“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 br
ain 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 piñon pines. “I’m tired of listenin’ to the son of a bitch bellyache.”
With one sudden motion Diego grabbed a fistful of Conrad’s hair and, jerking him sideways out of the saddle, sliced off the tip of his left ear.
Blood poured over Conrad’s woolen greatcoat as he let out a piercing yell that echoed from the slopes around them, startling the horses.
Cletus, leading the way to Ghost Valley, turned back in the saddle to watch the pain on Conrad’s face.
Diego laughed, tossing the piece of the boy’s ear into a snowdrift. “Now he have something to cry about,” Diego said, wiping the blood from his knife on one leg of his badly worn leather chaps.
Blood seeped down Conrad’s cheek as he held his palm to the wound. “My father will get you for this!” he cried, slumping over in the saddle.
“That ol’ man of yours don’t give a damn what happens to you,” Cletus said. “He never did come up with the money Ned an’ Victor wanted from him. Only he’d better bring the money this time or you’re a dead son of a bitch.”
“Dad came after me,” Conrad said, nursing his missing ear tip with a handkerchief he removed from an inside pocket of his snow-laden coat.
“Morgan never did get to Ned,” Cletus reminded the kid. “He’s way past his prime. He got too old
to mess with the likes of Victor an’ Ned. At least that’s what everybody says about Frank.”
“You’ll see,” Conrad whimpered, tears brimming in his eyes as their horses climbed higher into the Rockies. “My dad will make you sorry for what you’ve done to me. Both of you will be dead.”
“You want me kill this loudmouth little bastardo?” Diego asked.
“Naw. Let him bleed an’ let him cry as loud as he wants,” Cletus replied. “Ned promised us a ten-thousand-dollar share of the ransom he’s gonna get from Morgan, an’ we’re damn sure gonna collect it.”
Diego frowned a moment. “Does this Morgan have that kind of money?”
“He’s got plenty, according to Ned. We ain’t gonna take no chance by killin’ the boy.”
Diego put his knife away. “If he make more noise I cut off his other ear. Then he don’t hear so goddamn good when he make all this noise.”
“Suits the hell outta me,” Cletus replied. “Far as I know he’s worth the same to us with or without ears. All we gotta do is find this place Ned called Ghost Valley, an’ I’ve got us a map to it.”
“How come we don’t just shoot this worthless little piece of cow shit?”
“We need to keep him alive so his daddy will see he’s okay,” Cletus replied. “That’s how we get the ten thousand, accordin’ to what Ned told me.”
“I say we kill him.”
Cletus glanced up at the mountains looming before them. “I reckon that’s why you’re flat broke, Diego. You leave the thinkin’ part to me.”
Diego went into a sulk.
Conrad kept the handkerchief against his ear as their horses began a steeper climb.
Once, Diego glanced over his shoulder at their back trail.
“I do not see nothing, Señor,” he said.
Cletus turned up the collar on his mackinaw and kept on riding, shivering, wishing they’d brought along more whiskey. There had been plenty of it for sale at Trinidad. All they had between them was a half pint of red-eye.
* * *
“Shut up!” Diego demanded, sending a boot crashing into Conrad’s skull.
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