Ghost Valley

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Ghost Valley: The Last Gunfighter

by William W. Johnstone

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Copyright (c)2001 by William W. Johnstone

*One*

Frank Morgan rode into Glenwood Springs in Colorado Territory late in the afternoon, following the trail of Victor Vanbergen and Ned Pine, the outlaw leaders who had held his son, Conrad, for ransom. Conrad was safe now, after Frank's deadly encounter with two outlaw gangs. He'd left a trail of blood and graves in his wake to free his boy, but the business wasn't finished until Vanbergen and Pine paid for their mistake.

Frank had given up his old ways, the gunfighting trade, years earlier, but when his boy was taken prisoner by Pine and Vanbergen, he had opened an old trunk he kept under his bed and cleaned both of his pistols. There were some things even a peace-loving man couldn't tolerate.

He stopped his horse at a weed-choked cemetery near the edge of town when he saw an old man standing near the wrought-iron fence around the grave markers. Frank's brown dog growled. The old fellow turned around and gave him a look.

"Howdy," Frank said. He silenced Dog with a sharp whistle.

The man nodded. "You're a stranger to these parts," he said. "I reckon you came to see the famous Doc Holliday."

"That's not why I'm here," Frank replied. "I've heard about Holliday and the OK Corral shootings down in Tombstone. I didn't know he was here in Glenwood Springs."

"He came here to die. He's got consumption."

"I didn't know," Frank told him.

"We've got us a sanitarium in town. Lots of folks used to come here to take them hot mineral baths. Makes 'em live longer, or so I hear. This place is nearly a ghost town now.

"Holliday's almost dead, but he gets visitors from time to time who want to see what he looks like. There was this story in the _Glenwood Springs Herald_ about how Doc Holliday used to be a dentist. He had this unusual sign above his office. I seen a tintype of it."

"What did the sign say that was so interesting?" Frank wanted to know.

The old man frowned. "It went somethin' like this, that if satisfaction with my dental work ain't given, your money will be given back."

Frank chuckled, then got back to the business at hand. "I'm looking for a couple of men who passed this way. They had some other men with them. One's name is Ned Pine, and the other is Victor Vanbergen."

"Hell, stranger, damn near everybody in these parts knows Ned Pine. He's a killer, wanted by the law. Are you some kind of lawman?"

"No."

"You're sure packin' a lot of iron on that horse. A rifle an' a shotgun."

Frank ignored the remark. He also carried a pistol under his coat that the man apparently hadn't noticed. "Have you seen Pine around this town lately?"

"No, sir, I sure ain't."

Frank was distracted when he saw a figure in the shadows of a tree at the back of the cemetery. "Who is that?" he asked as he opened his coat for a better reach toward his gun if the need arose.

"Who are you talkin' about, mister?" the old man asked when he stared across the fence.

"That man ... he looks like an Indian." Frank pointed to the back of the cemetery. Dog growled again, fur rigid on his back.

"There ain't nobody there."

Frank saw the figure move away from the back fence of the graveyard. "There he goes now, the fella with long hair dressed in a buckskin shirt. He's walking into that stand of pines behind the fence."

"You must be plumb blind, stranger. There ain't nobody near them trees."

"He's gone now," Frank muttered. "I don't suppose it matters who he was."

The old man turned away. "There's some who claim they can see the Old Ones. The Ones Who Came Before, they call 'em. The Anasazi Injuns used to live here ... they got mud houses up in the mountains, only they all died off a long time ago. Some folks claim they can see 'em near this buryin' place every now an' then, only they ain't real, like ghosts or somethin'. Most folks in town don't pay no attention to it."

"But I did see someone ... he was dressed like an Indian," Frank said. "My dog saw him too."

"Look, mister, there ain't nothin' wrong with my eyes an' I damn sure didn't see nobody where you was pointin'. Maybe you oughta get yourself a pair of spectacles."

"I can see well enough."

Frank reined his horse toward Glenwood Springs. He was a shade over six feet tall, broad-shouldered and lean-hipped, a very muscular man. He was in his mid-forties, and had carried the doubtful brand of a gunfighter ever since he was fifteen years old and was forced into a gunfight with an older man down in Texas.

Frank had killed the man, and several years later he had been forced into a gunfight with the man's brothers.

He had killed them all with deadly precision.

His reputation as a gunfighter had been etched in stone from that day forward. That was many, many years in the past, many gunfights ago.

The number of dead men Frank left behind him could not equal that of Smoke Jensen and a few others, nor did Frank want it to, but nonetheless that number was staggeringly high. He didn't count the dead any longer. Frank had not started a single one of those gunfights, but he had finished them all.

Frank had married in Denver, a lovely girl named Vivian, but her father, a wealthy man, hated Frank. He framed him for a crime he did not commit, then said he would not pursue it if Frank would leave and never see Vivian again.

Frank had no choice; he pulled out of Denver and didn't see or hear from Vivian for years. Her father had the marriage annulled.

Vivian remarried and took over her father's many businesses after his death, and she became one of the wealthiest women in America. Vivian's husband had died a few years back. She had a son, Conrad, and it was not until years later that Frank learned the young man was his own.

It came as quite a shock.

Frank had drifted into a mining town in northern New Mexico and discovered that Vivian was there, overseeing a huge mining operation. But a few weeks later, after Frank and Vivian had begun to pick up the pieces of their lives and get back together, Vivian was killed and their son was kidnapped by the Ned Pine and Victor Vanbergen gangs.

Frank swore to track them all down and kill them, even if it took him the rest of his life.

He dreamt of the men who had faced his guns in the past and died for their folly ... there was that kid in Kansas in that little no-name town right after the war. Billy something-or-other, about eighteen or so. Frank had tried to warn the kid off, had done his best to walk away from him, but Billy had insisted on forcing Frank's hand in a deadly duel.

Billy died on the dirty floor of the saloon that night. He hadn't even cleared leather before Frank's bullet tore into his heart.

There was that older man in Arizona Territory, one afternoon years ago, who called Frank out into the street in the mistaken belief that Frank had killed his brother.

Frank repeatedly told the man he'd never heard of the man's brother and to go away and leave him alone, but the man persisted, cursing Frank and calling him yellow.

Seconds later the man went for his gun, and in a single heartbeat was gut-shot, writhing in pain and dying in the street.

Frank turned away, mounted up, and rode out of town at a jog trot.

Then there was the fight with the father and his sons to haunt him. Frank had stopped off in a small blot on the map in the panhandle of Texas for supplies.

There was a liquored-up young man in the store/trading post/saloon. The young man had a bad mouth and an evil temper that fateful day.

He kept bothering Frank, who just tried to ignore him, but the punk kept pushing and pushing, and he finally made the fatal mistake of putting his hands on Frank.

Frank didn't like people to put hands on him. He flattened the young man with a big hard right fist and left him on the floor.

Someone yelled for Frank to watch out. Frank turned, his .45 ready in his hand. The punk had leveled a .44 at him with the hammer trimmed back.

Frank shot him right between the eyes and made a big mess on the floor, a bloody mess.

The young man's father and his other two sons caught up with Frank on the trail about a week later.

The father and sons didn't believe in much conversation. They opened fire on Frank as soon as they got within range.

Frank headed for an upthrusting of rocks and brush, and an all-day battle ensued. The father and one of his sons were killed, the remaining son badly wounded. Frank patched up the wounded boy as best he could, buried the two others, and pulled out.

There wasn't much else he could do.

He remembered the time he found a family butchered by Indians. Frank was prowling through the ruins of the cabin when a small posse from a nearby town rode up, and in their ugly rage they thought Frank had committed the atrocity. That was a very ugly scene, involving a hanging rope ... until Frank filled both hands with Colts.

He made a believer out of the sheriff and what remained of his posse before the affair was over, a bloody shootout and a pile of corpses.

Frank made it a habit to avoid Arizona Territory for several years after that. He knew there would be a price on his head in Arizona.

He rode into Glenwood Springs now, and halted his horse in front of the town's only hotel, Gold Miner's Lodge. He pulled off his hat and ran fingers through dark brown hair peppered with gray, making a mental note to buy a comb or a brush. Then he popped the cover on his pocket watch and checked the time. It was past four o'clock.

He glanced at his image in the hotel's front window after he swung down from the saddle.

"You're too old for this kind of life," he muttered, tying off his horse, wishing for the comforts of a soft bed and a decent meal after so many days on the trail.

But his advancing age would do nothing to turn him away from a rendezvous with Ned Pine and Victor Vanbergen. All he had to do was find them, make them pay in blood for what they had done to his son and wife.

He needed to find a place to stable his horse after he hired a room for the night. Then a hot bath, a shave, and a haircut before inquiring about the best beefsteak in town.

He made himself a promise as he climbed the steps leading to the hotel. After he found Pine and Vanbergen he would put his guns away for good.

"Hey, mister," a voice called from the hotel veranda.

Every muscle in Frank's body tensed, he made ready to claw iron.

An old man was sitting on a bench whittling on a stick. "Are you Frank Morgan the gunslinger?"

"My name's Frank Morgan," he said. "Thought I recognized you. Are you out to kill somebody in this ol' ghost town? Ain't many of us to choose from."

Frank wagged his head. "Just looking for a clean room, a hot bath, and something decent to eat."

He went inside before there was a chance for more conversation about his past, a past he wanted to forget.

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*Two*

Frank couldn't help recalling his last run-in with Vanbergen and Ned Pine, and how close he had come to putting both of them in an early grave.

* * * *

Two hours of following Ned and his men through dense forests along a winding road had put an edge on Frank's nerves. The pair of gunmen at the rear had fallen back about a hundred yards, and they seemed to be talking softly to each other. Frank wondered about them, why they were dropping farther back. Were they planning to run out on Ned?

"Time I made my move," Frank said, tying off his horses in a pine grove. On foot, he approached a turn in the road where the two outlaws would be out of Ned's line of vision for a short time.

He was taking a huge risk ... that gunshots might force Ned to shoot Conrad. But the boy was lashed over his saddle and by all appearances, he was unconscious ... perhaps even dead. It was a gamble worth taking.

Frank slipped up to a thick ponderosa trunk where the road made a bend. He opened his coat and swept his coattails behind the butts of his twin Peacemakers.

When the distance was right, he stepped out from behind the tree to face the gunmen.

"Howdy, boys," he said, bracing himself for what he knew would follow. "You've got two choices. Toss your guns down and ride back wherever you came from, or go for those pistols. It don't make a damn bit of difference to me either way. I'd just as soon kill you as allow you to ride off."

"Morgan!" one of the riders spat.

"You've got my name right."

Before another word was said, the second outlaw clawed for his six-shooter. Frank jerked his right-hand Colt and fired into the gunman's chest.

The man was knocked backward out of his saddle when his horse spooked at the sound of gunfire, tossing its rider over the cantle of his saddle into the snow as the sorrel gelding ran off into the trees.

But it was the second man Frank was aiming at now, as the fool made his own play.

Frank fired a second shot. His bullet struck the outlaw in the head, twisting it sideways on his neck as he slumped over his horse's withers. But when the bay wheeled to get away from the loud noise, the gunman toppled to the ground. Blood spread over the snow beneath his head.

The bay galloped off, trailing its reins.

Frank walked over to both men. One was dead, and the other was dying.

With no time to waste, Frank took off at a run to collect his saddle horse to go after Ned Pine. The only thing that mattered now was saving Conrad's life ... if the boy wasn't already dead, or seriously injured.

* * * *

Pine heard Frank's horse galloping toward him from the rear and he looked over his shoulder, reaching inside his coat for his pistol. Frank had to make a dangerous shot at long range before Ned put a bullet in Conrad.

Frank aimed and fired, knowing it would take a stroke of luck to hit Pine. But the fates were with Frank when the horse Conrad was riding tried to shy away, breaking its reins, dashing off into the trees with the boy roped to the seat of its saddle.

Frank knew he had missed Pine, even though the bullet had been close. Pine spurred his horse, firing three shots over his shoulder as he galloped off in another direction, continuing northward.

Frank understood what he had to do. Finding out about his son's condition was more important than chasing down a ruthless outlaw. There would be plenty of time for that later, after he got Conrad to safety.

"We'll meet again somewhere, Pine," he growled as he reined into the trees to follow Conrad's horse.

Moments later, he found his son and the horse. Jumping down from the saddle, he ran over to his son.

"Are you okay, Conrad?"

Conrad blinked. "My head hurts. One of them hit me." Then he gave Frank a cold stare. "What are you doing here? Why did you come?"

"I came to get you back," Frank replied as he began unfastening the lariat rope holding Conrad across the saddle. He pulled out his knife and cut the ropes binding Conrad's wrists and ankles.

Conrad slid to the ground on uncertain legs, requiring a moment to gain his balance. "How come you were never there when I was growing up, Frank Morgan?" he asked, a deep scowl on his face. "I wish the hell you'd never come here."

"It's a long story. I'm surprised your mother didn't tell you more about it. It had to do with her father. And I was framed for something I didn't do."

"Save your words," Conrad said, rubbing his sore wrists. "I don't ever want to see you again the rest of my life. You mean nothing to me."

Frank's heart sank, but he knew he'd done the only thing he could.

He was distracted by the sounds of horses coming down a hill above the road. Frank reached for a pistol, then recognized Tin Pan and his mule, although someone else, a man in a derby hat, was riding with him.

Tin Pan and the stranger rode up.

"Nice shootin', Morgan," Tin Pan said. "We saw it from up that slope when you gunned down those two toughs. Couldn't get down in time to help you, although it didn't appear you needed any help."

"I saw the whole thing," the stranger said. "You're every bit as fast as they say you are. You killed two men, and you made it look easy."

Tin Pan chuckled, giving Conrad a looking over before he spoke. "This here's Mr. Louis Pettigrew from the _Boston Globe,_ Morgan. He came all the way to Colorado Territory to get an interview with you."

"You picked a helluva bad time, Mr. Pettigrew," Frank said quickly. "Right now, I'm taking my son back to Durango. He's been through a rough time and he may need to see a doctor. He has a gash on top of his head."

Conrad stiffened. "Don't ever call me your son again, Mr. Frank Morgan. You never were a father to me. You ran out on me and my mother."

Frank shrugged. "Suit yourself, Conrad, only that isn't exactly true. Maybe, after you've had time to think about it, we can talk about what happened back when you were born. It'll take some time to explain."

"I'd rather not hear it," Conrad said, sulking. "You weren't there when I needed you, and that's all that mattered to me, or my mother."

Tin Pan gave Frank a piercing stare. "Sounds like you oughta left this ungrateful boy tied to this horse while Ned Pine took him to Gypsum Gap."

Frank didn't care to talk about it with a stranger. "What about Vic Vanbergen and his bunch? Have you seen any sign of them on this road?"

"Sure did," Tin Pan replied, "only some of 'em turned back and took off at a high lope. He ain't got but half a dozen men with him now, but we're liable to run into 'em on the trail back south. There could be trouble."

"I can handle trouble," Frank remarked, stalking off to get his saddle horse and packhorse. Conrad's harsh words were still ringing in his ears.

"I never knew anyone could be so fast with a pistol," Louis Pettigrew said. "But I saw it with my own two eyes. What a story this will make!"

Frank ignored the newsman's remark. There was another story that needed to be told, in detail, to his son. Apparently, Conrad didn't know all of the truth about why Frank had had to leave his beloved Vivian.

He mounted up and rode back to the trail. Conrad was still struggling to mount the outlaw's horse.

"Let's head southwest," Frank said. "I'll ride out front to be sure this road is clear."

"We'll be right behind you," Tin Pan declared. "Conrad Browning did not say a word as they left the scene of his rescue.

* * * *

Seven mounted men were crossing a creek at the bottom of a draw when Frank, Tin Pan, Pettigrew, and Conrad came to the crest of a rise.

"That's Vanbergen," Louis Pettigrew said. "He's the one who told me all those false tales about you."

Frank stepped off his horse with his Winchester .44-40, levering a shell into the firing chamber. "I'll warm them up a little bit," he said. "You boys pull back behind this ridge. I'm gonna pump some lead at 'em."

"The one in the gray hat is Vanbergen," Pettigrew said as he turned his horse.

"I know who Victor Vanbergen is," Frank growled. He'd put a bullet in the outlaw's hip not too long ago, and he was certain that Vanbergen remembered it.

Frank aimed for Vanbergen as his horse plunged across the shallow stream.

"Good to see you again, Vic," Frank whispered, triggering off a well-placed shot, jacking another round into the firing chamber as the roar of his rifle filled the draw.

Vanbergen's body jerked. He bent forward and grabbed his belly, but before Frank could draw another careful bead on him, he spurred his horse into some trees on the east bank of the creek.

The other gunmen wheeled their horses in all directions and took off at a hard run. One rider fired a harmless shot over his shoulder before he went out of sight on the far side of the dry wash.

"I got him," Frank said, searching the trees for Vanbergen as gun smoke cleared away from his rifle.

But to Frank's regret, he saw Vanbergen galloping his horse over a tree-studded ridge, aiming due north. Seconds later he was out of sight.

"I'll find you one of these days, Vic," Frank said, grinding his teeth together. He strode back over the ridge and swung up in the saddle, booting his rifle.

"Did you get any of 'em?" Tin Pan asked.

"I shot Vanbergen in the belly. If Lady Luck is with me he's gut-shot and he'll bleed to death. But if he's still alive, one of these days I'll find him and settle this score for good."

Conrad glowered at Frank. "Mom was right. You're nothing but a killer."

"There were circumstances back then," Frank explained. "If you give me the chance, I'll tell you about them."

"I don't want to hear a damn thing you have to say, Frank. The only thing I want is for you to leave me alone."

Frank tried to push the boy's remarks from his mind. The kid couldn't know what he'd been through back when Vivian was alive, or what her father had done to him.

A time would come when Frank would get the chance to tell his side of the story. In the meantime, he'd take the boy back to Durango and let a doctor check him over.

Then there was other unfinished business to attend to when he got back, and the thought of it brought a slight smile to his rugged face.

Frank had a good future if he made the most of it. He only hoped that one of these days Conrad would come around. At least listen to Frank's side of the story.

"I hope you'll grant me the time for an interview," Louis Pettigrew said.

"We'll see," Frank replied. "It depends...."

* * * *

And Conrad was safe now, even though the boy resented him for reasons he'd never fully understand. It was a burden Frank would have to bear, probably for the rest of his life. Conrad would never understand what had happened between his mother and Frank and Vivian's father. Some things were best left alone, even if they caused deep personal pain.

But affairs would not be completely settled until Frank found Pine and Vanbergen. This was what had brought him into the most rugged regions of the Rockies. Pine and Vanbergen had to pay for what they'd done.

He strolled up to the hotel desk. "I need a room for the night," he said to a balding clerk.

"Cash in advance, mister. Two dollars hard money."

Frank laid two silver dollars on the counter. "I hope you've got a bathhouse."

"Sure do, stranger," the clerk said, handing him a pen so he could sign the register. "No offense intended, but you smell like you could use one. Just follow that hallway out to the back and Bessie will bring you pails of hot water. The bath, and the towels, cost ten cents."

Frank tossed a dime down before he signed "F. Morgan" on a page of the register. "Now if you can direct me to a good livery stable, I'll make arrangements for my horse."

"There ain't but one. It's at the end of Main Street."

Frank nodded and walked outside. Dog was waiting for him on the porch. Most of the buildings in town were empty, with boards over the windows. Glenwood Springs had the odor of decay about it.

"Let's go, Dog," he muttered, untying his horse, aiming for the livery. He still wondered about the shadowy figure he'd seen at the cemetery. There was nothing wrong with Frank's eyes.

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*Three*

Sitting in a warm, soapy cast-iron bathtub, he thought back to his arrival at the edge of town. Sipping a bottle of whiskey he'd bought at a saloon next to the hotel, he recalled the figure he'd seen at the cemetery and the old man who'd told him that from time to time, some folks saw ghostlike figures of the Old Ones, the Ones Who Came Before. Frank wasn't a superstitious man, and what he'd seen, the man in buckskins, hadn't been a product of his imagination. He was sure of that.

Then he let his mind drift, enjoying the warmth of his bath and the whiskey, remembering what had started this whole affair and what had brought him to this part of Colorado Territory.

It had begun with a quest to rescue his son from two gangs of outlaws. Then there was the incident with Charlie Bowers....

