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 strainin
g 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.
“It stinks here.”
Pete turned. Quantro caught up the spread of saddlebags from behind his saddle, then held them out across the gap between the two horses. The bags were heavy.
The two men exchanged a look.
“Look after them for me. I’m going to talk to Harley. You go up to the house on Capote hill and get White-Wing. Wait for me at the creek on the east side of town where we camped when we first came to this godforsaken place. Don’t make a fire. We’ll be riding as soon as I get there.”
Pete frowned, but Quantro’s gaze had returned to the street. If anything, he appeared even grimmer than before.
“Anything you say.” Pete put his heels to the pony and veered toward the company town, partially obscured by the grey streaks of rain.
Quantro waited until he had gone, then clucked at the buckskin. Obediently, the big horse started forward, plodding through the deepening mud. In front of the Copper Queen, he tethered the buckskin and the six packhorses one by one to the rail, then splashed up onto the boardwalk. The saloon was doing good business.
The bartender eyed him warily.
“Harley around?”
The man jerked his head. “’Cross the street. He’s opening another house over there.”
“House?”
“You know.” The barkeep swiveled his eyes at the ceiling, referring to the girls that plied their trade behind closed doors.
Quantro nodded. He turned back toward the street. He waded across, ignoring the mud as it sucked hopefully at his heels, trying to extend his passing visit. On the boardwalk he was confronted by a heavy door that boasted an inspection hatch. He knocked twice before the panel swung open. Somebody looked him over then called back into the room behind.
“Mr. Harley? It’s Quantro.”
“Well? Let him in, you stupid son of a bitch!”
The door opened and Quantro entered, tipping his hat. “Obliged, friend, but leave it open. I don’t like the smell in here.” His smile was frosty and the doorman didn’t miss the implication of Quantro’s hand gesturing loosely by his gun-butt.
The room was plushly furnished, heavy drapes and rich carpets, even a crystal chandelier. Velvet couches lined the expensively wallpapered walls. In the center Harley sat at a circular table, the inevitable cigar clamped between his white teeth. His eyes sparkled falsely as they fell on Quantro.
“You got it?”
Quantro pursed his lips. “I wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t.”
Harley’s lips drew back from his teeth and he settled himself more comfortably in the chair. “Have a drink. You look like you could use one. Sit down, don’t worry about wetting the chair.”
“I wasn’t going to,” Quantro smiled as he lowered himself on to one of the carved seats, still wearing his dripping slicker. As he reached out for the glass that Harley offered, a rivulet from his hat brim splashed on to the table. Harley stared at it, as though fascinated by the way the water held together in isolated globules on the highly polished surface. Quantro thought he detected a glimmer of distaste, but then Harley covered it.
“You have any trouble?”
Quantro sipped the whiskey as he pretended to consider the question. “Some,” he conceded.
“Upton?”
“He’s dead, but he had it coming. He was trying his damnedest to kill me at the time.”
“What about the others?”
“Upton killed them all. He was getting greedy. He figured it all belonged to him. Had us a job getting it back.”
“You got it all?”
“Yes.”
“Where is it?”
“Outside. On the packhorses.”
Harley jerked his head at the doorman, who immediately went out into the rain.
“It’s all there…”
“But what?” Harley’s gaze suddenly became intense.
“Later.” Quantro swallowed the last of the whiskey, appreciating the warmth that spread through his stomach. He motioned to the glass. While Harley poured from the decanter, he took the opportunity to look around. “Nice place you got here.” He paused then added, “Yes, it’ll be considerably comfortable when you get it finished.”
“Finished?” Harley’s eyes flickered to the doorman, who was ferrying in the wet saddlebags and taking them into the next room.
Quantro smiled. “The stock for the paying customers.” He waggled a forefinger at the ceiling.
Harley understood and his expression thawed a little.
Quantro waited until he had the whiskey glass in his hand, then looked the other man in the eye.
“You used me, Harley.” The tone of his voice was so harsh that Harley sat back. “Once I found the silver I figured it all out. Then everything made sense. Why you got the doctor to me and let us have a company house when I didn’t even work for the company. Why you got me out of jail with a flash of your white teeth and why you gave me a job. You knew it was going to happen. You knew Upton was working up to taking off with that silver. Why? Because Upton knew it wasn’t an ordinary payroll job. This one was earmarked special, so you put me and Pete in to protect your interests “
The corner of Harley’s mouth twitched. “Why was this payroll special?”
