The Copper City - Chris Scott Wilson [46]
Pleased at the conclusion he had reached, he made camp in a small clearing protected by some scrub oak where he unloaded the packhorses and hobbled them. There was still maybe four hours to sun-up, so he placed his rifle close to hand and rolled into his blankets.
His dreams were full of silver.
***
Upton squatted on his heels next to the fire as he sipped his coffee. He had eaten, and now on a full stomach he felt well equipped to handle the day ahead. He cast an eye on the saddlebags and smiled.
He had risen at dawn to stalk from the clearing down to the railroad depot, such as it was. At that hour the ticket office had been closed but there had been a time card tacked to the wall. After some difficulty he managed to decipher it into plain language. It said the first southbound from Charleston was due at nine o’clock, with a later one at four in the afternoon. The northbound passed through at ten, then again at six, just before sundown. Just right.
Pleased, he had then surveyed the settlement, considering possibilities. Watertank was barely more than just that. A stopping-place for the locomotives to replenish their holding tanks. There was a small railroad shack backed up by two single-story adobe dwellings near the tracks. With no more to see, Upton set off back toward the clearing. He stopped and selected a spot where he would have an adequate field of fire and where the range would be just right to pick off Quantro and Wiltshire as they left the halt.
His stand chosen, he cooked his breakfast.
When he swallowed the last of the coffee, he tossed the grounds into the dust, and took out his pocket watch. 8:45 a.m. Time to get ready. He returned to the spot he had chosen and hunkered down.
He checked his watch again. Five minutes to nine. Slowly, he jacked shells through the Winchester’s chamber, then collected them up and reloaded the magazine. Two minutes. He squinted into the distance. Nothing.
At five after nine he heard the mournful wail of the train’s whistle. At ten after nine it appeared and hauled to a stop.
Nobody got off.
***
The sign above their heads read: CHARLESTON RAILROAD DEPOT.
“You sure you figured it right?”
“Too late to ask me now,” Quantro replied acidly, then sucked on his cigarette. “If I was wrong, he’s the hell out of it.” He gazed along the tracks once more, noting how the perspective drew the iron rails together in the distance. He was more edgy than he cared to admit even to himself. He wanted to catch Upton badly. The man had killed in cold blood all along the trail and he had put one over on Quantro too in the form of the doped whiskey back in Santa Cruz. He needed to be caught. He was the last person to deserve the silver. “Where is that damn train?” He asked in what he hoped was a casual manner. “What time is it?”
“Quarter after ten. Due any time now.”
Quantro crushed out the cigarette butt with his heel. “If he’s on it, the silver’ll be too heavy for him to manage alone, so his horses’ll be on the train. First off we’ll take a look in the boxcars.”
Pete swung his rifle up so the barrel could rest on his shoulder. “Damn trains. Never on time.”
A man in a brown derby hat and suit approached the tracks. He took one look at their weapons then moved farther along before placing his bag at his feet.
“Better move out of sight. If Upton is on that train and sees us waiting here he’s likely to start blasting.”
They walked to where a spur ran off the main line before it entered the depot. Two empty cars stood on the rails, both with damaged