The Copper City (4 page)

“Upton! Back off!”

Pete leaned around to peer past the horse's shoulder. Harley, the man from the Copper Queen, was striding over. It was then Pete saw the carriage for the first time. He had been too occupied with Quantro. Now he saw its occupant was leaning back into the cushions, puffing at a fat cigar to match the one in Harley's hand.

Harley came to a halt beside the rider. “Back off, Upton.”

The rider scowled, then touched a hand to the brim of his hat in the barest of salutes. He wheeled his horse and walked it back to his companions. Harley turned to Pete with a frown.

“I know you, don't I?”

“You do. The Copper Queen, couple of weeks back. You offered to buy us a drink after my partner took care of a troublesome miner.”

Harley looked down at Quantro. “Jesus, what a mess. Who did it?” Then before Pete could answer, Harley answered himself. “Don't tell me, the miner caught up, eh?”

“Right first time.”

The businessman examined Quantro's slack face. “This happen down the mine?” When Pete nodded, he scowled. “Okay, where're you both sleeping?”

“Gotta camp outside town.”

“Thought as much. Well, he's in no state to turn down my offer this time. There're some company houses across the railroad tracks, on Capote hill. There's a couple empty. Get him there. I'll get the foreman to see to it.”

“You're forgetting one thing,” Pete said, scratching at his whiskers.

“What's that?”

“Neither of us works for the company any longer. He just got fired, and I just quit.”

Harley's frown eased into an expansive smile. “Don't worry about that. I'll take care of it.” He strode back to the carriage where he spoke to the passenger, then went over to the office.

Moments later the clerk emerged to fetch a team of horses that he hitched to a buckboard then led them over to Pete.

“Mr. Harley said I was to help.”

Pete grinned. Harley worked fast. “You sure can. He's too heavy for my old bones.”

***

“He'll be okay,” the doctor declared, stepping away from the cot. He rolled down his shirtsleeves after drying his hands on a strip of cloth that served as a towel. “Apart from his face there's just some bad bruising. I don't think the ribs are broken but I've strapped them up in case.” He smiled reassuringly at White-Wing, who was standing close by wearing her best worried frown. “He'll be back on his feet in no time.”

“Right glad to hear it Doc,” Pete said, relieved that the damage was not as bad as it appeared. “You care for some coffee?”

The doctor pursed his lips, eyes wandering to the whiskey bottle he had used to sterilize Quantro's cuts. “I'm partial to it real strong myself.”

Pete had followed his glance. He laughed. “So am I. Juanita here makes the strongest coffee this side of the border. The Canadian border.” He gestured to White-Wing to fetch the pot, then he and the doctor went outside the little clapboard house and sat down on a bench set against the wall. Pete poured a generous measure into the steaming black java in the doctor's tin mug. “D'you know this Harley feller well, Doc?”

“Not really. Seems all right. I've never seen him do anything to make me change my mind on that.”

Pete grunted. “Who's the man with the fancy carriage? Harley was riding with him this afternoon.”

The doctor polished his glasses, then wound the wire frames around the back of his ears before he offered his tin mug for a refill. “You must mean Bunco Bill.”

“Bunco Bill? Never heard of him. I've heard of Buffalo Bill and Wild Bill, but not a Bunco Bill.”

“His real name's William Green.”

Pete nodded. “It figures. The man who owns everything 'round here. All the stores and the mine too.”

The doctor added more whiskey to his mug from the nearly empty bottle. “Yes, he owns practically everything. As well as the mine, he owns the smelting plants and the Cananea Cattle Company. Man isn't satisfied with things; he owns people too.”

Pete said nothing. He had watched the doctor's hands shaking when he fixed up Quantro. He was obviously too fond of whiskey to get a job anywhere else. He was over the hill and he knew it. “Why d'you work here, Doc?” he asked softly.

The doctor pursed his lips then smiled a little sadly. “Once, a long time ago, I did Bill Green a favor. Now he's returned it.” He reached for the bottle again. This time he made no pretense of pouring it into the mug but took it straight from the neck. He drank like a man tasting his first water after a day in the desert. Now his secret was out yet again there didn't seem much point in pretending. When the bottle was empty, he looked miserably at it. Slowly, he placed it on the ground beneath the bench. For a moment he rested his now steady hands on his knees as though checking that the medicine had had the desired effect. Almost carefully, he picked up his bag and rose to his feet.

