He fetched the horse to a stop just short of the brake van's bumpers, last in line before he dismounted. Cautiously, he leaned around the end of the van. After a glance he jerked back.

“There's two 'dobe houses. One level with the back of this car and one just off apiece. If he's on the high ground like we figured, he won't have a sightline through them. We'll get over to the first house, then wait until the train pulls out.” Quantro slipped his boot into the stirrup to remount.

A rifle cracked.

The wood paneling of the brake van splintered barely an inch above Quantro's head. The buckskin spooked into a rear. Quantro cursed as the horse twisted away from him. His foot slid out of the stirrup and his head slammed into the tooled leather of the saddle. The momentum of his impact with the plunging horse threw him off balance. Keeping a grip on the Winchester but losing the reins, he staggered back.

Pete had been fighting the paint as it danced sideways to avoid the buckskin's skittering hooves. The rifle barked again. The paint took a hit, the bullet plowing a raw furrow along its neck. It screamed, twisting in mid-air, wall-eyed, neck tendons standing out like whipcord. The buckskin, riderless and free of restraint, wheeled sharply to cut between Pete's pony and the train. Past, it galloped away toward the locomotive.

Pete fought the wrenching head of the paint, straining to keep his seat and hold on to his Winchester. He was aware of the crashes of the rifle shooting at him, but ignorant of the bullets smashing into the brake van behind him. When he managed to calm the pony a little he decided to move further up the train. That way Upton's targets would be split. The paint took little urging to flee along the track back toward the boxcar. Level with the still open door, Pete abandoned his saddle and took to the earth. The paint kept on running.

Pete hit the dirt cursing. Upton had fooled them again. Damn the man. He seemed to figure out their every move even before they decided on them. Recouping his breath, Pete levered a shell into the Winchester's chamber, then set out to get a sight on his target.

The rifle barked again, then Pete heard Quantro's answering shot. He was relieved. He had been unable to tell if his partner had taken a hit when the buckskin had spooked.

Back along the line, Quantro was sprawled where the sagebrush began. The stock of the Winchester smooth against his cheek, his eyes searched the terrain. The attack had surprised him. He had been so busy working out their own line of assault on the high ground he had been caught totally unprepared. But Upton had missed the first crucial shot and a man never got the same chance twice. Now the odds had evened out. In fact, he and Pete now had the edge. After all, there were two of them and only one of Upton.

The driver of the four o'clock southbound train through Watertank had heard the opening shots of the battle at the rear of the train as he held the filler pipe into the hatch. The water seemed to be taking forever to top up the reservoir. No amount of curses and urging would induce it to fill any quicker. Pale-faced, his eyes flickered toward the sound of gunfire. The fireman was shouting now, but the rush of the water drowned his words. Anyhow, the driver thought, it doesn't matter what he's shouting about, we're getting out of here double quick. The hell with the water. They had enough.

He swung the nozzle away, spewing water out on to the ground. With more agility than one would expect of a man his age, he leapt back down into the cab.

“She stoked?” he yelled. With the fireman's nod as an answer, he released the pressure valves. The wheels began to spin, iron striking sparks from iron, then they bit and the train began to roll forwards.

“Reminds me of the time, you recall, when we wus robbed out on the…” the fireman began, grinning.

The driver turned cold eyes on him. “Shut your mouth and feed the furnace!” he screamed. As the fireman bent to his task, the driver glanced backwards at the fast receding depot called Watertank. Out of habit, he felt in his pocket for his watch.

They were two minutes ahead of schedule.

***

Upton watched from the line of the scrub as the train pulled out, the sound of the huffing engine smothering the gunfire coming from the halt. Not that it was any danger to him, they hadn't spotted his position yet. He was still winning.

When he first decided to change position before the four o'clock had arrived, he had felt pleased with himself. It had come over him in a flash. They would
expect
him to be on the high ground where he would have the best view over the halt. And because they would expect him to be there, they would get off the
other
side of the train. So, he would be where they least expected.

And it had worked, except for one thing. He had missed the first shot. If only he had taken out Quantro then, it would have been all over, but when he saw the bullet had missed he had been filled with horror. He could only console himself with the excuse the range was too far for accuracy. Nerves just didn't come into it. At least that's what he talked himself into believing. But how he wished that first bullet had landed where he had aimed. He would have had only Wiltshire to worry about, and he was easy meat.

