run of the arrow chapter 6 the copper and old regrets

The Arizona dust tasted like copper and old regrets.
Quinn spat a mouthful of tobacco out the window of the rumbling stagecoach. Beside him, perched on the edge of the velvet seat like a nervous prairie dog, sat Tommy, bundled in an oversized wool coat and gripping a worn wooden toy soldier.
“We almost there, Quinn?” Tommy’s voice was small against the rhythmic clatter of the wheels.
Quinn shifted his Winchester rifle, resting across his lap. “Not near, partner. This stretch of trail between Arizona and the foothills is long. But when we get to that valley… it’ll be worth it. New ground. No one knows our names.”
“But I like our names,” Tommy mumbled, adjusting his hat.
“Yeah, well, sometimes a man needs a new name for a new life. And right now, this stage is carryin’ all the life we got left.”
The air was tense, heavier than the summer heat. Quinn had been watching the horizon, his keen blue eyes scanning the ridges. The driver, a gruff old man named Jessie, had been whipping the team harder than necessary.
Suddenly, a high-pitched, chilling cry pierced the silence—a sound that made the blood run cold.
“Indians!” Jessie roared from the box above.
The stagecoach lurching violently as the horses broke into a panicked, frantic gallop. Outside, the rhythmic thud of hooves was joined by the terrifying snap of rifle fire and the whooping war cries of a raiding party.
“Stay low, partner!” Quinn shoved the boy to the floor, covering him with his body as arrows and bullets slammed into the wood panelling of the coach with sickening thwacks.
“Quinn, I’m scared!”
“We’re fine, partner, just a few bumps in the road!” Quinn tried to sound steady, but his heart was hammering against his ribs. He couldn’t get a clear shot from inside. They were being outflanked. The Indians would soon close in, force the coach to stop, and then… it would be over.
He had to get above them.
Quinn grabbed the door handle, his jaw set in a hard line. “Partner, listen to me. I need you to stay right here and hold this.” He pressed the cold, smooth barrel of the Winchester into the boy’s hands. “Don't touch the trigger. Just hold it tight and don’t move until I tell you.”
Tommy’s eyes were wide with terror, but he nodded, clutching the rifle like a lifeline.
“Good boy.”
Quinn took a deep breath, braced himself, and kicked the door open. The wind immediately tore at him, threatening to rip him from his grip. The stagecoach was careening, bouncing off rocks and ruts at a terrifying speed. It was a blur of spinning wheels, dust, and raw adrenaline.
He had to move. Now.
Quinn shoved the rifle’s strap over his shoulder, drawing his Colt Peacemaker revolver. He squeezed his body out the open doorway, his boots scrabbling for purchase on the narrow foot rail. The ground flashed terrifyingly close beneath the thundering wheels.
The wind screamed in his ears, and the jolting motion threatened to throw his balance with every turn. He was exposed, swinging precariously between the axle and the door frame.
With a grunt of pure effort, Quinn gripped the edge of the roof, his muscles screaming against the violent shaking. He hauled himself up, his body scraping against the thick canvas roofing, until he rolled over the top with a heavy thump.
He was face-to-face with the furious back of Jessie, who didn’t even glance away from his frantic task of guiding the team. “Get ‘em, mister!” Jessie yelled, spitting dust.
Quinn ignored the driver. He dropped to a crouch, his eyes immediately finding the targets. Three riders, mounted on lean, painted ponies, were flanking the coach, closing the distance, their bows and rifles raised.
Quinn raised his Colt, the iron cold and steady in his hand, and sighted down the barrel.
Crack!
Quinn fired, the recoil jolting his arm. One of the riders, who had been lifting his bow, suddenly slumped forward, tumbling from his saddle into the churning dust.
The remaining two riders paused, surprised by the unexpected fire from above. He fired twice more, the shots echoing sharply over the din of the galloping horses. The second rider cried out, clutching his shoulder, and wheeled his horse away. The third, a young brave with a fierce expression, hesitated for only a second, then decided the fight wasn't worth the price, following his wounded companion back toward the safety of the rocky ridges.
Silence, broken only by the panting of the horses and the rhythmic rattle of the coach, settled back over the trail. Quinn lowered his smoking revolver. He was covered in grit and sweat, his knuckles white. He glanced back toward the ridges one last time, making sure they were truly gone, before holstering his weapon.
He punched his fist lightly on the canvas roof. “Clear, Jessie! Keep going!”
Jessie let out a whoop of relief and slowed the team slightly, maintaining a fast but manageable pace.
Quinn cautiously slid back down, easing himself through the open door and back into the relative shelter of the stagecoach. Tommy was still on the floor, clinging tightly to the Winchester. He looked up at Quinn, his eyes glistening, but the terror was giving way to awe.
Quinn sat down, pulling the boy into his chest and taking the rifle back. “See, partner? Just a few bumps. Nothing you and me can’t handle.”
Tommy didn't speak for a moment, then he looked up, his small face streaked with tears and dust. “You… you were like an eagle, Quinn,” he whispered.
Quinn managed a tired, dusty smile and pulled the boy’s hat down over his eyes. “Nah, Kid. Just a cowboy trying to hold onto what’s his. Now rest up. We still got miles to go to that new life.”
He stared out the window at the endless, unforgiving horizon, the dust swallowing the tracks they left behind. The west was a hard place, but Quinn knew one thing for certain: they would keep moving.