The Copper City - Chris Scott Wilson [12]
“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