“How much do we owe you?” Pete asked.

The doctor shook his head. “Nothing. The company'll take care of it.” He smiled a half smile as if he was going to say more, then instead walked away to his horse. He hooked his bag over the saddle horn, pausing before hauling himself tiredly into the saddle. He smoothed his moustache and squinted at Pete. “Just make him rest and he'll be fine. Y'hear?”

“I hear,” Pete answered.

***

White-Wing liked the little clapboard house. If it hadn't been that Quantro was so badly beaten, she would have enjoyed the move from the campsite by the creek even more. After her upbringing in the mountains of the Sierra Madre where her relatives had sought refuge from the searching and confining hands of the white man, the white man's town and way of life was a maze of new experiences.

Although it was of poor quality, she liked the texture of the dress Quantro had bought her, and now, under the name of Juanita, she could go out into the streets and buy food. Each new store was a challenge to her confidence and not once had her nationality been questioned. Her Spanish was as good as that of the Mexicans and most of the storekeepers employed by Green were American and so spoke only rudimentary Spanish themselves.

It was understandable the men should notice her. They could hardly fail to. In a mining town such as Cananea women were a rare commodity, at least those that weren't spoken for. The men were always on the street, lounging in the sun on the boardwalks. When she passed, their eyes would follow, drawn to the promise of what lay under her full skirts. And when their gaze crept up to her face, they would nod appreciatively at the beauty of her soft skin and her dark eyes framed by the lush curtain of her raven hair.

She ignored them all, fearful they would uncover her Apache heritage. Besides, her heart was full of Quantro. He and Pete were different to all the white men she had known. These miners had no good in them. They were wild-eyed and free with their fists. More than once she had passed them brawling in the street. One would strike another, then suddenly the ruts of the dry road would be full of lurching, drunken men all swinging at one another. They seemed to enjoy it, but it did not appear playful to her, especially when she thought of Quantro lying in the narrow cot with his swollen mouth and battered face. And the way he winced and clutched at his ribs each time he struggled to pull himself upright.

Now, a week after the fight, which neither he nor Pete had explained to her, Quantro could walk. He accompanied her out on to the street, but the pain was still evident in the way he held himself and from the look in his eyes. She was pleased when he walked with her. It reminded her of the time when he had been recovering from his bullet wounds in the mountains, at the Apache village. That was when he had needed her. Although since she and Pete had joined him he had tried to be cold to her, she had still sensed the way his eyes trailed her about the house while she cooked and cleaned. He had caught her smiling secretly to herself, enjoying his eyes on her, but when he had asked why she smiled, she had shaken her head and said nothing. She had not wanted to spoil it.

Now, he limped beside her as she walked slowly down Capote hill to the railroad tracks, on their way to buy flour and coffee. When they reached the first of the stores, they met Pete, who was leaning against the hitching-rail, jawing with a man who looked like a miner.

Quantro leaned toward White-Wing. “I'm getting mighty tired. You get on to the store. I'll stay here with Pete till you get back.”

She examined the lines of strain around his eyes and nodded, releasing his arm. “I will not be long.”

He hobbled over to Pete. The miner said “Howdy,” then slapped Pete's arm and set off for the saloon.

“You walking okay, now?” Pete asked.

“Made it this far. Be riding soon. How're the horses?”

“Just been down to the livery. Your buckskin don't like being tied up in a stall.”

Quantro smiled. “Like me. He likes new ground under his hooves and a fresh wind in his mane.”

Pete sniffed. “Which brings on the question. What're we going to do now?”

Quantro leaned both elbows on the rail and surveyed the street. “You tell me. The mine job didn't last too long. Guess I messed that one up.”

“What the hell? It was bad for my health down there. Pushed many more of them trucks and it would've broke my back.”

Quantro stretched, wincing as pain sliced across his ribcage. “That big miner had a punch like a truck. Only glad he stopped while I still had some teeth.” Quantro began to put together a cigarette, shaking the tobacco from the sack of Bull Durham on to the thin paper. “You got any ideas?”

Pete scowled. “Not right now. Leastways not any legal kind of ideas that's gonna get us enough money to buy that ranch.”

“Never reckoned myself as a train-robber,” Quantro said dryly.

