The Last Gunfighter: Ghost Valley

by William W. Johnstone

  "Why?"

  "It's safer that way. You don't have to worry about being double-crossed by a partner."

  Buck hesitated, as if he were thinking carefully about what Frank said. "Back in the war, we counted on havin' men who kept a watch on our backsides."

  Frank drained his cup. "Graveyards all over the South and the North are full of men who were counting on someone to watch behind them."

  "But a man can't live his entire lifetime alone, Morgan. You've got to learn to trust somebody."

  "Maybe," Frank said. "Maybe not. I'm still alive because I learned to trust myself and nobody else. It may sound strange, but it's kept me out of a cemetery."

  Karen put her cast-iron pan full of biscuits on top of the stove, banging its lid into place. "Some folks can be trusted," she said.

  He examined the crude bandage around his shoulder while he thought about what the girl said. "I reckon I just haven't found anyone like that," he said.

  She was staring at him now. "It could be said that maybe you didn't look hard enough, Frank."

  "I suppose."

  Dog came over to him and licked his hand, his liquid eyes on his master.

  "I suppose I trust this dog," he said after a bit of thinking on the subject.

  Karen wheeled away from him and began cutting strips of salt pork into a smaller frying pan. "Men aren't good judges of character," she said.

  Frank chuckled. "I reckon not, although I think I'm a real good judge of bad characters."

  A pine knot popped in the stove. For a while, all three of them were silent, until Buck brought Frank the jug of whiskey. "If I was you, I'd drink some more of this," he said. "An' another cup of tea."

  "I'll do it," Frank muttered, hoisting the whiskey to his lips. "Right now, I don't much care which one of 'em cures me. All I care about is the cure."

  Buck moved over to the door, picking up his rifle. "I'm gonna go have a look around. Done the best I could at coverin' our tracks an' your blood in the snow, but a man can't be too careful. Be back in a little while, after I make sure we ain't been followed out of that valley."

  Buck went out into the darkness, shouldering into his coat.

  Twenty-three

  Sam signaled a halt. "Yonder's a fire ... I smell it. Maybe it's Charlie on his way back to the valley after he ambushed Morgan."

  "Who the hell else would be out here?" Tony asked as he peered into the snow. They'd been following traces of blood and footprints for several hours.

  Buster jerked his pistol free, his back to the heavy snowfall. "We gotta be sure, boys," he said to Sam and Tony. "I've heard stories about Morgan. He ain't no tinhorn, even if he is bad wounded. Let's ride up real careful, just to be on the safe side."

  "You worry too much," Sam said. "Charlie Bowers is as good as they come when it comes to trackin' a man. That's how come Ned sent him back to do the job. Charlie don't miss. He's as good as they get for a bushwhackin' job."

  "All the same," Buster said, drawing his own Colt .44, "we'll ride up careful. No sense in takin' any chances. It could be some deer hunter or a traveler. We don't need no more troubles with the law if we kill the wrong man. I still say it pays to be cautious with Morgan."

  "Remember what Ned told us," Sam warned. "Frank Morgan is a killer, a professional shootist from way back. He may still have a lot of caution in him, even if Charlie winged him."

  "Ned's too worried about Morgan," Tony declared. "Besides, he's just one man and there's three of us. You ain't giving Charlie enough credit. My money says he planted Morgan in a shallow grave by now."

  "We've got the wind at our backs," Sam said. "Let's ride around to the east and come at him upwind, whoever the hell he is."

  "Sounds like a good idea," Buster agreed. "We'll cut around to the south and move upwind. If it's Charlie camped down by that creek, we'll recognize him. If it ain't, if it's Morgan, we start shootin' until that sumbitch is dead."

  "Morgan's already dead," Tony said. "The only thing worryin' Ned is why Charlie didn't come back to the cabin by dark. Charlie knows his way around these mountains. Maybe all that happened was his horse went lame."

  "I don't like the looks of this, Tony," Sam said, squirming in his saddle. "There's something about this that don't feel quite right."

  "You're a natural-born worrier, Sam," Tony said. "If it is Frank Morgan down there by that fire, the three of us will kill him."

  The gunslicks rode south into the snowy night with guns drawn.

