The Quantro Story

by Chris Scott Wilson

  If there was one thing that Sheriff Dan Thomas could not abide, then it was a bounty hunter. Although he agreed they did a job that needed doing, owing to the lack of US Marshals, it barely put them on the side of the law and only made them one step away from being outlaws themselves. He had met plenty; hard, mean, cunning, and usually very fast to resort to using the muscle of their gun hands.

  The man who called himself Quantro looked no different. He wore a low holstered fast-rig, and the eyes under the brim of the dusty Stetson were hard and piercing. He wore the assurance of being fast with a gun indolently. Another punk kid too fast with a gun to do himself any good. Another would-be gunslinger out to make himself a reputation as a hunter of men.

  Yes, Dan Thomas could read all the signs; he too had been an ambitious kid, many years ago. But now the hardness had mellowed and the lean, tough body had grown a paunch through too many good meals and too many nights slept in a comfortable bed. He had lost the hunger.

  But that didn’t change anything. He did not like bounty hunters.

  Quantro, on the other hand, was not so fast to make up his mind about a man. He had already learned that people are often not what they appear to be. On this occasion he read the sheriff correctly. A man in his fading years, content to take regular pay for bringing in a few drunks as he saw out the rest of his days, hoping to die with his boots off in the comfort of his own bed.

  Well all right, if the sheriff wouldn’t help him, then he would just have to manage alone. It might take a while longer, but if a man knew where he was going, and used his brain as best he knew how, then he would get there sooner or later. Of that he was sure. He stuffed the flyer on Cole into his pocket and turned on his heel.

  Behind him a tight-lipped Dan Thomas glowered at the scarred paneling of the office door.

  Out on the boardwalk Quantro leaned against one of the posts, thumbs tucked in his gun belt as he studied the dry, dusty street. If Cole and the others were out on the range somewhere, then surely as God made buzzards they would have to call into town sometime or another. Even if it was only the need for a woman. The saloon. He pushed back his hat and clumped along the planking.

  The bartender nodded agreeably and set up a whiskey bottle in front of him. Quantro tossed a silver dollar on to the counter.

  “Any women upstairs? I got me a hankering.”

  The bartender shook his head. “No. Not a woman to be bought in this town. More’s the pity. All the good honest wives of the town council’ve got tight reins on their husbands, so each time a madam comes into town with her girls to set up a business, the council all get together to drive her out.” He shrugged and picked up the dollar. “That’s the way it is. Not even one tiny cathouse on the outskirts. I think all the wives are too frightened their husbands might get their fun elsewhere. That was,” he added, “if they had a choice.”

  Quantro threw back the last of the whiskey and placed the glass back on the bar top.

  “Well, I guess I’ll have to find me a town that’s a mite more hospitable.”

  The bartender laughed. He knew it was always best to laugh at the little jokes these men made. Some of them, like this one, could be real mean at times. He’d seen it happen. A laugh cost a man nothing.

  Quantro made his way back out on to the street. The buckskin was standing at the hitching rail, bored, moving his weight from one hoof to another. His master leaned over the rail and patted his neck. The stallion jerked his head, pleased at the attention.

  “Not long now, boy,” Quantro smiled. “I know you don’t like to be tied up.” He glanced up and down the street. “At least not in a one horse town like this one.” The buckskin snickered and dipped his head sideways.

  Quantro studied the street again. If it wasn’t for a woman, then what else would they come into town for? Supplies? Ammunition? Food could always be hunted, but coffee and bullets had to be bought. A wooden shingle a little further along the boardwalk caught his eye. Horace Bradley-Provisions. It was the only store that would carry what Cole would need. Three men night hawking stolen cattle would drink their way through a whole heap of coffee.

  The storekeeper looked up, nervously fidgeting with his wire-rimmed spectacles when he saw Quantro. He had met enough strangers to know that a man who looked as calm and assured as Quantro spelt trouble.

  “Box of .44 shells.”