* * * *

"You're a sneaky bastard, Morgan," Charlie Bowers said, lying in a patch of bloody snow, his shoulder leaking crimson fluid onto the snowfall. "Nobody ever snuck up on me like that before."

"There's a first time for everything. Tell me where they took my boy, and who has him. The trail split a few miles back and I need to know what tracks to follow. Don't lie to me or I'll finish you off right here. A bullet in the right place will send you to eternity. Where the hell are they taking my son?"

"Ned and his bunch have got him."

"Where's Victor Vanbergen?"

"They turned toward the river, to throw off any pursuit if you or some posse from Durango was getting too close. Ned's being real careful about this, and so is Vanbergen. They know about your old reputation."

"Conrad's with Pine?"

"Yeah. Sam and Buster and Josh too. Mack and Curtis are ridin' rear guard. Arnie and Scott rode on ahead to get the cabin ready. They figured you'd be behind them all the way, once you picked up their trail. Hell, they're expecting you to show up."

"The cabin? What cabin?"

"It's an old hideout. Sits beside Stump Creek at the edge of the badlands. Way back in a box canyon. Ned's gonna send somebody back to Durango to tell you where the ransom money is supposed to be dropped off."

"Ned Pine's gotta be crazy. He knows I don't have that kind of money. Hell, all I'm gonna do is kill him and every one of his sidekicks."

Charlie winced when the pain in his shoulder worsened. "It ain't gonna be as easy as you make it sound. They don't figure you've got big money. All Ned and Victor aim to do is kill you when you show up. They've got grudges against you from way back, and they won't rest easy till you're dead. Like I told you, it ain't gonna be easy gettin' close to 'em. They're gonna be ready for you."

"Depends," Frank said, squatting near Bowers.

"Depends on what?"

Frank chuckled mirthlessly. "On how mad I am when I get to that cabin."

"There's too many of 'em, Morgan. One of them will get you before you reach the kid. Ned Pine's about as good with a gun as any man I ever saw. He's liable to kill you himself, if the others don't beforehand."

"I wish him all the luck," Frank said. "I've been trying to quit the gunfighter's trade for several years. Then some bastard comes along like Ned Pine, or Vic Vanbergen, and they won't let it rest. But I can promise you one thing...." Frank stared off at graying skies holding a promise of evening snow, a winter squall headed into the mountains.

"What's that, Morgan?"

Frank glared down at Bowers. "I'll kill every last one of them. I may be a little bit rusty, but I can damn sure take down Ned Pine and his boys. One at a time, maybe, but I'll damn sure do it. Vanbergen don't worry me at all. He's yellow. He won't face me with a gun."

"Everybody says The Drifter is past his prime, Morgan. I've heard it for years. You got too old to make it in this profession and folks know it."

"Maybe I am too old. Ned Pine and his owlhoots are about to test me, and then we'll see if old age has caught up to me. We'll know when this business is finished. It depends on who walks away."

"You damn sure don't act scared," Bowers hissed, clenching his teeth when more pain shot from his shoulder. "Ned claims you ain't got the nerve you used to have, back when you made a name for yourself. Hell, that was more'n twenty years ago, according to Ned."

Frank chuckled again. "I never met a man I was afraid of ... leastways not yet."

"You gonna leave me here to die?" Bowers asked.

"Nope. I'm gonna take your guns and put you on that stolen stud. I'll tie your bandanna around your shoulder so you don't lose too much blood. It'll be up to you to find your way out of these mountains and canyons. I'm giving you a fifty-fifty chance to make it out of here alive. It's better odds than I aimed to give you."

"But I'm hurtin' real bad. I don't know if I can sit a saddle."

Frank shrugged, standing up with the ambusher's rifle cradled in his arm. "Better'n being dead, son. I'll fetch your horse and help you into the saddle."

"But Durango's fifty miles from here, across rough country to boot."

Frank halted on his way into the trees. "I can put you out of your misery now, if that's what you'd prefer. A slug right between the eyes and you won't feel a damn thing. You'll just go to sleep."

"You'd murder a man in cold blood?"

"Wasn't that what you were tryin' to do to me?"

Bowers laid his head back against a rotted tree trunk. "I reckon I'm obliged for what you're gonna do ... I just ain't all that sure I'm gonna make it to town."

"Life don't have many guarantees, Bowers," Frank said. "You got one chance to make it. Stay in your saddle and aim for Durango. Otherwise, you're gonna be buzzard food. Hold on real tight to that saddle horn and if you know how to pray, you might try a little of that too."

* * * *

He brought the bay stud back to the clearing. Bowers lay with his head on the rotten log, groaning softly, his shoulder surrounded by red snow.

"Sit up, Bowers," Frank demanded. "I'm gonna tie a bandanna around your shoulder.

"Jesus, my shoulder hurts," Bowers complained. "I don't think I can make it plumb to Durango."

"Suit yourself," Frank said. "You can lie here and bleed to death, or you can sit that horse and test your luck riding out of these mountains."

"You're cold-blooded, Morgan."

"I'm supposed to stop looking for my son long enough to help a no-good son of a bitch who was trying to ambush me?" he asked, his face turning hard. "You'd have left me for dead if you'd gotten off the first shot. Don't preach me any sermons about what a man's supposed to do."

"I ain't gonna make it," Bowers whimpered. "I've lost too much blood already."

"Then just lie there and go to sleep," Frank said. "It won't take too long. First, you'll get real cold. The chills will set in. Then you won't be able to keep your eyes open. In an hour or two, you'll doze off. That'll be the last thing you know."

"Damn, Morgan. You could take me to the closest doctor if you wanted."

"I don't have the inclination, Bowers. You and the man you work for have taken my son. He's eighteen years old. You want me to cough up a big ransom, more money than there is in the whole territory of Colorado, only you know I can't pay it. Ned Pine and the rest of you figured you'd lure me into a death trap, only I've got news for Ned. A death trap works two ways. The man who lays it can get killed just as easy as the bait he's tryin' to lure into it. Pine and Vanbergen are about to find out how it works."

"Help me on that horse, Morgan."

"I said I would. I'll tie a rag around your wound so the hole in you won't leak so bad."

"You got any whiskey?"

"Sure do. A pint of good Kentucky sour mash, only I ain't gonna waste any of it on you. It's gonna get cold tonight. I figure it's gonna snow. The whiskey I've got is gonna help me stay warm. I don't give a damn if you get froze stiff before you get back to Durango."

"You ain't got no feelings, Morgan."

"Not for trash like you. Nothing on earth worse than a damn bushwhacker."

"It's what Ned told me to do."

"Then ask Ned or Victor for some of their whiskey. Mine is staying in my saddlebags."

"I ain't gonna make it," Charlie said again as he tried to sit up.

"I'll notify your next of kin that you tried as hard as you could," Frank said, pulling off Bowers's bandanna. "Now sit up straight and pull off your coat so I can tie this around that shoulder as tight as I can."

"It damn sure hurts," Bowers said, sliding his mackinaw off his damaged arm.

"A shame," Frank told him. "Seems like they ought to make a slug that don't cause any pain when it takes a rotten bushwhacker down. No sense in hurting a dirty back-shooter any more than it's absolutely necessary."

He hoisted Charlie Bowers into the saddle, the mackinaw covering the bandage Frank had made for his shoulder wound. As the sun lowered in the west, spits of snow had already begun to fall.

"Tell me where I find Stump Creek," Frank said. "Then direct me to the cabin."

"Stump Creek is due west ... maybe ten more miles across this bunch of ravines. When you get to the first creek, you swing north. Stump Creek winds right up in that canyon where the cabin is hid."

"If there isn't any cabin, or any creek, I'm gonna come looking for you," Frank warned.

"It's there. They're both there. When you get to the canyon they'll have a guard or two posted high on them rock walls on either side. Watch your ass."

"I always do. Now you'd best head for Durango. It'll take you all night to make the ride."

"It's snowin', Morgan. How about just one sip of the sour mash?"

"I already told you ... I don't waste good whiskey on back-shooters. Besides, you've got a leak in your arm. Why let good whiskey spill out on the ground?"

"You're a bastard, Morgan."

"Maybe so. But I'm still alive. Unless you get to Durango by sunrise, the same can't be said for you. Keep that horse aimed southeast. Don't let go of the saddle horn. If you're as tough as you say you are, you'll make it."

"And if I don't? What if I freeze to death?"

"You'll make a good meal for the coyotes and wolves. Now get riding."

"How 'bout giving me back my rifle. I may need it if the wolves get too close. They can smell blood."

"No deal. You used it to take a shot at me. What's to keep you from trying it again?"

"You've got my word, Morgan. All I'm trying to do is stay alive."

"Then you'll have to do it without a gun, Bowers. Heel that horse southeast."

"I wish I'd have killed you, Drifter."

Frank gave him a one-sided grin. "Plenty of men have wished the same thing. The trouble is, so far, wishing just hasn't gotten it done."

Bowers drummed his heels into the bay stallion's sides as more snow pelted down on the clearing.

Frank watched Bowers ride out of sight into the trees. "He'll make it," Frank muttered, heading for his saddle horse and pack horse with Bowers's rifle in the crook of his arm.

He needed to keep moving until dark, if the weather allowed, until he found Stump Creek. During the night he would give the canyon and the cabin an examination, making plans for the way he would make his approach in the morning.

Snow began to fall in windblown sheets as he mounted his horse and wound the lead rope on his packhorse around his saddle horn.

He turned northwest. "I'm coming, Pine," he said, tilting his hat brim to block the snow. "Conrad damn sure better be in good shape when I get there."

It had been years since Frank Morgan went on the prowl to kill a man, or several of them. He'd tried to put his killing days behind him.

"Some folks just won't let it alone ... won't let it rest," he told himself.

He had no doubt that he could kill Ned Pine, or Victor Vanbergen and their gangs. It would take some time to get it done carefully.

The soft patter of snowflakes drummed on his hat brim and coat. He thought about Conrad, hoping the boy was okay. A kid his age had no way to prepare for the likes of Pine and Vanbergen in these modern times. But back when Frank was a boy, the country was full of them.

"I'm on my way, son," he whispered as a wall of white fell in front of him. "Just hang on until I get there. I promise I'll make those bastards pay for what they've done to you."

* * * *

Frank climbed out of the tub and toweled dry. It was time to stop living in the past and get on with the business of hunting down Ned Pine and Victor Vanbergen.

But as he put on clean denims and his last clean shirt, he had difficulty shaking the image of the man he'd seen behind the cemetery.

"There's no such thing as ghosts," he told himself while he combed through his hair.

And still he wondered why the old man standing near the gate into the cemetery had claimed he couldn't see the Indian who walked back into the pine tree shadows.

Frank pondered the possibility that old age was robbing him of his senses.

--------

*Four*

Even at night, this part of the Rockies was beautiful land to behold. Glenwood Springs lay just north of the Colorado River in a valley between towering mountain slopes. It was country Frank knew well.

He walked through the quiet little town before he went to bed, thinking about Victor Vanbergen and Ned Pine. Now that his son was safely back in Durango, Frank knew the smartest thing he could do would be to forget about his quest for vengeance and go elsewhere. But that went against his grain. He just wasn't made that way.

He strolled out to the overgrown cemetery with a cigar in his mouth, remembering the Indian he had seen when he came to Glenwood Springs.

"The Ones Who Came Before," he muttered with a note of sarcasm in his voice. The man he had seen was as real as the cigar between his teeth.

He leaned against a rusting wrought-iron fence to look at the gravestones, feeling the chill of mountain air wash down from the slopes around him.

"I knew you'd come back," a voice said from the darkness, sending Frank's hand toward his gun.

"Don't shoot me. I ain't armed."

A shadow moved in the pines west of the graveyard.

"Who the hell are you?" Frank demanded.

"We talked when you rode into town, mister. I was here when you said you saw one of the Old Ones."

Frank's gun hand relaxed. "What the hell are you doing out here this time of night, old-timer?" he asked.

"Visitin' my daughter."

"Your daughter?"

"She's buried here. Died from the consumption. Sometimes I come out here just so's I can be close to her. Makes me feel better."

The old man he'd seen beside the fence earlier in the day walked up to him.

"Sorry about your daughter," Frank said.

"It's been two years, nearly. Can't sleep at night without thinkin' about her before I drop off."

"The galloping consumption is a hard thing ... a rough way to die," Frank said.

"She went fast. Less'n two months after we found out she came down with it."

Frank understood the old man's grief ... _he'd_ lost a wife to a coward's bullet. "It's hard to lose a loved one, no matter what the cause."

"I asked around in town after you got here, mister. They say you're Frank Morgan the gunfighter. Ol' Man Barnes at the hotel told me. An' Smitty recognized you when you came to the hotel."

"I don't make a living with a gun now," Frank said. "I gave all that up years ago."

"But you was askin' about Ned Pine an' Vic Vanbergen. That don't sound like you come here with peaceable intentions, if you pardon me for sayin' so."

It had begun to seem that Frank's past would haunt him for the rest of his life. He stared across the moonlit cemetery a moment. "They killed my wife and took my son hostage. I got my boy back, but I still owe them a debt ... a blood debt, and I aim to see that they pay it."

"Then you _are_ a killer."

Frank's jaw muscles went tight. "If I can find Vanbergen and Pine, I intend to kill them for what they did to my Vivian, and to Conrad."

"Could be I can tell you where to find 'em," the old man said.

Frank turned around abruptly. "Where?"

The man aimed a thumb toward the snow-clad peaks north of Glenwood Springs. "Up yonder. Doc ... that's Doc Holliday, he knows where they're at."

"Would he tell me?" Frank asked, feeling his blood begin to boil.

"Can't say fer sure, Mr. Morgan. But you can ask him for yourself, if you've a mind to."

"Where is Holliday?"

"At the sanitarium."

"Where is it?"

"Just ride down to the river an' turn east. You'll see it plain as day."

"I'll do it first thing in the morning."

"Doc, he's cranky as hell, but he's in a lot of pain, so they say."

"All I want to know is where I can find Vanbergen and Pine," Frank explained.

"Doc knows 'em. Leastways he knows where they go to hide out from the law."

"I appreciate what you've told me," Frank said.

The old-timer turned toward town. "That Ned Pine, he ain't no good. If there's a sumbitch in Colorado who deserves to die, it's him."

"What's your name?" Frank asked as the old man walked off.

"They call me George. I reckon that's all you need to know."

A moment later George was out of sight around a bend in the road. Frank made up his mind to talk to Doc Holliday right after sunrise.

As he was about to head back to the hotel he saw a slight movement in the pine trees behind the burial ground. Again, he reached for his pistol.

A shape appeared, a slender man dressed in buckskins. He walked with a swinging gait toward the rear of the cemetery and then he stopped.

Small hairs swirled on the back of Frank's neck. He was looking at the same Indian he'd seen when he came into Glenwood Springs this afternoon.

"Who are you?" Frank shouted.

No one answered him and the Indian did not move.

"I asked you a question," Frank called. "Who the hell are you?"

A soft voice spoke to him, even though the Indian was more than a hundred yards away beyond the cemetery fence.

"Go to the mountains."

Frank wrapped his fingers around the butt of his Colt Peacemaker ... an odd sensation touched some inner part of him, one he couldn't explain.

"Walk around here so I can see your face," he said.

"Go to the mountains," the Indian said again.

"What for?" Frank asked.

"To find the men you seek. Ride to Ghost Valley."

"Why should I take any advice from you, and how is it you know I'm looking for anybody? You won't even tell me who the hell you are."

"I am One Who Came Before. We are called Anasazi. This is all you need to know."

"But how is it that you know I'm looking for a couple of men?"

"Go to the mountains," the Indian said for the third time. "One of the men you seek is behind you now." Then he wheeled away and disappeared into the forest.

"Damn," Frank whispered. He gave some thought to following the Indian. Or was this all a product of his imagination?

Frank glanced over his shoulder, just in time to see a man cradling a shotgun walking toward him from the direction of Glenwood Springs.

"Are you Frank Morgan?" the man cried, bringing the shotgun to his shoulder. Frank wasted no time drawing his pistol, aiming it, drawing back the Colt's hammer.

"I asked you a question, you son of a bitch!"

"Here's my answer," Frank bellowed. His trigger finger curled.

A shot rang out, echoing off the mountainsides surrounding the cemetery.

The stranger with the shotgun stumbled, staggering to keep his footing. He fired a load of buckshot into the ground before he fell to his knees.

Frank rushed forward, reaching the gunman just before he went over on his back.

"Where's Vanbergen? Where's Pine?" Frank demanded with his gun clamped in his fist.

The bearded cowboy lay motionless with blood leaking from a wound in his chest. His eyes batted shut.

"How the hell did you know I was here?" Frank asked, knowing the man would never answer him.

He put his smoking six-shooter away and headed back toward town. He would have to report the incident to the local sheriff and if possible, get the dead man's identity.

Somehow, Pine and Vanbergen already knew he was here, hot on their trail. But what puzzled Frank most was how the Indian had known that a member of the gang was coming for him.

--------

*Five*

Sheriff Tom Brewer looked down at the body in the light of a coal-oil lantern. "Can't say as I've ever seen him in Glenwood Springs before."

" He tried to kill me with that shotgun," Frank said. "I had no choice."

Brewer glanced up at Frank. "I heard you was in town, Mr. Morgan. I know your reputation. You're a killer for hire, a paid shootist. I won't tolerate that in my jurisdiction."

"It was self-defense, Sheriff."

"I reckon I'll have to take your word for it, unless there was any witnesses."

"None. An old man who said his name was George was here before this gunslick showed up, only he left before the trouble started."

"George Parsons. His daughter is buried here. I reckon that's all I need from you now, Mr. Morgan, only I sure as hell hope there won't be no more shootin' in my town."

"There won't be ... unless someone else starts it, the way this owlhoot did."

Sheriff Brewer turned back toward Glenwood Springs. "I'll send Old Man Harvey out to take care of the body. He's our undertaker, when he ain't bein' a blacksmith."

* * * *

Frank turned out the lamp in his tiny room and lay across the bed. His guns were on a washstand beside him. All this recent bloodshed was a result of Ned Pine and Victor Vanbergen, and the events that had brought Frank to this part of Colorado to put unfinished business to rest.

He thought about Conrad, and the snowstorm that had finally led Frank to the right spot to rescue his son....

* * * *

Frank watched from hiding as Ned Pine brought Conrad out of the cabin with a gun under his chin. The boy's hands were tied in front of him. Swirling snow kept Frank from seeing the boy clearly.

Five more members of the gang brought seven saddled horses around to the front. Frank was helpless. For now, all he could do was watch.

He wondered if Pine would execute his son for the men he'd already lost. But Pine needed a human shield to get him out of the box canyon. He needed Conrad alive. For now.

"Pine will kill Conrad when he hears the first gunshot," Frank whispered to himself. "I'll have to follow them, and wait until Ned makes a mistake."

He wondered where they were taking his son. Frank had taken a deadly toll on Pine's gang in a matter of hours, with the help of Tin Pan Rushing.

Frank felt something touch his shoulder, and he whirled around, snaking a pistol from leather. He relaxed and put his Peacemaker away.

"Don't shoot me," Tin Pan said softly. "They're clearin' out, as you can see."

"I've got no choice but to trail them. Maybe Ned will get careless somewhere."

"Where will they take him?"

"I've got no idea, but wherever it is, I'll be right behind them. I don't know this country."

"I do," Tin Pan said. "Been here for nigh onto twenty years."

"This isn't your problem. I appreciate what you've done for me, but I can handle it from here."

"I'll fetch one of them dead outlaws' horses from behind the canyon. I'll ride with you."

"No need, Tin Pan. This isn't your fight."

"I decided to make it my fight, Morgan. When some ornery bastards are holdin' a man's son hostage, he needs all the help he can get."

"That was a nice shot from up high a while ago. Couldn't have done any better myself."

"I was hopin' the wind didn't throw my aim off. But this ol' long gun is pretty damn accurate. I'll collect that horse and unsaddle the others so I can let 'em go. I'll bring your animals around, along with Martha, to the mouth of the canyon soon as they ride out."

"I'd almost forgotten about your mule."

"She's got more'n fifty cured beaver pelts tied to her back, and that's plenty to get me a fresh grubstake before the weather gets warm and the beavers start to lose their winter hair. You might say that's a winter's worth of work hangin' across her packsaddle."