Quantro laughed. “Who’re you kidding? Since when did a miners’ payroll amount to $20,000? Yes, I counted it. You must have the richest miners in the territory.” He swallowed the last of the whiskey. “I don’t give a damn what the money was for, whether it was genuine or whether you intended to salt it away for yourself.” He glanced around the room. “Who knows, maybe it was to finance this place. Is it Green’s, or is this one yours? Don’t bother to tell me, I’m not interested. What does is that you put me and Pete in there without warning. And Buck Hulbert? He ended up with a knife sticking in his ribs in some hole of a cantina in Santa Cruz. And for what? For you, so you could get your money.”
Harley stared at him, eyes steely. “But you fulfilled my expectations of you.”
“That I would use my gun, even though I said I wouldn’t, that day you got me out of jail?”
Harley’s smile was thin. “So you used it? You did the job you were paid to do…” He paused as the doorman came to stand next to his chair. “What?”
The doorman hesitated, his gaze moving from his employer to Quantro and back again. “It’s not all there.”
Harley’s head snapped around. “This is the bit I think you said you were going to explain later.”
Quantro’s mouth maneuvered into a slow smile. “The silver’s all there except for expenses I took out. I had to buy fresh horses, Upton’s were dead on their feet. I put back what I got in trade for them. There was a couple of railroad tickets as well.”
Harley glanced at the doorman. “That right?”
“There’s less than $18,000.”
“That so, Quantro?”
“Slipped my mind for a moment. There was $2,000 that was my commission.”
“Commission?” Harley barked.
“Ten per cent. That’s what an investigator would have claimed. And he would have had to catch Upton to claim it. Upton had already made it to the railroad. By today he could have been in New York.”
“$2,000?”
“Cheap at the price. $18,000 is a whole lot better than nothing at all. We could have walked away with all of it.”
“You think I’m going to let you walk out of here with $2,000?”
Quantro smiled again. “I already have. The money’s clear out of town by now. Probably over the border.”
Harley’s eyes narrowed, searching for a loophole. “Don’t forget I know all about your little Apache squaw. The one that should be on a
reservation. What’s her name? White-Wing?”
“She’s long gone too. You’re too late, Harley. For once you’ve been screwed yourself.”
“I’ll kill you for this,” the businessman said in a low voice.
“I don’t think so,” Quantro said slowly, inspecting his empty glass. “Unless you didn’t notice, my right hand is under the table. Just so happens it’s aiming my Colt right at your most treasured possessions.”
“You’re bluffing.”
“Try me.”
“You’re bluffing.”
Quantro let the pistol barrel droop a fraction, then pulled the trigger. Harley jumped as the .44 bullet ploughed into the floorboards between his feet. His face paled, ghostly as the gun smoke drifted from beneath the table.
The door from the other room sprang open and a guard leapt into the salon. There was a Winchester in his hands. Quantro’s Colt appeared from beneath the table in a flash. He pulled the trigger. Mingled with the sound of the deafening gunshot was the guard’s cry as the bullet spun him against the wall. His rifle landed with a dull thud on the carpet. Unarmed, he cowered against the paneling, holding his wounded shoulder.
Quantro looked back at Harley. “Now put that fancy little Derringer you carry in your waistcoat pocket on the table, and tell your doorman there to shed his own gun.”
The two men did as they were told. Quantro emptied the guns with his left hand, wearing the glimmer of a smile. “Much better. Anybody else in the back room?” The guard shook his head. “Fine. There’s a lariat on my saddle outside. You, the one that’s still in one piece, go and fetch it. If you’re not back in fifteen seconds I’m going to blow your boss’s head clean off his shoulders.” Quantro smiled icily. “Now get going.”
The doorman ran.
Harley’s hands moved placatingly. “Okay, Quantro, you hold all the cards. Tell you what, you got a deal. Keep the $2,000. You did a good job. And there’s still a job here for you…”
The Copper City Page 13
