The Copper City - Chris Scott Wilson [27]
Upton spat into the dust, then put his hands on his hips and nodded slowly. “That’s quite a pretty speech, Jeffers. I don’t think I’ve heard you string more than five words together in all the time I’ve known you. Not bad. Not bad at all.”
Jeffers relaxed noticeably, a grin plucking at the corner of his mouth.
“One thing you forgot.”
Jeffers’ eyes narrowed. “What’s that?”
“This Quantro can read sign. He’s a man hunter. He’ll figure it.”
Jeffers’ frown disappeared and he smiled again. “Hell, who is he, Daniel Boone? Or maybe Davy Crockett? He wear one of those raccoon hats with the tail hangin’ down his back? Nobody, not even an Apache, could track us over this ground. And not in the dark.”
“Maybe he can, maybe he can’t,” conceded Upton. “I got a better idea. Why don’t we split up? You and Webster head for Nogales, and me an’ Dobey’ll run for the border. That’ll split the trail. He can’t follow both of us.”
Jeffers pursed his lips. “Yeah, that’s good.” He turned to Jimmy Webster. “We’ll do that. If this Quantro’s such an all fired eagle-eye, then he can choose who he’s gonna trail.”
Webster nodded. “I guess we’ll be moving out. We want to leave him some sign before dark so he’s sure to see it.”
“Yeah, you’d better had,” Upton said with an expression the two men missed as they turned to their horses. “You dumb bastards,” he added under his breath.
Jeffers had one foot in the stirrup and a hand on the saddle horn when Upton’s Colt cleared leather. The canyon was filled with sound as the gun roared. Jeffers screamed as the bullet slammed into his ribcage. He crumpled. His hand fell away from the saddle and his boot slipped out of the stirrup so that he slid under his horse. The animal took two or three steps, edging sideways. Jeffers groaned, eyes closed as he lay on the rocky ground.
On the blind side of Jeffers’ horse, Webster was already in the saddle. As soon as he heard the first shot, he put two and two together and came up with four. Without waiting to catch his packhorse’s lead-rope, he jerked back on the reins and his mount reared into a turn. Before Jeffers’ body had hit the ground, Webster was laid flat along his horse’s mane, spurring it down the canyon at full gallop.
Upton swore at Webster’s fast reactions. He dropped his Colt back into its holster, then snaked a hand to the Winchester in the saddle scabbard. In a flash it was in his hands, the horse swinging toward him. Instead of pushing it away, he swung the rifle barrel up over the horse’s neck and used the saddle as a rest. He worked the action as he sighted.
The Winchester barked.
The bullet cracked past Webster’s ducked head to ricochet off the canyon wall. Upton couldn’t afford to miss the next shot. He hadn’t the time to go chasing Webster all over the desert. He dropped his aim, working the lever. The spent cartridge ejected into the air and before it completed its twisting journey to the ground, he had pulled the trigger again.
Webster’s horse whinnied shrilly. Its legs began to fold under it while dust still churned from its flailing hooves. The front legs buckled first, the head smashing into the ground. Momentum carried the rump high, backbone almost bent double, whiplashing. Webster was thrown from the saddle, pin wheeling in the air. The horse badly executed a half somersault until it collapsed into itself. It lay in a tangled heap, legs thrust out at awkward angles. Webster crumpled beyond it, unmoving.
Upton waited a second to see if Webster ran. When he didn’t, he turned to Dobey, who had stood rigid through the short seconds of the gunfight. “Dobey, watch Webster. If he moves shoot him.”
Dobey swallowed and walked around the horses to get a good view of the body farther along the canyon.
Upton crossed to where Jeffers lay in the dust. His eyes were still closed, but his chest moved under the strain of his sawing breath. A red stain was