"Here they come," Frank said, peering into the falling snow. "Stay still."

"No need for you to tell me what to do, Morgan. I know how to make it in this wilderness without being seen. Rest easy on that notion."

Ned Pine rode at the front with Conrad, Pine's gun still pressed to Conrad's throat. Two more gunmen rode behind Ned and the boy. A fourth outlaw came from the cabin leading a loaded packhorse.

The last pair of outlaws stayed well behind the others with Winchester rifles resting on their thighs.

"Keepin' back a rear guard," Tin Pan observed. "If we get the chance, we might be able to jump 'em in this snow. It's hard to see real well."

"I was thinking the same thing," Frank said. "One way or another, I've got to get rid of Pine's men before I take him on man-to-man."

"You'll need to pick the right spot, and the right time," Tin Pan reminded him.

"I'm a pretty good hand at that," Frank told him, moving back into the trees as Pine and his men rode out of the canyon with Conrad as their prisoner.

Snowflakes swirled around the men as they left the canyon and turned east, away from the badlands. Frank was surprised at the direction they took.

* * * *

Barnaby Jones parked his rented buggy in Cortez. His drive down from Denver had been brutal and he was sure he'd almost frozen to death. Had it not been for three bottles of imported French sherry, he was certain he wouldn't have made it through this wilderness in a blizzard.

He stopped in front of the sheriff's office and took a wool blanket off his lap before he climbed down from the seat. He removed his gloves. Cortez was a mere spot in the road, a dot on the map he'd bought in Denver after he got off the train.

"The things I do to get a story," he mumbled, wondering if his editor at _Harper's Magazine_ would appreciate the difficulty he'd gone through.

He entered the sheriff's door without knocking, enjoying the warmth from a cast-iron stove in a corner of the tiny room. A jail cell sat at the back of the place.

A man with a gray handlebar mustache looked up at him with a question on his face. He was seated at a battered rolltop desk with a newspaper in his lap.

"Sheriff Jim Sikes?" Barnaby asked.

"That's me." The lawman looked him up and down. "Stranger, you ain't dressed for this climate. Didn't anybody tell you it gets cold in Colorado Territory?"

" Yessiree, they did," Barnaby replied, offering his hand. "I am Barnaby Jones from _Harper's Magazine_ in New York. I'm wearing long underwear under my suit."

"What brings you to Cortez?" the sheriff asked.

Barnaby pulled off his bowler hat. "The United States marshal in Denver told me to look you up. I'm writing a story for my magazine about a retired gunfighter named Frank Morgan, and Marshal Williams said you would know if he's in this part of the country. One of our competitors, the _Boston Globe,_ has sent a reporter out here to interview this Mr. Morgan. I'd like to talk to him myself."

"Morgan ain't in these parts, mister. Marshal Williams is wrong about that. If Morgan was around, I'd know about it. I'd have dead men stacked up here like cordwood."

Barnaby edged over to the stove, warming his backside as best he could. "I have other information. A writer by the name of Louis Pettigrew from the _Globe_ found out that Morgan is in southwestern Colorado Territory. I'm only a day or two behind Mr. Pettigrew."

"You're both wrong."

"How can you be so sure, Sheriff?"

"Like I said, no dead bodies. Maybe you ought to have the wax cleaned out of your ears. I said it real plain the first time."

"But I _know_ he's somewhere close by. Pettigrew left the day before I did. He rented a horse in Denver and came down here. Something about Morgan's son being a prisoner of some outlaw gang."

"We've got a few outlaws," Sheriff Sikes said. "Some of 'em are in town right now. Victor Vanbergen and his bunch of toughs are down at the Wagon Wheel, but they haven't caused any trouble. I think they're just passing through."

"I never heard of Victor Vanbergen. Who is he?"

"A bank robber. A thief and a killer. But so long as he don't cause no trouble in my town, I'm leaving him and his boys alone."

Barnaby reached inside his heavy wool coat, taking out a few papers. "Who is Ned Pine?"

"A hired gun. Worse than Vanbergen. He heads up one of the oldest outlaw gangs in this part of the West, but the last I heard of him he was down south. Texas, I think."

"Mr. Pettigrew of the _Boston Globe_ believes he's here, and that he has Frank Morgan's son as a hostage."

"It's news to me," Sheriff Sikes remarked. "I'd have had something over the telegraph wire by now if Ned Pine and his men were close by."

Barnaby shook his head. "I still think I have good information about Pine. And Morgan."

Sikes went back to reading his paper. "You're welcome to look around Cortez," he said, a hint of impatience in his hoarse voice. "But Morgan ain't here, and neither is Pine. Vanbergen just showed up today. I judge he'll be gone by tomorrow if this snow lets up."

"Where can I hire a room for the night?" Barnaby asked. "And I need a place to stable my buggy horse."

"Ain't but one hotel in town, the Cortez Hotel. It's just down the street. You can't miss it."

"Have I come too late to buy dinner?"

"Mary over at the cafe might have some stew left. She's about to close, so I'd hurry if I was you."

"Thank you, Sheriff. I'm thankful for the information you gave me."

"You're wasting your time in Cortez looking for Ned Pine or Frank Morgan. We don't get many of the real bad hard cases in this town. They usually pass right on through, if the weather's decent."

Barnaby put on his hat and walked out the door. The wind had picked up after sundown, and bits of ice and snow stung his cheeks as he climbed back in his snow-covered buggy.

* * * *

Frank sat on his horse, watching Ned Pine and his men ride across a snow-covered valley.

"He's got those two men covering the back trail," he said to Tin Pan.

"This snow is mighty heavy, Morgan," Tin Pan said. "If we ride around 'em and cut off those two gunslingers, we can put 'em in the ground."

"They're keeping about a quarter mile between them and Ned," Frank said. "If this snow keeps up, Ned won't notice if I jump in front of them and have them toss down their guns."

"You ain't gonna kill 'em?"

"Not unless they don't give me a choice."

"What the hell are you gonna do? Tie the both of them to a tree?"

"I'll show you, if they'll allow it. Follow me and we'll cut them off."

* * * *

Rich Boggs was shivering, nursing a pint of whiskey in the icy wind. "To hell with this, Cabot," he said. "We're not making a dime messing around with Frank Morgan's kid. I say we cut out of here and head south."

"Ned would follow us and kill us," Cabot Bulware replied with a woolen shawl covering his mouth. "This is a personal thing for Ned."

"I'm freezin' to death," Rich said.

"So am I," Cabot replied. "I'm from Baton Rouge. I'm not used to this cold, _mon ami."_

"To hell with it then," Rich remarked. "When Ned and Lyle and Slade and Billy ride over that next ridge, let's get the hell out of here."

"I am afraid of Ned," Cabot replied. "I do not want to die out here in this snow."

Rich stood up suddenly in his stirrups and pulled his sorrel to a halt. "Who the hell is that with the rifle pointed straight at us?" he asked Cabot.

"There are two of them," Cabot replied. "There is another one on foot standing behind that tree, and he has a rifle aimed at us as well."

"Damn!" Rich exclaimed, ready to open his coat and reach for his pistol.

"Climb down, boys," a deep voice demanded. "Keep your hands up where I can see them."

"Morgan," Cabot whispered, although he followed the instructions he'd been given.

"Step away from your horses!"

They did as they were told. Rich could feel the small hairs rising on the back of his neck.

"Take your pistols out and toss 'em down!" another voice said from behind a tree trunk.

Rich threw his Colt .44 into the snow.

Cabot opened his mackinaw carefully and dropped his Smith and Wesson .45 near his feet.

"Get their horses and guns, Tin Pan," the man holding the rifle said. "I'll keep 'em covered."

An old man in a coonskin cap came toward them carrying a large-bore rifle. He picked up their pistols and took their horses' reins, leading the animals off the trail.

"All right, boys," the rifleman in front of them said. "I've got one more thing for you to do."

"What the hell is that, mister?" Rich snapped, giving Cabot a quick glance.

"Sit down right where you are and pull off your boots."

"What?"

"Pull off your damn boots."

"But our feet'll freeze. We'll get the frostbite."

"Would you rather be dead?"

"No," Cabot said softly, sitting down in the snow to pull off his boots.

"We'll die out here without no boots!" Rich complained. "We can't make it in our stocking feet."

"I can shoot you now," the rifleman said. "That way, your feet won't be cold."

Rich slumped on his rump and pulled off his stovepipe boots without further complaint.

"Now start walking," the rifleman said. "I don't give a damn which direction you go."

"We will die!" Cabot cried.

The lanky gunman came toward them and picked up their boots without taking his rifle sights off them. "Life ain't no easy proposition, gentlemen," he said. "Start walking, or I'll kill you right where you sit."

Both gunslicks limped away.

"Pretty sight, ain't it?" Tin Pan asked.

Frank merely nodded.

* * * *

He closed his eyes. Was his need for revenge so great that it was worth riding this vengeance trail?

Frank knew the answer as he drifted off to sleep. Dog was curled beside the bed, watching him with big liquid eyes.

--------

*Six*

Frank reined his bay east at the river. Dog trotted beside the horse. After a big breakfast of pancakes and ham, with a pot of coffee at his elbow at Glenwood Springs' only cafe, he felt rested, better than he had in days. He'd purchased supplies at Colter's General Store, enough provisions to last him for a month or more.

He sighted a rock building and a faded, hand-painted sign reading GLENWOOD SPRINGS SANITARIUM hung above a pair of front doors. The place looked like it had fallen on hard times, like the rest of the town.

Frank swung over to a hitch rail and stepped down, wondering what Doc Holliday would be like. His waitress at the eatery had said that Holliday was dying with tuberculosis and word was he didn't have long, which was what George had said.

Frank let himself into the building. Dog watched him, resting on his haunches near the bay.

A gray-haired woman in a rumpled nurse's uniform greeted him.

"What can I do for you, mister?"

"I'd like to speak to Doc Holliday a moment."

"He don't want any visitors."

"It's important, ma'am. Someone's life may be in danger unless I can talk to him." It was more or less the truth. If Holliday could tell him where to find Ned Pine and Victor Vanbergen, their lives would damn sure be in grave danger when Frank caught up to them.

The woman frowned. "I'll ask him if he'll talk to you. Give me your name."

"Frank Morgan. He may not recognize the name, only please tell him I need to talk to him. I won't need but a minute of his time."

"I'll tell him, Mr. Morgan. You can take a seat over there by those windows."

The nurse disappeared down a dark hallway. Somewhere in the back of the building, Frank could hear bubbling water and soft splashing sounds, no doubt the hot mineral baths this place was known for, a spring coming from deep in the earth and filled with healing, or so some folks said.

"This place is damn near empty," he muttered.

The woman returned a moment later. She halted in front of Frank and glanced down at his gunbelt. "Doc says it's okay, but he asked if you was carryin' a gun."

"I'll leave it here on your desk," Frank replied, drawing his Colt, placing it on her desk top with a heavy thud. He still had a belly-gun hidden inside his shirt, not that he figured he'd be needing it.

"Come this way, Mr. Morgan," the nurse said, leading him down the hallway. "Doc said you could only stay a minute or two. He's feelin' real poorly now."

"I understand, ma'am," Frank told her as she opened a door into a small private room.

A frail, emaciated young man lay on a narrow bed below the room's only window, covered by a thin sheet and wool blanket to keep out the morning chill.

The woman closed the door behind Frank.

"Doc Holliday?" he asked softly. The man on the bed would scarcely weigh a hundred pounds. His cheeks and eyes were so deeply sunken into his face that he could have been dead, had he not spoken just then.

"That's me," Holliday replied. "You can take that chair in the corner. I've heard of you, Morgan. You have a reputation as a man with an intemperate disposition."

Frank grinned weakly and eased over to the wooden chair. "I've heard much the same about you, Doc."

Holliday tried for a laugh that ended in a series of wet coughs. With a slender-fingered hand he wiped blood from his mouth with a blood-soaked rag. "What brings you to me, Morgan? Nurse Miller said it was important."

"Ned Pine and Victor Vanbergen. I need to know where they are."

"A nasty pair. Cowards, both of them. However, they'll shoot a man in the back and he'll be just as dead as if they'd faced him."

"I know. I almost had them a few weeks back in the south part of the territory. They were holding my son for ransom to get at me. I got my boy back, but Pine and Vanbergen got away clean."

"A damn shame. They need to take the dirt nap. What makes you so sure they're here?"

"I picked up their trail. They've still got a few gunslicks with 'em. One of 'em tried to jump me here in Glenwood Springs last night while I was down by the old cemetery. He came at me with a shotgun. It only makes sense that it was one of Pine's or Vanbergen's shooters. The only thing that troubles me is how they knew I was here, not that it matters, since I'm gonna kill 'em all anyway if I get the chance."

"You're not worried about the odds?"

"I never worry about the odds. I lost their trail south of here by a few miles. I figured they'd come here for whiskey and supplies."

"They did. That was a couple of weeks ago."

"Some old man in town told me to look for 'em in a place called Ghost Valley. It doesn't show on the map I've got with me."

"It won't," Holliday replied. "But that's where you'll find them, most likely. There are remnants of an old mining town in a deep valley to the north. They hole up in a cabin on the west edge of the town. Nobody lives there now."

"How do I find it?"

Doc broke into another fit of bloody coughing. Frank waited for him to clean his mouth and chin.

"There's a two-rut wagon road that angles northwest of town into the mountains. It's a steep climb. Ride three or four miles until you come to a little stream. Swing off the road and follow that stream through the pines. It's a rough climb in places. I hope you're riding a good mountain horse."

"I am."

"The stream wanders for about six miles. You'll come to a place where it cuts between two ridges. Ride up the more nothern one. There won't be any trail to follow. Ride slow and very carefully. When you come to the top you'll be looking into Ghost Valley. There's an old Indian burial ground down below. You'll see the mounds. The mining town is to the east, what's left of it."

"What about those old Indians, Doc? I thought I saw one yesterday near the Glenwood Springs Cemetery as I was riding into town."

"Some people claim they can see them. I've never seen one. I think it's poppycock. The Anasazi have been gone for hundreds of years."

"I saw something," Frank assured him. "My dog growled when he saw it. The Indian wasn't my imagination." He left out the part about the whispered voice he'd heard.

"Maybe he was a Ute or a Shoshoni," Holliday suggested as he wiped his mouth again, "although most of the tribes have been driven farther north by the Army."

"He was an Indian, whatever breed he was." Right then, Frank couldn't shake the eerie feeling that perhaps he had seen a ghost, even though there wasn't a superstitious bone in his body that he knew of.

Holliday dismissed the subject with a wave of a pale hand. "I've never seen an Indian around here and I've been here for three months. I've only been bedridden over the past month. As you can see, I'm at death's doorway. Doc Grimes tells me it won't be long now."

"Sorry to hear it, Doc," Frank said.

"Funny," Holliday told him, smiling as he stared up at the ceiling. "I've always assumed a bullet in the back would take me to my grave. I'd planned to die with my boots on, as the old saying goes. This is a horrible way for a man to cash in his chips."

"I'd rather go out quick myself," Frank agreed.

Holliday glanced at him. "You may get your chance if Pine or Vanbergen sees you first. They won't do it honorably. You can bet your last dollar on that."

"I've already become acquainted with them," Frank said in a low growl. "I'll be ready when the time comes."

"You sound like a very confident fellow, Morgan. Are you that good with a gun?"

"I've gotten by. Tried to quit years ago, until this business with my son came about."

"Good luck, Morgan," Holliday said, his voice trailing off. "Now if you don't mind, I need to close my eyes. I just took a dose of laudanum and I'm sleepy. Follow that stream until it passes between those ridges. Ride up to the crest of the valley, and from there on, you'd better have eyes in the back of your head."

"I'm obliged, Doc," Frank said, coming to his feet. "I wish you the best."

"My best days are already gone, Morgan," Holliday replied as his eyelids batted shut. "However, I must say I had a wonderful time while it lasted."

Frank started for the door.

"One more thing, Morgan," Holliday said, his throat clotted so that he was hard to understand.

"What's that, Doc?"

"Make sure nobody follows you out of town. Vanbergen and Pine have friends here. Quite possibly back-shooters who have been warned to keep an eye out for you."

"I killed one of them last night. Sheriff Tom Brewer made it real plain he didn't want me hanging around. Makes me wonder if he's a friend to Pine and Vanbergen."

"I doubt if you have anything to fear from Brewer," Holliday said, his eyelids closing again. "But he could be looking the other way for a handful of silver when those outlaws ride into town. He won't be the first crooked lawman I ever met."

"Me either," Frank said. "Thanks for the warning, Doc. I aim to bring 'em down ... every last one."

Holliday didn't answer, his nostrils flaring gently with opium slumber.

Frank let himself out, and walked back up the hall to fetch his pistol. He saw the nurse seated behind her desk, and came over for his gun.

"Thank you, ma'am," he said, holstering his Colt. "I'm much obliged."

"Is Doc asleep?" she asked. "I just gave him his laudanum before you arrived."

"Yes, ma'am, he's asleep."

Frank went outside and untied his bay, mounting after a look down the empty road back to town. He reined away from the sanitarium and heeled his horse to a jog trot.

Remembering the directions Doc gave him, he knew he would have to pass through Glenwood Springs to reach the right wagon road, a ride that would attract attention should any of the gang be watching for him.

"Suits the hell outta me," he mumbled. It would be just as easy to kill a few more of them here, rather than wait for an ambush somewhere in the mountains looming above the sleepy little village.

He rode through Glenwood Springs at the same slow trot, with an eye out for anyone who seemed to be watching him. He passed the sheriff's office, and noticed that Tom Brewer came out on the boardwalk to stare at him with unfriendly eyes.

"He's on the take," Frank told himself quietly. He'd seen that same look in men's eyes before.

Riding past a blacksmith's shop, he noticed a new pine coffin on a pair of sawhorses. "One less back-shooting bastard to worry about," he said aloud, urging his horse to a short lope as he rode away from Glenwood Springs into a dense ponderosa forest.

Less than a quarter mile from town he found the two-rut wagon road Doc Holliday had described. Frank reined his horse to a halt and looked behind him. No one was following him now, but it was too soon to tell.

He swung onto the wagon ruts and started up a steep hill. The pines grew so close to the road they were like walls on either side. Deep shadows lay before him. It was the perfect place for an ambush.

"Out front, Dog!" Frank bellowed.

Dog understood his job. He trotted out in front of Frank and the bay until he was more than a hundred yards ahead.

"A little insurance," he said, pulling his Winchester from its saddle boot to jack a shell into the firing chamber. He lowered the hammer gently and rested the rifle across the pommel of his saddle.

He slowed the bay to a walk and kept his eyes glued to the ruts and shadows. If Pine or Vanbergen meant to jump him on his way to the valley, they'd have their hands full.

Dog continued up the steep ascent without making a sound or giving a warning. The old dog's senses were as keen as ever and he was rarely taken by surprise.

"Let the bastards come, if they want," Frank said grimly. "I got a little surprise for 'em...."

--------

*Seven*

Frank rode slowly between the pines, stopping every so often to check his back trail, and to listen for the sounds of another horse. Dog sat in the middle of the road panting, watching the man and the horse behind him, when Frank reined his animal to yet another stop.

"It's quiet," he whispered. "Maybe too damn quiet." But there was no evidence that anyone was following him, and Dog had sensed nothing ahead.

"Getting jumpy in my old age," Frank told himself, although he had the eerie feeling that he was being watched.

He heeled his horse forward, continuing up the steady climb toward snowcapped peaks. The creak of saddle leather and the soft drum of the bay's hooves filled the silence around him for a time.

Then Dog halted suddenly, hair rigid along his backbone as he looked to the east.

Frank drew rein on his horse at once, scanning the dark forest. A marksman worth his salt could kill him easily from those pines. Perhaps it was time to proceed with more care until he cleared this part of the road.

He swung out of the saddle, using his bay for a shield to continue moving northwest, walking beside the horse's shoulder. And still, Dog didn't move, watching the trees with a low growl coming from his throat.

"That's good enough for me," Frank muttered, moving off the road to enter black forest shadows where he would make a more difficult target. Balancing his Winchester in the palm of his hand, he crept along at a snail's pace.