  “Yessir,” came the reply as the clerk began to bustle about. Quantro fed him a list of necessaries. If he figured it right, he’d be spending a while out on the range. When the clerk had filled the order Quantro laid the coins on the counter next to the unfolded flyer on Zeb Cole.

  “He been in here lately?”

  The clerk swallowed hard and reached for the money. “He don’t look familiar, Mister.”

  Quantro’s left hand snaked out and caught the storekeeper’s wrist before the fingers touched the coins.

  “Think a bit harder. Then you might get your money.”

  The clerk looked from the money to Quantro’s hard eyes and swallowed again.

  “Well… about a week ago.”

  “Anybody with him?”

  “Two men. One was a Mexican who stayed outside with the horses. The other one was white.”

  Quantro nodded. “What’d he buy? Anything special ?”

  The clerk shook his head. “No. Just coffee and suchlike. A couple of boxes of bullets.”

  “Which way they ride?”

  The storekeeper said nothing. He thought he had already said quite enough. Telling him they had been here would cause enough trouble if the Mexicans and the white man rode back this way. If they found out he had told about them, then…

  Quantro read the clerk’s eyes. He allowed his right hand to fall on the butt of the Colt .44. The clerk caught the gist of the movement and quickly stammered.

  “Er… They rode south… Definitely south.”

  For the first time since he had entered the store, Quantro’s mouth broke into a lop-sided grin. He released the clerk’s hand. The flustered man seized the money while he had the opportunity and turned to the till.

  “Two dollars change, sir.” Quantro smiled inside at the tension in the storekeeper’s voice.

  “Much obliged. You can keep it. You earned it. I must have got at least two dollars’ worth of sweat out of you.” Outside, he loaded the buckskin’s saddlebags and mounted up.

  When he headed out, he turned south.

  ***

  That night he camped in a basin next to a stream of fresh clear water. There was plentiful grazing for the stallion, and ample wood for the fire. He slept with the sound of crickets buzzing in his ears, punctuated by the occasional hoot of an owl seeking out his supper.

  Two days later he crossed the stage trail. A few miles along the rutted track stood the Relay Station, where he silenced the angry rumblings of his stomach with some thick stew dished up by the wiry old woman who lived there. Her husband was just as old, and for the price of a bottle of rotgut whiskey, he parted with the information that a half-breed had tried to trade horses with him three days earlier. Yes, there’d been two other men with him. One was white, and the other was a full-blood Mex.

  Quantro rode away from the Station a wiser man, pointing the buckskin’s nose at a trail that had become noticeably warmer.

  It came together. A word with two cowboys who were searching for lost cattle, a brief conversation with a rancher riding a buckboard, and many tiring hours leaning over the neck of the stallion as he inspected the trail. He was closing the gap all the time between Zeb Cole and what he had coming to him.

  ***

  Ten days later Quantro was circling a big rim rock just before dusk when the buckskin jerked his ahead, ears twitching. Quantro reined in and sat quietly, listening and watching. Then he caught it. The breeze carried a faint snatch of wood smoke to him. Fire. He tested the wind. It was blowing from the east. He nudged his heels into the stallion’s flanks and walked him slowly forward.

  They came out f
rom behind the rock, both man and horse wary and attentive. Then he saw it. The telltale chimney of smoke boring up into the dimming sky. It was coming from the floor of a wide barranca, a valley that petered out into a box canyon from what he could see. He guided the horse down the shale incline that brought him out into the open, away from the skyline.

  From where he sat, he could plainly see the mouth of the barranca. A narrow trail wound in through a gap in the mesquite and further in, the valley appeared to be almost clogged with vegetation. He guessed that it opened out and the lush trees and calf-deep grass at the entrance testified there was water in there. An underground spring perhaps.

  He walked the buckskin to the fringe of the trees to wait until dark. While the horse grazed, he chewed on a strip of jerky that he washed down with water from his canteen. When his meal was complete he rolled a cigarette and watched the darkening sky. He checked the Colt and the Winchester, loading them and reloading them out of habit. It kept his hands busy.

