The Copper City - Chris Scott Wilson [6]
Harley grinned. “Just making conversation to pass a little time. I didn’t catch your name…” When Quantro didn’t answer, he held up both his hands in gesture of peace. “I didn’t mean to offend you. I just wanted to say how we appreciated the cool way you handled this man.” He motioned to the unconscious miner.
“Who’s ‘we’?”
Harley frowned. “You just lost me.”
“You said how much ‘we’ appreciated it. Who’s ‘we’.”
He shrugged. “Just the good citizens of this town. More drunk miners than enough causing trouble.”
The bartender put the two beers on the bar. Quantro pushed a dollar toward him. The bartender shook his head. “That’s all taken care of.”
Quantro indicated the dollar. “Take it. Nobody pays my way. At least nobody I don’t know.” He said the last with a look over his shoulder.
Harley took his point. “Please yourself.” He turned on his heel and stalked away.
Quantro watched him mount the stairs, then took a long draught from his glass. He wiped the foam from his mouth and jerked his head at the bartender. “Who’s he?”
“Name’s Harley. Some kind of boss up at the mine. He’s very friendly with Mr. Green.”
“The man who owns this place?”
The barkeeper nodded. “Owns the mine too.”
Quantro downed the rest of his beer. “C’mon, Pete, let’s go. Got us some stores to visit.”
The two men went out on to the street where they paused, looking up and down at the store shingles. Green’s Dry Goods store, Green’s Hardware, Green’s Livery, Green’s this, Green’s that.
Quantro shook his head and stepped out across the street toward Green’s Haberdashery. “Is there nothing in this town that this Green feller don’t own?”
“Yeah,” Pete said.
“What?”
“Me.”
Quantro laughed and slapped his friend’s back. “C’mon, we’ve got to go buy a dress.”
***
A small cooking-fire welcomed them back to the campsite outside town. The aroma of rich stew and simmering coffee coaxed them out of the saddle. Pete could see White-Wing squatting by the fire, her Apache dress hidden by a blanket as she stood guard over the cooking-kettle. He came up behind her, sniffing appreciatively.
“I’m hungry.”
She smiled her woman’s smile, her eyes leaving Pete’s face to rake the darkness for Quantro. “I thought you would be.”
Pete hadn’t missed the glance. “Don’t you worry none. He’s seeing to the horses, he didn’t stay in town to find a white woman.”
The ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. Pete read the satisfaction there. “Brought you something, too.” He held out the parcel he had been hiding behind his back.
Like all women, she loved presents. With a last quick stir of the pot, she set it on the fire rocks to simmer. Eagerly, she reached out with both hands for the bundle. When the string was off, she parted the paper and pulled out the peasant dress. To Pete’s eyes it was neither pretty, nor ordinary, but to her it was beautiful. Underneath it in the bundle was a shawl, the type the Spanish women use to pull up over their hair. It would help further disguise the girl’s parentage.
“It’s nothing much, not fine enough for you, White-Wing, but we don’t want you looking too grand, too much like a lady. That’d show us up some.” He chuckled.
“Bello, beautiful,” she enthused, holding the frock up in front of herself to measure the length against her legs. She looked as though she didn’t know what to do next.
“Well, go and put it on,” Pete prodded, shaking his head that she could derive so much pleasure from something that had cost so little. He had thought she wouldn’t want to wear white women’s clothes, but then maybe dressing up would be a new and exciting experience for her.
While she was in the bushes, Quantro finished picketing the horses and came into the circle of the firelight carrying both the saddles. He carefully laid them on their sides to protect the trees, then stood up and looked around. He jerked his head in question.
“She’s just paying a visit in the bushes.”
There was a soft whisper of rustling material. Both men swung around. White-Wing stood before them, eyes demurely downcast.
“Muchas gracias,