But it
had
missed and there was still the both of them out there, and now suddenly he felt cornered. Because the scrub was so sparse and the ground so level he had been forced to leave his riding-horse with the loaded pack animals. He had forfeited that route of escape for the advantage of surprise. But that was gone now.

It occurred to him that everything had gone quiet. With the departure of the train the gunfire had stopped. Those passengers who had disembarked had all scattered from the flying bullets, and now without even the sight reference of the railroad cars behind them he wasn't even sure he could pinpoint Quantro's and Wiltshire's exact positions.

He began to wonder if he was going a bit crazy and that the train hadn't arrived yet at all and that he was still waiting. He frowned, but then as he lowered his head to wipe away the sweat from his face he saw the spent cartridge cases. He touched once. It was still hot. He glanced up, eyes straying from the straight line of the tracks, and beyond the last adobe house he spotted the buckskin stallion and the paint pony where they had stopped to graze.

Oh, this was real all right.

But where were they? Had they located his position? Should he switch to a new stand?

He was still wondering, when a bullet whipcracked through the scrub by his head.

CHAPTER 13

“Quantro?”

“I hear you,” Quantro replied, eyes still focused on the scrub ahead, carefully studying each clump for signs of habitation.

“I've been thinking. So Upton's on this side, right?”

“Yes.”

“Ground's too flat for stashing his horses.”

“Get to the point.”

“Then they must be on the high side. The silver too.”

Quantro's gaze settled on the most likely looking cover. He squeezed off a shot. The bullet cut through the scrub, then hit a rock before whining harmlessly into the distance. As he worked the Winchester's mechanism he pondered Pete's remark. He was right. If Upton was out there on his own, the horses had to be hidden some place. Quantro refused to believe that Upton would have worked out immediately on coming to Watertank that taking the train from the flat side would cough up the best results. He had to have been on the high side first.

All this of course meant that if the horses, and more importantly the silver, weren't with Upton, then what the hell were they doing lying here in the dust shooting at him for? They should be up there on the other side of the tracks looking for the packhorses.

“Keep him busy, Pete, while I go take a look-see?”

Pete's reply was a hail of bullets aimed out at the scrub.

Quantro backed off toward the rails, keeping his head well down. But even Pete's rapid fire wasn't keeping Upton occupied. Bullets kept on cracking past. The track ran on open ground and there was no other choice but to run. Pete was obviously keeping an eye on him because as he tensed to break, the covering fire stepped up.

Quantro was on his feet and sprinting. He leapt the first rail, his heel coming down hard on a sleeper. He staggered sideways. A bullet snapped by his head. Then he was over the second rail. Two rods distant the adobe house stood silent, its whitewashed walls a beckoning beacon. Behind him, a bullet clipped the rails and sang away into the sky.

Breath rasped in his throat as his legs pounded. It seemed as if he would never reach the safety of the thick walls, but suddenly he was standing there, chest heaving. He brought up the Winchester and leaned back around the wall to squeeze off a shot. He knew he was almost out of range but he felt the need to return fire as some sort of compensation for the gauntlet he had run. As the rifle-butt recoiled into his shoulder one of Upton's bullets hit the wall by his head. It spat powdered brick at him. Angry, he fired again toward the sagebrush. He worked the Winchester, raising it again before he checked himself. He was doing no good, and the longer he delayed scouting for Upton's horses the longer Pete would have to stay out in the open.

He edged along the wall to the corner, and from the rear of the building he could see the buckskin and the paint both grazing close to the other house. When there was a break in the shooting out front, Quantro whistled. The stallion's head came up, then it trotted towards him. The paint spared him only the briefest of glances before its interest waned and it returned to munching grass.

Quantro patted the horse's neck, clucking softly as he climbed aboard. Reins in one hand, rifle in the other, he wheeled the buckskin and kicked it into a gallop. Behind him, he could still hear the two rifles trading conversation as he raced for the high ground.

***

Upton's horses were there.

They weren't hard to find. It was the place anyone arriving after sundown would have chosen. A small clearing protected by a cluster of scrub oaks. They all had drooping heads, energy sucked away by standing loaded all day under the punishment of the Arizona sun. They were huddled at one end of the clearing where a small overhang offered meager protection against the furnace that raged at them from the sky.

As Quantro stalked into the open ground on foot their heads turned in unison, but their eyes registered no sign of welcome or even fear, they merely gazed steadily at him, tails switching lazily at the flies.