  He might be wrong, but he had a strong hunch that the occupants of the box canyon were Cole and his friends. If he was wrong he would have wasted his time, but a box canyon with a concealed entrance would be a perfect place to hide a gathering herd of stolen beef. He would find out when he used the narrow trail in. If they had driven cattle through, then the ground would bear the proof. No amount of brushing over with a branch would hide that.

  Quantro decided the odds were pretty good. He didn’t much like the idea of taking on three men at once, especially as Cole’s friends would probably be tolerable gunmen, but if he had to take on the other two to get at Cole, then he would.

  When he was happy with the guns he opened his saddlebags and took out the kabuns, soft buckskin moccasins he had made during the winter up on the mountains. Tom had taught him that too. The kabuns, in the Apache style, held a soft fold that could he rolled up the legs to just below the knees. He tucked in his jeans to prevent them flapping or catching on the undergrowth.

  The kabuns were soft and silent, and he walked about on the grass, taking pleasure in the comfort of them. The thinness of the soles helped him to feel all the contours of the ground he walked over. Smiling to himself, he packed his boots in the saddlebags, then sat down for another smoke.

  A twinge ran down his leg and he cursed silently. Trust his leg to start bothering him now, of all times. He began to massage the ache away, alternately swearing and spitting out slivers of tobacco.

  When night fell he was ready.

  ***

  The flames from the fire danced orange. Zeb Cole rubbed a hand over his greasy lips and laughed. It was a deep throated, rumbling belly laugh that indicated he thought he was on to something good. The calling of the cattle out in the dark made him feel like the rich man he would very soon certainly be. His strong white teeth plucked the cork from the bottle and he spat it away into the darkness that threatened to encroach on the meager light that the fire provided.

  Across the flames from Zeb, lolled Ike Jones. Jones was a white man, the only pure white of the three. He was of medium height, his thick body running slightly to fat. His fair hair was thinning, as though it was slowly being blown away by the breeze off the prairie, and he rarely took off his hat nowadays. He was fair with a gun, but his real talent lay in his knowledge of cattle. A glimpse and he could pick out the best beef in a herd, and at the same time guess its weight to the nearest ten pounds. Otherwise, he was none too bright, and didn’t mind the company he kept. In fact, the tougher his companions were, the better he liked it, for their toughness made him feel harder, and it added an extra swagger to his walk.

  Jones’s lack of intelligence suited Zeb Cole. He considered he had more than enough brains for the two of them. Even the three of them, come to that. It would make it so much easier when they collected the payment for this last herd of cattle. Ike’s work would be done then and he would just be deadweight. With Ike’s share added to his own, Zeb would have enough to get to California where he could spend his days basking in the sunshine under the peach trees. Just to be able to reach out and pluck the ripe fruit. He could almost taste the succulent juice and feel it running down his chin. And the senoritas ! They would flock round him. Especially if he had Ramone’s share too…

  “Hey, Zeb. Where’s Ramone got to?”

  Speak of the devil. Cole lifted his eyes from the flickering firelight, leaving his fantasies fading in the flames.

  “S’all right, muchacho, he’s checking the horses. We must have a good remuda for when we drive these thick-headed cows.” He gulped from the bottle, listening with a lazy ear to the horses snickering out in the night. A steer lowed, a disgruntled moan aimed at a stomach ache brought on from eating too much rich grass.

  “When do we ride, anyways?” Ike asked, looking up from the tobacco he was fashioning into a cigarette. He couldn’t afford cigarillos like Zeb.

  “Soon.” The half-breed took another hit from the whiskey bottle and belched. “Soon’s we get enough cows to keep us all in tequila and senoritas for a long time.” He laughed and his eyes glittered in the firelight. Then his smile faded as he thought of the time when he would have to kill this foolish gringo, Ike Jones. “Soon, Americano, very soon.”

