The Copper City - Chris Scott Wilson [54]
The waterlogged town lay before them. A few days older, Cananea looked no wiser. It was still a hodgepodge of miners’ saloons and whorehouses. The only apparent difference was the rainstorm had transformed the baked earth of the main street into a quagmire. Horses stood head down at the hitching rails, miserable and stiff. Part way along the street a wagon had sunk up to its axles, the teamster mercilessly flaying his straining horses with a bullwhip. It had little effect. And the crowd of onlookers sheltered on the boardwalk were doing nothing to help. A bright splash of turquoise satin moved among the crowd followed by a woman’s coarse voice. The teamster ignored her jeers, the only sign he’d heard her demonstrated by the renewed vigor of his curses and the venom of his whip.
“It stinks here.”
Pete turned. Quantro caught up the spread of saddlebags from behind his saddle, then held them out across the gap between the two horses. The bags were heavy.
The two men exchanged a look.
“Look after them for me. I’m going to talk to Harley. You go up to the house on Capote hill and get White-Wing. Wait for me at the creek on the east side of town where we camped when we first came to this godforsaken place. Don’t make a fire. We’ll be riding as soon as I get there.”
Pete frowned, but Quantro’s gaze had returned to the street. If anything, he appeared even grimmer than before.
“Anything you say.” Pete put his heels to the pony and veered toward the company town, partially obscured by the grey streaks of rain.
Quantro waited until he had gone, then clucked at the buckskin. Obediently, the big horse started forward, plodding through the deepening mud. In front of the Copper Queen, he tethered the buckskin and the six packhorses one by one to the rail, then splashed up onto the boardwalk. The saloon was doing good business.
The bartender eyed him warily.
“Harley around?”
The man jerked his head. “’Cross the street. He’s opening another house over there.”
“House?”
“You know.” The barkeep swiveled his eyes at the ceiling, referring to the girls that plied their trade behind closed doors.
Quantro nodded. He turned back toward the street. He waded across, ignoring the mud as it sucked hopefully at his heels, trying to extend his passing visit. On the boardwalk he was confronted by a heavy door that boasted an inspection hatch. He knocked twice before the panel swung open. Somebody looked him over then called back into the room behind.
“Mr. Harley? It’s Quantro.”
“Well? Let him in, you stupid son of a bitch!”
The door opened and Quantro entered, tipping his hat. “Obliged, friend, but leave it open. I don’t like the smell in here.” His smile was frosty and the doorman didn’t miss the implication of Quantro’s hand gesturing loosely by his gun-butt.
The room was plushly furnished, heavy drapes and rich carpets, even a crystal chandelier. Velvet couches lined the expensively wallpapered walls. In the center Harley sat at a circular table, the inevitable cigar clamped between his white teeth. His eyes sparkled falsely as they fell on Quantro.
“You got it?”
Quantro pursed his lips. “I wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t.”
Harley’s lips drew back from his teeth and he settled himself more comfortably in the chair. “Have a drink. You look like you could use one. Sit down, don’t worry about wetting the chair.”
“I wasn’t going to,” Quantro smiled as he lowered himself on to one of the carved seats, still wearing his dripping slicker. As he reached out for the glass that Harley offered, a rivulet from his hat brim splashed on to the table. Harley stared at it, as though fascinated by the way the water held together in isolated globules on the highly polished surface. Quantro thought he detected a glimmer of distaste, but then Harley covered it.
“You have any trouble?”
Quantro sipped the whiskey as he pretended to consider the question. “Some,” he