The Copper City (2 page)

CHAPTER 2

It was two days' ride to Cananea.

Quantro, ignorant of the country, led the way. Pete rode closely behind, offering advice when the younger man asked, but otherwise he remained silent. White-Wing, riding her own pony and leading the packhorse, brought up the rear. She had remained quiet since the night she had arrived unbidden in his camp. Unobtrusively, she had tended the horses and cooked the meals, noticing that Quantro always managed to avoid speaking directly to her. But she had seen his eyes on her, and to feed the hunger she saw in them, she had casually added an extra swing to her buttocks as she moved. Out on the trail he ignored her completely.

They had followed the high, twisting trails that clung miraculously to the canyon walls. More than once, Quantro, who had been unconscious during the ride up into the mountains, stared with awe at the sheer drop that was directly below his outside stirrup, while his other boot grazed the rock face of the wall beside him. If the buckskin had made one mistake, they would have both pitched over into the void like Juh, the Apache chief, whose name the pass now bore.

The first night they had camped at a clear spring, the last night they would spend in the mountains. Quantro had shot a small deer that he had handed wordlessly to White-Wing to prepare for the cooking-pot. Even he had to admit, as he spooned the stew greedily, that she was a good cook. When they had eaten they slept surrounded by scrub oak.

The next day took them across rolling hills. When Quantro spied a bunch of well-fed cattle emerging from a draw in search of rich grazing grass, he watched them with interest. They were branded with a Z. He reined in and sat the buckskin, allowing the slight breeze to cool the sweat that had gathered down the center of his back.

“Whose beeves are they?” he asked as Pete hauled up alongside. “I've never seen that brand before.”

Pete sniffed. “San Berdoo ranch. Owned by John Slaughter.”

“An American ranching in Mexico?”

“Sure,” Pete replied, fashioning a cigarette as they waited for White-Wing and the packhorse to make up ground. “A Spaniard name of Ignacio Perez built a
hacienda
some way north of here, by San Bernardino Springs, in Arizona. Ranch runs clear down here. They say there's something like 73,000 acres.”

“That's one lot of land. What about the Indians? Didn't they run him off?”

“Not right away. Fact is, for as long as anyone can recall, the springs have been a camping-ground for both Apaches and Navajos when they were riding the war trails.” He paused to chuckle. “Anyways, they both kept an eye on this Perez, and with Indian logic they figured it was best to leave him in peace. Truth was, they knew a high-class
caballero
, gentleman, like him would breed only the finest of horses, and what Indian doesn't want the best animal on four legs running beneath him? They figured it would be easier to steal his horses than raise them for themselves. Anyhow, when the Mexican governor issued a scalphunting
pronunciamento
back in '42 to get rid of the Apaches, Cochise of the Chiricahuas and Mangas Coloradas of the Mimbrenos decided to sack the
hacienda
as a small gesture of their disapproval. After that it was deserted until a couple of years back when John Slaughter bought the place. Seems to be making out, too.”

They ate the last of the deer that night camped by a spring where mesquite and madrona flourished, then the next morning angled down an arroyo with the mountains on their left. They picked their way carefully down the pot-holed track that led away from the Sierra Medio, the Middle Mountains, and rode on to a broad valley. Quantro continually asked questions about the country, storing the information should it be needed in the future.

Also, he gained an impression of how long he had been unconscious when he had been wounded, when Pete and Wild-Horse, the Apache, had brought him all this way. Considering the severity of the terrain it seemed a miracle he was alive at all. For a moment he turned around in the saddle to look back at White-Wing's slight frame as she guided her pony, as good a horseman as any of them. To hear Pete tell it, he owed his life to her, not Pete. Quantro eyed her thoughtfully. He reckoned it was a little of both. If Pete hadn't had the patience to drag him all this way, then she wouldn't have had the opportunity to tend to him. He was aware of the enormity of the debt he owed them both. Two strangers who had befriended him when he sorely needed help.

After they skirted a pine-capped mesa, they moved on to a stretch of lava, sighting Black Mountain. After the lava ridge they stopped to rest the horses. Ahead of them now was an ocean of browning grama grass bending before the hot, dry wind.

