The Copper City - Chris Scott Wilson [0]
Double Mountain Crossing
The Quantro Story
The Fight At Hueco Tanks
Desperadoes
Scarborough Fair
Praise for Chris Scott Wilson
“. . . his western books . . . earned critical praise all round . . .” Middlesbrough Evening Gazette
“ . . . no nonsense about may the best man win. Interesting to Western lovers.” The Birmingham Sunday Mercury
“ . . . the author is a novelist and he knows how to tell a story . . .” Mary Williams of The Cleveland Clarion
The Copper City
by
Chris Scott Wilson
Boson Books
Raleigh
Copyright
Published by Boson Books
An imprint of C&M Online Media Inc.
© 2011 C.J.S. Wilson
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information and storage retrieval system, without the express written consent of the copyright holder.
ISBN 978-0-917990-54-0
This is a work of fiction. Names, with the exception of historical figures, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events or locales, is entirely coincidental.
For information contact
C&M Online Media Inc.
3905 Meadow Field Lane
Raleigh, NC 27606
Tel: (919) 233-8164
email: cm@cmonline.com
http://www.bosonbooks.com
Cover design by the author; saguaro image © Adam Kazmierski, iStockphoto
Dedication
For Harry Slack, the famous outlaw
who always loves a sequel.
And Hazel too.
Table of Contents
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 1
He heard them coming long before he saw them.
Quantro avoided looking directly into the embers of the fire, in order to retain his night vision. It was necessary in the rich darkness of the Sierra Madre Mountains of Sonora, Old Mexico. He had draped a blanket, poncho-style, around his shoulders to ward away the chills of the night, but now he shrugged it off and came to his feet. The Winchester rested snugly in his hands, capable, reassuring as he stepped out of the firelight and into the darkness.
The horses were close now. A hoof chipped against rock. Quantro eased into the shadows with a caution born of experience. A thick pine speared up into the night. It provided cover. While one hand rested on the coarse bark, the other leveled the rifle toward the gateway of the clearing. They would come in that way. It was the only route open to riders.
He waited.
His face, once young, was now aged beyond his years. He had been both the hunter and the hunted. It showed. Only the long blond hair that crept from under his stetson to curl lazily on to his shoulders hinted at the last traces of youth. Instead of laughter lines, hard score-marks bordered the edges of his mouth, making him appear even gaunter. The eyes were ice-blue, steady.
The big buckskin stallion snickered softly, ears up. It shifted weight from one hoof to another, as though poised to flee, but its nostrils were flared, an indication of its wild temper.
Quantro smiled, squinting into the night.
One moment the clearing was empty, and the next they were there.
“Anyone here?” the first rider said, craning as he scanned the stand of trees that ringed the campfire. His rifle rested negligently over his saddle horn. He was an older man, leathery-faced, his beard flecked with grey. Quantro saw the man’s fingers were inside the rifle’s trigger-guard. He was taking no chances. When nobody answered, the old man sniffed. “I said is anybody there?”
Quantro chuckled in the darkness. “Coffee’s on the fire, Pete.”
The older man’s face cracked into a smile and he relaxed visibly. He turned to the Indian girl sitting her pony behind him. “Sure is friendly, ain’t he?”
White-Wing’s eyes swung from Pete Wiltshire to the man who emerged from the trees. This was the man she had left her people to be with. She was a Chiricahua Apache, one of a small band that had escaped