  Larger flakes of snow had begun to fall, and the howl of the squall winds echoed through the treetops around them.

  * * * *

  Frank sat on the bunk eating flaky biscuits and strips of salt pork, remembering the other man he'd met in the mountains far to the south of here who helped him get Conrad away from Ned and Victor.

  "Clarence Rushing is my full name," Tin Pan had said, pouring himself another cup of coffee. "I've been up in these mountains so long that the other gold panners hung the Tin Pan handle on me. Suits me just fine."

  Frank grinned. "I like Tin Pan. It's a helluva lot easier on the ears."

  "A name don't mean all that much anyhow. I went by Clarence Rushing for thirty years back in Indiana. I went to college for a spell. Tried to make my living as a printer. But I kept feeling this call to see the high lonesome, these mountains, and a man just ain't happy if he ain't where he feels he belongs. I came out here looking for gold with a sluice box and a tin miner's pan. A few miners took to calling me Tin Pan on account of how much time I spent panning these streams. Hellfire, I didn't mind the new handle. I reckon it suited me. A name's just a name anyhow."

  "You're right about that," Frank agreed, "unless too many folks get a hankering to see it carved on a grave marker. Then a name can mean trouble."

  "Why would anybody want your name on a headstone, Frank Morgan?"

  Frank looked up at the snowflakes swirling into the tiny pine grove where they were camped. "A few years back I made my living with a gun. I never killed a man who didn't need killing, but a man in that profession gets a reputation ... sometimes it's one he don't deserve."

  "You was a gunfighter?"

  "For a time. I gave it up years ago. Tried to live peaceful, running a few cows, minding my own business on a little place down south. Some gents just won't leave a man alone when he wants it that way."

  "Sounds like your past caught up to you if you're about to tangle with Ned Pine and his gang."

  "They took my son. Pine, and an owlhoot named Victor Vanbergen, set out to settle old scores against me."

  "Old scores?" Tin Pan asked.

  " First thing they done was kill my wife, the only woman I ever loved. Then they found my boy in Durango and grabbed him for a ransom."

  "Damn," Tin Pan whispered. "That's near about enough to send any man on the prowl."

  "I can't just sit by and let 'em get away with it. I'm gonna finish the business they started."

  "I've heard about this Vanbergen. Word is, he's got a dozen hard cases in his gang. They rob banks and trains. I didn't know they was this far north."

  "They're here. I've trailed 'em a long way."

  "One man won't stand much of a chance against Ned Pine and his boys. They're bad hombres. Same is bein' said about Victor Vanbergen. Have you gone plumb loco to set out after so many gunslicks?"

  "Maybe," Frank sighed, sipping coffee. "My mama always told me there was something that wasn't right inside my head from the day I was born. She said I had my daddy's mean streak bred into me."

  Tin Pan shrugged. "A mean streak don't sound like enough to handle so many."

  "Maybe it ain't, but I damn sure intend to try. I won't let them hold my son for ransom without a fight."

  Tin Pan stiffened, looking at his mule, then to the south and east. "Smother that fire, Morgan. We've got company out there someplace."

  "How can you tell?" Morgan asked, cupping handfuls of snow onto the flames until the clearing was dark.

  "Martha," Tin Pan
replied.

  "Martha?"

  "Martha's my mare mule. She ain't got them big ears on top of her head for decoration. She heard something just now and it ain't no varmint. If I was you I'd fetch my rifle."

  Frank jumped up and ran over to his pile of gear to jerk his Winchester free. He glanced over his shoulder at the old mountain man. "I sure hope Martha knows what she's doing," he said, hunkering down next to a pine trunk.

  "She does," Tin Pan replied softly. "That ol' mule has saved my scalp from a Ute knife plenty of times."

  Tin Pan pulled his ancient Sharps .52 rifle from a deerskin boot decorated with Indian beadwork. The hunting rifle's barrel was half a yard longer than Frank's Winchester, giving it long range and deadly accuracy.

  "But the Utes are all south of here," Frank insisted, still watching the trees around them.

  "They signed the treaty," Tin Pan agreed. "I don't figure these are Utes. Maybe you're about to get introduced to some of Ned Pine's boys."

