The Copper City - Chris Scott Wilson [48]
It had to end here. For once and all.
For the tenth time in as many minutes he checked his pocket-watch. 3:30. Still another half-hour. He listened to make sure it was still ticking. It was. This had to be the longest day he had ever spent. He had dragged out the loading of the pack animals as long as possible, and now they stood roped together in the clearing, ready to go.
But he had to clear up this mess first.
3:35. He swilled his mouth with water from his canteen. It tasted vile, but he swallowed it, thinking that after today he could buy the finest distillations ever to smooth a man’s throat. For all those good things he would be able to buy, it was worth what he was going through now.
3:40. An iron fist opened and closed, gripping his vitals. Damn it, what was he getting all twisted up about? A simple case of two easy shots before they even knew what they were walking into? It was as simple as that. But no matter how many times he churned it over in his mind, replaying the action as it would happen, he was still unable to allay his fears. What would happen if…
And what if… If, if, if.
Too many damned ifs.
***
The four o’clock southbound was due in Watertank in precisely two minutes. The driver, a stickler for punctuality, watched the fireman slam the furnace door before swabbing his forehead with an oily rag. The driver smiled, then dug into his overall pocket for his watch. He used his thumbnail to prize open the lid. 3:58. He leaned out into the slipstream to peer into the distance beyond the bulk of the locomotive. Just right. They were going to be dead on time. Even considering minor hold-ups, refilling the holding tank, they should be on schedule when they pulled out.
Quantro’s guns were long since clean. He spun the cylinder of his .44 Colt one last time as the conductor walked down the swaying car.
“Next stop Watertank. Next stop Watertank.”
Pete caught Quantro’s eye. “How we playin’ it?”
“As it happens.”
“You got it.” Pete looked ready to say more, but the shrill of the whistle from the driver’s cab prevented any further conversation.
Quantro’s shoulders moved. “Let’s go.”
As the train slowed they moved to the door, ready to disembark. A glance over his shoulder told Quantro that there were others coming to their feet. Good. The more confusion the better. He turned back to Pete, who was studying the terrain through the window. Rising ground. Through the opposite window of the car, flatter ground was visible.
“If he’s anywhere, it’ll be up there,” Pete motioned.
“We’ll get off the other side.”
“Okay.” They came away from the door, wary that if Upton was watching he would see them. The longer he was ignorant of their presence the better. The other passengers wore guarded expressions as they stepped aside from the two men who were pushing back through them.
The vibrations underfoot changed rhythm. The clacking of the wheels crossing the track joints slowed and the hypnotic side-to-side effect vanished as the car steadied. The wheels were locked.
“Brakes’re on. Get to the horses as speedy as you can and get out of the open.”
Even before the train stopped, they jumped from the platform on the offside and stood by the track, waiting for the boxcars to draw level. The one carrying the horses had doors on both sides. Quantro used the framework of the chassis as a ladder, then levered off the hasp. Below him, Pete lent a hand to slide the door open. Inside, the buckskin and the paint stood uneasily, snorting, their restless hooves rattling on the thin woodwork.
Quantro gave Pete an arm up, swung inside the car, and climbed into the buckskin’s saddle. “Ain’t going to have no ramp, Pete. Have to jump them out.” Without waiting for Pete’s reaction he bent low over the stallion’s neck so his head wouldn’t hit the roof of the car, then clucked his tongue.
The buckskin