Chris Scott Wilson Writer
her pony behind him. “Sure is friendly, ain’t he?”
White-Wing’s eyes swung from Pete Wiltshire to the man who emerged from the trees. This was the man she had left her people to be with. She was a Chiricahua Apache, one of a small band that had escaped confinement on the reservation at San Carlos to hide out in the Mother Mountains, the blue Sierra Madre, on the head-waters of the Bavispe river in Mexico. There they had found peace from the rurales who hunted them from one side, and the Americans who hunted them from the other. And now she had left them for this blanco, this gringo she had nursed back to health. After he had been shot, she had snatched him back from the very talons of death, watching him grow stronger each day. She had taught him Apache and bastardized Spanish, and with whom she had come to find the meaning of love.
It was why she was here.
“Climb down, Pete, and sit a spell.” Quantro stalked back to the fire, then stooped to shake the coffee-pot. Somehow, he couldn’t face looking at the girl. He had deserted her, deciding it was best to leave her with her own people, where she belonged, rather than taking her out of Mexico with him. His own future lay back across the border and, attracted to her though he was, he knew she could only be a burden to him. But, as she had that time by the pool, it seemed she had again contradicted his decision almost as quickly as he made it. If they hadn’t been interrupted, he would surely have succumbed to her charms. He was aware of his own powerful feelings for her, but something
The Copper City
in him bridled that she should take matters a man should decide into her own hands. As he crouched by the fire, pouring coffee, he glanced sideways at her. Angry as he was, he was still glad she was here. Since he had ridden away from the Apache camp he had felt lonely. That in itself was crazy. It had only been a few hours, and in the two years before Pete had found him dying on the Devil’s Plateau, not far from EI Camino del Diablo, The Devil’s Road, in Arizona Territory, Quantro had been almost constantly alone, riding his solitary mission of vengeance.
Like all trails of vengeance, it had run in circles. After killing the last of the four men responsible for his parents’ murder, he had himself been hunted down by the man’s son. To stay alive, he had killed the boy, but
Anyone who likes westerns must read this Author. You can feel the pain of a bullet, smell the spent cartridge, feel the horse under you, sweat in the relentless desert sun, and feel the coolness of a cold beer in the saloon. The Copper City has clever twists in the tale that keep you guessing until the end. A must read.