“Me neither,” Pete grinned. He looked up and down the street as if the answer lay somewhere out there. “Anyhow, it'll be a couple of weeks before you can ride, so there's plenty of time to think it over.” He chuckled.

Quantro looked up from fashioning his cigarette. “What's eating you?”

“That is we got plenty of time unless that buckskin of yours kicks down the livery.”

Quantro snorted. “He would too. He can be…”

His voice trailed away as a scream pierced the noises of the street. His eyes flickered to Pete, then along the street.

“White-Wing,” Pete said quietly, but Quantro was already moving, face grim, his boots hammering the boardwalk.

Then she screamed again.

CHAPTER 4

“I'll bet she does,” drawled the man, his eyes alive and hungry as they swept White-Wing's body from head to foot as she walked toward him. “Oh, I'll just bet she does.” His tongue licked across the bottom edge of his teeth then made a pass along his top lip.

“What, Seth?” asked the other man, a little shorter than his friend, as he leaned against the wall, thumbs hooked in his gunbelt. He was gritty-eyed and hollow-cheeked.

“Tastes as sweet as a honey pot,” Seth answered, a hand speculatively stroking the week-old stubble on his chin. “And I aim to have me a little taste of it.”

“Watch your mouth, Seth,” the second man said, sending a gob of spit in an arc over the boardwalk railing. “You got a dirty mind.”

Seth's face contorted into a leer. “You bet, boy, you bet.” He pushed his tongue up against the back of his teeth and sucked loudly. Abruptly, he brought his weight off the wall. “And I ain't waiting any longer. No sir.”

The short man laid a restraining hand on his arm. Seth shook it off angrily, a hard glitter in his eye. He flexed his fingers.

“I seen her every day, Billy, shakin' her ass, and these hands of mine aim to feel it up a little.” He chuckled with anticipation, then his lips formed a hard thin line. “Don't try to stop me, Billy boy. We've been riding together a long ways, I wouldn't want to finish it here.”

Billy's left eye blinked rapidly. Damn, he thought, let him have his fun. He looked away down the almost empty street to where the Mexican girl was steadily approaching. Damn if Seth wasn't right. She sure was shaking her rump. Wouldn't hurt her none to get branded by a couple of studs. Aw hell, why not?

“Down by the alley there,” Seth muttered, his eyes never leaving her for a moment. At the end of the boardwalk an alley ran between the two buildings. The tall grain store on the right cast a long shadow so that, ten or twelve feet back from the mouth, the alley was almost pitch black.

“You got it,” Billy murmured.

White-Wing passed them and they both fell into step behind her. If she heard the sound of their boots on the planking, she gave no sign. She walked no faster, no slower than she had been.

Seth whistled softly. “You see them peaches, Billy boy? Ooo-wee, am I gonna shake her tree.” Billy didn't answer, his eyes riveted to the generous buttocks, outlined in detail as her full skirt momentarily tightened around her legs. His memory suddenly reckoned up all those womanless days on the trail. He was going to make up for them now. With interest.

As White-Wing reached the end of the boardwalk and stepped down on to the sun-baked mud of the street, the two men closed in. Seth swung to the outside. His hand clamped down on her forearm. Startled, she turned toward him, wide-eyed.

He grinned. “Mex, this is your lucky day.”

On her other side, Billy gripped her right arm. Her scared eyes flickered to him. “Two men in one day,” he said.

Seth's free hand closed over her opening mouth. “Don't tell everybody about it now. They'll all want to stand in line for a turn.” He leered, his grizzled jaw only inches from her face. “And I aim to take a good long time with you myself.”

White-Wing was rigid with fear. Prevented from calling out, it seemed her body was paralyzed. Seth stepped around, pulling her into the alley. As they left the glare of the street he glanced back. Nobody seemed to have noticed.

The wall of darkness snapped the choking hand of fear that gripped her. Her heels dug in, seeking a foothold in order to make a stand. Seth grunted at her resistance, jerking her forward. Billy giggled, tugging at her other arm. She began to fight, snarling like a wildcat. She wrenched her head back, then snapped her teeth shut on Seth's fingers. He howled.

“You dirty Mexican bitch!” He slapped her open-handed across the face. Billy moved behind her to grab both her arms. Her fingers, hooked into talons, flashed out. Fingernails raked his face. He jerked away, now avoiding her lashing feet. He fended off another strike from her hands, his arm outstretched blindly out in front of him. Unknowingly, his hand caught in the drawstring of her blouse. Fear of becoming entangled with this wildcat shrank his reach.