"What is it, Dog?" he whispered when he came to the spot in the road where his dog remained frozen between the ruts.

Dog wouldn't look at him, staring at the same spot on a wooded ridge, still growling.

Now Frank was sure something, or someone, was out there. It would be a fool's move to continue along the road until he found out what it was.

He ground-hitched the bay and started walking softly among the pine trunks, using them for cover wherever he could. Dog trotted up beside him, his attention still fixed on the ridge.

_I wonder if it's that Indian again,_ Frank thought.

Dog had never given him a false signal despite the cur's advancing age.

With no warning, the sharp crack of a rifle's report sounded from the ridge. Frank threw himself on the ground behind a ponderosa trunk, listening to the bullet sizzle high above his head.

"Damn, that was close," Frank said, gritting his teeth in anger. He knew now that he should have been more cautious, coming around behind the ridge instead of approaching it head-on.

"I missed you, Morgan!" a distant voice shouted. "But I ain't done yet!"

Dog was crouched beside him ... it wasn't the first bullet the animal ever heard.

_One of Pine's or Vanbergen's men,_ Frank thought. _There may be more than one._

"Stay, Dog," he whispered, crawling backward away from the tree, keeping it between him and the shooter.

Frank took off in a crouch, dodging and darting from one pine to the next, his chest welling with rage.

Moving as quickly as he could, he began a wide circle that would take him around to the back of the ridge.

* * * *

He sighted a prone form using underbrush for cover at the top of the switchback, partially hidden in the shade to keep sunlight from gleaming off his rifle barrel.

"Gotcha, you bastard," Frank whispered, drawing a bead on the man's back. Frank wouldn't shoot a man in the back without giving him a fair warning.

"Hey, asshole! I'm back here!" he cried.

The rifleman flipped over on his side, bringing his gun around as quickly as he could. It was just what Frank had been waiting for.

He triggered a .44-caliber slug into the man's belly. The explosion near his ear almost deafened him.

"Shit!" the rifleman bellowed, jerking when the bullet found its mark. A crimson stain exploded on his shirtfront. He dropped his rifle to grab his belly with both hands.

Frank came to his feet, still covering the bushwhacker as he started toward him. Taking careful steps, he started up the back of the ridge.

"Jesus! I'm shot!" the gunman moaned, blood pouring between his fingers.

"That's a real good calculation of your situation," Frank told him. "You're gonna die for Ned Pine and Victor Vanbergen. Ask yourself if it was worth whatever they were paying you to ambush me."

"You ain't gonna just leave me here, Morgan."

"That's exactly what I'm gonna do. I hope you die slow, so you can think about what you just tried to do. Hurts a bit, don't it?"

"You bastard."

"I'm not a bastard. My ma and pa were married. You've been wrong about nearly everything so far, cowboy."

"You gotta get me to a doctor."

"I don't have to do a damn thing except climb on my horse and be on my way."

"I can tell you where to find Ned an' Vic, only you gotta help me."

"I already know where they are."

"How the hell'd you find out?"

"An Indian told me."

The gunman raised his head to stare at Frank. "You seen 'em too?"

Frank merely nodded.

The shooter's head fell back on the grass. "Help me, Morgan. I'll be dead before dark if you don't."

"Seems a shame. I'm touched by your predicament. I was on my way to Ghost Valley when some son of a bitch tried to shoot me from ambush. But I got behind you and shot you instead, and now you want me to have sympathy for you?"

"Damn, Morgan. My belly hurts. I'm dyin'."

"Appears that way. I'm gonna find your horse and turn it loose while you leak blood all over this pretty green grass. I fully intend to leave you right here."

"It was just business, Morgan. Ned hired me to take you out. You're a hired gun, so you oughta know it damn sure ain't nothin' personal."

"I'm not taking it personally."

"You gotta help me get to a doctor."

"Like hell. All I've got to do is keep riding toward that valley."

"We shoulda killed that boy of yours when we had him, you cold-blooded sumbitch."

"I'm no kind of son of a bitch. If you weren't already dying, I'd kill you over a remark like that."

The gunman's breathing became ragged.

"Hear that sound, back-shooter?" Frank asked, grinning a mirthless grin. "That's a death rattle in your chest. It won't be long now."

"Help ... me."

"Not today, cowboy. I've got business with your bosses and it won't wait."

"Nobody ... can be ... that cold."

"You just met him," Frank said savagely before he wheeled away to look for the shooter's horse.

He found a dun gelding in a ravine and pulled the saddle off it, tossing the saddle to the ground. Frank slipped off the bridle and gave the horse its freedom.

As he was turning to climb back up the ridge, he thought he saw a shadow move in the forest higher above him. A reflex, he raised his rifle and moved behind a pine tree.

"I know I saw somebody," he whispered.

But no matter how closely he looked, he saw nothing now and it gave him a spooky feeling. Who the hell would be watching him unless he came here to shoot at him? he wondered.

He pondered the possibility that the Indian who spoke to him at the Glenwood Springs cemetery was watching him again. But he couldn't quite make himself believe in old Indian ghosts. It had to be a Ute or a Shoshoni, a flesh-and-blood Indian.

After a final examination of the woods he strode back to the spot where the gunman lay. The bushwhacker's eyes were closed and his breathing was shallow.

"Adios, you yellow bastard," Frank said, trudging back toward his horse and the dog.

He found his bay ground-hitched where he'd left him, and Dog sat patiently a few yards away in the tree shadows.

"Out front, Dog," Frank said, climbing into the saddle with his Winchester. He wondered if any more attempts would be made on his life before he found the valley.

* * * *

He rode up on a clear, running brook coming out of the mountains. Gazing north, he could see faint traces of a trail following the east bank of the stream.

Frank whistled Dog back from the far side of the shallow creek and began the steeper climb. Dog seemed unconcerned by anything flanking the trail, moving farther ahead with his ears drooping.

The bay began to struggle climbing rocky spots, bunching its muscles to make the ascent. Foamy lather began to form on its neck and shoulders and its breathing grew labored at the higher altitude.

Frank saw small brook trout in the stream, suspended in deeper pools above glittering beds of colorful stones. Had it not been for his deadly purpose here, he would have stopped to enjoy the clean, pine-scented air and spend time relaxing, maybe even go fishing for a spell.

But this was a business trip, with scores to settle, and the only thing on his mind was finding Vanbergen and Pine and the rest of the gang. If Frank Morgan had his way, a peaceful valley hidden between these peaks would run red with blood before the week was out.

Gray clouds began to scud across the sky, coming from the north, and soon the forest shadows were dim when the sun was blocked out. Frank supposed it wasn't too late in the year for a spring snowstorm. At higher elevations, it could snow almost any time.

He had plenty of warm clothing and a mackinaw, just in case, and a pair of worn leather gloves. While snow wasn't the weather he would have ordered for a manhunt, it might give him cover when he found the gang.

A chill wind came with the clouds, and he shivered once. It had been snowing when he'd finally caught up with Ned and Vic and Conrad before.

"Maybe it's a good omen," he mumbled, turning up his shirt collar.

Before long he could feel a hint of ice on the winds as the stream coursed higher. Tied around his bedding behind the cantle of his saddle was a small canvas tarp to keep things dry, and it also served as a makeshift leanto when snow or rain forced him to a halt.

"It don't matter what the weather's like," he said savagely, keeping his eyes on the trail. "A goddamn hurricane won't keep me from finding that valley.

Mile after empty mile passed quietly under the bay's hooves without Dog giving any indication of danger. Frank slumped in the saddle, deciding upon a stop for jerky and a tin of peaches in another hour or so.

Farther ahead, high on a switchback, he glimpsed a black bear watching him.

"Proof enough the way is clear for a spell," he told himself in a hoarse whisper.

* * * *

He came to a small clearing an hour later, and halted his horse to swing down. With water from the stream, he could eat salted pork and sweet peaches here, with a good vantage point for watching his surroundings.

He opened a package of butcher paper and sat on a nearby rock to chew jerky, saving the peaches for a final touch. He dipped a tin cup full of water from the stream while his horse grazed on the clearing's grasses.

Dog sat on his haunches in front of him with a begging look in his eyes.

"You'll get some," Frank promised. "Humans eat first around here."

He tossed Dog a scrap of jerky, and had begun opening the peach tin with his bowie knife, when suddenly Dog jumped up, snarling, looking east.

"Take it easy, stranger," a thin voice said from behind him. "I've got my Sharps aimed at yer back."

Frank glanced over his shoulder, his blood running cold. "How the hell did you slip up on me, old-timer?" He saw an old man dressed in buckskins covering him with a long-barrel buffalo gun.

" 'Twas easy. You been pretty careful most o' the way, but yer belly got the best of you."

Frank wondered if he had time to make a play for his pistol before a bullet took him down. "Are you aiming to kill me?"

"Nope. Jest curious. You shot a man back yonder a ways an' I was wonderin' about it."

"He was trying to bushwhack me."

"I seen that. Still didn't know what it was all about."

"He was one of the men who kidnapped my son. I got my boy back, and now I aim to make the men who took him pay."

"Sounds reasonable enough."

"I take it you're not with them. If you were, you'd have already killed me."

"If you mean that bunch down in Ghost Valley, I damn sure ain't none of their kind."

"Will you put that gun down and have some peaches?"

"I might. I'll give it some thought."

"My name's Frank Morgan."

"I'm called Buck Waite."

"I'd sure be obliged if you lowered that gun."

"Don't make a snatch fer that pistol you're carryin'. I've got one myself an' I'll kill you deader'n pig shit if you do."

"No reason for a gun, I don't reckon, if you don't aim to shoot me."

The man with shoulder-length red hair and a red beard flecked with gray lowered the muzzle of his rifle. Frank noticed he had an old Navy Colt tucked into a deerskin belt around his waist.

"Come have some peaches," Frank offered. "If you're willing, I need to ask you about getting into that valley. It's real clear you know your way around these mountains."

--------

*Eight*

"So you claim yer name is Morgan," Buck said, spearing a slice of peach with the tip of a heavy bowie knife. "Some men who come to this country don't use their right name. You right sure yer name is Morgan?"

"I'm Frank Morgan."

Buck's rifle lay near his feet. His left hand was never far from his pistol. He gave Frank an appraising look. "You stalked that feller pretty good. I was watchin'."

"I thought I saw someone higher up. Just a shadow moving in the trees."

"I don't git around good as I used to. Old age, an' the damn rheumatiz in my joints. I couldn't fool this dog much, but there was a time when I could."

"What puts you in these mountains?" Frank asked, though by the look of the old man the answer was clear. He made his living off the land.

"I run a few traplines. Sell a few elk and bear hides now an' then. Mostly I just live. Fish for trout. Enjoy the scenery."

"So you're a mountain man?"

"Nope. The real mountain men are long gone, or dead an' buried. There ain't as much wild game as there used to be. I came here after the war. Wanted to be away from so-called civilization after watchin' neighbors kill each other over a bale of cotton an' nigra slaves. I gave up on what men call bein' civilized after thousands an' thousands of men got shot over somethin' they didn't understand. I fought for the Confederacy, but I never owned no slaves. Them slave owners let us poor men do their fightin' for 'em while they smoked big cigars an' drank whiskey. I got tired of bein' civilized after I killed half a hundred men just 'cause they was wearin' blue. I came up here after my wife died from yellow fever. I made up my mind to live here as long as I could, until I got too old an' feeble to take care of myself."

"Tell me about Ghost Valley."

Buck, almost toothless, slurped on a piece of peach. "It's an old mining town. The placer mines played out years ago. It's a ghost town now."

"Vanbergen and Pine and their men are there?"

"Sure are. I'd call 'em sorry sons of bitches. Won't bother me none if you kill 'em all. They shoot more deer an' elk than they kin eat an' don't smoke the rest ... leave it on the ground to rot. Git drunk as hell an' shoot guns in the air. Make a helluva ruckus, pissin' in the stream so's a man don't know what he's drinkin'. They could use a good killin', if you ask me."

"That's what I aim to do."

"It's gonna snow," Buck said, glancing up at the dark gray skies above them. "By tomorrow mornin' these slopes will be plumb white."

"That won't bother me. Maybe it'll give me some cover when I slip up on 'em."

"You any good at slippin' up on a man, Morgan? You got careless a time or two back yonder. The dog most likely saved your life when he sounded. I heard him growl."

"I reckon I was. This old dog has saved my skin more than once."

"I've got a dog back at my cabin. Feed him bear meat so he'll have some tallow on his bones. Like me, he's gettin' a mite old fer this country. Won't be long till both of us have to head fer lower ground an' stay there."

"How many men are camped at the abandoned town?"

"Hard to tell. Helluva lot. They come and go."

"Well, their luck is about to run out, no matter how many there are."

"You act like you kin handle yerself."

"I get by. What's the best way into the valley?"

"There's an old Injun trail. I kin show you."

"Are there any Indians around here? I saw one down in Glenwood Springs."

"Depends on what sort'a Injun yer talkin' about."

"I don't understand."

"There's Injuns, an' then there's _Injuns,_ only they don't let nobody git close, the last kind don't."

"Why is that? And who are they?"

"The Anasazi. Some folks claim there ain't none of 'em left up here, but they're damn sure wrong."

"An old man in Glenwood Springs called them ghosts, only I don't believe in ghosts."

Buck chuckled, taking another piece of peach. "You may come to change yer mind a bit. If they show themselves while you're around."

"You're talking in riddles," Frank said.

"Nope. Just tellin' you what might happen."

"I'm not here to chase Indian ghosts or real Indians. All I want is a shot at Pine and Vanbergen."

"If you're any good, you'll git that chance. That part's up to you."

"I'd be obliged if you'd show me that Indian trail. I'll do the rest."

"I reckon I will, Morgan. But let me warn you, this is real tough country. You're liable to freeze to death if those owlhoots don't git you first."

"I'll take that chance," Frank said, offering Buck the last peach. "Have you got a horse?"

"A Crow Injun pony. He's tied up yonder where yer horse wouldn't catch his scent. I'll fetch him down an' then we'll be on our way higher. Hope you brung a coat, 'cause it's damn sure gonna snow in a bit."

"I've got a coat. I'll wait for you here."

Buck shook his head. "Nope. You keep ridin' north. I'll scout the trail to see it's clear, then I'll ride back an' meet up with you."

"You make it sound like I'm not capable of scouting my own way up."

"That's yet to be proved, Morgan. You stay alive the next three or four days an' I'll call it proof enough."

Frank stood up. Buck unfolded his legs and steadied himself with his rifle as he climbed to his feet.

"Gimme a mile or two," Buck said, ambling toward the surrounding forest. "I'll be waitin' for you along this stream someplace."

Buck Waite was gone, moving soundlessly among the ponderosa trunks until he was out of sight. For some odd reason, Frank noticed that Dog was wagging his tail.

"You like the old man, Dog?" Frank asked, sheathing his knife. "Do you trust him?"

Dog's answer was to stare at the peach tin, waiting for a chance to lick the last of the syrup.

Frank caught his horse and bridled it, pulling the cinch tight before he mounted. It was perhaps the hand of fate that Buck Waite had come along when he did. It would be a help to have a man who knew these mountains show him the way into Ghost Valley.

Tiny spits of snow came on irregular gusts of wind coming down the slopes. Frank had shouldered into his mackinaw and put on his gloves when the temperature dropped quickly. A dusting of snow lay on pine limbs higher up. So far there had been no sign of Buck Waite, and after an hour of steady travel that had begun to worry him. Was the old man planning a double cross? He didn't seem the type, but in Frank's experience, a man never could tell who his friends and enemies were.

Dog trotted quietly up the slope beside the creek, his nose to the wind. Frank held his horse to a walk, keeping a close eye on the forests lining the stream. Meeting Buck in the mountains reminded him of a chance meeting with Tin Pan, the mountaineer who rode a mule, the man who'd helped him track Pine and Vanbergen when he'd finally tracked them down and rescued Conrad. It had been snowing that day, although much heavier than this light batch of flurries he encountered now. Odd, Frank thought, how similar this meeting with Buck was ... empty mountains, a building snow storm, and a manhunt to find Vanbergen and Pine so Frank could exact his revenge.

A hatless figure rode out of the pines ahead of him, a man on a black and white pinto horse.

"It's Buck," Frank said as Dog began to growl, stopping near a bend in the stream.

"Easy, Dog," Frank commanded. "He's okay."

Buck rode down to meet him, his shoulders and hair dusted with fine snowflakes.

"It's clear all the way to the ravine below the rim of the valley," Buck said, resting his Sharps across his lap. He rode an old McClellan Army saddle that had seen better days, with a beaded rifle boot of some Indian design below a stirrup. A pair of saddlebags was tied to the cantle.

"How far?" Frank asked.

"Another four miles or so to the valley." He looked up at the sky. "This squall is liable to git heavy up yonder, so git ready fer it."

"I'm ready," Frank replied. "Just show me where I can find that old mining town ... a way down to it. I'll damn sure do the rest."

"You're a hard-nosed feller, ain't you?" Buck asked with a hint of a twinkle in his eye.

"Some say I am. To me, this is just business. I'm paying back a debt."

Buck wheeled his pony and rode out ahead, staying close to the brook. His head kept turning back and forth as though he expected something to happen.

_He's wily old cuss,_ Frank thought.

He was glad Buck had shown up when he did. Again, Frank was reminded of how much Buck was like Tin Pan. He supposed these mountains were full of such types, men who had left the ordinary world behind to live in total isolation, escaping an often tragic past to live here without bad memories.

All this, he told himself, was worth it ... the suffering and hardship. Pine and Vanbergen had a lesson coming, and Frank was just the man to teach school.

He'd almost had them both, yet his prime interest had been getting Conrad back to safety unharmed. It had kept Frank from exacting the brand of vengeance he'd been known for most of his life....

--------

*Nine*

Frank's shoulders were hunched into the wind, the collar of his mackinaw turned up, the brim of his hat pulled down against a building wall of snow as he followed the tracks of the gang holding Conrad.

"Just my luck," he muttered, guiding his horse up a snowy ridge, leading his packhorse. "Even the weather's turned against me."

It had been a rough ride up to the cabin, the four bounty hunters following him, including Jake Miller, who'd tried to gun him down for the fifteen thousand dollars on his head. Like in the old days, when he made his living by the gun. But with Conrad's life on the line, no amount of hardship would turn him aside. The boy couldn't take care of himself against a gang of white-trash gunslingers. The old days be damned. He still had it in him to fill an outlaw's body with lead ... old age hadn't robbed him of the skill. Or the speed.

All that mattered now was finding Conrad, and getting him away from Ned Pine and his hired shootists. Conrad would be no match for them.

"Hell, he's only eighteen," Frank said into the wind as more snow pelted him.

His first objective was to find a stream called Stump Creek and then ride north along its banks. If Bowers hadn't told him the truth about the outlaw gang's hideout, he would track him down and kill him ... if the weather and a shoulder wound didn't get Bowers first between here and Durango.

Crossing the ridge, Frank saw an unexpected sight, an old mountain man leading a mule.

"Seems harmless enough. Most likely an old trapper or a grizzly hunter."

Most of the old-time mountain men were gone now. Times had changed.

To be on the safe side Frank opened his coat so he could reach for his Colt Peacemaker. His Winchester was booted to his saddle, just in case a fight started at longer range, although Frank didn't expect any such thing. The old man in deerskins was minding his own business, leading his mule west into the storm with his head lowered.

The mountain man wearing the coonskin cap heard Frank's horses coming down the ridge. He stopped and watched Frank ride toward him, Frank's right hand near a belted pistol at his waist. The old man froze, out in the open, dozens of yards from any cover. He crouched a little, like he was ready for action.

"No need to pull that gun, stranger!" Frank called. "I mean you no harm."

The gray-bearded man grinned. "Hell of a thing, to be caught out in this squall. Don't see many travelers in these parts, mister."

"The name's Frank Morgan. I'm looking for Stump Creek, and a cabin north of here in a box canyon."

The mountain man scowled. "What in tarnation would you want with the old robbers' roost? Are you on the dodge from the law some place?"

"Nope ... leastways not around here. A gang of cutthroats led by a jasper named Ned Pine has taken my eighteen-year-old son as hostage. I aim to get my boy back."

"Ol' Ned Pine," the trapper said, his mule loaded with game traps and cured beaver skins. "I'd be real careful if I was you. Pine is a killer. So are them boys who run with him. They ain't no good, not a one of 'em."

