The Copper City (9 page)

“Then they'll be riding like hell for wherever the silver is,” Pete sniffed. “Can't see Upton letting it out of his sight for long. “

“Me neither,” Quantro agreed, vaulting back into the saddle. “What I don't like to think about is there could be somebody else in on it, maybe someone with a place near the border who's minding it for Upton. That could make it even more difficult.”

“If that's so, we can forget it. We've lost 'em.”

Quantro looked up, face grim. “Not yet we haven't.”

CHAPTER 9

Upton wished his arm would stop bleeding. He had already changed the makeshift bandage once since he had left the canyon but the material was again soaked. It was that way sometimes. You got hit bad and you hardly bled at all, but when you just got nicked you bled like a neck-cut buffalo.

He was almost there.

He had it all to himself now, and that was the way he had planned on from the very beginning. The only trouble was he would have to load all the packhorses himself. The original scheme hadn't called for Dobey to be disposed of quite so soon, but what the hell, Quantro would take care of that for him. With any luck, Dobey would keep Quantro occupied on the rim for a while. Maybe he would even kill him, but Upton didn't think Dobey was anywhere near as good as that. Keeping him tied up for a while would be good enough. As long as there was time to reload the silver and cover the short ride to the border.

The border spelt freedom. And rich. Rich with a capital R.

The horses were penned in a dry wash Dobey'd found. When Upton had decided to turn tail and go back to the canyon to get Quantro, it had been a simple matter to weave some brushwood to form an effective corral gate to cover the end of the wash. In one of the shale walls Upton had found a hollow deep enough to hide the saddlebags that contained the silver, then covered them over.

He pulled his lathered horse to a standstill and studied the land. If he cut west a little he would soon be there. Good. He turned to inspect his back trail. No telltale plumes of dust. Also good. Dobey was probably still holding off Quantro. Wishful thinking perhaps, but any additional minute that Quantro was kept off the trail was another minute for Upton to make his getaway.

He urged his weary horse forward, angling across the rising ground. It was a good hiding-place he had chosen; there was no sign of the dry wash as he approached it.

He passed through a saddle in the rise then swung west into the beginnings of broken ground. Jagged rocks thrust through the earth as though grasping for a handhold in the clear sky, and on the south side, a huge saguaro cactus pointed swollen fingers accusingly at the fireball of the sun.

The brushwood gate was still in place. Still mounted, he fashioned a loop in his lariat, then made a cast on to the twisted weave of thorny wood. He hauled in the slack. Once satisfied the rope would hold, he wound a coil around his saddle horn and backed his horse. The gate swung open.

The packhorses were still there, but it was the silver his mind was uneasy about. The shale in the hollow was undisturbed. Distrusting appearances, he swung down off his horse and prodded the ground. It felt right. The shale shifted, allowing a corner of the tarpaulin to poke through. He lifted it carefully. The saddlebags were underneath it.

He unhooked his canteen, sitting down next to the heap of his wealth. He wiped his face, then swallowed a mouthful of lukewarm water.

Only a few miles to the border.

The lure of freedom fed his muscles with waking energy. Refreshed, he came to his feet. Now for the horses. He hung the canteen back on the saddle and filled his hand with the lariat. Ready, he began to croon softly, starting toward the packhorses where they milled restlessly against the back wall of the wash.

He caught them one by one. As soon as each was saddled and bridled, he attached it to a lead rein from his riding horse, then went to catch the next. It grew easier as the line of harnessed mounts lengthened.

Sweat was rolling down through the dust on his face by the time he had finished, but he was smiling. He wanted to sit down and rest, but he was too close to waste time now. Instead, walking slowly, the harsh sun sapping his strength, he crossed to the cache and pulled away the tarp.

The pile of polished leather bags glistened an invitation. Unable to resist, he unbuckled a flap then dipped his hand inside. Coins. Hard currency. Piles of them. When his hand emerged, sunlight flashed sparks off the silver dollars. He rubbed them appreciatively between his fingers before pressing one of the coins to his lips and kissing it.

Rich.
Rich
.

With the first of the heavy bags hanging from his hand, he came to his feet. Swinging it over the packhorse's back brought a grunt of effort. He found himself panting as he threaded the saddle buckles, but he slapped the animal's rump in sudden good humor.
Rich
. Grinning stupidly, he turned back to the cache.

