The Copper City - Chris Scott Wilson [51]
“Keep him busy, Pete, while I go take a look-see?”
Pete’s reply was a hail of bullets aimed out at the scrub.
Quantro backed off toward the rails, keeping his head well down. But even Pete’s rapid fire wasn’t keeping Upton occupied. Bullets kept on cracking past. The track ran on open ground and there was no other choice but to run. Pete was obviously keeping an eye on him because as he tensed to break, the covering fire stepped up.
Quantro was on his feet and sprinting. He leapt the first rail, his heel coming down hard on a sleeper. He staggered sideways. A bullet snapped by his head. Then he was over the second rail. Two rods distant the adobe house stood silent, its whitewashed walls a beckoning beacon. Behind him, a bullet clipped the rails and sang away into the sky.
Breath rasped in his throat as his legs pounded. It seemed as if he would never reach the safety of the thick walls, but suddenly he was standing there, chest heaving. He brought up the Winchester and leaned back around the wall to squeeze off a shot. He knew he was almost out of range but he felt the need to return fire as some sort of compensation for the gauntlet he had run. As the rifle-butt recoiled into his shoulder one of Upton’s bullets hit the wall by his head. It spat powdered brick at him. Angry, he fired again toward the sagebrush. He worked the Winchester, raising it again before he checked himself. He was doing no good, and the longer he delayed scouting for Upton’s horses the longer Pete would have to stay out in the open.
He edged along the wall to the corner, and from the rear of the building he could see the buckskin and the paint both grazing close to the other house. When there was a break in the shooting out front, Quantro whistled. The stallion’s head came up, then it trotted towards him. The paint spared him only the briefest of glances before its interest waned and it returned to munching grass.
Quantro patted the horse’s neck, clucking softly as he climbed aboard. Reins in one hand, rifle in the other, he wheeled the buckskin and kicked it into a gallop. Behind him, he could still hear the two rifles trading conversation as he raced for the high ground.
***
Upton’s horses were there.
They weren’t hard to find. It was the place anyone arriving after sundown would have chosen. A small clearing protected by a cluster of scrub oaks. They all had drooping heads, energy sucked away by standing loaded all day under the punishment of the Arizona sun. They were huddled at one end of the clearing where a small overhang offered meager protection against the furnace that raged at them from the sky.
As Quantro stalked into the open ground on foot their heads turned in unison, but their eyes registered no sign of welcome or even fear, they merely gazed steadily at him, tails switching lazily at the flies.
Quantro approached, talking softly. They were too tired to do more than twitch their ears half-heartedly. His eyes settled on the bloated saddlebags. His Winchester cradled in the crook of his elbow, he unbuckled a strap, then dipped his hand inside. He plucked a coin away from its bedfellows and brought it out into the sunlight. A silver dollar. He twisted it absently in his fingers as he tried to estimate the total amount the bags contained. Harley had not told him or Pete exactly how much they were supposed to collect from the bank at Santa Cruz. When he had worked it out he whistled.
He fastened the bag and untied the lead animal from its picket. He smiled as he saw Upton’s riding-horse, then moved to hitch it to the end of the line.
Without his horse Upton was caught. There was no route out of the flatland scrub to make his getaway. For a moment Quantro contemplated leading the pack train down to the adobe house where Upton would be able to see them clearly, but then he decided against it. If things went wrong and Upton did manage to escape, he would know exactly where his horses were. Instead, Quantro thought it best to hide them elsewhere, then go alone to circle