The neck of her dress tore away. Her breasts tumbled free. Seth grinned and moved closer, reaching to touch them. Spittle flecked his lips. Terrified, her foot lashed out. He yelled as pain exploded in his crotch. Doubled over, he held up a hand to cover his face from her flailing fists.

“For Christ's sake, Billy, grab the bitch!”

Billy jumped forward. Instinct closed his hand into a fist. He lashed out and the punch drove into her shoulder.

She opened her throat and screamed.

The piercing shriek ripped into his brain. He cracked her again. He threw in punch after punch under the barrage of her own wild blows. Once more his fist caught her.

She screamed again.

Dazed, she was weakening, sobs mixed in now with the screams. Billy's breath was coming in gasps. Trading punches with her had excited him almost as much as the sight of her bare breasts. Heat ate greedily outwards from his groin. Now he seized her shoulders, pulled her to him. His mouth crushed against hers. She strained to pull away, then in a moment of wild inspiration she made to kiss him. He giggled crazily, sensing victory.

She sank her teeth into his bottom lip. They were welded together, but it was he who screamed now. He tried to free himself. She ground her teeth together so they sawed through the thin flesh of his mouth. His blood was on her tongue. She pulled away, spitting it out.

Billy was in a blind rage. He staggered back, blood running from his ruined mouth. He groped for his gun. Blind in the darkness, he collided with Seth, who was holding his groin as he dry-retched against a wall. Billy's hand came up gripping a Navy Colt.

White-Wing shrank back against the other wall of the alley. The swift burst of fear-fed adrenaline had burnt out and was now replaced by insane terror.

She began to scream again.

Billy staggered under the wailing agony of her voice. He thumbed back the Colt's hammer.

“You kill me first!”

Crazy with rage, Billy swung to face the mouth of the alley.

Quantro stood framed in the glare from the street.

Billy's Navy Colt leveled, fed on reflex.

Suddenly Quantro's hand was filled and orange flashed from the muzzle of his .44 Colt. The heavy bullet ploughed into Billy's chest. It tore sideways, dragging him along the wall. His pistol fell to the earth. Seconds later his lifeless body followed.

Seth fought off his own sickening agony long enough to witness his partner's fate. His own hand groped for his six-gun and came up firing.

Quantro was already gone. Where he had been silhouetted against the square of daylight was vacant. Only the face of a curious man across the street was in Seth's field of vision. A gun crashed and pain smashed into his left arm. He fired wildly, as fast as he was able.

Quantro hung in the shadow on the opposite wall of the alley. A bullet splintered wood by his head. It was time to finish it. He aimed above and to the left of the muzzle-flashes.

Then he squeezed the trigger.

Light lanced across the alley. As the thunder of gunfire died away, Quantro could hear a body sliding down the wall. Then there was silence. He waited until his vision had again adjusted to the darkness after the gun-flashes, then eased out of his crouch. Carefully, he approached the body. The bullet had entered below Seth's jawbone then blown away half his head. It was an ugly sight. The other one was dead too, a pool of lung-blood feeding the earth where he had fallen.

The sound as he swung out the Colt's cylinder and allowed the smoking casings to clatter into the dust was loud in the silence. Automatically, he reloaded, his gaze still resting on the two men.

There was a plaintive sob behind him. Vermin, he thought, reminded of her presence. Vermin, they deserved to die.

Quickly, he searched for her in the blackness. She had crawled away, up the alley, and now she was cowering against the wall. A hand held together her torn dress with a pretense of dignity. He touched her shoulder gently and she shrank away until her forehead lay flat on the rough planking as if the solidity of the wall provided protection. Helpless, he fingered her hair. She shuddered, sobs rising in her choked throat.

“It's me, White-Wing. Quantro,” he said, not really knowing what to say that would be any use. He stooped and placed strong hands on her shoulders, squeezing gently. “It's over.”

The statement brought on another burst of sobbing, broken only as she gulped air. He carefully drew her upright and turned her to face him. He tilted her chin upwards, seeing her tear-streaked cheeks and her puffed eyes, the whites visible in the darkness. She seemed to realize who he was then. Her arms snaked around his waist and she clung to him with a strength that brought gasps as she woke the pain of his bruised ribs.

