The Copper City - Chris Scott Wilson [36]
Dobey figured Upton had been lucky in a way to get wounded. It had got him out of this situation. Then he got to thinking about Upton’s wound. He hadn’t seen him bandage it. That must have been hard. He must be some tough hombre to keep on shooting after he’d been hit. But then it occurred to Dobey that Upton couldn’t have been hurt that bad if he’d still managed to handle the kick of a rifle.
That discovery bothered him. His thoughts returned more and more to it as he waited on the rim. The way Upton had cradled the arm as though it was about to fall off. And all that wincing. Didn’t fit with the tough image somehow. Dobey could remember seeing a cowhand once whose horse had fallen on him and smashed his hip so badly there had been white bone poking out through the broken skin. He had lain on the ground and said matter-of-factly, “Damn, I guess that puts me out of the dance Saturday.” He had fallen quiet, then added, “This week at least.”
No, there had been something odd about Upton’s behavior that Dobey couldn’t place. It would come. He moved on to the problem of Quantro. How long would it take him to get up on to the rim? Dobey reckoned his best bet was to stay put, then when Quantro came sneaking over, he could just squeeze off one shot. He measured the distance from his position to the rim with his eye. Like shooting a turnip off a stick. Unless, of course, Quantro got over without him seeing. That thought made him jumpy.
Then he remembered.
When Upton had swung his horse he had been holding the reins with his left hand. That meant he had to have waved with his right. And it was the right arm that was wounded, so weak he’d had to cradle it as he walked away.
The bastard. Upton had buffaloed him.
Dobey ran for his horse.
***
Quantro stared at the empty rim. He walked over to where the first gunman had been. Sure enough, shells littered the ground. Farther along, he found the second gunman’s stand. Mixed in with the empty brass casings were unused bullets. It had to have been Dobey. It was a sign of nerves, working the action of a rifle twice between shots.
“Pete!” he yelled over the rim, stooping to collect the good bullets, threading them into the empty loops of his belt.
“Yeah?” came back the reply.
“They’ve cleared out. Put the coffee back on and dig me out some chow. Lost me the last lot.” Quantro followed Dobey’s tracks to where his horse had waited, then began to cast in a circle. He picked up Upton’s trail without any effort, but no others. He made another cast, wider this time, but still picked up nothing. The only two sets of hoof prints led north.
They had run for the border once more.
***
Quantro ate hungrily. The wasted climb had sharpened his appetite. Pete sat by, sipping his coffee.
“We camping here again tonight?”
Quantro mopped at his plate with a hunk of bead. “Meaning?”
“Way you’re chewing at that, it’ll be sundown before you’ve finished.”
“Soon’s I’ve had coffee we’ll break camp.”
“You said they’ve run north again?”
“Yes.”
“Well, we’d better move. Once they hit Arizona Territory there’s no end of towns to get lost in, all within spitting distance of the border. There’s Bisbee, Packard, Watertank, Charleston, Fairbank…”
“You trying to depress me?”
“There’s worse. Three miles on the American side is the railroad. One way runs clear to El Paso.”
“How far’s that?”
“Somewhere over two hundred miles, give or take twenty. And westwards it runs through Tucson and on to Yuma.”
“The bad news?”
“Three hundred and fifty miles.” Pete considered Quantro’s face. “If they get on those rails it’ll take us years to find ’em, hunting through every rat-hole in every town along the way. If and when we do haul up on ’em, chances are there’ll be none of the silver left.”
“You’re real bright company.”
Pete shook his head. “Just the cold facts of life.”
***
The buckskin shifted restlessly beneath Quantro as he waited for Pete to mount up.