The Copper City - Chris Scott Wilson [44]
The only reaction from the room’s occupant was a hollow, racking cough from the bed.
When there was no gunfire to welcome them, Quantro stepped towards the bed where the dim light from the bedside lamp outlined a figure laid full length. The man seemed to be on his side, hands clutching at his stomach, his face away from the light.
Reaching the table, Quantro held his gun next to the man’s head at point-blank range while he used his free hand to turn up the lamp’s wick. As the spread of light increased he was able to make out the figure’s details more clearly. Whoever it was, he was badly wounded. Blood trickled between the fingers pressed to his stomach. Gut shot. The face was still in shadow.
Quantro leaned over him, holding up the lantern.
The wounded man coughed again, this time weaker than the last, his shoulders bunching as his stomach muscles contracted, hands clutching even tighter against his bloody shirt. As the light splashed across his face his eyes lazily opened, no recognition in the pupils, vision turned inwards against the enveloping pain. He wore no weapon, his gunbelt hanging from the head rail of the bed, the leather darkly stained with blood.
As Quantro holstered his Colt, Pete crossed the room from his post by the door. He took one look at the man’s face and sniffed.
“Well, he ain’t going to hurt nobody, least of all us.”
“But what’s he doing here?” Quantro asked. “I thought you and me’d be the last folks he’d want to see.”
Pete’s shoulders moved. “You’d better ask him.”
Quantro’s eyes returned to the man on the bed.
It was Dobey. And he was dying.
But what was he doing here?
CHAPTER 11
“How long d’you think he’ll last?” Quantro asked, holding the lantern closer to the mess of innards that Dobey’s hands were trying their best to keep from falling out all over the bed.
“Another five minutes if he’s lucky. Morning if he’s unlucky,” Pete muttered. “I’ve seen men gut shot who’ve lasted five days, but most don’t make it beyond a couple of hours. He ain’t got a chance. You’d be doing him a favor if you shot him now.” He crossed to the doorway to collect Quantro’s whiskey, then kicked the door shut and sat down in the room’s only chair. He bit at the cork and spat it into the corner. He rolled a mouthful of whiskey around his teeth before swallowing. “He ain’t going to tell us nothing.”
Quantro studied Dobey’s face where the sweat stood out like raindrops on his forehead and his mouth twisted in agony. He had still given no sign he recognized them, or that he even knew they were there. It looked as though Pete was right, Dobey wasn’t going to come up with any answers. Even if the doctor had been in town, there was nothing he could have done. There was nothing anybody could do except watch him die.
“Here.” Pete held out the bottle.
Quantro took it and sat down on the floor, his back to the wall. The whiskey burnt a furrow all the way down to his stomach. He checked the label. Taos Lightning. It was too. He wondered when the thunder would come.
The bottle was empty when Quantro’s head sagged forward, chin jammed against his chest, eyes captured by the army of sleep.
A hand shook his shoulder roughly. He forced his eyes open. Pete stooped over him, jaw angular and urgent in the weak light.
“What?” he muttered, trying to free his brain from the sucking swamp in his head.
“He’s calling. Saying your name over and over again.”
“Who?”
“Dobey. He ain’t dead yet.”
Quantro came off the wall, wincing as a crick shot an arrow of pain lancing through the back of his skull. Now he knew when the thunder came. Always after the lightning. He stood by the bed, peering down. Dobey’s eyes flickered open and widened so that his eyebrows pushed a flurry of wrinkles up his forehead. His eyeballs were bloodshot, feverish, turning toward the man bending over him. His mouth was tight, and when his lips parted short breaths whistled through his clenched teeth.
“Quantro?”
“I’m here.”
“You didn