The Copper City - Chris Scott Wilson [30]
“Upton’s men?”
“Could be.”
“Bickering among themselves now.”
“Looks like Upton won. You know them?”
Pete scowled at the sight of Jeffers’s shattered skull, then switched his attention to Webster. He shook his head. “Don’t reckon so. Wouldn’t know ’em if I found ’em dead in a canyon.” He turned his head and spat. “If they are Upton’s men, this is the best place for ’em. I won’t lose any sleep.”
“Me neither,” Quantro agreed, “but if that bank manager back in Santa Cruz was right, now we know there’s only two of them left. Upton and Dobey. What d’you reckon on Dobey?”
Pete took a last look at the bodies, then turned to walk away, motioning Quantro to join him. “Dobey seemed okay. Not the sort to have a hand in anything like this. Clean country boy type, y’know?” He scowled. “Nowadays you can’t tell. Put a gun in a kid’s hand and let him grow a moustache, an’ show him a pile of money and all of a sudden he’s a big desperado. You never can tell. After all, look at you.”
“I ain’t got a moustache,” Quantro growled. “Besides which I can do without funnies this time of the morning, ‘specially when I’ve slept on cold ground. Makes me stiff.”
Pete’s eyebrows went up. “What about me? Way I remember it, I’m the old one in this partnership.”
“You know what they say, the old ones always know how to make the best campfire coffee. They’ve had more practice.”
Pete snorted. “Good thing, too. Couldn’t drink the swill you dish up, no how.”
Quantro slapped his back. “You get the fire going while I hunt up some sign.” Before Pete could answer, Quantro walked away, clucking his tongue for the buckskin to come. With quick, economical movements, he saddled and bridled the stallion. When it puffed out its chest, he smiled to himself, then elbowed it sharply in the ribs. As it deflated, he pulled the saddle cinch two notches tighter.
***
The skillet was sizzling over the tiny fire when Quantro rode back into the canyon. Since he had been tracking he had taken to wearing his kabuns, knee-high Apache style moccasins, mainly for comfort. Now he slid noiselessly out of the saddle and padded towards Pete’s back.
The older man was hunched over the skillet, turning the slabs of spitting bacon. He turned fractionally sideways and spat.
“Won’t catch me out like that, boy. Heard you coming from a long ways. Without the head I had yesterday from that pole-ax mixture Upton dropped us, my faculties are workin’ just fine.”
Quantro didn’t answer, just hauled up to the fire sniffing the bacon. “I found ’em.”
Pete was straight-faced. “Figured you had.”
“How come?”
“Like you said yourself, you got a good nose for bad men.”
Quantro snorted. “Oh, yeah?”
“’Sides, if you hadn’t found ’em you wouldn’t be back by now.”
“You want the news or don’t you?”
“Go ahead, soon’s you pass your plate over here ’less you want to chew on hot fat with your fingers.”
Quantro handed him the plate. “I headed straight north. Picked them up right away soon as the hard ground faded out ’bout a mile away.”
“Figured you would.”
Quantro ignored him. “Tracks were interesting.”
“Uh?”
“They turned back around and headed back here. They’re here now, watching us.”
Pete’s expression never altered. “Yep. I know.”
Knowing Upton was at that very moment probably sighting his rifle down on them, Quantro kept his anger down to a harsh whisper, delivered from the side of his mouth. “What d’you mean, you know?”
“Figured it out last night when we got here,” Pete replied, apparently unconcerned. “When you found those bodies this mornin’, that just confirmed it.”
“If you figured it out last night, why in God’s name didn’t you tell me?”
Pete glanced sideways. “Well, you’re the big scout ’round here. That’s your job, to figure out what the opposition’s doing.”
“Jesus,” Quantro said to himself. He couldn’t keep his gaze from slipping to the canyon rim.
“Here,” Pete said, holding out the tin plate, the bacon fried to a crisp. “I et mine before. Too hard like that for my old teeth.”
“You won’t have any teeth left if you keep things like that from me,” Quantro muttered.