The Copper City - Chris Scott Wilson [49]
Quantro took off, riding for the rear of the train. He fetched the horse to a stop just short of the brake van’s bumpers, last in line before he dismounted. Cautiously, he leaned around the end of the van. After a glance he jerked back.
“There’s two ’dobe houses. One level with the back of this car and one just off apiece. If he’s on the high ground like we figured, he won’t have a sightline through them. We’ll get over to the first house, then wait until the train pulls out.” Quantro slipped his boot into the stirrup to remount.
A rifle cracked.
The wood paneling of the brake van splintered barely an inch above Quantro’s head. The buckskin spooked into a rear. Quantro cursed as the horse twisted away from him. His foot slid out of the stirrup and his head slammed into the tooled leather of the saddle. The momentum of his impact with the plunging horse threw him off balance. Keeping a grip on the Winchester but losing the reins, he staggered back.
Pete had been fighting the paint as it danced sideways to avoid the buckskin’s skittering hooves. The rifle barked again. The paint took a hit, the bullet plowing a raw furrow along its neck. It screamed, twisting in mid-air, wall-eyed, neck tendons standing out like whipcord. The buckskin, riderless and free of restraint, wheeled sharply to cut between Pete’s pony and the train. Past, it galloped away toward the locomotive.
Pete fought the wrenching head of the paint, straining to keep his seat and hold on to his Winchester. He was aware of the crashes of the rifle shooting at him, but ignorant of the bullets smashing into the brake van behind him. When he managed to calm the pony a little he decided to move further up the train. That way Upton’s targets would be split. The paint took little urging to flee along the track back toward the boxcar. Level with the still open door, Pete abandoned his saddle and took to the earth. The paint kept on running.
Pete hit the dirt cursing. Upton had fooled them again. Damn the man. He seemed to figure out their every move even before they decided on them. Recouping his breath, Pete levered a shell into the Winchester’s chamber, then set out to get a sight on his target.
The rifle barked again, then Pete heard Quantro’s answering shot. He was relieved. He had been unable to tell if his partner had taken a hit when the buckskin had spooked.
Back along the line, Quantro was sprawled where the sagebrush began. The stock of the Winchester smooth against his cheek, his eyes searched the terrain. The attack had surprised him. He had been so busy working out their own line of assault on the high ground he had been caught totally unprepared. But Upton had missed the first crucial shot and a man never got the same chance twice. Now the odds had evened out. In fact, he and Pete now had the edge. After all, there were two of them and only one of Upton.
The driver of the four o’clock southbound train through Watertank had heard the opening shots of the battle at the rear of the train as he held the filler pipe into the hatch. The water seemed to be taking forever to top up the reservoir. No amount of curses and urging would induce it to fill any quicker. Pale-faced, his eyes flickered toward the sound of gunfire. The fireman was shouting now, but the rush of the water drowned his words. Anyhow, the driver thought, it doesn’t matter what he’s shouting about, we’re getting out of here double quick. The hell with the water. They had enough.
He swung the nozzle away, spewing water out on to the ground. With more agility than one would expect of a man his age, he leapt back down into the cab.
“She stoked?” he yelled. With the fireman’s nod