The Copper City - Chris Scott Wilson [22]
After a while Quantro felt the need to visit the backhouse in order to relieve himself. When he stood up he found to his amazement he could almost walk straight. As he passed the bar he noticed that Upton was still leering at the Mexican woman. Now he was closer, Quantro could see she had a moustache.
“She’ll eat you for breakfast,” he commented.
“That’s what I was hoping,” Upton said straight-faced then guffawed at his own joke. “I was hoping she might eat me for supper too.”
“Que? What?” the swarthy woman said, leaning forward.
“Tell you later, honey,” Upton crooned. “Even better, I’ll show you…” He stroked her wiry hair.
Quantro pushed his way out of the back door. He stood for a second, squinting into the darkness until he could make out the shape of the outhouse ten feet away. Then he took a step forward.
He fell flat on his face.
***
Quantro groaned.
Someone slammed the flat of a shovel down on the back of his head. Or that’s what it felt like. He didn’t dare open his eyes. He had a premonition that particular movement would be extremely painful. Instead, he tried to focus his concentration on the problem of where he was.
He was lying down. And whatever he was lying down on was hard. He was on his chest, face sideways. He moved his head and sand rubbed into his cheek. Then something wet touched his face. He shrank back but it touched him again. With infinite care he prized open one eyelid.
It was the licking tongue of a mongrel dog.
He was in the alley behind the cantina. The pressure in his bladder reminded him he hadn’t made it to the outhouse after all. How long had he been out? The dog, noticing he was awake, backed off warily, then scampered away. Quantro struggled to his feet, swaying as his head threatened to come loose and roll off into the dust. What a blinder. The inside of his skull felt like there was a full-throated Texas tornado howling around in there. He couldn’t remember ever feeling that bad before. His attention was suddenly recalled to the necessity of visiting the outhouse. Shielding his eyes, he staggered in that direction.
He stood there, breathing out a sigh of relief when it occurred to him that something was distinctly odd. His brain must be sluggish not to have realized. If he wasn’t mistaken it had been daylight out there. He finished what he had come for, buttoned up, and pushed the door slowly open. Yes, it was daylight. They had to be at the bank by six o’clock to collect the silver. Groaning as he narrowed his eyes to gaze upward, he registered the position of the sun. It was climbing. By his reckoning it was about nine. Nine o’clock!
Oh, Christ…
***
Pete was slumped over the table, his head cradled on Quantro’s Winchester. Buck Hulbert lay face down on the floor, his head under a chair. Quantro shook Pete roughly.
“Wake up. C’mon, Pete.”
“S’matter?” Pete groaned, passing a furry tongue over the mountain range of his dry lips. His eyes looked as though they had tried to escape out of the back of his head and failed.
“You thought it would happen after we left town, but it’s happened already. Likely, they’ve been and gone.”
“What’re you talking about?” Pete frowned from a face that looked like melted wax.
“It was the whiskey. Must have had pole-ax juice in it. It hit me like a hammer.” He had a sudden thought. “Upton sent Hulbert over with it. That’s for sure.”
“Hulbert never drank any, did he?” Pete contributed his brain beginning the painful experience of having to function again. “We drank it all between us. Just you and me.”
“Hulbert’s under the table there,” Quantro contradicted. “He can’t have been part of it. He must have had some too.” He bent down and shook Hulbert’s shoulder. He didn’t move. “Out cold.” He shook him again, more roughly this time, and when there was still no response he turned him over. The front