  Ramone smiled as he patted his horse’s neck affectionately. He was very fond of the big black stallion he called Blanco. Soon, he would ride him proudly back to his village in Mexico, and everybody would know what a fine man Ramone Soto was. He would be sitting straight and tall in a beautiful caballero saddle that he would have made by the best craftsman in all Mexico, on the best horse they’d ever seen, and his pockets would jingle with gold coins. The chicas with their nubile bodies and dark sparkling eyes would fight each other to take him to their beds. “Ramone,” they would whisper, breathing his name with reverence, and he would be able to pick among them as he chose. Except that bitch, Nadina. She had been too good to take him when he had no money, so now she would have to stand and glare enviously while he stared haughtily over her head. It would be as if she didn’t exist. She could eat her heart out for him, the lousy bitch.

  His smile grew into a broad grin as he visualized the future. He whispered the words he would say to that stuck-up puta of a woman. Blanco, the big black stallion, listened without comment. Other than a twitch of his ears.

  They were the last words Ramone Soto ever said to anybody.

  Quantro glided from the covering of the trees. He had been careful to approach the picket line from downwind so the horse would not catch his scent. The first inkling the black stallion had of his presence was when he was close enough to its flanks for it to feel the air disturbance.

  The black horse snorted and jerked his head.

  Ramone frowned and swung round, raising his rifle, instantly alert.

  The Mexican’s eyes widened only briefly as the blade of the bowie knife sank hilt-deep into his stomach. Quantro stepped back and ripped the knife upwards. Ramone’s stomach tore as easily as the material of his shirt. The scream that rose in his throat came out into the night as a gurgle, the blood from his ruptured lungs flecking his lips. As the tip of the razor sharp blade left his flesh, Ramone’s stomach fell out all over the ground. His dreams of riches and women died with him as he crumpled to the earth.

  The lush green grass he died on would be all the richer for his passing.

  The black stallion shied and whinnied, but Quantro placed a bloodstained hand on its neck to soothe away the fear, talking in a low voice until the horse quieted.

  He knelt down over the Mexican to make sure he would remain silent. He had heard of men who had lived for hours without any stomachs. He did not believe it, but he was sure a man without any throat would be going no place at all. He completed his task then cleaned the bowie knife. He stripped the dead man of his gun belt and rifle, then disappeared on silent moccasins back into the night.

  It was coal-black in the trees and Quantro utilized every ounce of his skill as he picked a path back towards the fire. He had alrea
dy seen Cole and the other man before he trailed the Mexican out to the horses. Cautiously, he swept aside branches and slowly allowed them to return to place. He took his time, feeling the ground ahead through the soles of his kabuns before he allowed his full weight to touch the ground. One twig cracking would give him away.

  The thud of his heartbeat seemed to be deafening in the night, and he found himself unconsciously trying to hold his breath to still even that. Thankfully, the shifting and moaning of the cattle covered the silence left by the departure of the wildlife from the timber.

  He was closing in slowly. Now, he could make out the sparks of light from the fire’s flames through the trees, and again he heard the coarse laugh of the half-breed. How he hated Cole. His hate made him want to stand up and shout out loud he had come to kill him, and kill him, oh, so slowly. But he didn’t. He fought back the almost overwhelming desire as he thought through the reasons he was here. There was the need to repay the agony of the broken leg Cole had inflicted upon him. Then there was the needless death of his father, and the malicious torture he had endured. But most of all the degradation forced upon his mother. The way they had treated her, like a cheap saloon whore, leaving her not even a shred of pride, even allowing her son to see her in that moment of her final humiliation. The loss of the ranch was the final debt.

  If a man could repay debts of torture and death and rape with the pain of his own worthless flesh, then Cole would. Every last cent of it.

  Quantro’s eyes blazed with icy fire in the dark as he glowered at Zeb Cole’s profile, back-lit by the fire. He could see the other rustler too, but his face meant nothing to Quantro.

  It was a shame it hadn’t been Jack Kilhern. Then he could have finished them both together. If the stranger didn’t cut and run when he started the action, then Quantro would have to kill him too. It wasn’t worth the risk of letting him escape alive. That would just allow him to sneak up behind him some unforeseen night in the future to avenge Cole’s death. Quantro decided he had enough ghosts trailing him already.