"Like I said, my son is their prisoner. I'm gonna kill every last one of them if I have to. I need directions to that creek, and the cabin."

The mountain man cocked his head. "Ain't one man tough enough to get that job done, Morgan. I know all about Pine and his hoodlums. They'll kill a man for sneezin' if he gets too close to 'em. Maybe you oughta rethink what you're plannin' to do before it gets you killed. There could be as many as a dozen of 'em."

Frank nodded. "I'll think on it long and hard, mister, but I'd be obliged if you'd point me in the direction of Stump Creek and that hideout."

"Keep movin' northwest. You'll hit the creek in about ten miles. Turn due north and follow the creek into the canyon where Stump Creek has its headwaters."

"I'm grateful. Names don't mean all that much out here, but you can give me your handle if you're so inclined."

"Tin Pan is what I go by. Spent years pannin' these streams lookin' for color. Never found so much as a single nugget, but there's plenty of beaver pelts to be had."

"Appreciate the information, Tin Pan. I won't make it to the creek until it's nearly dark. If you're of a mind to share a little coffee and fatback with a stranger, you can look for my fire."

"Might just do that, Morgan. It gets a sight lonely out on these slopes. Besides, I'm plumb out of coffee. Been out for near a month now. But I've got a wild turkey hen we can spit on them flames tonight. Turkey an' fatback sounds mighty good, if it comes with coffee."

"You'll be welcome at my fire, Tin Pan. I'm headed west and north until I hit the creek. I'll have a pot of coffee on by the time you get there leading that mule."

"I can cover more ground than most folks figure. A mule has got more gumption than a horse when the weather gets bad. I'll be there ... pretty close behind you, unless I get a shot at a good fat deer. It'll take me half an hour to gut him and skin him proper."

Tin Pan had a Sharps booted to the packsaddle on his mule. There was something confident about the way the old man carried himself.

"Venison goes good with coffee," Frank said. He gazed into the snowstorm. "The only thing I've got to be careful about is having Ned Pine or a member of his gang spot my campfire. I may have to find a spot sheltered by trees to throw up my canvas lean-to. I don't want them to know I'm coming."

Tin Pan shook his head. "Not in this snow. The cabin you talked about is miles up the creek anyhow. Only a damn fool would be out in a storm like this. I reckon that makes both of us damn fools, don't it?"

Frank chuckled. "Hard to argue against it. I'll find that creek and get a fire and coffee going. It's gonna be pitch dark in an hour or two. I need to find the right spot to hide my horses and gear from prying eyes."

"You won't have no problems tonight, Morgan," Tin Pan said. "But if it stops snowin' before sunrise, you'll have more than a passel of troubles when the sun comes up. A man on a horse sticks out like a sore thumb in this country after it snows, if the sun is shinin'. That's when you'll have to be mighty damn careful."

"See you in a couple of hours," Frank said, urging his horse forward. "Just thinking about a cup of hot coffee and a frying pan full of fatback has got my belly grumbling."

"I'll be there," the mountain man assured him. "Sure hope you got a lump of sugar to go with that coffee."

"A bag full of brown sugar," Frank said over his shoulder as he rode down the ridge.

"Damn if I ain't got the luck today," Tin Pan cried as Frank rode out of sight into a stand of pines at the bottom of a steep slope.

Frank rode directly into the snowfall, his hands and face numbed by the cold. The outlaws' trail would be gone in an hour or less, with so much snow falling. He'd have to rely on the information Bowers and the mountain man gave him.

* * * *

His horses were tied in a pine grove. Frank huddled over a small fire, begging it to life by blowing on what little dry tinder he could find.

Stump Creek lay before him. He supposed the stream earned its name from the work of a beaver colony. All up and down the creek's banks, stumps from gnawed-down trees dotted the open spots.

The clear creek still flowed, with only a thin layer of ice on it. It was easy to break through to get enough water to fill his coffeepot.

He poured a handful of scorched coffee beans into the pot and set it beside the building flames. By surrounding the fire pit with a few flat stones, he had cooking surfaces on which he could place his skillet full of fatback.

If Tin Pan found his camp, it would be easy enough to rig a spit out of green pine limbs and skewer hunks of turkey onto sticks above the fire. Just thinking about a good meal made him hungry.

In a matter of minutes the sweet aroma of boiling coffee filled the clearing in the pines. Frank warmed his hands over the flames, letting his thoughts drift back to Conrad, and Ned Pine's gunslicks.

"I swear I'm gonna kill 'em," he said to himself. "They better not have done any harm to my boy or I'll make 'em die slow."

His saddle horse raised its head, looking east with its ears pricked forward.

"That'll be the old mountain man," he said, standing up to walk to the edge of the pine grove. An experienced mountain man Tin Pan's age would be able to follow the scent of Frank's from miles away.

Frank looked up at the darkening sky. Swirls of snowflakes fell on the pine limbs around him.

"I'll need to rig my lean-to," he mumbled. "No telling how much it'll snow tonight."

" Hello the fire!" a distant voice shouted.

"Come on in!" Frank replied. "Coffee's damn near done boiling!"

"I smelt it half an hour ago, Morgan!"

He saw the shape of Tin Pan leading his mule down to the creek through a veil of snow. It would be good to have a bit of company tonight. He was sure the old man had a sackful of stories about these mountains. Maybe even some information about the hideout where Ned Pine was holding Conrad.

Frank buttoned his coat and turned up the collar. Then he picked up more dead pine limbs to add to the fire. But even as the pleasant prospects of good company and a warm camp lay foremost in his mind, he couldn't shake the memory of Conrad and the outlaw bastards who held him prisoner.

* * * *

"Damn that's mighty good," Tin Pan said, palming a tin cup of coffee for its warmth, with two lumps of brown sugar to sweeten it.

"I've got plenty," Frank told him." I provisioned myself at Durango."

Tin Pan's wrinkled face looked older in light from the flames. "I been thinkin'," he said, then fell silent for a time.

"About what?" Frank asked.

"Ned Pine. Your boy. That hideout up in the canyon where you said they was hidin'."

"What about it?"

"It's mighty hard to get into that canyon without bein' seen, unless you know the old Ute trail."

"The Utes cleared out of this country years ago, after the Army got after them," Frank recalled.

"That still don't keep a man from knowin' the back way in to that canyon," Tin Pan said.

"There's a back way?"

Tin Pan nodded. "An old game trail. When these mountains were full of buffalo, the herds used it to come down to water in winter."

"Can you tell me how to find it?"

Tin Pan shook his head. "I'd have to show it to you. It's steep. A man who don't know it's there will ride right past it without seein' a thing."

Frank sipped scalding coffee, seated on his saddle blanket near the fire. "I don't suppose you'd have time to show me where it was...."

"I might. You seem like a decent feller, and you've sure got your hands full, trying to take on Ned Pine and his bunch of raiders."

"I could pay you a little something for your time," Frank said.

Tin Pan hoisted his cup of coffee. "This here cup of mud will be enough."

"Then you'll show me that trail?"

"Come sunrise, I'll take you up to the top of that canyon. I've got some traps I need to set anyhow."

"I'd be real grateful. My boy is only eighteen. He won't stand a chance against Pine and his ruffians."

"Don't get me wrong, Morgan. I ain't gonna help you fight that crowd. But I'll show you the back way down to the floor of the canyon. They won't be expectin' you to slip up on 'em from behind."

"I've got an extra pound of coffee beans. It's yours if you'll show me the trail."

"You just made yourself a trade, Mr. Morgan. A pound of coffee beans will last me a month."

"It's done, Tin Pan," Frank said, feeling better about things now. "I'm gonna pitch my lean-to while the fatback is cooking."

Tin Pan grinned. "I'll cut some green sticks for the hen I shot this morning. A man can't hardly ask for more'n turkey and fatback, along with sweet coffee."

--------

*Ten*

They rode higher, following the creek. Frank was still taken with the thought that Buck reminded him of Tin Pan Calhoun and another snowbound journey into the mountains far to the south in pursuit of Pine and Vanbergen. The big difference now was that Frank didn't have to worry about harm befalling Conrad at the hands of these same murderers. Conrad was safe back in Trinidad, even though the boy behaved as though he resented the fact that Frank had rescued him.

But now, it was simply a kill-or-be-killed manhunt after the men who'd killed his wife and meant to do his son harm, and Frank intended to exact a pound of flesh from every last one of them.

Heavier swirls of tiny snowflakes came at the two riders from above, and Frank shivered inside his mackinaw.

"It's gonna git a mite nasty higher up," Buck said. He had a crudely fashioned coat made from the fleece and hide of a mountain bighorn sheep wrapped around him to keep him warm as the temperature dropped rapidly.

"All the better," Frank muttered. "The cold and the snow will keep Vanbergen and Pine inside where it's warm. I'll have a better chance of slipping up on them."

Buck nodded once. "Sure hope you know what you're doin', Morgan. I done told you there's a helluva lot of 'em, an' you's jest one man. There's one you need to be 'specially careful of, a damn half-breed. Wears his hair like a Choctaw, shaved on both sides of his skull. One time, he damn near saw me watching 'em right after they got here. He carries an old Henry rifle an' he don't miss much around him."

"I'll get it done," Frank assured him. "I'm not worried about some half-breed. I need to see the lay of things around that old mining town first."

Buck grinned, studying the high country before them. "I'll have to hand it to you, Morgan, you ain't got no small poke when it comes to nerve."

Frank ignored the remark. "How much farther is it to that trail?"

"Ain't far. Don't git your britches in a knot. We'll be there before you know it."

Dog stopped long enough to shake snow from his coat. Then he trotted on ahead of the riders.

"That fleabag has got good eyesight an' hearin'," Buck said. "He don't hardly miss a thing. If I hadn't been downwind from him when we first met up, he'd have heard me sure, or smelt me when I come down to find out who you was."

Frank knew the pads on Dog's feet would be half frozen by now, and he meant to stop and make a small fire out of dead pine limbs, sheltering it with his tarp so no one would see the smoke curl into the sky. Dead limbs gave off precious little smoke, unlike green wood.

* * * *

Two more hours of steady climbing came to an abrupt halt when Dog stopped, his fur standing rigid down his back, a low growl coming from his throat.

"Trouble," Frank whispered as he and Buck reined down on their horses.

"I smelt it too. Somebody's got a fire up yonder round that turn. A lookout, most likely, only he ain't got the stomach for this cold. The damn fool's burnin' green wood. Let's git these horses into the trees an' we'll git round behind him. I done told you I ain't gonna take a hand in this fight ... it's all yours. But I'll help you find who's layin' for you up there, if I can."

"I'm obliged, Buck."

They reined their horses to the trees. Frank called Dog over to stay with the horses, then drew his Winchester and levered a shell into the chamber. "I'll follow you, Buck," he said. "Just show me where he's at."

"Could be more'n one," Buck warned.

"That suits me even better. The more of them I can take down before I get Vanbergen, the easier my job's gonna be when I get there."

Buck turned into a northwesterly wind with his Sharps over his shoulder. Frank followed in his footsteps, moving slowly among the ponderosas.

Buck paused now and then to scent the wind. Frank also smelled the smoke.

"Won't be far now," Buck said. "Most likely on the top of that ridge where they could see anybody comin'."

"Can we find a piece of higher ground?" Frank asked as he peered into the snowfall.

"Jest follow me an' I'll show you. The shootin' part is up to you. I ain't killed nobody since the war, an' I don't aim to take up the habit again. You'll be on your own when we find the bastards."

"I understand," Frank said.

* * * *

Two men in cowboy hats were huddled around a small fire inside a pine grove overlooking the creek. Their horses were tied deeper in the forest behind them.

"Yonder they is," Buck whispered. "If you're any good with that Yellow Boy repeater, you can kill 'em now."

"I never shoot a man in the back, Buck," he replied quietly. "I'll give 'em one chance to toss down their guns. If they give up peaceful, I'll take their horses, boots, and guns so they can start walking back toward Glenwood Springs."

"Their feet'll freeze off."

" They'll still be alive," Frank told him, raising his rifle to his shoulder as he leaned out from behind a pine truck.

"Get those hands up where I can see 'em!" Frank bellowed. "If you make a move toward a gun, I swear I'll kill you!"

One man seated before the fire whirled and came out with a pistol. Frank squeezed the Winchester's trigger immediately.

The clap of a .44 rifle exploding ended the high country silence. A yelp of pain followed as the cowboy went spinning away from the fire onto snowy ground with blood pumping from his chest.

The second cowboy tried to scramble for a stand of nearby trees. Frank's second bullet cut him down instantly, curling him into a ball as he clutched his belly, yelling at the top of his lungs with the agony of a gut-shot wound.

"Nice shootin', Morgan," Buck remarked. "That was damn near a hundred an' fifty yards. You ain't half bad with that saddle gun."

Frank stepped out from behind the tree. "That's two of them I won't have to worry about. I'll turn their horses loose and we can get back on that trail. It won't be long till Vanbergen and Pine figure out that some of their little lost lambs won't be coming back home."

He moved cautiously down to the fire. The first man he shot was dead, staring blankly at gray skies. The second lookout was still squirming around in a patch of crimson snow, his face knotted in pain.

Frank walked over to him, resting his rifle barrel against the man's left temple. "Where are the others?" he asked in a voice as cold as the wind swirling around them.

"To ... hell with ... you, Morgan. Find out for ... yourself if you've got ... the nerve."

"I have never been short on nerve, cowboy," he said. "I'd imagine you could use a drink of whiskey right now."

"Yeah. I'm ... hurtin' like hell."

"Too bad," Frank replied. "I can assure you it'll only get worse."

"You ... bastard. How'd you slip up on us?"

"It was too damn easy. For a hired gun, you ain't very damn smart about fires."

"It was ... cold."

"You're gonna get a lot colder. When most of your blood leaks out, you'll get a bad case of the shivers."

"I ain't scared of dyin', you cold-assed son of a bitch. You won't get past Ned an' Vic."

"I have before."

"Not ... this time. They've got a surprise for you."

"A surprise?"

"Damn right. You'll see." Then the man lapsed into unconsciousness.

Frank glanced over his shoulder at Buck Waite. Buck had a deep frown on his face.

"Looks like they're ready for you, Morgan," Buck said quietly. "You can't jest run down to that valley an' start off killin' that gang."

He gave the mountain peaks above them a sweeping glance before he spoke again. "Tell you what I'll do. Seein' as these is special circumstances, I'll try to help you out. I told you I ain't shot nobody since the end of the war. But I'm gonna do what I can."

"I'm grateful, but I don't need your help," Morgan said.

"You ain't seen what's waitin' for you down in Ghost Valley yet," Buck replied. "Leave these sumbitches where they lay. A fool can see they ain't goin' nowhere. We'll fetch their horses an' turn 'em loose. This gut-shot bastard won't last but an hour or two."

--------

*Eleven*

Conrad was walking home at twilight with his mind drifting after another day at the store. His small, two-room log cabin lay at the outskirts of Trinidad. The day's receipts at the store had been good, better than usual. His mother would have been proud of him. He was continuing to expand the fortune she'd left him when she was murdered. Conrad took no small amount of pride in seeing his wealth grow.

He gave little thought to his father, not even knowing his whereabouts now. Nor did he care, one way or another. Frank Morgan was no father to him. He was a killer, a gunfighter, a man who did not exist in Conrad's life as he lived it now, and it was better to put his father's memory aside. Even though his father had saved his life from a gang of cutthroats a few weeks back, it was something Conrad wanted to forget. He hoped he never had to set eyes on Frank Morgan again.

But there were times when Conrad wondered what his dad was really like. All Conrad had to go on were stories about a man who killed other men for a living, stories told to him by his late grandfather, before his mother was taken from him by an assassin's bullet. But there was no denying Frank Morgan's reputation as a shootist for hire. Those tales continued to circulate up and down the Western frontier, and when Conrad heard them, he turned away and went about other business. Hearing how many men his father had killed was not the sort of thing he cared to do. It was a part of the past, not his past, part of the early days when his father made a living with a gun.

"Good evening, Conrad," Millie Cartwright said as she passed him on the boardwalk.

He stopped and bowed politely, removing his hat. "Good evening to you, Miss Cartwright," he said, smiling. "It's so good to see you again."

"I see you are carrying ledger books under your arm," she said, smiling coyly, her face, framed by dark ringlets of deep brown hair, turning pink.

"A day's work is never done," he replied. "I have to balance the books. I've been too busy at the store to have the time to get it done."

"Then your mercantile business must be good," Millie said to him.

"Indeed it is. I may have to hire another clerk if things remain at their present pace. More and more people are coming west these days."

Then Millie's face darkened. "I was so glad to hear that you made it safely away from those outlaws. Your father must be a terrible man, if you'll pardon me for saying so. The outlaws took you prisoner, I was told, hoping that your father would pay a handsome price for your safe return. He killed them."

"I hardly ever talk about my father, Miss Cartwright," he said. "He is a part of my distant past, a man I'd rather forget if I can."

"Some say he is a professional murderer."

"I can't deny it. I've only met him a few times ... this last time, when he rescued me from those outlaws. But in truth, the men who took me only did so because they wanted to force my father to pay ransom for me. If I wasn't the son of Frank Morgan, I would be able to live my life in peace. He has made a lot of enemies."

"I'm so sorry, Conrad," Millie said. "It must be quite a burden for you. Anyone who knows you well can't believe that you are the son of a hired killer. You are a gentle soul, and you care about people."

"I thank you for your kind remarks," he said.

"You deserve every kindness. You run an honest store and you treat people fairly."

He grinned. "Perhaps we might have dinner one night, if you have no objections."

Millie looked askance at him. "I fear my parents would not agree to it, Conrad. My father still remembers stories about the deeds attributed to your father. I'm so sorry. I know he's wrong about you, that you might be anything like Frank Morgan. But I have to honor my parents' wishes."

"I understand," he said softly, glancing down at his boots. "It seems I'll never outgrow my father's bad reputation, even though I don't really know him. He left my mother before I was born."

Millie reached for him and touched his arm. "Maybe we can find a way to spend some time together," she whispered. "If you rented a buggy, we might take a picnic lunch into the mountains and no one would know."

He was momentarily cheered by the thought. Then his face fell again. "How sad it is to bear the burdens of my father's sins. It seems I'll carry them with me for the rest of my life. But I would love to rent a carriage and take you to some quiet place for a picnic lunch. Would the end of the week be okay with you?"

"I'll drop by the store and let you know," Millie replied, "but now I must hurry home. There's a pretty place by Catclaw Springs where we could go and no one would see us. It's a beautiful spot."

"I know the place," Conrad said with excitement in his voice. "There are big oak and pine trees above a spring pool below the waterfall. I'll buy a bottle of wine and some good cheese."

Millie's face turned a faint shade of red. "I can bake a loaf of bread and slice some sugar-cured ham from the smokehouse. I'll even bake a peach cobbler for dessert."

"Saturday," Conrad said. "Late in the afternoon, after I close the store. You can meet me behind the livery and no one will know."

"I'm looking forward to it, although I have to make sure my parents think I'm going somewhere else. See you on Saturday, Conrad."

He bowed again as she walked off toward her clapboard house on the north side of Trinidad.

"Things aren't so bad after all," he said to himself as he made a turn down a side street toward home.

Skies turned inky above southwestern Colorado as he made his way toward his house. Winking stars filled the heavens. He thought about what it would be like to have a picnic with Millie, and for the first time in months he felt happy, content, at peace with himself and the world around him.

He came to his cottage and fumbled in his pocket for the key, keeping the bank bag containing the day's receipts under his arm. Conrad had taken in more than four hundred dollars from settlers heading west, and a smaller amount from local residents who traded with him on a regular basis.

When he put his key in the lock, he heard a deep voice behind him.

"Be real still, boy. If you don't pay real close attention to me, I'm gonna kill you. You're worth as much to me dead as you are alive."

Conrad glanced over his shoulder. A burly cowboy with a thick gray beard stood behind him holding a sawed-off shotgun with the biggest barrels he'd ever seen.

" This is a ten-gauge," the stranger explained. "If I pull both these triggers they'll be scrapin' you off your own front door."

"Who are you?" Conrad asked. "What do you want with me?"

"Name's Cletus. That's all you need to know."