Quantro approached, talking softly. They were too tired to do more than twitch their ears half-heartedly. His eyes settled on the bloated saddlebags. His Winchester cradled in the crook of his elbow, he unbuckled a strap, then dipped his hand inside. He plucked a coin away from its bedfellows and brought it out into the sunlight. A silver dollar. He twisted it absently in his fingers as he tried to estimate the total amount the bags contained. Harley had not told him or Pete exactly how much they were supposed to collect from the bank at Santa Cruz. When he had worked it out he whistled.

He fastened the bag and untied the lead animal from its picket. He smiled as he saw Upton's riding-horse, then moved to hitch it to the end of the line.

Without his horse Upton was caught. There was no route out of the flatland scrub to make his getaway. For a moment Quantro contemplated leading the pack train down to the adobe house where Upton would be able to see them clearly, but then he decided against it. If things went wrong and Upton did manage to escape, he would know exactly where his horses were. Instead, Quantro thought it best to hide them elsewhere, then go alone to circle around and take the gunman from the rear.

Either way, front or rear, Upton was cornered.

***

Upton swore viciously.

He had heard them calling to each other but they had been too far away to distinguish the words clearly. When he saw Quantro break for the rails he had opened fire, but before he saw him racing the buckskin for the high ground he had figured it out. Quantro was going to look for the horses. And the silver.

Upton handled the Winchester as fast as he was able, laying down a murderous fire on Pete's position. If he could take him out, he had a chance of stopping Quantro.

The bullets had no effect. When the magazine ran dry he began to reload. A bullet crashed through the scrub on his left. That meant Pete Wiltshire was still alive. He looked to the high ground. Quantro had disappeared.

There wasn't much time.

He would have to make a run for it.

He squeezed off two more shots to keep the old man down by the rails occupied, then squirmed out of the back of the scrub. A bullet followed him, smacking into the dust by his feet. He cursed as he threw himself full length. Without pausing, he rested his rifle across the insides of his elbows, then began to snake along on his belly through the sagebrush.

His elbows were sore and his knees ached when he stopped, sure he was out of Pete's range. Sweat was streaming down his face and the arm nicked back at the canyon had again begun to bleed. There was no time to worry about it now. He lurched to his feet, and with the rifle dangling loosely from his right hand he started to run.

Every moment counted. He followed the circular route he had taken earlier that day down from the high ground. His lungs worked like bellows, gulping at the dry air that sandpapered his throat until it felt like a raw funnel. Sweat poured down his forehead and into his eyes and he continually shook his head to free his eyelashes of the moisture that threatened to blind him. He heard the bark of Pete Wiltshire's rifle behind him more than once but the bullets must have fallen far short because he didn't hear them pass. Perhaps the old fool was still shooting at the scrub.

His legs were beginning to drag as each step demanded more effort than the last. His thighs were screaming. The dull ache in his chest had become a searing pain, but he drove himself onward. Each time he slowed to a walk he thought of the silver. And Quantro. Most of all Quantro. Just the name brought a grimace of hatred to his dusty face. His tired muscles fed on the anger. To lose everything now.

He was close.

Carefully, holding down the thunder of his heart, which promised to burst his chest, Upton scouted the scrub oak that hemmed the clearing where he had left his horses. Crouched in the timber he waited for his sawing breath to ease and the drumming of rushing blood to subside in his ears. When he could wait no longer he crept forward, fingers of one hand probing the ground ahead as the other steadied the rifle.

The horses were still there.

Through a break in the branches he could discern their shapes. They were on the move. As he came to the edge of the oaks a set of saddlebags followed closely by a roan rump passed his face almost near enough for the tip of his rifle barrel to scrape the horse's side.

Now to kill Quantro.

Upton pushed out of the trees, elbowing the passing horse out of his way. Startled by his sudden appearance the animal side-stepped. Upton strained to catch sight of Quantro over the packsaddle, but the line of horses curved away to the right, effectively covering his target. Quantro must be on foot. As another pack animal passed, Upton's eyes flickered behind him to the end of the line. His riding horse was roped last.

Grinning suddenly, he watched for a gap that would allow him a shot as he waited for his horse to draw level. When it did, with fumbling fingers he unhitched the lead rope. As the pack-train moved clear he went under the horse's neck and got his foot into the stirrup.

