The Copper City - Chris Scott Wilson [43]
The saloon had filled during their absence. Quantro elbowed his way to the bar and shouted for two beers, then turned so that his elbows rested on the polished oak, eyes roving the room. No sign of either of them.
“Well?”
Quantro turned back and raised his moccasined foot on to the brass foot rail, eyes moving to the mirror hanging on the back wall behind the whiskey bottles, checking and rechecking. “Looks like Dobey picked up on where Upton cut away from the main trail, or he would be here in town.”
“Maybe he caught him up.”
“Maybe, maybe not. Come sun-up we’ll have to make a scout and hope to God we can sniff the pair of them out.”
Pete looked over at the two poker games in progress and the number of men waiting for chairs.
Quantro motioned to the bartender for a bottle of whiskey. “I’m going to get some shuteye. Going to be a long day tomorrow.”
“Me too, I reckon. Not that I need as much beauty sleep as you. Me, I’m pretty enough.”
“You say pretty enough or pretty rough?” Quantro jibed as he grabbed the whiskey and made for the stairs. Almost at the top he stopped and made a last survey of the room. Nothing. He scowled and was about to continue when the first door in the passage opened. A saloon girl came out carrying a bowl. She was close to tears, Quantro thought as she squeezed past them and hurried down the stairs.
“You see what was in the bowl?”
“Too busy looking at her,” Pete confessed.
“There was a bloody bandage in it.” Quantro eased along the wall to the door and listened. He heard groans. He jerked his head at Pete, and placed the whiskey bottle on the floor out of harm’s way. Pete moved to the other side of the doorway. They both drew their guns.
Quantro leaned across to slowly turn the handle. The door gave. With a glance at Pete he flung it open and burst into a blur of action. Within a second he was inside the room, the .44 Colt up and lined on the bed. Still moving, he cleared the doorway so the wall was at his back. Pete sprang through after him.
They both crouched, guns ready.
In the bed an old man wearing a nightgown and a tasseled cap blinked at them with watery eyes. His mouth hung open in surprise, a toothless cavern. Hesitantly, his hands crawled skyward.
Quantro relaxed, allowing his arm to fall, then holstered his gun. He sighed, eyes flickering to Pete, who shrugged, embarrassed as he put away his own weapon.
“Our mistake,” Quantro mumbled, already on his way out into the passage. Pete pushed himself away from the wall, then tilted his hat to the back of his head. He pursed his lips and jerked a thumb at the doorway.
“The girl with the bowl.”
“Pretty, wasn’t she?”
“Don’t you think you’re a little old for that?”
The toothless gums clamped together and a twinkle appeared briefly in the old man’s eyes. “The doc says my eyes are too bad for playing cards, and that whiskey’s bad for my liver. One time I used to like a cigar but now just one puff makes me cough from morning till night. I ever get too old for girls, son, I might as well be dead.”
Pete considered him a moment then smiled. “Old timer, you got a point there.”
Quantro was leaning against the wall out in the corridor, having already retrieved the whiskey bottle from the floor. He didn’t look any too happy.
Pete made a gesture. “We all have our off days.”
“Every day?” Quantro levered himself off the garish wallpaper. At the other end of the corridor Pete fished the room key out of his pocket and was about to insert it into the lock when Quantro laid a restraining hand on his arm. Pete frowned, but Quantro placed a finger to his lips and pointed downwards.
Light showed through the gap under the door.
Quantro checked the number. It was the right room. He waved Pete to one side of the doorway while he took the other, again placing the whiskey bottle on the floor. He drew his Colt and followed the routine they had just used at the old man’s room. When the mechanism of the door handle clicked free he paused for an instant, keeping back out of the line of fire. When