Pete sat in the shade of a pecan tree, sucking softly on a cigarette, smoke drifting from his nostrils.

“Much further?” Quantro asked, watching his buckskin stallion making the most of the opportunity to graze.

“No. These are the Cananea hills that bring us to the cattle country.” He gestured with his free hand. “Turn west from here. Be there by sundown.”

***

Cananea was a boom town. With the discovery of copper, buildings had mushroomed overnight. And none did more business than the Copper Queen, a saloon on Main Street. It had started life as a tent, but later a false front had been built to give a façade of grandeur and now the canvas had been replaced by a clapboard structure more suited to engaging the rigors of the weather. The Copper Queen handled a wealthy trade, catering mainly for the miners, providing a watering-place for their thirst, and also gratifying some of their baser needs. The girls upstairs handled that part of the saloon's affairs.

Whiskey was made on the premises and there were no complaints about its quality. Quantity was the more important feature, but if the patrons had ever had the misfortune to observe the saloon keeper as he brewed his fiery concoction, perhaps they would have preferred to remain thirsty.

The huge vats in the cellar were filled with spring water to which was added gunpowder and black pepper, plus a liberal dose of rattlesnake heads just to round off the flavor. After fermentation the brew was strained and bottled, one measure of real whiskey added to each pint to authenticate its name. The bottles bore no labels, and the end result was real “bumble bee” whiskey, the drink with a sting.

But what you don't see, you don't grieve about, and the whiskey provided enough of a powder keg to your head to make you forget the broiling hell of mining in the indecent climate of Mexico. Even if a few citizens did go down with “Jake's Leg,” a nervous disorder brought on by drinking bad whiskey, nobody took much notice.

That evening trade was brisk. Customers shelled out fifty cents a bottle, or those without hollow legs took shots at fifteen cents a throw. The bar was crowded, men almost shoulder to shoulder, the brass spittoons ringing to reward well-aimed shots.

Quantro and Pete Wiltshire pushed in through the batwing doors and crossed the room. They had made camp in a hollow next to a small creek on the eastern side of town, well away from any buildings. White-Wing had stayed there so her face would not be seen until Quantro could buy her some Mexican clothes to replace her doeskins. There was the matter of jobs to settle too. The sooner he could start work the sooner he would have money to buy his ranch.

The only gap was between two miners, both nursing almost empty bottles. They were in their working clothes that stank of sweat and dust, and both were unshaven. The one on the left was almost gone, bleary-eyed, and the one on the right, a huge, well-muscled man, sagged against the counter, his bearded face propped up by one hand, his elbow on the bar while his other hand tipped the bottle generously to his lips. The whiskey seemed to have sucked the strength from his knees, both wedged against the solid timber of the counter. There was already one empty bottle in front of him and on the other side of the stained wood the bartender's eyes occasionally flickered to the big miner while he cleaned glasses on his greasy apron.

“Two beers over here,” Quantro said, ready to wash the trail dust from his throat, tossing a dollar in front of him.

“Coming right up.”

“Whiskey here,” the slumped miner demanded, slamming down his second empty bottle and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. The bartender filled two glasses with beer, then placed them on the counter. Quantro reached out. Before his hand could close around the cold glass, the miner swung. The two beers hurtled toward the rack of whiskey bottles behind the bar. They fell short, crashing to the floor. “I said whiskey here! When I call for whiskey no man gets his before me!”

Quantro's voice was calm, assured. “No man butts in on me either, mister. I called first.”

The miner's head swiveled, his lips curling into a sneer. “Shut your mouth, boy. When you're old enough you can talk to men.”

“You mean when my mouth's as big as yours?”

The miner reared back from the counter, hauling himself up to his full height. In back of him, the bartender was vigorously shaking his head, flashing warning glances at Quantro. It was obvious why. The miner stood a head taller than Quantro, glaring down. His muscles bunched convincingly, straining the cloth of his well-worn work shirt as he leaned forward.

“You wanna say that again, boy?”