Hard work, but nice work if you can get it.

***

Christ, he was tired. But it was done. Upton tested the last fastening on the packsaddle, then walked to his riding-horse. All the fetching and carrying had stiffened up his nicked arm. He inspected it. The bleeding looked as though it had at last stopped. He reached up to grip the saddle horn then hauled himself up on to the horse's back.

How long had it taken? He squinted from below the protection of his hat brim at the sun. About an hour. Just that quick glance upwards was enough to make him more aware of his dry throat and his cracked lips and how drained he felt.

He groped for his canteen. He pulled out the stopper and held it to his mouth, gulping the water. With his free hand he patted the horse's neck.

“Well, old hoss, we've got us a piece to ride.”

A Colt barked.

The canteen was ripped from his hand to spin away across the dry wash. He watched it land. Dented, it lay on the parched earth, water dribbling from the unplugged neck. He was too tired and too surprised for any lightning reactions. He was welded to the saddle. His only means of defense was the pistol at his hip.

His hand snaked toward the holster.

The Colt barked again. The bullet was close. Too close.

“Don't,” a voice said quietly.

Dobey.

“How in hell did you get here so fast?” Upton asked.

“We'll talk about that in a minute. Get your hands up above your head and sit still.”

Upton's hand eased away from his gun, but he was slow in raising his right arm.

“Get that arm up, Upton, or I'll put a hole through your head.”

Upton turned a little in the saddle. “What you so jumpy for, boy? I loaded the horses ready for when you got here. That was the deal we made back at the canyon, wasn't it?”

“Get those hands high.” There was a loud click in the stillness as a hammer was drawn back.

“Slow down, boy. I can't get this arm up. That bullet must be stuck in it. It hurts like hell.”

“Save it, Upton, I'm past believing you. You don't get that arm up, you're dead.”

Upton stretched.

“Got you figured, Upton. You fake a bad wound, then you leave me a sitting target for Quantro while you light a shuck for the territories.”

“Naw. You got it all wrong. I wouldn't do that to you, boy. We're partners, fifty-fifty.”

“Webster and Jeffers were your partners too.”

Upton shrugged. “No denying that. Figured you and me needed some help to shift that silver. Wouldn't have gone far split four ways. The plan all along was that it was just for you and me. 'Sides, you earned your share, staying back there to face up to Quantro. I know it must have been tough, him being a killer and all, but you're here so you must have made out all right, just like I knew you would. Now we've got him off our trail we've got a clear run.” He paused, but got no reaction.

He wished to God Dobey was in front, then he could figure out some sort of action. If he could keep him talking long enough, maybe he could work him into a better position. “Just think on all them saloons and poker games waiting on us along the trail. Them fancy cathouses too. How long is it since you had a woman? Not just
any
woman, but a
real
woman? You never had no money, did you, boy? Well, I'm telling you that there's pleasure palaces like you never dreamed of. Crystal chandeliers and carpets on the floors as deep as prairie grass that suck at your ankles. And the women…” He shook his head in wonder that there could be such females. “Oh, the women. Some of 'em come from as far away as France. That's in Europe. Real Par-is-ee-enne, they call 'em. Smell like flowers in full bloom from the mountains. And they know what a man likes. They know so well that when you come out of there your knees are so weak you can hardly stand up straight. They make you think that you never knew what women were like before. And believe me, you didn't.”

There was silence. Goddammit, Upton thought, what's he up to now? Where is he? Has he moved? Slowly, he let his right arm relax and begin falling, inching down the long reach to his gun.

“Keep still! Keep those hands high!”

Dobey stood up, his Colt leveled on Upton's back. Cautiously, he walked down from the rim of the dry wash where he had been sitting while Upton loaded the horses. Let the bastard do all the work, he had thought, fingering his gun restlessly. He had earned it.

Now the waiting was over.

He closed in behind Upton's back. Silently, he came to stand next to the horse's rump, then reached up to pluck the six-gun from Upton's holster.

Now the gunman was unarmed, Dobey could afford to have some fun with him. “I didn't kill Quantro.”