"I'll give you my money ... all the money from the store I took in today."

"Peanuts," Cletus said. "I ain't here for chicken feed."

"What do you want?"

"Just you, little boy. You're worth ten thousand dollars to me in Glenwood Springs. Now turn around an' walk around the back of your house. I got a horse waitin' for you."

"What is this all about?" Conrad asked.

"Your old no-good daddy, Frank Morgan. He's a rotten son of a bitch. Me an' some other boys are gonna trade you for all the money ol' Frank can raise. An' if he don't come up with the money, I'm gonna put a hole plumb through your back." Conrad turned around to get a better look at the man covering him with the shotgun. "I don't even know my father. He's a gunfighter. We haven't spoken to each other but once over the past twenty years."

"Shut your damn mouth an' walk around behind this cabin, boy. I'd just as soon kill you right here. Be easier takin' you to high country."

"And what if I refuse to go?"

"Then you're a dead man."

Conrad dropped the moneybag he was carrying ... it landed with a thud on his front porch. "Take my money," he told the gunman. "But leave me here. My father wouldn't give a plug nickel to save my skin."

"That ain't what I hear, boy. I'll take your sack of money, only I'm damn sure takin' you along with it. March around to the back of this house an' climb on that sorrel horse. I'm gonna tie your hands. If you cry out, or make even one sound, I'll blow you to pieces."

Conrad's knees were trembling as he walked off the porch to circle his cabin. Once again, it seemed, his father's legacy had shown up to ruin his peaceful existence.

He mounted a sorrel mare with the gunman's weapon aimed at his face.

"Turn north," Cletus growled. "If we pass anybody, don't say a goddamn word. You do, an' I'll cut you in half so's your daddy has two pieces of you to bury."

As dusk became dark, Cletus Huling and Conrad started north at a slow jog trot. Cletus rode behind Conrad with his shotgun leveled.

Conrad closed his eyes for a moment. Again, he was a prisoner of men who wanted revenge against his father. Of all the men on earth Conrad despised, it was his father. Being a killer, he had sentenced Conrad to life at the hands of wanted men who would only use him to get at Frank.

Dusk became full dark. Conrad shuddered as they headed for the distant peaks marking the southern end of the Rockies.

--------

*Twelve*

Conrad recalled those last moments in the snowbound cabin in the mountains, when Frank and an old man riding a mule had Ned Pine's gang surrounded. Pine, the toughest of the lot, had shown genuine fear of Conrad's father that day when the gang was boxed in.

* * * *

"I know it's you, Morgan!" Pine bellowed. "If you fire one more shot, I'll blow the kid's goddamn skull all over Lost Pine Canyon and leave him for the wolves!"

Pine edged out the front door of the cabin with his pistol under Conrad's chin.

"My men are gonna saddle our horses!" Pine went on with a fistful of Conrad's hair in his left hand. "One more gunshot and I blow your son's head off!"

Only silence filled the canyon after the echo of Ned's voice died.

"You hear me, Morgan?"

More silence, only the whisper of snow falling on ponderosa pine limbs.

"Answer me, you son of a bitch!"

The quiet around Ned was absolute. He squirmed a little, but he held his Colt under Conrad's jawbone with the hammer cocked.

"I'll kill this sniveling little bastard!" Ned called to what seemed like an empty forest.

And still, there was no reply from Morgan.

"Whoever you've got shootin' from up on the rim, you'd best tell that son of a bitch I mean business. If he fires one shot I'll kill your boy."

Conrad Browning had tears streaming down his pale face and his legs were trembling. A dark purple bruise decorated one of his cheeks.

Ned looked over his shoulder at the cabin door. He spoke to Slade and Lyle. "You and Rich and Cabot get out there and saddle the best horses," he snapped. "Tell Billy Miller to keep his gun sights on the back."

"He ain't gonna shoot us?" Slade asked.

"Hell, no, he ain't," Pine replied.

"What makes you so all-fired sure?"

"Because I've got a gun at his boy's throat. He came all this way to save him. Morgan knows that even if he shoots me, I'll kill this kid as I'm going down. Now get those goddamn horses saddled."

"I see somebody up top!" cried Billy Miller, a boy from Nebraska who had killed a storekeeper to get a few plugs of tobacco.

" Kill the son of a bitch!" Ned shouted.

"He's gone now, but I seen him."

"Damn," Ned hissed, his jaw set. He spoke to Slade and Lyle again. "Get out there and put saddles on the best animals we've got. Hurry!"

"I ain't so sure about this, Ned," Lyle said, peering out the doorway.

"Get out there and saddle the goddamn horses or I'll kill you myself!" Ned cried. "Morgan ain't gonna do a damn thing so long as I've got this gun cocked under his little boy's skull bone."

Rich Boggs, a half-breed holdup man from Kansas, came out the front door carrying a rifle. "C'mon, boys," he said in a quiet voice.

Lyle and Slade edged out the door with Winchesters in their hands.

"I don't like this, Lyle," Slade said.

"Neither do I, but we can't stay here until this snow melts."

Cabot Bulware, a former bank robber from Baton Rouge, was the last to leave the cabin. He spoke Cajun English. "Don't see no mens no place, _mon ami,"_ he whispered. "Dis man Morgan be a hard _batard_ to shoot."

"Shut up and get the damn horses saddled," Ned said, his hands trembling in the cold.

"Please don't shoot me, Mr. Pine," Conrad whimpered. "I didn't do anything to you."

"Shut up, boy, or I'll empty your brains onto this here snow," Ned spat. "I ain't all that sure you've got any goddamn brains."

"My father doesn't care what you do to me," Conrad said. "He never came to see me, not even when you killed my mother."

"That was an accident, sort of. Now shut up and let me think."

Cabot, Lyle, Slade, and Billy made their way slowly to the corrals. Rich came over to Ned with his rifle cocked, ready to fire.

"You reckon Morgan will let us ride out of here?" Rich asked.

"Damn right he will."

"You sound mighty sure of it."

"I've got his snot-nosed kid with a gun under his jawbone. Even Morgan won't take the chance of shootin' at us. He knows I'll kill his boy."

"I ain't seen him no place, Ned. I've been looking real close."

"Help the others saddle our mounts. Frank Morgan is out there somewhere."

"Are you sure it's him? Billy saw a feller up on the rim of the canyon. Maybe it's the law."

"It ain't the law. It's Morgan."

"But you sent Charlie back to gun him down, an' then Sam and Buster and Tony rode our back trail. One man couldn't outgun Sam or Buster, and nobody's ever gotten to Charlie. Charlie's real careful."

"Shut the hell up and help saddle our horses, Rich. You're wasting valuable time running your mouth over things we can't do nothing about. If Morgan got to Charlie and Sam and the rest of them, we'll have to ride out of here and head for Gypsum Gap to meet up with Vic."

"One man can't be that tough," Rich said, although he made for the corrals as he said it.

Ned was furious. He'd known Morgan was good, but that had been years ago.

Ned stood in front of the cabin with his Colt pistol under Conrad's chin, waiting for the horses. At the moment he needed a swallow of whiskey.

* * * *

Louis Pettigrew had begun to have serious doubts. He'd been listening to Victor Vanbergen and Ford Peters talk about Frank Morgan for more than an hour ... Louis had a page full of notes on Morgan.

But too many seasoned lawmen had told him that Morgan was as good as any man alive with a gun. Something about the stories he was hearing didn't add up.

"Morgan left his wife with a band of outlaws?" Louis asked with disbelief. "And they killed her?"

"Sure did," Vic said.

"That ain't the worst of it," Ford added. "She had this baby boy of Frank's. He left the kid with her too. That oughta tell you what kind of yellow bastard he is ... he was. The little boy's name was Conrad Browning."

"Did Mr. Morgan ever come back to visit his son?" Louis asked.

"Not that anybody knows of. He was raised by somebody else. Morgan was rotten through an' through. Any man who'd abandon his own son ain't worth the gunpowder it'd take to kill him, if you ask me."

Vic nodded. "That's a fact. Morgan went west and left his boy to grow up alone. That's why we say he was yellow. No man with even a trace of gumption would leave his kid to be raised by somebody else."

"Morgan was a no good son of a bitch," Ford said, waving to the barkeep to bring them more drinks at the Boston writer's expense.

"I can't believe he'd do that," Louis said, turning the page on his notepad.

"You didn't know him like we did," Ford said. "He was trash."

"I don't understand how so many people could be wrong about him," Louis said. "I've heard him described as fearless, and one of the best gunmen in recent times."

"Lies," Vic said. "All lies."

"He was short on nerve," Ford added as more shot glasses of whiskey came toward their table. "I can tell you a helluva lot more about him, if you want to hear it."

The drinks were placed around the table. Louis Pettigrew had a scowl on his face.

"I don't think I need to hear any more, gentlemen. It would appear I've come all this way for nothing ... to write a story about a gunfighter who had a reputation he clearly did not deserve."

"You've got that part right," Vic said.

Ford nodded his agreement.

Vern wanted to get in his two cents' worth. "Frank Morgan is washed up as a gunfighter. You'd better write your story about somebody else."

"Dear me," Pettigrew said, closing his notepad, putting his pencil away. "It would seem the last of the great gunfighters is no more."

A blast of cold wind rattled the doors into the Wagon Wheel Saloon. Pettigrew glanced over his shoulder. "I suppose I should seek lodging for the night and a stable for my horse. I think in the morning I'll ride toward Denver and catch the next train to Boston."

"Sounds like a good idea to me," Vic said. "You won't be givin' your readers much if you write a story about Frank Morgan."

"So it would appear, gentlemen. I appreciate your time and your honesty. I suppose some men live on reputations from the past."

"That's Morgan," Ford said. "I hate to inform a feller that he's wasted his time, but I figure you have if you intend to write about Frank."

Pettigrew pushed back his chair. "So many people want to read the dime novels about true-life heroes out here in the West. Some of our best-selling books in the past have been about Wild Bill and Buffalo Bill Cody. There's even this woman, Calamity Jane they call her, who can outshoot most men with a rifle or a pistol. Our readers love this sort of thing. We can't print enough of them."

"Nobody wants to read about Frank," Vic said. "It'd be a waste of good paper and ink."

* * * *

Pettigrew had gone outside before Ford and Vic began to laugh over their joke.

"You spooned him full of crap," Vern said, grinning. "He bought every word of it."

Vic's expression changed. "We don't need some damn reporter hangin' around while Ned's got Frank's boy."

"We got rid of the reporter," Ford said. "I figure he'll head for Denver at first light."

"If this storm don't snow him in," Vern observed, watching snowflakes patter against the saloon windows. "That's one helluva long ride up to Denver when the weather's as bad as this."

"We'll stay here tonight," Vic said. "Go tell the rest of the boys to find rooms and put their horses away."

Vern stood up, stretching tired muscles after the ride from Gypsum Gap. "I'm damn sure glad to hear you say that, Boss," he said.

"Me too," Ford agreed. "Our asses could have froze off. It sure is late in the year for so much snow."

Vic looked out at the storm. "We need to send a couple of riders down to Lost Pine Canyon," he said, "just to make sure Ned got Morgan and that boy."

"We'd have heard by now," Ford observed.

" Somebody from Ned's bunch would have come lookin' for us if they needed help," Vern said. "Hell, Morgan's just one man an' Ned's got nearly a dozen good gunmen with him. Slade an' Lyle are enough to drop Morgan in his tracks."

"I hope you're right," Vic said. "Morgan can be a sneaky son of a bitch."

"He ain't _that_ sneaky," Ford said.

Vic glanced at Ford and smiled. "How the hell would you know, Ford? In spite of what you told that Easterner, you've never set eyes on Frank Morgan in your life. He could walk in here right now and you wouldn't recognize him."

Ford chuckled. "You're right about that, Boss. I just couldn't pass up the opportunity."

Vern started for the door, sleeving into his coat as he passed the potbelly stove. "You damn sure did a good job of it, Ford Peters. For a while there, I thought maybe you an' Frank was half brothers."

"I could kill you over a remark like that," Ford said.

Vic tossed back the last of his third drink. "Tell the boys to settle in for the night, Vern. I'll send a couple of 'em over to the canyon tomorrow so we'll know what's keepin' Ned. I had it figured he oughta be here by now."

* * * *

Conrad remembered that time all too clearly ... and by all accounts he was headed back into the hands of Pine and Vanbergen again.

"Damn the rotten luck," he whispered, with Cletus Huling holding a shotgun at his back.

--------

*Thirteen*

Sheriff Charlie Maxey looked up from a stack of WANTED posters on his desk when a slender young man wearing suspenders and a tin star burst into his office, slamming the door behind him.

"What is it, Dave?"

His deputy, Dave Matthews, was out of breath. "You ain't gonna believe this, Sheriff, but them sorry sons of bitches done it again."

"Done what?"

"Took Morgan's boy, Conrad Browning, prisoner."

"What?"

"I seen it myself. An' I recognized the bastard who took him."

"Who the hell was he?" Maxey cried, standing up to take a rifle from a rack behind his desk.

"The sorriest son of a bitch who ever straddled a saddle. Cletus Huling, that damn bounty hunter from down in the Texas Panhandle. You remember when he come up here last year after Boyd Haskins?"

"Huling is in Trinidad?"

"He _was._ He took Conrad at gunpoint an' headed north into the mountains."

"Round up a posse. I'll deputize every man who's willing to ride with us."

"Won't be many," Dave said, taking a rifle down for his own use.

"And why the hell is that, Dave?"

"On account of Huling. Damn near everybody knows who he is after he blowed Haskins plumb to eternity, an' everybody in this town knows he's a damn cold-blooded killer who'll shoot a man in the back."

"Round up as many men as you can," Sheriff Maxey said with a sigh. "I'll go saddle my horse. See how many men you can find with a backbone and a gun, then get your own horse saddled. You can show us which way they went. I sure as hell hope you're wrong about this."

"I ain't wrong, Sheriff. I got two good eyes." Dave Matthews turned for the door, then hesitated. "Seems like I seen another feller outside of town waitin' for them. He was way off, so I couldn't make out what he looked like, 'cept for just one thing."

"What was that one thing?"

"He was a Mexican. He was wearin' this big sombrero on his head, only it was pulled real low in front so I couldn't make out his face."

"How do you know he was with Huling?"

"They joined up about a quarter mile north of town an' took off for the mountains together. Conrad, he was riding this big sorrel in between 'em."

"Damn," Maxey mumbled, taking a box of cartridges from his desk drawer. "See how many possemen you can find and meet me at the livery."

Dave started out onto the boardwalk. "Poor ol' Conrad. It sure seems like he's had enough troubles, after what his daddy went through gettin' him back from Ned Pine an' Victor Vanbergen a few weeks ago."

Maxey nodded as he too started for the office door. "Conrad ain't like his murderin' pappy. That boy is gentle as a spring lamb. But Frank, he's a mean-assed hombre who ain't afraid of nobody. If Morgan gets word that somebody took his boy again, there'll be hell to pay. I sure as hell hope it don't happen in my town."

"I'll see how many men I can round up, Sheriff. Only don't count on our good citizens to swear in to make a posse goin' after Cletus Huling. If there's one man west of the Mississippi who's as good as Frank Morgan with a gun, it'll be that bastard Huling."

Maxey became irritated with his deputy's complaining. "Go fetch as many men as you can, Dave, an' you might want to leave out the part about it being Huling we're after. All you gotta say is that somebody grabbed Conrad again. That ought to be enough to get us a few volunteers, seeing as how everybody likes that boy."

Dave took off down the boardwalk carrying the Winchester. Sheriff Maxey locked his office door behind him.

It was the blackest of luck, to have Cletus Huling show up in Trinidad ... it was like finding a skunk under your bed, Maxey thought.

But with enough men they stood a chance of riding Huling down. Maxey had no idea who the Mexican in the sombrero might be, not in Colorado Territory. There were damn few Mexicans this far north, since it was common knowledge a Mexican didn't take to cold weather.

He made haste for the livery, reminding himself that he needed to bring a heavy coat and gloves since the high country north of Trinidad would still be cold, with the possibility of snow this time of year.

* * * *

Cletus halted on a pine-studded ridge to study their back trail. "Nobody followin' us yet," he said to Diego Ponce as they sat their horses.

Diego scanned the lowlands behind them. His badly scarred face seemed to remain in a permanent scowl. "I see no one," he said. "But they will come, if this whimpering boy is truly worth so much money."

" He is," Cletus assured him. "Our share of the take will be ten thousand in gold. An' if ol' Ned Pine an' Vanbergen don't play it straight with us, we'll kill 'em an' the boys who ride with 'em. That way, you an' me can split it between ourselves an' nobody'll be the wiser. Half the lawmen in Colorado Territory would just as soon see Pine an' Vanbergen dead anyhow. We'll be doin' folks a favor."

Diego tried for a smile. "I like that. That way, we will have it all."

Cletus glanced at Conrad. He had tied the boy's hands in front of him with a pigging string. Tears had formed in Conrad's eyes.

" This kid ain't gonna be no problem, but we've got to keep an eye out for his old man."

"You tell me his name is Frank Morgan. I never hear of him before."

"That's because you've been down in Mexico, Diego. If you'd spent any time north of the Rio Grande you'd know who Morgan is. A goddamn paid shootist, an' a damn good one. Only thing on our side is that he's gettin' a mite long in the tooth. I ain't sure how old he is, but he's old enough now to be a bit slower on the draw."

Diego chuckled. "The best way to kill a man who is quick on the draw is to get behind him. If this Senyor Morgan shows up, I will kill him myself."

"Don't kill him until he comes up with the ransom money for his kid," Cletus warned.

Conrad sniffled. "My father wouldn't pay a dime to have me set free. You men are wasting your time."

"Shut up, kid!" Cletus snapped. "Ned Pine said your old man would pay a ton of money to get you back. Fifty thousand dollars is what he said you was worth."

Conrad shook his head. "I hate my father. If you are counting on him to pay a ransom for me, I can assure you that it's a waste of time."

Diego glanced at Cletus.

"Don't pay no attention to this crybaby," Cletus said. "I know for a fact that Morgan has the money, an' that he'll pay it to get this snot-nose kid back."

"Whatever you say, Cletus," Diego said.

" Let's get headed north. Glenwood Springs is a hard three-day ride."

"Will they send a posse after the boy?" Diego inquired.

Cletus grinned, revealing rows of yellowed teeth. "If they do, we'll kill the sons of bitches an' be done with them. Just keep an eye behind us. It's time we covered some ground before it gets full dark."

"It is better if we do not have a fire when we make camp," Diego said.

"We ain't gonna make camp. We'll keep pushing these horses all night. Come sunrise, we'll find us a ranch someplace an' take fresh horses."

Diego turned his head north. "This is very empty country, _compadre_. What if there are no ranches where we can steal fresh horses?"

"We keep ridin' the ones we've got."

Diego reined his brown gelding off the ridge. "I do not like this place."

Cletus gave him a sour look. "Why the hell is that, Diego?" he asked, not really caring.

"Is too cold here," the Mexican _pistolero_ said. "Even a woman could not keep me warm on a night like this. Maybeso a bottle of tequila."

Cletus led the way up the ridge toward dark mountain silhouettes looming in the distance. He knew he'd made the right choice when he'd brought Diego Ponce with him to earn this high bounty. Ponce was half crazy, as good with a bowie knife as he was with a pistol or a rifle. And when it came to killing men, no matter who they might be, he had no remorse, no misgivings about spilling their blood.

* * * *

Diego trotted his horse up a steepening slope, catching up to Cletus and the boy.

"They come," Diego said softly. "I counted seven of them and they are using their horses very hard."

Cletus cast a look toward a narrow pass between mountains only a few hundred yards away. "We'll ambush the bastards here," he said. "It'll be a posse from Trinidad. Won't be a one of them who knows how to shoot."

"I will find a place to hide," Diego said, spurring his horse past Cletus and Conrad.

* * * *

Sheriff Maxey knew the trail was fresh. Every time he climbed down from the saddle he found crisp hoofprints made only hours ago.

"We're closing in on them, boys," he said. "Get your rifles and shotguns ready."

Maxey led them into a rocky pass. Night shadows hid what lay beyond the entrance.

Just as they entered the passageway, a rifle shot echoed from rocks high on the rim. Dave Matthews let out a yelp and went tumbling from the saddle.