Elation surged through him as he settled into the saddle. He urged the horse forward to overtake the line. Quantro was still out of sight. Upton's eagerness was somehow transmitted to the horse beneath him. It took off as though burned. From a standstill it came into a gallop, hooves churning at the earth.

Up front, Quantro heard the swift hoof beats. He half turned, his Winchester rising. If he was surprised his face betrayed nothing. No time. The horseman was almost on top of him. Before his own rifle could level, the barrel of Upton's nearly smashed in his forehead. As the rifle barked its call of death Quantro flung himself sideways. His ears rang from the explosion. Inside his head was an echoing canyon where the crash of the .44 bullet was magnified a thousand fold.

But it missed. As he crumpled to the ground, rolling away from the milling hooves of the spooked packhorses, he was unaware of the powder burn down his right cheek or the singed hair that tattered by his ear. When he came over on to his stomach he was six feet away from the horses, out in the open.

Upton hadn't seen the results of his snap-shooting, but he had been right on top of Quantro and he couldn't see how he had missed. He curbed the horse's headlong rush, then wrenched its head to make another run. Wild-eyed, the horse turned almost sitting on its haunches. Upton jacked another shell into the rifle chamber, looking down to see Quantro rolling on the ground.

His face a death's head grin, Upton savagely kicked the horse forward. As it leapt into a gallop, horror struck him. Quantro's body wasn't sprawled in death, but in a controlled roll, his rifle still in his hands. With one hand gripping the horse's reins, Upton raised his Winchester to shoot from the hip.

Quantro saw it all. He landed belly down, the “One of a Thousand” Winchester ready in his hands. As Upton raised his own weapon, Quantro lined and fired.

The red flower of death bloomed on Upton's shirt as the bullet took him in the lungs. His face was frozen for an instant into a frown, then he tipped backwards over the galloping horse's saddle. His rifle discharged harmlessly into the sky. The toe of his right boot snagged in the stirrup. It turned the graceful backward somersault into an ugly spectacle as his body flipped over the side of the horse like a bundle of rags. He hit the ground and bounced like a butchered buffalo calf towed by a skinning wagon. The horse kept running, past Quantro to the end of the clearing where it shambled to a halt. It stamped and snorted, the scent of blood ugly in its nostrils.

Quantro worked the Winchester's mechanism. He slowly stood up to check the body. Upton was still alive, eyes staring glassily at the earth pressed against his nose. Quantro knocked Upton's foot free of the stirrup, then turned him over with the toe of his boot.

Upton groaned. Blood was bubbling into his mouth. He tried to speak but when his lips moved crimson dribbled on to his cheek. No words came out. His eyes flickered briefly as a rattle sounded in his throat. A moment later he was dead.

Quantro looked away to the horses standing patiently with their valuable loads.

It wasn't over yet.

***

Cananea looked just the same.

Quantro reined in on the outskirts of town, then rested his hands on the saddle horn. He peered ahead, squinting through the slashing rain. His gloves could barely be seen where they peeped from under the wet slicker that was buttoned up tight to his throat. His sodden hat-brim sagged with the weight of the rainwater it carried and each time his head dipped a run-off the brim was caught by the wind to spatter in his eyes and run down his face. Pete looked across at his younger partner. Quantro had said little during the long ride back from Watertank, his face grim, mouth downturned at the corners. He had slept sparely and his eyes betrayed the fact, dark-rimmed sockets, eyeballs bloodshot and distant. Each time Pete had woken from his own troubled sleep, Quantro had been watching over the saddlebags, deep in thought.

Pete had left him to it, satisfying himself with keeping an eye on the young man. But he couldn't help wondering what was on his mind. Now he studied Quantro again. Nothing. He spat over the neck of his pony. The gob disappeared into the swirls of mud by the animal's hooves. Quantro would tell him when he was good and ready.

The waterlogged town lay before them. A few days older, Cananea looked no wiser. It was still a hodgepodge of miners' saloons and whorehouses. The only apparent difference was the rainstorm had transformed the baked earth of the main street into a quagmire. Horses stood head down at the hitching rails, miserable and stiff. Part way along the street a wagon had sunk up to its axles, the teamster mercilessly flaying his straining horses with a bullwhip. It had little effect. And the crowd of onlookers sheltered on the boardwalk were doing nothing to help. A bright splash of turquoise satin moved among the crowd followed by a woman's coarse voice. The teamster ignored her jeers, the only sign he'd heard her demonstrated by the renewed vigor of his curses and the venom of his whip.