  Frank wondered if Ned Pine had sent some of his shootists back to look for Charlie Bowers. If that was the case, it would give him a chance to change the long odds against him. It would make things easier.

  He crept into the trees, jacking a load into the firing chamber of his Winchester saddle gun.

  * * * *

  "Right yonder," Sam whispered. "In them pines, only it looks like the fire just went out."

  "Maybe he heard us," Buster suggested. "Could be Charlie," Tony said. "He'd be real careful if he heard a noise."

  "It'd be a helluva thing if us an' Charlie started shootin' at each other in the dark," Sam said.

  "How the hell are we gonna find out if it's him without gettin' our heads shot off?" Buster asked.

  "I ain't got that figured yet," Sam replied. "Let's move in a little closer."

  "I say we oughta spread out," Tony said.

  "Good idea," Sam agreed. "Tony, you move off to the left a few dozen yards. Buster, you go to the right. Stay behind these trees until we know who it is."

  " Right," Buster whispered, moving north with his rifle next to his shoulder.

  Tony slipped into a thicker stand of pines to the south of the grove where they'd spotted the flames.

  Sam inched forward, blinking away snowflakes that got in his eyes. Since they were coming upwind, whoever was camped ahead of them wouldn't hear a sound they made. If it was Charlie Bowers who made the campfire, Sam knew he would recognize his bay stallion tied in the trees before any shots were fired.

  * * * *

  Frank spotted a dim shape moving slowly, quietly among the trees. He didn't need a look at the man to know he was up to no good.

  Frank thumbed back the hammer on his rifle, waiting for the man to show himself again.

  The heavy roar of a big-bore rifle cracked near the mule and horses.

  A shriek of pain filled the night silence. Tin Pan Rushing had hit someone with his Sharps ... Frank knew the sound of the old buffalo gun. He was more than a little bit surprised that the mountain man would throw in with him in a fight with Ned Pine's gang.

  Two muzzle flashes winked in the darkness from trees near the clearing. The crack of both guns and the fingers of red flame gave Frank a target.

  He squeezed off a round at a fading flash of light.

  "Son of a bitch!" a deep voice cried.

  Frank was ejecting a spent shell, levering another into the Winchester as fast as he could before ducking behind the tree as the voice fell silent.

  "Is that you, Charlie?" someone shouted from the trees east of camp.

  7 Now Frank was certain that some of Ned Pine's men had been sent back to look for Charlie Bowers.

  "Yeah, it's me!" Frank bellowed. "Is that you, Ned?"

  "It's Tony. How come there's two of you shootin' at us? You shot Sam an' Buster just now."

  "My cousin Clarence came up from Durango. We met on the trail. We didn't know who it was out there. Come on down to the fire. We've got coffee."

  "That still don't sound like you, Charlie. Did you kill Frank Morgan?"

  "Put a hole right through his chest. Sorry about shooting Sam and Buster. Come on down and we'll get the fire going again."

  "Bullshit!" Tony said. "It must be you, Morgan."

  "Morgan's dead, like I told you. I didn't plan on riding up to the cabin in this storm. Me and Clarence shot a wild turkey hen. Walk on down here and have some."

  "You don't sound like Charlie."

  "It's cold. What the hell are you so scared of, Tony?"

  "Scared of bein' tricked, and I never heard you make mention of no cousin by the name of Clarence."

  Tin Pan shouted from the far side of the clearing. "I'm Charlie's cousin. I don't know who the hell you are, but you've gotta be crazy to stand out in the cold and snow. We've got coffee and roasted turkey. Come on in."

  A silence followed.

  "Let me check on Sam and Buster first. I can hear Buster groanin' over yonder. Ned ain't gonna like it when he finds out you shot down two of us."

  "It's dark," Frank said, readying his rifle. "How the hell was I supposed to know who it was?"

  "You don't sound like Charlie Bowers to me," Tony said, his voice a bit lower. "I've been ridin' with Charlie for nearly three years. I'd know his voice if I was hearin' it."

  "I'll walk up there and prove it to you," Frank said. "I can't tell exactly where you are. Show yourself and I'll come up."

  A dark silhouette moved in the wall of snow and pine trunks.

  Frank brought his Winchester's sights up, steadying the gun against his shoulder. "I see you now, Tony. Just wait right there for me and we'll see to Sam and Buster."

