The Copper City (10 page)

“Well, are you going to send it or not?”

Quantro followed Pete's sightline. The ferocity of his gaze gave voice to his wish that the office would disappear. It didn't. Instead, the curl of smoke from the cigarette in his mouth drifted across his eyes. He rubbed at his face, then inhaled a last lungful before he plucked the stub from his lips and tossed it out into the street.

“Well?” Pete persisted.

Quantro's facial muscles pulled his face in different directions. His shoulders hunched as if he was about to shrug but he was only hooking his thumbs in his gunbelt.

“If I didn't know you, I'd say you were kinda reluctant,” Pete said dryly.

Quantro's head dipped and he finally executed the shrug his shoulders had threatened before. When his voice came, it came like a twister out of the dry prairie, full of venom and cutting down everything that stood in its path.

“And tell them what, for God's sake? Tell Harley we lost 'em? He's going to love that to death, ain't he? Lost them.” He spat it out. His knuckles were white as his hand snaked out to grab the railing. “Son of a bitch. What can I tell him? That we trailed them right across the Huachuca Mountains, over into Arizona, up the San Pedro River for twenty miles only to lose them after they hit the main trail?” His eyes raked the street, flickering over the townsfolk going about their business. “They're here. I'm sure of it.” He shook his head angrily. “If I can't tell Harley we've caught them, I won't tell him anything.”

“You're the boss,” Pete said in a voice that stated he didn't agree.

“The hell with it,” Quantro muttered, suddenly striding into the street.

Pete stepped out after him. “You going to send it?”

“Hell, no, I'm going to wash the dust out of my throat.”

It was early for the saloon to be crowded. As they pushed in through the batwing doors a lone gambler looked up from his hand of patience, but when they ignored him he went back to his cards. At the sound of Pete's boots rattling on the planking a girl in a red satin dress stopped tinkling on the piano and turned to eye him.

“Two beers,” Quantro instructed the bartender. The girl appeared at his elbow. She squeezed his biceps playfully then leaned forward to display the goods on offer inside her low-necked dress.

“You look strong,” she cooed seductively. “You come looking for a pretty girl to spend money on?”

Quantro said nothing just stared at her. Chestnut hair. For an instant he recalled the saloon girl he had done business with after he had blown Purdy Dale, the man with the scar, to bits with a scattergun in Pueblo on the Arkansas River nearly two years before.

Something ugly must have passed over his face, for the girl's confidence drained away and she backed off from his chilling eyes.

Pete frowned as he watched her retreat. Quantro, however, acted as though nothing had happened. He reached for his beer and sank a long draught. There was less than a mouthful left in the glass when he stood it back on the bar.

“We've got to give it some thought.”

“What?” Quantro asked.

“The wire.”

“What for? I told you I'm not sending it.”

“Maybe Harley thinks the wire we sent from Santa Cruz was just to make it look as though we weren't in on the job. Maybe he's got the Pinkertons trailing us already.”

“Never thought of that,” Quantro admitted. He inspected the bottom of his glass and signaled for a refill. “Still, I don't like telling him we've lost them.”

“We don't have to.”

“Uh?”

Pete had a sly grin hiding among his whiskers. “We could say we've found them but they've cached the silver and we're waiting them out.”

“That'd be straight lying.”

“No-o,” Pete drawled, “more sort of optimistic.”

“That's not how I'm feeling right now.”

Pete shrugged. “Me neither. Okay, so if we don't find the stone they're hiding under, later on we say they foxed us again. If we do turn them up, then we weren't lying at all.”

Quantro considered the old man's innocent face before he allowed himself a smile. “That's one way of looking at it.”

“What we got to lose?”

“Nothing.”

“Okay, what the hell, something'll turn up.”

“I hope so,” Quantro said, hoping just that.

CHAPTER 10

The only rooms in town were at the saloon where they had quenched their thirst. And even then they had to share. While Pete took up their gear Quantro sent the wire, then took the horses to the livery for bedding down.

“This the only livery in town?” he asked the stable hand as he walked along the stalls, checking on a vague hope that Upton's or Dobey's horse would be there.

They weren't.

“Yes, sir.”

“Okay. How much?”

“Four bits a horse.”

“You got it.” He handed over the coins, then hit the street again. No other liveries in town. If they were here, their horses must be stashed some place they didn't think they would be found. But where? The buckskin was in no shape now, but in the morning after a grain feed it would be fine. He would take a look then.

Back in the saloon, Pete was eating at a corner table.

Quantro glanced apprehensively at the plate. “What is it?”

