The Copper City - Chris Scott Wilson [21]
“Problem, Mr. Harley. Can I have a word?”
Harley jerked his head. Quantro took the hint and stood up, followed by Hulbert. They stood over at the bar for a moment until Harley called them back.
“Three guards have gone sick. Looks like something they ate. They were supposed to be part of the five men who have to go to Santa Cruz today to collect the miners’ payroll. You two and Wiltshire will have to make up the number.”
“What about the bank in town here? Can’t they handle it?” Quantro asked.
Harley shook his head. “No. They don’t hold much reserve and the miners’ll only take silver, no paper money. The bank used to make special shipments for us but they got robbed too regularly, so now we make our own arrangements. Up to now we’ve had no problems. The days and the routes are varied as much as possible.” He cast a sharp look around the table. “What happens is you get to Santa Cruz by sundown. You stay at the Rose of Cimarron Hotel. You collect the shipment from the bank before opening time tomorrow morning. You’ll bring the silver to the bank here for the night, then the day after you escort it out to the mine and we pay out. Any questions?” Nobody spoke. “You do a good job and keep to the schedule and there’ll be a thirty dollar bonus in it for each of you.”
Everyone turned to face the batwing doors as they swung open. Pete walked in. Harley gestured to Quantro. “Your partner’ll explain.” He looked around the faces. “It’s getting late. You’d better make a start.”
They did.
***
The tequila in the cantina was cheap but potent. Pete took a lick of salt from the back of his hand, then gulped from his glass. “God-awful town this. Jesus, and this mescal, likely to blow my head clean off.” He looked over his shoulder at where Upton, Buck Hulbert, and Dobey were bellying up to the bar, ogling a Mexican woman whose low-necked blouse was full to overflowing. In comparison, her face held little attraction. “That Upton. I trust him as much as I’d trust a rattlesnake I’d just stepped on. He was the bastard that just about trampled his horse all over you that day they brought you out of the mine.”
Quantro nodded. “He’s tough, and he likes everyone to know it. He’s okay, long as you keep an eye on him.”
“I got a feeling,” Pete persisted. “I figure he’s going to stake his claim on that silver come tomorrow morning. Probably wait until we’re in the middle of nowhere then dump us and take off.”
Quantro sipped at his tequila. It burned like a river of fire down his gullet. “He’s got to get the drop on us first. My friend here’ll be in my hand.” He patted the Winchester, the “One of a Thousand” that lay on the table.
“You just watch him good, that’s all.”
Quantro laughed, feeling the effect of the liquor. “Old man, you worry too damn much. Worry tomorrow when we’ve got the silver.”
“You fellers want a drink with me,” Buck Hulbert slurred as he waved like a reed before the wind, his feet somehow still anchored to the floor. “S’whiskey. Better’n that lame-brained stuff you fellers’re drinking.”
“Whiskey?” Pete brightened. “You bet.” He pushed away the dregs of his tequila and gulped from the amber bottle Hulbert held out. “Good. Damn good.” He took another hit then passed the bottle to Quantro. “Here, do you good. Take the edge off that Mex booze.”
Quantro drank. It went down like cream after the bite of the tequila. And there was a whole lot of dust to wash down after the long day’s ride from Cananea. Each mouthful went down a little bit easier. Soon there was a warm glow in his stomach and a welcome fuzziness that beat away the depression of sitting in a dirty cantina in a sun beaten, tired town called Santa Cruz that was probably the last place God made. And he must have been tired after making the rest of the world because he didn’t try too hard. As the whiskey worked its magic,