The Copper City - Chris Scott Wilson [26]
“What is it?” Pete called softly, pulling down his hat brim to shade his eyes.
“The buckboard.”
Now he mentioned it, Pete could make out the shape as it emerged from its camouflage.
“I’d worked it out from the sign that they’d switched to packhorses, but I needed to see it.” Quantro clucked his tongue and the buckskin left Pete’s side to plod over to its master. Pete rode over as Quantro climbed back into the saddle.
“They’ve broken the silver out into saddlebags,” Quantro said, indicating the smashed bullion boxes scattered in the wagon bed of the abandoned buckboard. “Four men, four horses and four packhorses, I figure. I don’t know how big that much silver looks at one go. Maybe they even had to bury some.”
“You want to take a look-see?”
“Not right now. It doesn’t matter. If it’s not all there when we catch up with them, we can always come back here.” He gazed expressionlessly over the wild land and Pete knew he was fixing landmarks in his mind, just in case they did need to come back.
“Nobody will find it here. Only us.”
“Which way they headed?”
“North.”
“How far are we behind ’em?”
“Two, maybe two and a half hours. Breaking open the boxes’ll have slowed them down, but now they’ve got the packhorses they can cover rougher ground, no fears about busting wheels. So now they’ll head directly where they’re going, and they’ll be getting there faster.”
“You reckon they’ll keep on the trail after dark?”
“Yes, and so will we.” He looked at the cloudless sky. “Long as the moon’s up. Only time we’ll stop is when we lose the sign.” He glanced across at the cigarette still hanging from Pete’s lips. “You going to light that thing?”
Pete frowned, then plucked the forgotten cigarette from his mouth and looked at it with distaste. “Hell, no, I don’t think I will.”
“Well, pass it over here, then.”
Pete held it out.
“You got a match?”
Pete sighed. “You got anything?”
Quantro ignored him, leaning over to reach the flame. He drew down a lungful of smoke. “Yes, I’ve got something. “
“What?”
Quantro grinned. “A good nose for tracking bad men.”
***
Upton loosened the saddle-cinch two notches, standing by his horse as it stretched down to drink from the pool. He had slaked his own thirst and his refilled canteen was back on the saddle horn. The day was cooling fast and his shirt was growing stiff with dried sweat. They had ridden hard, not even halting at noon.
As he waited for his horse to finish, he cast an eye over the pack animals waiting in line for their turn to water. They didn’t look good. The silver, transferred from the bullion boxes to their saddles was too much for them. They’d last longer if there were one or two more animals to share the load. His gaze drifted to Jeffers and Webster. Maybe, with their horses…
“How far to the border, d’you reckon?”
Upton’s train of speculation broke and he turned to see Dobey next to him, rubbing a wet bandana through the trail dust caked into his face. “Five or six miles. Not much further.”
“We going to make camp here?”
“Naw. We’ll just water the horses, then walk them for a while and push on through the night. If anyone is trailing us, we’ll be in Arizona by midnight.”
“We been thinking about that,” Jeffers interrupted, squeezing between the crowded horses in the narrow canyon. “If this Quantro feller you keep talkin’ about is following, well, he ain’t the law of any kind, is he?”
Upton shook his head.
“Well, then, it don’t matter a damn whether we cross the border or not. That ain’t gonna stop him.”
Upton squinted. “You tryin’ to say something?”
Jeffers drew back his shoulders as if to emphasize his height and strength. “Me and Webster figure why cross the border? None of the Mexicans are after us. No posses. You had the note of authority to take the money from the bank, all legal like. So there’s only this Quantro feller to think about. What will he figure on us doing? Crossing the border, that’s what.” He smiled smugly at his logic. “So me and Jimmy here, we got to thinking. Why don’t we just head on out