Upton's face twisted into an ugly grimace as he turned in the saddle and glared down at the man below him. “He's
not
dead?”

Dobey smiled at Upton's anger.

“But you winged him? Winged him good?”

“No. I figured you out before he got to me.”

Upton's eyes swiveled to scan the horizon. “You damn fool. Then he's still out there, coming after the both of us.”

“I guess so.”

“Then get your horse and let's ride. We've got to put as many miles between him and us as we can. Come on boy. And give me my gun. If he's here now…”

“Still scheming?” Dobey wore a half smile.

Upton's eyes narrowed, his face relaxed, surrender and amiability grafted skillfully into his dusty skin. “You got all the cards, boy. It's your play.”

The Colt moved a fraction. “You ain't wrong. But, then, you're not going any place. If I'm going to sample all these fancy whorehouses you take such pleasure jawing about, it'll be on my own…”

Upton's foot slipped from the stirrup while Dobey was talking. In a burst of desperation he lashed out. His boot heel caught Dobey's gun hand. The Colt flew from his fingers, Dobey's body twisting behind his wrenched arm. Upton's leg came to the end of its swing, then whiplashed back. As Dobey fell forward off balance, Upton's Spanish roweled spur raked across his neck. Dobey screamed, staggering backward.

Upton did not wait around. His heels were into the horse's ribs. His hands scrabbled for the reins and the lead rope, tied to the saddle horn, snapped tight over his thigh. As the horse began to canter, he reached back and pulled his Winchester free from the scabbard. The rifle across his body, he worked its action then twisted to look back.

Dobey had flung himself clear of the churning hooves of the packhorses. Now he was visible over the bouncing saddlebags. One hand was to his bloody neck, the other reaching for the pistol he had taken from Upton and pushed into his belt.

Upton steadied his aim as best he could with the galloping horse beneath him. He had to shoot fast, he was coming to a rise. He squeezed the trigger.

The rifle barked and Dobey went down.

The horse side-stepped, and with one foot still out of the stirrup, Upton almost fell. He grabbed for the saddle horn, his boot groping for a hold. He found it, but when he turned again, Dobey was lost to sight behind the billowing dust kicked up by the horses.

Upton was free again.

***

Quantro found the dry wash without any difficulty. He had followed Dobey's straight line, noting wryly that the gunman was riding flat out. Any man riding like that wasn't exactly bothering to cover his trail, his mind all too obviously concerned with something up ahead.

But what?

The thought crossed Quantro's mind that it would be a trick. Upton had already played foxy more than once since Santa Cruz. There was more than an even chance he would again.

When he and Pete came upon the dry wash, Quantro was even more suspicious. Were Dobey's obvious tracks just to lure them into an ambush set in the bottoms?

He left the buckskin with reins trailing and approached the wash on foot. All was quiet.

The place was empty.

Without waiting for Pete, he went over the rim, moccasins skidding even though they sank ankle deep in the loose shale. At the bottom he read the sign. When he had uncovered its story, he called for Pete.

The older man crested the rim and slid his horse down the slope Quantro had used. “You got it all figured out?”

“Some,” Quantro conceded, going on to explain how Dobey had sat on the rim for a while before he'd come down, then how the two men had talked before Upton pulled out, leaving Dobey behind.

“They fell out?”

“Seems like it.”

Pete sniffed and pushed his hat to the back of his head. “Men always get greedy. See a little silver, they want more.” He put a hand to his chin, rubbing thoughtfully at the two-day growth of graying whiskers. “So now Dobey's after him too.”

Quantro nodded.

Pete pursed his lips. “That could save us a sight of trouble.”

Quantro glanced at where Dobey's trail led out of the wash. “Know what you mean. If both of them were riding with the silver, one could take time out to mess up the trail. This way, Upton might cover his tracks but Dobey's going to be so all fired angry he ain't gonna bother to cover his. He should give us a straight line to Upton.” He turned to read the older man's face.

Pete was already walking back to his pony.

***

Pete leaned out over the boardwalk railings and spat into the dust of the street. He grimaced and looked over to the sign that read:
Charleston Telegraph Office, Cochise County, Arizona Territory
. He studied it a moment, then spoke out of the corner of his mouth.