The Copper City - Chris Scott Wilson [5]
“Two beers over here,” Quantro said, ready to wash the trail dust from his throat, tossing a dollar in front of him.
“Coming right up.”
“Whiskey here,” the slumped miner demanded, slamming down his second empty bottle and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. The bartender filled two glasses with beer, then placed them on the counter. Quantro reached out. Before his hand could close around the cold glass, the miner swung. The two beers hurtled toward the rack of whiskey bottles behind the bar. They fell short, crashing to the floor. “I said whiskey here! When I call for whiskey no man gets his before me!”
Quantro’s voice was calm, assured. “No man butts in on me either, mister. I called first.”
The miner’s head swiveled, his lips curling into a sneer. “Shut your mouth, boy. When you’re old enough you can talk to men.”
“You mean when my mouth’s as big as yours?”
The miner reared back from the counter, hauling himself up to his full height. In back of him, the bartender was vigorously shaking his head, flashing warning glances at Quantro. It was obvious why. The miner stood a head taller than Quantro, glaring down. His muscles bunched convincingly, straining the cloth of his well-worn work shirt as he leaned forward.
“You wanna say that again, boy?”
Quantro looked up at him, ice-blue eyes cool and distant. “I don’t give a good goddam, mister, how tall you are. I still say you’ve got a big mouth.”
“I’ll show you who’s got a big mouth!” the big man roared. He pulled back his arm to throw a punch. Quantro stepped quickly inside his swing. His boot lashed out to crash into the miner’s knee. The big man howled, his cry a mixture of shock and rage, like a grizzly bear seared with a hot branding iron. There was silence in the saloon. The kick had driven the big man back a step, but now he waded forward. His whiskey-slack face was now grim and determined.
Expressionless, Quantro kicked out again. This time his target was the other knee. The big man faltered, fists swinging out of reach. Effortlessly, Quantro took a pace forward into the circle of arms and drove two swift straight-arm punches to the miner’s gut. He groaned, doubling forward. Just as neatly, Quantro stepped back out of the downward line of travel. His hand snaked to his Colt. The big man’s battered hat fell off as his head came forward. Quantro coldcocked him, the Colt’s barrel creasing the miner’s scalp. He crumpled to the floor.
Quantro looked up to see the bartender holding a leveled shotgun. As he holstered the Colt, the barrels of the scatter-gun went down and the bartender made an apologetic face as he put the gun back under the counter. He raised a tentative smile. “Mr. Green don’t allow no gunplay in here.”
“Mr. Green own this place?” Pete asked.
“He surely does. I thought your friend here,” he gestured to Quantro, “was going to gun down that feller. You understand, gents, I was just…”
“No trouble,” Quantro interrupted with a wave of his hand. “Where’s our beer?”
The bartender broke into a relieved smile. “Coming right up.”
While they waited, Pete gazed down at the felled miner. “Looks as peaceful as a possum.”
“Or a bear in winter,” Quantro grinned. “Asleep’s the best place for him. Can’t stand a man with no manners.”
“Neither can I,” said a voice from behind them.
Quantro turned slowly, his right hand dropping negligently to hover above his holster, ready for trouble.
Instead of another miner, the man in front of them was conservatively dressed in a business suit. He was smiling, showing a broad expanse of white teeth in his scrubbed face.
“I thought you handled that extremely well.” He turned to the barkeeper. “Put their beers on my tab, Barney.”
The barkeep grinned amenably. “Yes sir, Mr. Harley.”
Harley turned back to Quantro and Pete. “Just passing through?”
“Why