  He squeezed the trigger. His .44-caliber saddle gun slammed into his shoulder.

  The man partly hidden by trees flipped over on his back without making a sound.

  "Nice shot, Morgan," Tin Pan said from his hiding place. "Couldn't have done no better myself."

  Frank stepped around the pine. "It was mighty nice of him to walk out and introduce himself. Some men are so damn stupid, it makes you wonder how they stayed alive long enough to grow out of diapers."

  "One of 'em ain't dead yet," Tin Pan warned.

  "I'm always real careful," Frank replied as he headed into the forest.

  * * * *

  Karen came over and sat beside him. "Are you feeling any better?" she asked. "Seemed like you drifted off for a spell."

  "I was just remembering another gent who helped me get my son back the first time I went after him." He gazed at a window for a moment. "I wonder what's keeping your pa."

  Twenty-four

  Coy Cline was riding his horse up a snow-laden slope when he heard the crack of a rifle. Something struck his breastbone with tremendous force.

  "Shit!" he shouted as his sorrel gelding bounded out from under him.

  "What the hell was that?" Bud Warren cried.

  "A bullet, you damn idiot!" Buster Pate replied, reining his bay into the trees.

  Another gunshot rang out from a ridge above the rim of the valley.

  "Son of a..." Bud bellowed, gripping his belly as a piece of hot metal passed through him, exiting next to his spine. He threw his pistol into the snow to hold onto the saddle horn with both hands.

  "I'm shot!" Coy shrieked, toppling out of the saddle into a snowdrift.

  Buster jumped off his horse. A sharpshooter from above was taking potshots at them in the dark.

  "Help me, Buster!" Bud called from a dark place between two lines of trees.

  Buster didn't answer him. Only a fool would give his position away in the dark.

  Coy began to moan somewhere in the inky blackness. "You gotta help me," he sobbed.

  "Screw 'em," Buster muttered. The shots had come from more than two hundred yards away. It would take a hell of a marksman to make that kind of shot at night, and a very large-bore rifle to boot.

  "Morgan," he whispered, gripping the stock of his rifle with gloved hands.

  He'd been sure they
were following Frank Morgan's trail of blood out of the valley, but now he wasn't so sure. Who the hell was shooting at them?

  "You gotta help me," Coy cried again. "I'm shot through the gut. I'm bleedin' real bad."

  From another spot in the pine woods, Bud began coughing until his throat was clear. "Jesus."

  Bud slid off his horse next to a pine trunk. He landed with a thud and groaned softly as his gelding galloped away to escape the bang of guns.

  "I'm dyin' over here," Bud croaked. "You boys gotta help me."

  Buster was only thinking of surviving the sharpshooter himself. He lay still for a moment.

  "Where are you at, Buster?" Coy wondered, the pain in his voice garbling his words.

  Buster wasn't about to answer him and make a target of himself.

  The boom of a rifle came from above.

  "Damn! Damn! Damn!" Coy screamed, flipping over on his back.

  It was proof that Buster had been wise to remain silent until he knew where the rifleman was.

  "Please help me," Bud called. "I can't move my damn legs no more."

  Buster wanted to make sure his legs would move as he made his way back down the slope. He said nothing, closing his ears to Bud's cries.

  He could hear Coy strangling on blood. Under better circumstances he would have offered his old partner some assistance, but not now. He knew with certainty that his life was at stake now.

  "Where're you at, Buster?" Bud shouted. "You gotta come help me."

  Buster hunkered down to wait. Bud Warren was nothing but a hired killer in the first place, and someone at the top of the valley was giving him his just due, a payback he had coming after years as a gunman.

  "If only we hadn't followed the smell of that damn smoke," Buster said softly.

  "I'm dyin'," Coy choked. "Send my share of the money to my ma back in Texas."

  Buster grinned, although there was little real humor behind it. No one in Ned Pine's bunch would send a share of the money anywhere ... if they got their hands on the money at all. It was beginning to look like the ransom money for Conrad Browning was going to be hard to collect.

  "Morgan may be as tough as they say he used to be," Buster muttered. "He's damn sure a hard sumbitch to kill, if you ask me."