The Copper City - Chris Scott Wilson [38]
He unhooked his canteen, sitting down next to the heap of his wealth. He wiped his face, then swallowed a mouthful of lukewarm water.
Only a few miles to the border.
The lure of freedom fed his muscles with waking energy. Refreshed, he came to his feet. Now for the horses. He hung the canteen back on the saddle and filled his hand with the lariat. Ready, he began to croon softly, starting toward the packhorses where they milled restlessly against the back wall of the wash.
He caught them one by one. As soon as each was saddled and bridled, he attached it to a lead rein from his riding horse, then went to catch the next. It grew easier as the line of harnessed mounts lengthened.
Sweat was rolling down through the dust on his face by the time he had finished, but he was smiling. He wanted to sit down and rest, but he was too close to waste time now. Instead, walking slowly, the harsh sun sapping his strength, he crossed to the cache and pulled away the tarp.
The pile of polished leather bags glistened an invitation. Unable to resist, he unbuckled a flap then dipped his hand inside. Coins. Hard currency. Piles of them. When his hand emerged, sunlight flashed sparks off the silver dollars. He rubbed them appreciatively between his fingers before pressing one of the coins to his lips and kissing it.
Rich. Rich.
With the first of the heavy bags hanging from his hand, he came to his feet. Swinging it over the packhorse’s back brought a grunt of effort. He found himself panting as he threaded the saddle buckles, but he slapped the animal’s rump in sudden good humor. Rich. Grinning stupidly, he turned back to the cache.
Hard work, but nice work if you can get it.
***
Christ, he was tired. But it was done. Upton tested the last fastening on the packsaddle, then walked to his riding-horse. All the fetching and carrying had stiffened up his nicked arm. He inspected it. The bleeding looked as though it had at last stopped. He reached up to grip the saddle horn then hauled himself up on to the horse’s back.
How long had it taken? He squinted from below the protection of his hat brim at the sun. About an hour. Just that quick glance upwards was enough to make him more aware of his dry throat and his cracked lips and how drained he felt.
He groped for his canteen. He pulled out the stopper and held it to his mouth, gulping the water. With his free hand he patted the horse’s neck.
“Well, old hoss, we’ve got us a piece to ride.”
A Colt barked.
The canteen was ripped from his hand to spin away across the dry wash. He watched it land. Dented, it lay on the parched earth, water dribbling from the unplugged neck. He was too tired and too surprised for any lightning reactions. He was welded to the saddle. His only means of defense was the pistol at his hip.
His hand snaked toward the holster.
The Colt barked again. The bullet was close. Too close.
“Don’t,” a voice said quietly.
Dobey.
“How in hell did you get here so fast?” Upton asked.
“We’ll talk about that in a minute. Get your hands up above your head and sit still.”
Upton’s hand eased away from his gun, but he was slow in raising his right arm.
“Get that arm up, Upton, or I’ll put a hole through your head.”
Upton turned a little in the saddle. “What you so jumpy for, boy? I loaded the horses ready for when you got here. That was the deal we made back at the canyon, wasn’t it?”
“Get those hands high.” There was a loud click in the stillness as a hammer was drawn back.
“Slow down, boy. I can’t get this arm up. That bullet must be stuck in it. It hurts like hell.”
“Save it, Upton, I’m past believing you. You don’t get that arm up, you’re dead.”
Upton stretched.
“Got you figured, Upton. You fake a bad wound, then you leave me a sitting target for Quantro while you light a shuck for the territories.”
“Naw. You got it all wrong. I wouldn’t do that to you, boy.