Then a hail of lead came at Maxey's posse from two sides. A horse went down, whickering in pain. Homer Martin, Trinidad's only blacksmith, shrieked and tumbled over his horse's rump with blood squirting from his head.

Bob Olsen was cut down by a withering blast of gunfire from the east side of the pass. His horse crumpled underneath him and he slumped over the animal's neck.

Jimmy Strunk, a boy of fifteen, began screaming for his mother when a bullet shattered his spine. He threw down his father's rifle and slid underneath his prancing pinto's hooves, trampled to death when his horse galloped away with his boot hung in a stirrup.

Buford Cobbs, a saloonkeeper, had his head torn from his torso by a .44-caliber slug that severed his spinal column. His head rolled off his shoulders like a grisly ball before he fell to the rocky floor of the pass.

Alex Wright, a cowboy from the Circle B Ranch, felt something enter his throat. He tried to yell, but only a stream of dark blood came from his neck. He threw up his hands to surrender to the shooters just seconds before he died. His horse plunged out from under him, sending him crashing to the ground with a dull thud.

Sheriff Charlie Maxey had only a brief moment to understand his mistake ... he'd ridden into a trap, an ambush.

He jerked his horse around and stuck spurs into its ribs as hard and fast as he could. His chestnut reached a full gallop at the same instant when a bullet passed cleanly through his liver, exiting through the front of his flannel shirt.

"Edith!" he cried, calling out his wife's name when a jolt of pain went through him. He dropped his rifle and clung to the saddle horn for all he was worth as the gelding galloped away from the booming guns.

He closed his eyes, trusting the horse to take him back home in the dark.

* * * *

Sheriff Maxey survived the ride back to Trinidad with blood covering his saddle, his horse's withers, his pants and shirt. His right boot was full of blood. His winded horse trotted down the main street of Trinidad and came to a halt in front of the sheriff's office.

Charlie Maxey finally released his iron grip on the saddle horn and fell to the ground. He took one final breath and lay still.

--------

*Fourteen*

Bud Johnson and George Garland sat inside a stand of trees above the lip of Ghost Valley.

Johnson was wanted in New Mexico Territory for bank robbery and murder. Garland had warrants out for him in Arkansas and Texas for petty crimes.

"It's cold up here," Bud whispered.

"Damn right it is," George agreed. "Ned said we couldn't have no fire on account of Morgan. He might see the flames or smell the smoke."

"Morgan's probably dead by now."

"Then where the hell is Carson?" George asked, rubbing his hands together. "And how come we ain't seen hide nor hair of Luke an' Will an' Mike?"

"Carson most likely made camp to wait out this storm. Same goes for the others. A horse don't travel too good into a wind full of snow."

"Carson didn't have no provisions with him, just some whiskey and jerky. He'd ride hard for the shack if he could. I'm sure of it."

"You're sayin' Frank Morgan got Carson? Nobody ever put so much as a nick in Carson's hide. He's the most careful man I ever knowed."

"All the same, he shoulda been here by now. It's damn near dark. The others shoulda been back. I've got a bad feelin' about this."

Bud took a pint bottle of whiskey out of his coat. "Have some more red-eye. It'll make the waitin' easier. Tom and Zeke are supposed to come up here to relieve us after it gets full dark."

George took the bottle and drank a thirsty gulp. Then he took a deep breath. "This here's the best invention since the gun, Bud. A man can't hardly live without it. I sure as hell hope them boys down at the shack don't drink it all up before we get there. Besides, this ol' ghost town gets kind'a spooky when the sun goes down."

"Whiskey helps," Bud agreed, peering over the top of a boulder at the snow-laden mouth of the valley below. "Hell, ain't nobody in his right mind gonna ride through this wind and snowfall tonight."

"How come Ned's so dead set on killin' Morgan?"

"It goes way back. Ned and Victor killed Morgan's woman and he come after 'em. Morgan killed a bunch of men in Vanbergen's gang and some of the boys who rode with Ned. Ned and Victor ain't never got over it. They want revenge for what Morgan did to 'em."

"Sounds like Morgan's the one with a reason for revenge, if you ask me. That was before I throwed in with Ned. I was just comin' out of Fort Worth at the time."

"I was there," Bud remembered. "Morgan's a killer, a damn good shootist."

"I used to hear stories about him. That was years ago, before I took up the outlaw trail. Folks said he was meaner'n a longhorn bull on the prod, and that nobody was any faster with a six-gun."

"He's just a man," Bud said, taking his own swallow of whiskey. "You can kill damn near any sumbitch if you go about it right."

"I hope Carson got him," George said.

"Maybe they killed each other."

"That could be what's taking the others so long, lookin' for the bodies in all this snow."

Bud leaned back against the rock with a blanket thrown over him. "That kid of Morgan's didn't have no backbone. When Ned started knockin' him around, he cried like a damn sugar-tit baby."

"I'll agree he wasn't much," George said. "Makes a man wonder why Morgan would go to all this trouble."

"I figure Morgan's dead by now. Soon as ol' Cletus Huling an' that Meskin get here with the crybaby, we'll head back south where it's warmer to rob a few banks an' trains. This here cold weather don't agree with me."

"It hurts my joints," George agreed. "I hate this cold. Soon as this business with Morgan is over, Ned promised we'd ride down to Texas. You can bet on one thing ... things swing to our side soon as Huling an' Diego get here. Huling is plumb crazy. If he took the notion, he'd kill Ned an' Victor all by hisself."

"I'm gonna ask Ponce to take us down to the Mexican border so we can get ourselves some pretty senyoritas."

"That damn sure sounds good on a day like this, sittin' up here at the top of this canyon without no fire. We're liable to freeze to death."

"It's gonna be pitch dark soon," Bud said. "That fire in the potbelly down at the shack is sure gonna feel good." He closed his eyes, pulling his hat brim over his face. "You keep an eye on that trail down to the valley for a spell. I'm gonna try an' get me some shut-eye. Zeke an' Tom oughta be up here to take over guard duty for us pretty damn soon."

"It's too damn cold to sleep," George said. "Pass me back that whiskey so I can stay warm."

* * * *

"I'm gonna throw in with you," Buck said. "Made up my mind on it."

"No need, unless you're just restless, or itching for a fight."

"Got nothing to do with restlessness, Morgan. I've been thinking about that eighteen-year-old boy of yours, and the way things are stacked against you. You've got a dose of revenge comin' to you. Long odds against you."

"I've never been one to worry about the odds," Frank said as he placed more sticks underneath the coffeepot. The smell of coffee filled the clearing.

"There's times when it pays to worry a little."

"Maybe," Frank replied.

Skies darkened to the west. The snow had stopped falling and the wind had died down.

"I'll show you that old Injun trail down the back side of the valley," Buck continued. "It was used by them Anasazi. If I stay perched up in them rocks with my Sharps, I can get a few of 'em."

"I'm obliged for the offer, but there's no need to put your neck in a noose over me. I can handle whatever's down there on my own."

"You're a hard-headed cuss."

Coffee was boiling out of the spout, and Frank put on a glove to take the pot off the flames, placing it on a rock beside the crackling fire.

"I've been told that before," he said, grinning. "It comes from my daddy's side of the family."

Buck drew an Arkansas toothpick from a sheath inside his right boot. "I'll slice up some of that fatback and put chunks of jerky with it. Oughta make a decent meal."

"Sounds mighty good to me." Frank added a handful of snow to the coffeepot to get the grounds to settle to the bottom. "We can get moving soon as it's dark enough to hide us. That's a toothpick you're carrying. I've got one of my own, only it's a bowie. Best knife on earth for killing a man, either variety."

"Mine's skinned many a grizzly and elk. I know the way to the valley real well," Buck said, pulling a chunk of salted pork from a waxed-paper bundle, then cutting thin slices off with his knife. "Trapped it a few times."

"Is there any cover on the floor of that valley?" Frank asked.

"Scrub pines. Not many. If Ned decides to hole up in the town and wait you out, it'll take an army to flush him out of there."

"I've got plenty of ammunition," Frank declared, "some with forty grains of powder in 'em. After I start filling that cabin with lead, they'll come out after a spell."

"Sounds like you've done this sort of thing before, Morgan."

"A few times."

Buck frowned. "Do it ever bother you, thinkin' about the lives you've took? I still have nightmares about the Yankees I shot durin' the war."

Frank shook his head. "Like I told you before, I never killed a man who didn't deserve it."

Buck laid strips of fatback in Frank's small frying pan and added a few pieces of jerky. He set it on a flat stone close to the flames, nestling it into the glowing coals. "That oughta do it," he said, wiping his knife clean on one leg of his stained deerskin pants.

"Coffee's ready," Frank said, glancing up at a gray sky darkening with nightfall.

He poured himself a cup, then another for the old man, tossing him a cotton sack of brown sugar.

"Mighty nice," Buck said with a smile. "It don't get much better'n this."

"You're right," Frank agreed. "Open country, a warm fire, and good vittles."

"Don't forget about the coffee."

Frank slurped a steaming mouthful from his cup. "I hadn't forgotten about it."

The salt pork began to sizzle in the skillet, giving off a wonderful smell. But Frank's thoughts were on Conrad, what he had been through. Ned Pine had tortured him, making him as miserable as possible, asking questions about Frank the boy couldn't answer. Frank and Conrad barely knew each other, and the circumstances under which Conrad was born without Frank being there made the boy resentful toward his father, an understandable feeling since Conrad didn't know the whole story behind his birth and his father's love for his mother.

A back way into Ghost Valley would give Frank a tremendous advantage, and with a shooter up on the rim, things could get hot for Pine and his bunch. Frank owed the old man for his willingness to lend a hand.

The first order of business would be to take out any riflemen guarding the trail. If he made his approach very carefully, he could take them without making much noise. Then he'd make his way down to the abandoned town and start the serious business of killing off Pine's and Vanbergen's men one or two at a time.

Buck turned over the fatback strips with the point of his knife.

"Won't be long now," the old man said.

"My belly's rubbing against my backbone," Frank replied, taking another sip of coffee.

* * * *

Zeke Giles and Tom Ledbetter were still drunk from a night-long consumption of whiskey.

Ledbetter was from Missouri, wanted for a string of robberies in his home state. Giles was a small-time cow thief who had killed seven men after the war without anyone knowing his identity.

Zeke looked up at darkening skies. "I thought this storm was gonna blow over. Looks like more of this goddamn snow is headed our way."

"Just our luck," Tom muttered. "We'll freeze our asses off up here if that wind builds again."

Zeke glimpsed a shadow moving among the boulders behind them. "Who the hell is that?"

Tom turned in the direction Zeke was pointing. "I don't see nothin'. You're imagining things."

"I was sure I saw somebody headed toward us."

"Who the hell would it be?"

" This bad light plays tricks on a man's eyes. I wish it wasn't so damn dark tonight."

"You're seein' things. Relax."

"Pass me that whiskey," Zeke said. "Could be I'm just too cold."

Tom handed Zeke the bottle. Half of its contents were missing.

Zeke had raised the bottle to his lips when suddenly a dark shape appeared on top of the boulder behind Tom.

An object came twirling through the air toward Zeke, and then something struck his chest. "Son of a..." he cried, driven back in the snow by a bowie knife buried in his gut just below his breastbone.

"What the hell?" Tom cried, scrambling to his feet as Zeke slumped to the ground.

A heavy rifle barrel slammed into the back of Tom's head and he sank to his knees, losing consciousness before he fell over on his face.

Zeke cried, "What happened?"

The shape of a man stood over him.

" Who ... the hell ... are you?"

"Frank Morgan," a quiet voice replied.

"Oh, no. We was supposed ... to be watchin' for you."

"You weren't watching close enough, and now you'll pay for it with your life."

"Please don't ... kill me. I've got a wife back home."

"You're already dead, cowboy. The tip of my knife is buried in your heart."

Waves of pain filled Zeke's chest. "No!" he whimpered, feeling warm blood flow down the front of his shirt.

"I'm gonna cut your pardner's throat," the voice said. "He has to die for what you did to my son."

"It was ... Ned's idea," Zeke croaked.

"You went along with it," the tall man said, bending down to jerk his knife from Zeke's chest.

As Zeke's eyes were closing he saw Frank Morgan walk over to Tom. With a single slashing motion, Morgan whipped the knife across Tom's throat.

Zeke's eyes batted shut. He didn't feel the cold now.

--------

*Fifteen*

Tiny snowflakes fell in sheets across the abandoned town. The bottom of the valley floor was covered with several inches of white.

An eerie silence gripped Ghost Valley as Frank made his way down slippery rocks and sheer cliffs, following the old Anasazi trail Buck Waite had shown him.

Smoke curled from a rock chimney as Frank watched a shack in the middle of town, after he had made slow but careful progress across the valley. Behind the cabin, more than a dozen horses stood with their tails to the wind in crude pole corrals. A pile of hay was stacked in one corner.

He moved quietly through the scrub pines. To the north Buck was covering the cabin from a cluster of rocks at a range of more than five hundred yards.

"I hope he's a good shot from a distance," Frank said under his breath, slipping among the trees. The red-bearded old man had proved to be an excellent woodsman, but from the top of the rimrock he'd have to be good, better than most men, to hit anything, even with a long-range rifle like his Sharps .52 buffalo gun.

Frank thought about Conrad, safe back in Trinidad. "It's time I made Pine and Vanbergen pay," he said, creeping closer to the cabin.

The patter of small snowflakes rattled on his hat brim and the crunch of new-fallen snow came from his boots when he put his feet down.

"No way to do this quiet," Frank said, still being careful with the placement of each foot.

A horse snorted in the corrals. Frank remained motionless behind a pine trunk until the animal settled. A range-bred horse would notice him making an advance toward the cabin. A horse raised in a stable wouldn't pay him any mind. There was a big difference in horses. Frank had always preferred the range-bred variety.

A blast of northerly wind swept across the top of the valley, and Frank knew that Buck was freezing his ass off, waiting for things to start.

A bit of luck, Frank thought, to run across Buck Waite when he least expected to find any help tracking down the outlaws. While he usually worked alone when he was employing his guns, it was a comfort to know Buck was up there with his rifle.

Moving carefully toward the back of the cabin, he sighted an outhouse behind the place, nestled against the trunk of a small ponderosa pine.

The snowfall grew heavier.

"Maybe I can catch one coming out to relieve himself," Frank said under his breath.

He moved closer to the outhouse. Things were too quiet, and that had an unsettling effect on him. But the silence could also be a blessing if he used it to his advantage.

* * * *

Big John Meeker had been drinking all night and most of the morning. He felt like his bladder was about to burst open any minute. He was wanted for bank robbery over in Mississippi, and for a killing in Indian Territory involving a trading post operator and his wife. John stood over the two-holer, letting his steamy water flow into the hole dug beneath the bench-wood seats. This waiting for Ned Pine's adversary was getting the best of him, and there was no money to be made from killing an old gunfighter like Frank Morgan. Unless there was a profit in it, John had little patience for personal grudges. Ned was out of his head with a need for vengeance against this shootist named Morgan, a gunman well past his prime. None of this made any sense to a man like John Meeker.

"That's better," he sighed when his bladder finally emptied into the pit.

Pale light suddenly flooded the outhouse. John turned his head to see who had opened the door.

A knife blade was rammed between his ribs ... he only caught a glimpse of the figure who stood behind him.

Without buttoning the front of his pants, John jerked his Navy Colt .44 free and staggered outside, cocking the hammer with blood cascading down the back of his mackinaw in regular spurts, while pain coursed through his ribs.

"You sneaky son of a bitch!" John cried, unable to find the man who had knifed him.

With nothing to aim at, John let the Colt drop to his side as chains of white-hot agony shot through his body.

His trigger finger curled. A deafening explosion filled the quiet valley, followed by a howl of pain when John, a professional gunman by trade, shot himself in the right foot with his own .44-caliber slug.

"Damn, damn, damn!" John shrieked, hopping around on his good leg, spraying blood all over the snow from both of his wounds.

"What the hell was that?" a voice demanded from a back door of the log cabin.

John was in too much pain to answer.

"Look," another whiskey-thick voice said. "Ol' John went an' shot hisself in the foot."

"Wonder how come he did that? All he said he was gonna do was take a piss...."

"He's dead drunk, Billy. When a man's that drunk he's liable to do anything."

John continued to hop around in a circle, reaching for his bloody boot.

"What'll we do, Clyde?"

"Let the dumb sumbitch dance out there in the snow. If he ain't got enough sense to keep from shootin' himself, then let him jump up and down."

As Clyde spoke, a rifle thundered from a stand of pines behind the cabin. Billy Willis, a horse thief from Nebraska Territory, fell down in a heap in the cabin doorway with his hands gripping his belly.

Wayland Burke, an El Paso hired gun, was trying to get out of the way when the next gunshot rang out. Something hot hit him in the back, pushing him forward into the door frame of the shack with the force of impact.

"I'm hit!" Wayland screamed as he sank to his knees with blood squirting from his shirtfront.

* * * *

Men inside the cabin began scrambling for their guns.

Frank moved away into the curtain of snow. The sound of his rifle still echoed among the scrub ponderosa pines where he'd fired at one of Pine's men.

Frank found a new hiding place fifty yards to the north. Five more of Ned Pine's men were out of the fight, and the war had just begun.

He moved silently, deeper in the forest behind the empty town, to make his next play.

* * * *

A thundering gunshot roared from the rim of the valley, and a man in front of the cabin let out a scream. Charlie Saffle, a hired killer and stagecoach bandit from Waco, ended his cry with a wail as he fell down in the snow with his hand clamped around the walnut grips of his pistol.

"Buck Waite's good," Frank told himself in a feathery whisper when he saw a man go down at the front cabin door. "I'm not sure I could have made that shot myself. Helluva lot of range for any long gun."

A barrel-chested cowboy came out the back door with a rifle, a Spencer, clutched to his shoulder. He swept his gunsights back and forth.

Frank took careful aim and pulled the trigger on his Winchester.

The cowboy did a curious spin before firing a harmless shot into the treetops.

The gunman went down slowly, his eyes bulging from their sockets, wishing he'd stayed in New Orleans instead of joining Ned Pine's outlaw gang last year.

"Shit," he gulped, falling over on his face in the snow with his rifle underneath him. Winking lights clouded his vision until his eyelids closed.

Frank jacked another shell into his saddle gun.

"Everybody stay put!" a muffled voice commanded from inside the cabin. "Don't show yourselves. It's gotta be Morgan!"

* * * *

Ned Pine's gray eyebrows knitted. He peered through a window of the cabin.

"How the hell did Morgan get past our lookouts?" Tommy Sumpter asked in a grating voice.

"How the hell should I know," Pine spat, finding nothing among the scrub pines encircling the shack. "Royce Miller is good at what he does ... maybe the best."

"He ain't all that good," Tommy answered, watching the front door where Charlie lay trembling in the snow. "Ask ol' Charlie there if Royce was good at bushwhackin'."

"Shut up!" Pine snapped. "There's another shooter up on the rim."

"I thought you said Morgan always worked alone," Tommy remembered.

"He does. That's what I can't figure," Pine replied, his pale eyes moving across the valley rim.

Pine's eyelids slitted. "Ain't heard no fire from Daryl or Pike."

"Morgan probably got to both of em," Victor suggested, "or the other bastard shootin' at us got 'em. We don't know who the hell he could be."

"Reckon that happened to the others?" Herb Wilson asked, facing a window. "They shoulda been back by now if they had any luck."

"Luck's a funny thing," Pine said. "Royce an' his boys may have run into Lady Luck when she was in a bad mood. The others oughta been back here by now."

Victor leaned against the door frame. "My daddy always said that if a man is lucky he don't need much of anything else. I got it figured that the others are all dead."

"What the hell would you know about it?" Pine cried, both hands filled with iron.

Victor was not disturbed by Ned's question, nor was he disturbed by Pine's bad reputation. "I'm an authority on luck, good and bad, Ned. I say our luck just ran out. Whoever this bastard Morgan is, he's good. It'll take a lot of luck for us to kill him."

Ned backed away from the window. "We ain't done yet with Morgan," he said.

Jeff Walker leaned against the windowpane. "There ain't nobody out there, seems like," he said.

Seconds later a bullet smashed the glass in front of his face. A slug from a .52-caliber buffalo gun entered his right eye.