It seemed a long time before he heard feet coming down the alley towards him. It was Pete.

“You okay?” his voice asked anxiously.

“Sure,” Quantro replied over White-Wing's bowed head. “But she ain't.”

“Goddam, there's two dead men here!” erupted another voice.

“The sheriff,” Pete said.

Quantro handed White-Wing to him. “You take care of her, Pete. I figure I've got some talking to do.”

“You're damn right you do,” the sheriff stated. “You seem almighty good with a gun, boy. I wonder if you're as slick with your mouth. Whatever, you've just become a good candidate for the hangman.”

Quantro found himself looking into the cavernous maw of a repeating rifle. “I got some explaining…”

“Sure.” The sheriff jacked a round into the Winchester's chamber. “You can come along with me now, whoever the hell you are, mister gunslinger, and you can explain all you want.” Feet shuffled. “Now drop your gunbelt. Unfasten it slowly with your left hand.”

Quantro did as he was told.

“Good. Now you walk nice and slow. And I wouldn't try making a run. I might not be as fast with a gun as you, but, lord, I can shoot the eye out of a turkey buzzard at a hundred feet.” He chuckled knowingly in the dark. “Seems to me I could use a little practice, too.”

Quantro didn't let him have the chance.

***

The food was lousy.

Tortillas and beans. For dinner. For supper. And for breakfast. When the deputy brought the plate and a mug of coffee at noon, Quantro didn't even look up from where he lay on the cot.

“Don't tell me,” he drawled, “ain't you got any cows 'round here?”

The deputy grunted and pushed the plate under the cage door with the toe of his boot. “You don't have to eat it, mister. Ways I figure it, you won't be eating much longer, anyhow.” He laughed at his own joke, and then went back to the outer office.

Quantro swung his feet to the floor and put his head in his hands. Even the smell of the beans was beginning to sicken him. He was trying to decide whether to stay hungry or force it down when the outer door opened again.

He didn't look up when he smelt the cigar smoke.

“Good afternoon, Mister Quantro,” a friendly voice said. If anything, it sounded over-friendly, like a man who knew he was going to get what he came for. Quantro didn't like the smugness in it one little bit.

“Did you have a good night?”

Quantro snorted. “You ever sleep on one of these things? I've slept on softer prairies. I'd of even slept on the floor if it wasn't for the bugs.” He pointed to a thick cockroach ambling across the dirt floor toward the plate of food.

“You don't have to stay here.”

Quantro looked up, wary. Harley was leaning on the outside of the cage. Amused, self-assured, just like that night in the saloon. What did he want?

“You can work for me.”

“They say I killed two men.”

“You did.”

“But not the way they tell it.”

Harley smiled. “You know it, and I know it. And if it suits me, they can know it too.”

Quantro considered him. “You saying you can get me out?”

“It can be fixed.”

“And the price is I work for you?”

“You need a job. I've got one.”

“What do you want me to do? Kill a few men for you?”

“No.”

“What then?”

“Just be one of my guards.”

“That's what I said. You want me to kill a few men for you.”

Harley shook his head. “No killing. Just be a guard. You know how to use a gun. You've proved that, and everybody in town knows about it, how you came up against two hardened gunfighters and got the drop on them. You won't need to use it again.”

“Why me?”

Harley shrugged under Quantro's scrutiny. “I like you. You look like an honest man.”

“An honest man who's good with a gun?”

Harley's face hardened momentarily. “I don't like backshooters. You do it straight. I admire that.” He paused, but when Quantro failed to fill the gap, he continued. “There's some men figure Apache girls should be on reservations with the rest of their tribe. Me, I think if a man wants an Indian girl for his woman, then that's his business. It isn't my nature to interfere, but…” His voice trailed away.

Quantro snorted. How many kinds of blackmail did this man need? But if need be, you'd see a word was said in the right ear…

Harley smiled. “Quantro, you're a smart man. But you're a dead one too if you don't take up my offer.”

Quantro tried to roll a cigarette from the last few strands of tobacco from his sack. “One thing, my partner, Pete, needs a job too. Take him on and you've got me.”

Harley showed off his white teeth again, flashing them as he fished a cigar from his inside pocket and flipped it through the bars.

“He's already on the payroll. He started at sun-up today.”