“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, Vivian.”
“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 was years ago.
He 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, until he got killed. The little boy’s name was Conrad Browning. Morgan wasn’t even decent enough to marry her before he pulled stakes and ran out on her.”
“Did Mr. Morgan ever come back to visit his son?” Louis asked.
“Not that anybody knows of. The boy 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 expense of the writer from Boston.
“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 dead 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 see about 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’d want 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 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 over 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’d kill you over a remark like that
,” Ford said, “if it wasn’t so damn cold.”
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.”
Twenty-five
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. “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 the old fur trapper.
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 Rushing 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 outlaw’s 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 a plenty to get me a fresh grubstake before the weather gets warm and the beaver 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 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 third 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 sheriffs 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 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 sheriffs 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 Morgan myself.”
“He 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. 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 old 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 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.”
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