The Copper City - Chris Scott Wilson [52]
Either way, front or rear, Upton was cornered.
***
Upton swore viciously.
He had heard them calling to each other but they had been too far away to distinguish the words clearly. When he saw Quantro break for the rails he had opened fire, but before he saw him racing the buckskin for the high ground he had figured it out. Quantro was going to look for the horses. And the silver.
Upton handled the Winchester as fast as he was able, laying down a murderous fire on Pete’s position. If he could take him out, he had a chance of stopping Quantro.
The bullets had no effect. When the magazine ran dry he began to reload. A bullet crashed through the scrub on his left. That meant Pete Wiltshire was still alive. He looked to the high ground. Quantro had disappeared.
There wasn’t much time.
He would have to make a run for it.
He squeezed off two more shots to keep the old man down by the rails occupied, then squirmed out of the back of the scrub. A bullet followed him, smacking into the dust by his feet. He cursed as he threw himself full length. Without pausing, he rested his rifle across the insides of his elbows, then began to snake along on his belly through the sagebrush.
His elbows were sore and his knees ached when he stopped, sure he was out of Pete’s range. Sweat was streaming down his face and the arm nicked back at the canyon had again begun to bleed. There was no time to worry about it now. He lurched to his feet, and with the rifle dangling loosely from his right hand he started to run.
Every moment counted. He followed the circular route he had taken earlier that day down from the high ground. His lungs worked like bellows, gulping at the dry air that sandpapered his throat until it felt like a raw funnel. Sweat poured down his forehead and into his eyes and he continually shook his head to free his eyelashes of the moisture that threatened to blind him. He heard the bark of Pete Wiltshire’s rifle behind him more than once but the bullets must have fallen far short because he didn’t hear them pass. Perhaps the old fool was still shooting at the scrub.
His legs were beginning to drag as each step demanded more effort than the last. His thighs were screaming. The dull ache in his chest had become a searing pain, but he drove himself onward. Each time he slowed to a walk he thought of the silver. And Quantro. Most of all Quantro. Just the name brought a grimace of hatred to his dusty face. His tired muscles fed on the anger. To lose everything now.
He was close.
Carefully, holding down the thunder of his heart, which promised to burst his chest, Upton scouted the scrub oak that hemmed the clearing where he had left his horses. Crouched in the timber he waited for his sawing breath to ease and the drumming of rushing blood to subside in his ears. When he could wait no longer he crept forward, fingers of one hand probing the ground ahead as the other steadied the rifle.
The horses were still there.
Through a break in the branches he could discern their shapes. They were on the move. As he came to the edge of the oaks a set of saddlebags followed closely by a roan rump passed his face almost near enough for the tip of his rifle barrel to scrape the horse’s side.
Now to kill Quantro.
Upton pushed out of the trees, elbowing the passing horse out of his way. Startled by his sudden appearance the animal side-stepped. Upton strained to catch sight of Quantro over the packsaddle, but the line of horses curved away to the right, effectively covering his target. Quantro must be on foot. As another pack animal passed, Upton’s eyes flickered behind him to the end of the line. His riding horse was roped last.
Grinning suddenly, he watched for a gap that would allow him a shot as he waited for his horse to draw level. When it did, with fumbling fingers he unhitched the lead rope. As the pack-train moved clear he went under the horse’s neck and got his foot into the stirrup.
Elation surged through him as he settled into the saddle. He urged the horse forward to overtake the line.