Quantro looked up at him, ice-blue eyes cool and distant. “I don't give a good goddam, mister, how tall you are. I still say you've got a big mouth.”

“I'll show you who's got a big mouth!” the big man roared. He pulled back his arm to throw a punch. Quantro stepped quickly inside his swing. His boot lashed out to crash into the miner's knee. The big man howled, his cry a mixture of shock and rage, like a grizzly bear seared with a hot branding iron. There was silence in the saloon. The kick had driven the big man back a step, but now he waded forward. His whiskey-slack face was now grim and determined.

Expressionless, Quantro kicked out again. This time his target was the other knee. The big man faltered, fists swinging out of reach. Effortlessly, Quantro took a pace forward into the circle of arms and drove two swift straight-arm punches to the miner's gut. He groaned, doubling forward. Just as neatly, Quantro stepped back out of the downward line of travel. His hand snaked to his Colt. The big man's battered hat fell off as his head came forward. Quantro coldcocked him, the Colt's barrel creasing the miner's scalp. He crumpled to the floor.

Quantro looked up to see the bartender holding a leveled shotgun. As he holstered the Colt, the barrels of the scatter-gun went down and the bartender made an apologetic face as he put the gun back under the counter. He raised a tentative smile. “Mr. Green don't allow no gunplay in here.”

“Mr. Green own this place?” Pete asked.

“He surely does. I thought your friend here,” he gestured to Quantro, “was going to gun down that feller. You understand, gents, I was just…”

“No trouble,” Quantro interrupted with a wave of his hand. “Where's our beer?”

The bartender broke into a relieved smile. “Coming right up.”

While they waited, Pete gazed down at the felled miner. “Looks as peaceful as a possum.”

“Or a bear in winter,” Quantro grinned. “Asleep's the best place for him. Can't stand a man with no manners.”

“Neither can I,” said a voice from behind them.

Quantro turned slowly, his right hand dropping negligently to hover above his holster, ready for trouble.

Instead of another miner, the man in front of them was conservatively dressed in a business suit. He was smiling, showing a broad expanse of white teeth in his scrubbed face.

“I thought you handled that extremely well.” He turned to the barkeeper. “Put their beers on my tab, Barney.”

The barkeep grinned amenably. “Yes sir, Mr. Harley.”

Harley turned back to Quantro and Pete. “Just passing through?”

“Why d'you ask?” Quantro countered.

Harley grinned. “Just making conversation to pass a little time. I didn't catch your name…” When Quantro didn't answer, he held up both his hands in gesture of peace. “I didn't mean to offend you. I just wanted to say how we appreciated the cool way you handled this man.” He motioned to the unconscious miner.

“Who's ‘we'?”

Harley frowned. “You just lost me.”

“You said how much ‘we' appreciated it. Who's ‘we'.”

He shrugged. “Just the good citizens of this town. More drunk miners than enough causing trouble.”

The bartender put the two beers on the bar. Quantro pushed a dollar toward him. The bartender shook his head. “That's all taken care of.”

Quantro indicated the dollar. “Take it. Nobody pays my way. At least nobody I don't know.” He said the last with a look over his shoulder.

Harley took his point. “Please yourself.” He turned on his heel and stalked away.

Quantro watched him mount the stairs, then took a long draught from his glass. He wiped the foam from his mouth and jerked his head at the bartender. “Who's he?”

“Name's Harley. Some kind of boss up at the mine. He's very friendly with Mr. Green.”

“The man who owns this place?”

The barkeeper nodded. “Owns the mine too.”

Quantro downed the rest of his beer. “C'mon, Pete, let's go. Got us some stores to visit.”

The two men went out on to the street where they paused, looking up and down at the store shingles. Green's Dry Goods store, Green's Hardware, Green's Livery, Green's this, Green's that.

Quantro shook his head and stepped out across the street toward Green's Haberdashery. “Is there nothing in this town that this Green feller don't own?”

“Yeah,” Pete said.

“What?”

“Me.”

Quantro laughed and slapped his friend's back. “C'mon, we've got to go buy a dress.”

***