"Damn!" Tommy said when Jeff was flung away from the window.

Jeff went to the dirt floor of the cabin with the back of his skull hanging by tendons and tissue. A plug of his brains lay beside the potbelly stove. A twist of his long black hair clung to the skull fragment.

"Holy shit!" Tommy cried, backing away to the center of the room. "Them's Jeff's brains hangin' out."

"Shut up!" Ned bellowed. "Give me some goddamn time to think!"

--------

*Sixteen*

Frank heard a distant rifle shot, figuring Buck had found another target. Then suddenly something struck his left shoulder and he went down, stunned, tumbling through the snow, his mind reeling.

He tried to scramble back to his feet. He heard Dog give a soft whimper, and then everything went black around him. He knew he was falling and couldn't help himself.

* * * *

He awakened to the smell of wood smoke. He saw the dim outline of a cabin roof above his head. Very slowly, waves of pain shot through his left side, down his arm, and across his ribs.

He heard himself groan.

"You okay, Morgan?" a faintly familiar voice asked from the mist around him.

"Where am I?"

"My place."

"Where the hell is your place? What happened to me down in that valley?" Slowly, events returned to him as he regained consciousness.

He saw a man with a tangled red beard leaning over him, and he tried to remember who the stranger was.

"You took a chunk of lead, Morgan. It ain't too bad nor too deep. I dug it out with my knife. I'm sure as hell glad you was asleep when I done it. You hollered like a stuck pig after I got it out."

"I suppose I'm lucky to be alive," he said, unable to recall how anyone could have gotten behind him to catch him with his guard down.

"That's fair to say."

"Your name is Buck ... Buck Waite. Things are coming back to me now."

"This here's my daughter, Karen. She fixed you some soup made outta dried wild onions an' elk meat. When you feel up to it, she'll give you some."

Frank's eyes wandered across the small log cabin, until they came to rest on a pretty young woman dressed in deerskin pants and a fringed top, with her dark red hair tied in a ponytail.

"Pleased to meet you, Karen," he mumbled. "Sorry it has to be under these bad circumstances. I feel like a damn fool right now."

She came over to him. He guessed her age at thirty or less, and as he first surmised, she was pretty. "You lost a lot of blood," she said. "Let me know when you want some soup."

"Something smells mighty good," Frank managed, "but I sure do wish I had a spot of whiskey to help with this pain in my shoulder."

"We've got some corn squeeze. Daddy makes it himself out of Indian corn in the summer."

"I could use some," Frank croaked, trying to sit up on a crude cot made of rawhide strips and pine limbs.

"Lie back down," Karen told him. "I'll fetch you some of the whiskey."

"Where's Ned Pine and the others?" he asked.

"Back down in Ghost Valley," said Buck. "I seen 'em find that patch of blood you left in the snow, so I figure they's sure they got you."

"They're wrong," Frank said. "I'm not dead yet ... unless this is all a dream."

"You ain't dreamin', Morgan," Buck said. "But it'll be a spell before you can move around."

"Where's Dog? And my horse?"

"The bay is out yonder in the corral. This dog of your'n won't leave the foot of your bed. Every time I try to take him outside, the bastard growls at me an' shows his teeth."

"He's harmless ... most of the time," Frank said.

"I ain't gonna take no chance. The damn dog can stay right where he is till hell freezes over for all I care."

Frank chuckled, although the movement in his chest pained him some.

"Here's your soup," Karen said, appearing above him with a steaming tin cup. "It'll be a bit salty. It's the only way we have to preserve the elk meat for the winter."

He sat up slowly and took the cup she offered him, finding a cloth bandage around his left arm and shoulder. "I'm much obliged to both of you," he said. He gave Buck a glance. "Buck didn't tell me that he had a beautiful daughter."

"Wasn't none of yer damn business till now," Buck answered quickly.

"Sorry." Frank took a sip from the cup, resting a trembling right elbow. "It's delicious."

Karen came back with a clay jug. She brought it over and set it beside him on the dirt floor of the cabin. "This here's the whiskey. Drink what you want. It's got a touch of a burn to it."

Buck scowled at his daughter. "It wouldn't be worth a damn if it didn't," he said. "Whiskey without no kick to it is just branch water."

"May as well take a bath in it," Frank agreed, reaching for the jug when his pain grew worse.

"It'll help," Buck said.

Frank's mind was on other matters right then. "How far is this place from Ghost Valley?" he asked.

"Far enough. They'll never find you here."

"You right sure about that?"

"Sure as I am that the sun's gonna rise tomorrow. You'll feel better by then."

Frank pulled the cork from the jug with his teeth, spat it out, and drank deeply from the corn whiskey. He took a deep breath and drank again. "That's mighty good squeeze," he said when he felt the burn all the way to his belly.

"I don't make bad shine," Buck said. "There's a secret to it."

"I'd say you've found the secret," Frank replied, then took a third swallow.

"Drink the soup if you can," Karen said, smiling at him. When she did, she was prettier than ever.

"I'll do my best," he said. Frank's mind returned to the business at hand. "Where are my guns?" he asked.

"I picked up yer Winchester when you dropped it. Yer pistol is over yonder by the potbelly stove."

"Feels good to be warm."

"It's the whiskey," Buck said.

"It's the soup," Karen added, giving her father a subtle wink.

"Like hell," Buck snapped. "Soup never did nobody so much good as the right kind of home-brewed whiskey."

Karen turned away without saying another word.

Frank drank more soup, chasing it with whiskey, as a dark mood settled over him. His plan for revenge against Ned Pine and Victor Vanbergen had ended with a bullet.

"Damn," he whispered, wondering how he could have been so foolish as to let a gunman get behind him.

Buck stirred in a rawhide chair near the potbelly. "Wasn't your fault, Morgan," he said.

"How's that?" Frank asked, taking note of the subtle curves beneath Karen's buckskins while she added split wood to the stove.

"It was snowin'," was all Buck said.

"I should have known better."

"Careless was all you was."

"Careless can get a man killed," Frank replied, settling back against a lumpy pillow. "Men in my profession know that real well."

"Maybe you shouldn't stay in that gunfightin' profession no longer?"

"I'd quit years ago. If it hadn't been what they did to my wife and my boy..."

Buck snorted softly. "Don't sound like that son of yours is much good at takin' care of hisself."

"He isn't," Frank agreed, feeling the whiskey soften the pain in his shoulder. "It isn't his fault. It's a long story that doesn't need telling, but I never got the chance to raise him proper."

"Maybe I'm just bein' nosy, but how's that?"

"Be quiet, Dad," Karen said. "He doesn't want to talk about it now."

"Sorry," Buck mumbled, returning to his sweetened coffee as snowflakes fell softly on the cabin roof.

"I was forced to leave my wife before the boy was born." Frank said it with anger thickening his voice. "I didn't see him at all until he was a grown man."

"There!" Karen snapped. "I told you not to pry into it, Dad."

"You've got my apologies again," Buck said.

Frank closed his eyes for a moment, remembering the past he wanted to forget. "It's okay. I've learned to live with it over the years."

Karen came over to him. "Do you want more soup? Or some coffee?"

"No, ma'am," he replied, noticing that Dog had come over to the cot to lick his hand. "I might be able to use more of that whiskey."

"Good squeeze, ain't it?" Buck asked, grinning.

"I've never tasted any better. As soon as I'm strong enough I'll need my horse ... and my guns."

"I figure I know why," Buck said.

"I came all this way for a reason. I'll feel better in a little bit."

"It'll be dark soon," Buck said. "No sense gettin' out in this cold when a man can't see. Whatever you aim to do to them fellers, it can wait till mornin'."

"I'm not much on waiting."

"You'll need your strength," Karen said, offering him the clay jug. "If you go out in this weather, it'll drain you something awful."

"She's right," Buck said. "Wait fer sunrise. The men you're after will be easier to see. Right now, I'm guessin' they figure they got you, even though they ain't found your body. In the snow back yonder you left a hell of a puddle of red, an' they'll think it's the end of you."

"I'm wasting time here," Frank said, swallowing more of the whiskey while he looked steadily into Karen's soft brown eyes. "I need to be on the move."

"Shape you're in," Buck said, "you won't be able to move very damn far."

Dog whimpered softly and licked Frank's hand again.

"You see?" Karen said with a smile. "Even your dog agrees with us."

"Dog never was all that smart," Frank told her, reaching for the dog's forehead to give it a rub.

"Is that his name?" Karen asked.

"I couldn't think of one much better at the time," he explained.

The woman giggled.

"What's so funny?" Frank asked.

"The name. I'm afraid to ask what name you gave to your horse."

"Mostly, I just call him Horse ... when I'm not mad at him over something."

Karen put the jug beside him on the mattress and walked over to the stove, warming her hands.

"Gonna get cold tonight," Buck announced. "I'll give that horse of yours an' my pinto a little extra corn. It's late in the year for a squall like this."

Buck got up and headed for the cabin door, hesitating when he reached for the latch string. "Maybe you brung all this bad weather with you, Morgan?"

His eyelids felt heavy, and he didn't answer the old man as he drifted off to sleep.

--------

*Seventeen*

Frank knew he was dreaming ... perhaps because of the wound in his shoulder and the whiskey Karen had given him. He found himself drifting back to another meeting with Pine in the lower Rockies, when he'd happened upon old Tin Pan Rushing and some help he hadn't expected while he was searching for his son.

* * * *

Tin Pan lit a small railroad conductor's lantern before he followed Frank into the trees. Yellow light and tree trunk shadows wavered across the snow as they walked with their backs to the wind and snow.

"The one that's moanin' is over here," Tin Pan said, raising his lantern higher to cast more light on the few inches of snow covering the ground.

"I hear him," Frank said, covering their progress with his Peacemaker.

"Hope he ain't in good enough shape to use his gun," Tin Pan said.

"He won't be," Frank assured him.

The first body they came to was a stumpy cowboy wearing a sheepskin coat. He lay in a patch of bloody snow. His chest was not moving.

" This is the feller I shot," Tin Pan said.

"I got the one who called himself Tony. He's farther to the right. Let's see what the live one has to say," Frank said with a look to the east. "The other two won't have much when it comes to words. I can hear the last one making some noise. Let's find him first."

"That'll be the one who called himself Buster," Tin Pan remembered.

"I don't give a damn what his name is. I'm gonna make him talk to me, if he's able," Frank replied, aiming for the groaning sounds.

A dark lump lay in the snow. Frank could hear horses in the trees about a hundred yards away stamping their hooves now and then, made nervous by the gunshots.

He came to the body of a man lying on his back, his mouth open, a rifle held loosely in his right hand. Blood oozed from his lips onto the flattened hat brim behind his head. The man groaned again.

Frank knelt beside him as Tin Pan held the lantern above his head.

"Howdy, Buster," Frank said.

Buster's pain-glazed eyes moved to Frank's face.

"You ain't Charlie," he stammered.

"Nope. I sure as hell ain't Charlie. Mr. Bowers and I met back on the trail. I shot him. Put him on his horse headed for Durango. That's fifty hard miles in a storm like this. A man would bet long odds against him making it all that way in the shape he's in. He's probably dead by now. But I gave him the chance to save his ass ... if he's tough enough to make that ride to Durango."

"You're ... Frank Morgan."

"I am."

"We thought it was Charlie's fire we seen."

"You were mistaken. You and your pardners made another big mistake when you tried to jump me. Tony, and some other fella who was with you, are both dead."

"That'll be Tony and Sam. I told both of 'em we oughta be careful sneaking up on your fire."

The light from Tin Pan's lantern showed the pain on Buster's face. A bullet hole in his chest leaked blood, and by the amount of blood coming from Buster's mouth, Frank knew the bullet had pierced a lung.

"I need to know about Ned Pine's hideout, and my son, Conrad Browning. Is my boy okay?" Frank asked, his deep voice with an edge to it.

"Ned's gonna kill him ... but only after he lures you up there so he can kill you." Buster issued his warning between gasps for air.

"I'm a hard man to kill, Buster. How many men has Pine got with him?"

"Eleven more. You ain't got a chance, Morgan. If Ned don't get you himself, then Lyle or Slade will. They're guarding your boy. Lyle is as good with a gun as any man on earth. Slade's just as good." Buster paused and winced. "Jesus, my chest hurts. I can't hardly breathe." He coughed up blood, shivering, unable to move his limbs.

"How many men are guarding the entrance into the canyon?" Frank asked.

"To hell with you, Morgan. Find out for yourself. See if you don't get killed."

Frank brought the barrel of the Peacemaker down to Buster's mouth and held the muzzle against his gritted teeth. "I'm only gonna ask you one more time, Buster, and then I'm gonna blow the top of your head off. How many men are guarding the entrance to the canyon?"

Buster stared at the pistol in Frank's hand. "I'm gonna die anyway, 'less you take me to a doctor."

"Ain't many doctors in these mountains. A few hours ago your pardner, Charlie Bowers, was wanting one real bad. About all I can do for you is put you on your horse and send you toward Durango tonight, like I did Charlie Bowers. You feel like you can make a fifty-mile ride?"

"I'll freeze to death, if I don't bleed to death first. I need some whiskey."

"I've got whiskey in my saddlebags. Good Kentucky sour mash too. Now I'm not saying I'd waste any of it on you, but your chances are better if you tell me what I want to know about who's guarding the entrance to that canyon."

"Josh. Josh and Arnie are watchin' the canyon from a rock pile at the top."

"Has Ned or any of the others injured my boy?" Frank tapped Buster's front teeth with his pistol barrel to add a bit of emphasis to his question.

"Ned slapped him around some...." Buster broke into another fit of bloody coughing. "Ned's after you. He swore he was gonna kill you. He won't kill your boy until he sees you lyin' dead someplace."

"Damn," Tin Pan sighed, balancing his Sharps in the palm of his hand. "That Pine's a rotten bastard, to hold a kid as bait like he is."

"Gimme ... some of that whiskey, like you promised," Buster said.

"I didn't promise you anything, Buster," Frank said, taking his gun away from Buster's teeth. "I only said I had some in my saddlebags. If I poured a swallow down your throat, it'd just leak out onto the snow on account of that big hole in your gut. I think I'll save my whiskey for a better occasion. Be a shame to waste good sour mash on a man who's gonna be dead in a few minutes."

"You bastard," Buster hissed.

"I've been called worse," Frank replied. "But I've never been one to be wasteful. I grew up mighty poor. Pouring whiskey into a dying man is damn sure a waste of the distiller's fine art."

"Are you just gonna leave me here to die?" Buster croaked, blood bubbling from his lips.

"There's another way," Frank said.

Buster blinked. "What the hell are you talkin' about, Morgan?"

"I can put a bullet through your brain and you won't be cold or hurt anymore."

"That'd be murder.

"Ned and the rest of you killed my wife. That was murder. In case you don't read the Bible, it says to take an eye for an eye."

"You ain't got no conscience, Morgan. Ned told us you was a rotten son of a bitch."

"I've got no conscience when it comes to men who kill women and harm kids who can't defend themselves. To tell the truth, killing you and Pine and all of his gang will be a downright pleasure."

"Jesus ... you ain't really gonna do it, are you?" Buster whispered.

Frank stood up, holstering his Colt. "I damn sure am unless they give me back my son."

"Put me on my horse, Morgan. Give me a fightin' chance to live."

"It don't appear you can sit a horse, Buster, but if you want I can tie you across your saddle."

Tin Pan shook his head. "Hell, Morgan, this sumbitch is already dead. Leave him where he lays. Have you forgot that him an' his partners just tried to kill you?"

"I'm a forgiving man," Frank said dryly. "Just because some gunslick tries to take away all you have, or all you're ever gonna have, don't mean you can't show any forgiveness for what he tried to do." He gazed down at Buster for a time. "Are you truly sorry you tried to kill me?" he asked.

" Hell, no," Buster spat, still defiant. "If I'd had the right shot at you, it'd be you layin' in this snow with a hole in your guts."

Frank chuckled, but there was no humor in it. He glanced over at Tin Pan. "See what I mean?" he asked. "We've got a killer here with no remorse. I think I'll just leave him here to die slow. His pardners are already dead. We'll take their horses and deliver 'em to Ned Pine. Send them into that canyon with empty saddles, a little message from me that this fight has just started."

"It's your fight," Tin Pan said.

Frank slapped the old mountain man on the shoulder. "I'm glad I had you siding with me. You dropped that outlaw quicker'n snuff makes spit."

"It was the coffee," Tin Pan replied. "A man who'll offer a stranger a cup of coffee with brown sugar in it way up in these slopes deserves a helping hand."

Frank gave Tin Pan a genuine laugh. "Let's fetch their horses down to our picket line. Feel free to take any of their guns you want. Where they're going, they won't be needing a pistol or a rifle."

Tin Pan grinned. "Reckon we could add a splash of that Kentucky sour mash to the next cup of coffee?"

"You can have all of it you want."

Buster coughed again; then his feet began to twitch with death throes.

"You see what I was talking about?" Frank asked. "It would have been a waste of good bottled spirits to pour even one drop of it into a dead man."

* * * *

"What makes a printer from Indiana get filled with wanderlust for the mountains?" Frank asked, drinking coffee laced with whiskey after the outlaws' horses were tied in the trees along with Frank's animals and the mule.

"Dreamin', I reckon. I saw tintypes of the Rockies and I just knew I had to see 'em for myself."

"And you planned to pay for it by panning for gold in these high mountain streams?"

"There was a gold rush on back then. Men were finding gold nuggets as big as marbles."

"But you never found any," Frank said.

"Not even a flake of placer gold. This country had been panned out by the time I got here. The only other way is to dig into these rocky slopes. I never was much for using a pick and a shovel."

"So you've turned to trapping?"

"It's a living. I'm happy up here, just me and old Martha for company. I had me a Ute squaw once, only she ran off with a miner who had gold in his purse."

"I owe Martha a sack of corn," Frank remembered. "She heard this bad bunch sneaking up on us."

Tin Pan smiled. "Martha earns her keep. She can tote three hundred pounds of cured pelts and she don't ever complain. Once in a while she gets ornery and won't cross a creek if it's bank-full, but I reckon that just shows good sense."

"You don't get lonely up here?"

"Naw. There's a few of us old mountain men still prowling these peaks. We get together once in a while to swap tales and catch up."

"I think I understand," Frank told him. "I've got a dog. I call him Dog. He's better company than most humans. I've had him for quite a spell."

"Same goes for Martha," Tin Pan said, glancing into the pines where his mule and the horses were tied. "She's right decent company, when she ain't in the mood to kick me if I don't get the packsaddle on just right."

Frank chuckled. "I want you to know I'm grateful for you helping me with those gunmen."

Tin Pan gave him a steady gaze. "You're takin' on too much, Morgan, tryin' to go after eleven more of 'em all by your lonesome."

"I don't have much of a choice. They're holding my son hostage. I can't turn my back on it."

"Maybe you do have a choice," Tin Pan said after he gave it some thought.

"How's that?"

"I might just throw in with you to help get that boy of yours away from Ned Pine. I ain't no gunfighter, but I can damn sure shoot a rifle. If I find a spot on the rim of that canyon, I can take a few of 'em down with my Sharps."

"It isn't your fight," Franks said. "But I'm grateful for the offer anyhow."

"I've been in fights that wasn't mine before," Tin Pan declared. "Let me study on it some. I'll let you know in the morning what I've decided to do. I'd have to ask Martha about it. She don't like loud noises, like guns."

* * * *

Frank's eyes blinked open. The cabin was dark. Was it fate that had led him to Buck Waite and his beautiful daughter while he was on yet another manhunt?

It was hard to figure why unexpected friends showed up just when he needed them.

--------

*Eighteen*

Conrad Browning began to whimper as cold winds whipped past his horse, swirling around the two men escorting him toward higher peaks.

"I'm freezing," he said, his teeth rattling, as darkness blanketed the mountains.

Cletus Huling gave the boy a steely look as their horses plodded up a switchback toward Glenwood Springs, and the valley beyond.

"You want me give this baby something to complain about?" Diego Ponce said, pulling a foot-long bowie knife from his stovepipe boot, snowflakes dusting his sombrero and his dark black beard.

"Yeah. Shut the bastard up," Cletus said, reining his horse around a knot of pinyon pines. "I'm tired of listenin' to the son of a bitch bellyache."