The Copper City - Chris Scott Wilson [4]
After they skirted a pine-capped mesa, they moved on to a stretch of lava, sighting Black Mountain. After the lava ridge they stopped to rest the horses. Ahead of them now was an ocean of browning grama grass bending before the hot, dry wind.
Pete sat in the shade of a pecan tree, sucking softly on a cigarette, smoke drifting from his nostrils.
“Much further?” Quantro asked, watching his buckskin stallion making the most of the opportunity to graze.
“No. These are the Cananea hills that bring us to the cattle country.” He gestured with his free hand. “Turn west from here. Be there by sundown.”
***
Cananea was a boom town. With the discovery of copper, buildings had mushroomed overnight. And none did more business than the Copper Queen, a saloon on Main Street. It had started life as a tent, but later a false front had been built to give a façade of grandeur and now the canvas had been replaced by a clapboard structure more suited to engaging the rigors of the weather. The Copper Queen handled a wealthy trade, catering mainly for the miners, providing a watering-place for their thirst, and also gratifying some of their baser needs. The girls upstairs handled that part of the saloon’s affairs.
Whiskey was made on the premises and there were no complaints about its quality. Quantity was the more important feature, but if the patrons had ever had the misfortune to observe the saloon keeper as he brewed his fiery concoction, perhaps they would have preferred to remain thirsty.
The huge vats in the cellar were filled with spring water to which was added gunpowder and black pepper, plus a liberal dose of rattlesnake heads just to round off the flavor. After fermentation the brew was strained and bottled, one measure of real whiskey added to each pint to authenticate its name. The bottles bore no labels, and the end result was real “bumble bee” whiskey, the drink with a sting.
But what you don’t see, you don’t grieve about, and the whiskey provided enough of a powder keg to your head to make you forget the broiling hell of mining in the indecent climate of Mexico. Even if a few citizens did go down with “Jake’s Leg,” a nervous disorder brought on by drinking bad whiskey, nobody took much notice.
That evening trade was brisk. Customers shelled out fifty cents a bottle, or those without hollow legs took shots at fifteen cents a throw. The bar was crowded, men almost shoulder to shoulder, the brass spittoons ringing to reward well-aimed shots.
Quantro and Pete Wiltshire pushed in through the batwing doors and crossed the room. They had made camp in a hollow next to a small creek on the eastern side of town, well away from any buildings. White-Wing had stayed there so her face would not be seen until Quantro could buy her some Mexican clothes to replace her doeskins. There was the matter of jobs to settle too. The sooner he could start work the sooner he would have money to buy his ranch.
The only gap was between two miners, both nursing almost empty bottles. They were in their working clothes that stank of sweat and dust, and both were unshaven. The one on the left was almost gone, bleary-eyed, and the one on the right, a huge, well-muscled man, sagged against the counter, his bearded face propped up by one hand, his elbow on the bar while his other hand tipped the bottle generously to his lips. The whiskey seemed to have sucked the strength from