“Beef stew.”

“Good, I could even eat a beeve still on the hoof.”

Pete made a face. “You've come to the right place. This bastard's still running.” He contemplated the mess. “And it looks like a good chance I will be too come morning.”

“No steaks?”

“No. Stew. Take it or leave it.”

Quantro sat down and waved to the barkeep for a plate. The same saloon girl who'd tried to pick him up earlier brought the food. When she saw who'd ordered it, she didn't wait around. Quantro called her back. “There a doctor in town?”

She regarded him warily. “Sure.”

“Where can I find him?”

“End of the street. White place.” She paused a moment, then when his attention switched to his food she turned away.

“Hey.” There was an ominous tone to his voice.

She froze and turned to face him slowly.

“We'll be needing coffee here,” he smiled.

***

The white paint was peeled by the sun but the house was still whiter than the other clapboard houses. A heavy woman opened the door, an apron girding her thick waist. A strand of dark hair had escaped her bun to hang limply on her coarse cheek.

“The doctor at home?”

“No. What do you want?” she asked suspiciously, her eyes raking Quantro from head to foot.

“When will he be back? We've got a sick friend.”

“Oh,” she mouthed. “Well, he had to go out to the Benson place. Mrs. Benson's expecting her third.”

“When did he leave?”

“Early this morning. One of the hands came for him.” Her expression seemed to say that men don't understand these things. “He could be away till the morning.”

Quantro nodded and turned away.

“What did you say your name was?” she called after them as they went out on to the street. Quantro turned to close the gate.

“I didn't,” he smiled.

***

“I'd lay money you checked all the horses in the livery, too,” Pete said.

“No luck. Thought the doctor might know something. Maybe one of them got hit when they were shooting at us in the canyon, or when they were fighting each other in the dry wash. Upton'd rather use a gun than words.”

“Maybe that's because he don't know any words.”

“Only the lawman left,” Quantro said, cutting over to where a shingle bore the legend
Sheriff's Office
. The door was open.

A gangling youth was sitting with his boots on the desk. They had seen better days, as had his patched pants and battered felt hat. A deputy's badge looked as though it was the only thing holding his threadbare shirt together. The youth took one look at the two trail-stained men, picked up the six-gun that had been lying on the desktop and swung his feet to the floor.

“Better leave it alone or you might hurt yourself,” Pete offered from the doorway.

“I'm the law here, mister.”

“Looking for the sheriff,” Quantro said flatly.

“He's out.”

“I can see that.”

“On business.”

Pete sighed loudly. “My friend here has a short temper, and we're running out of time. What sort of business and how long has he been gone?”

The boy's eyes flickered to Quantro's well-used gun butt, then at the ice-blue eyes. “Truth is, he's gone out to the creek. Runs west from here to the foothills of the Dragoon Mountains.”

“A fair piece?”

The boy nodded. “But I wouldn't cause no trouble here. He'll be back real soon.”

“Gone all day?”

“Fish bite better at noontime.” He realized what he'd said and that it was now too late to keep up the pretense. “He says fishin' gives him thinking space.” He eyed the gun he'd put back on the desk.

“We just wanted a word, nothing more. If he hasn't been here all day he can't help us. We're looking for two men. You seen any strangers? Would've come into town about noon.”

The boy shook his head, no. “You're the only two strangers I've seen today. You bounty hunters?”

“No.” They turned to go. “By the way,” Pete added. “Better put some bullets in that gun next time. You're lucky we weren't real bad
hombres
.”

The boy stared at the closing door, then at the gun. The stranger was right. It was empty. How had he known?

“Seems like we ain't getting lucky,” Pete commented as they headed back toward the saloon. Quantro didn't answer. Pete glanced at him. “You sure are quiet.”

“A man don't learn anything by talking all the time. Sometimes he has to shut his mouth and listen.”

“You telling me I'm talking too much?”

“Can't tell whether you're trying to say something or just giving your tongue some air.”

The saloon had filled during their absence. Quantro elbowed his way to the bar and shouted for two beers, then turned so that his elbows rested on the polished oak, eyes roving the room. No sign of either of them.

“Well?”

Quantro turned back and raised his moccasined foot on to the brass foot rail, eyes moving to the mirror hanging on the back wall behind the whiskey bottles, checking and rechecking. “Looks like Dobey picked up on where Upton cut away from the main trail, or he would be here in town.”

“Maybe he caught him up.”

“Maybe, maybe not. Come sun-up we'll have to make a scout and hope to God we can sniff the pair of them out.”

