The Copper City - Chris Scott Wilson [33]
Dobey was shooting like he had a crate of ammunition open at his elbow. Upton shook his head. If he shot like that when he couldn’t see anything, how in hell would he shoot when he could see something? Upton edged back until he could see the boy, away to his right. He made a sign that said “take it easy,” thinking as he did that his right arm felt a little stiff.
When he looked at it, his shirt was torn and blood was running in a stream below his elbow. It didn’t hurt. It just felt uncomfortable. Just a nick. He peeled back the torn sleeve. His arm was bleeding freely, teeming down his upper arm. He found the sight remarkably ugly. Other people’s blood and gore he didn’t mind, especially if he had been the cause of their discomfort, but his own was a different matter. That made things personal.
He pulled out the tail of his shirt and ripped off a strip to serve as a bandage. He mopped up the blood as best he could, then attempted one-handed to tie the material around the wounded arm.
The idea was simpler than the reality.
***
“Gone quiet, ain’t it?” Pete said. “You think they’ve run out of bullets?”
“Step out in the open if you’re that eager to find out,” Quantro counseled.
“Hope this don’t go on long,” Pete continued. “I left the coffee-pot on the fire and it’ll boil dry.”
Quantro sniffed the aroma, now heavily disguised under the stench of gunpowder from the shooting. “Could’ve used a cup. Thirsty work, this.”
“What d’you reckon they’ll do?”
“How the hell do I know?”
“You’re the pistolero, not me. I’m just an old prospector.”
“A righteous old prospector,” Quantro mumbled, taking advantage of the lull to sneak a quick look around his rock. A bullet smacked into the dry earth by his shoulder, then he heard the gunshot and spotted the puff of smoke up on the rim.
“You reckon we’re pinned down here?” Pete said conversationally, sniffing.
“What you mean, you old coot, is can I circle ’round and have at them from behind? Is that it?”
“Something like that.”
Quantro looked back and forth along the canyon walls. Maybe, just maybe, he could get out of there without being shot to pieces. It would take some fast legwork and some very quick shooting from Pete. He put his idea into words.
“I got plenty of bullets,” Pete confirmed, sniffing. “Don’t know as I can shoot ’em off as fast as you.”
“You’ll manage.”
“I’ll allow I might.”
Quantro glared at him. “You’d better.”
Pete shrugged. “Been nice knowing you, boy.”
“Don’t even joke about it,” Quantro snarled before falling into an uneasy silence. He knew Pete would handle it as best he could, but jokes about failing didn’t exactly set right at that particular moment. It seemed bad luck somehow, and making a run along the bottoms was going to use up all the luck he could get a pledge on.
He gave a thought to his bum leg, the one that had been broken and set wrong nearly three years back. It was stiffening a little as a result of crouching awkwardly for such a long period. He turned his back to the rock and stretched out both his legs, bending the bad one slowly. It felt okay. Maybe it was a sign his luck was running good.
Pete glanced over as he pushed bullets into his rifle’s magazine. He eyed Quantro seriously for a moment. “Luck, boy,” he said before he winked and brought up his rifle to his shoulder. “You ready?”
Quantro finished reloading his Winchester, then twisted into a crouch, tensed to run. He nodded.
“Now!”
Quantro ran.
Behind him, Pete hammered out shots as fast as he could work the lever action.
And he prayed a little bit too.
CHAPTER 8
Quantro zigzagged down the canyon as fast as his legs could measure out strides. Fear was a full grown buffalo cow sitting on his chest, but adrenaline was a bountiful supply of energy that made his legs fly.
He ran the wrong way.
If Upton was expecting him to make a breakout, then he would think he would head for the canyon mouth and then circle from there. Going the wrong way might gain a second that could become vital. The buckskin was up