Ghost Valley

by William W. Johnstone

  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 cou
ld 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 señoritas.”

  “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 i
n 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.