Pete looked over at the two poker games in progress and the number of men waiting for chairs.

Quantro motioned to the bartender for a bottle of whiskey. “I'm going to get some shuteye. Going to be a long day tomorrow.”

“Me too, I reckon. Not that I need as much beauty sleep as you. Me, I'm pretty enough.”

“You say pretty enough or pretty rough?” Quantro jibed as he grabbed the whiskey and made for the stairs. Almost at the top he stopped and made a last survey of the room. Nothing. He scowled and was about to continue when the first door in the passage opened. A saloon girl came out carrying a bowl. She was close to tears, Quantro thought as she squeezed past them and hurried down the stairs.

“You see what was in the bowl?”

“Too busy looking at her,” Pete confessed.

“There was a bloody bandage in it.” Quantro eased along the wall to the door and listened. He heard groans. He jerked his head at Pete, and placed the whiskey bottle on the floor out of harm's way. Pete moved to the other side of the doorway. They both drew their guns.

Quantro leaned across to slowly turn the handle. The door gave. With a glance at Pete he flung it open and burst into a blur of action. Within a second he was inside the room, the .44 Colt up and lined on the bed. Still moving, he cleared the doorway so the wall was at his back. Pete sprang through after him.

They both crouched, guns ready.

In the bed an old man wearing a nightgown and a tasseled cap blinked at them with watery eyes. His mouth hung open in surprise, a toothless cavern. Hesitantly, his hands crawled skyward.

Quantro relaxed, allowing his arm to fall, then holstered his gun. He sighed, eyes flickering to Pete, who shrugged, embarrassed as he put away his own weapon.

“Our mistake,” Quantro mumbled, already on his way out into the passage. Pete pushed himself away from the wall, then tilted his hat to the back of his head. He pursed his lips and jerked a thumb at the doorway.

“The girl with the bowl.”

“Pretty, wasn't she?”

“Don't you think you're a little old for that?”

The toothless gums clamped together and a twinkle appeared briefly in the old man's eyes. “The doc says my eyes are too bad for playing cards, and that whiskey's bad for my liver. One time I used to like a cigar but now just one puff makes me cough from morning till night. I ever get too old for girls, son, I might as well be dead.”

Pete considered him a moment then smiled. “Old timer, you got a point there.”

Quantro was leaning against the wall out in the corridor, having already retrieved the whiskey bottle from the floor. He didn't look any too happy.

Pete made a gesture. “We all have our off days.”

“Every day?” Quantro levered himself off the garish wallpaper. At the other end of the corridor Pete fished the room key out of his pocket and was about to insert it into the lock when Quantro laid a restraining hand on his arm. Pete frowned, but Quantro placed a finger to his lips and pointed downwards.

Light showed through the gap under the door.

Quantro checked the number. It was the right room. He waved Pete to one side of the doorway while he took the other, again placing the whiskey bottle on the floor. He drew his Colt and followed the routine they had just used at the old man's room. When the mechanism of the door handle clicked free he paused for an instant, keeping back out of the line of fire. When nothing happened he sprang into the room. Landing in a crouch, the Colt's hammer cocked, he covered Pete's entry.

The only reaction from the room's occupant was a hollow, racking cough from the bed.

When there was no gunfire to welcome them, Quantro stepped towards the bed where the dim light from the bedside lamp outlined a figure laid full length. The man seemed to be on his side, hands clutching at his stomach, his face away from the light.

Reaching the table, Quantro held his gun next to the man's head at point-blank range while he used his free hand to turn up the lamp's wick. As the spread of light increased he was able to make out the figure's details more clearly. Whoever it was, he was badly wounded. Blood trickled between the fingers pressed to his stomach. Gut shot. The face was still in shadow.

Quantro leaned over him, holding up the lantern.

The wounded man coughed again, this time weaker than the last, his shoulders bunching as his stomach muscles contracted, hands clutching even tighter against his bloody shirt. As the light splashed across his face his eyes lazily opened, no recognition in the pupils, vision turned inwards against the enveloping pain. He wore no weapon, his gunbelt hanging from the head rail of the bed, the leather darkly stained with blood.

As Quantro holstered his Colt, Pete crossed the room from his post by the door. He took one look at the man's face and sniffed.

“Well, he ain't going to hurt nobody, least of all us.”

“But what's he doing here?” Quantro asked. “I thought you and me'd be the last folks he'd want to see.”

Pete's shoulders moved. “You'd better ask him.”

Quantro's eyes returned to the man on the bed.

It was Dobey. And he was dying.

But what was he doing here?