Ghost Valley

by William W. Johnstone

  “Keep your pistol handy,” Skeeter warned, dipping snow off the top of a drift.

  “I will,” Sammy said, glancing up and down the empty street running through the abandoned mining town, a roadway now covered with several inches of snow. “Besides that, we gotta keep an eye out for that bastard Morgan an’ his pardner.”

  “Just between you an’ me,” Skeeter confided, “Ned an’ Victor have gone plumb crazy over this whole idea. It was dumb to grab that kid again. Morgan didn’t pay the last time. All he done was shoot the hell outta a bunch of us.”

  “I don’t need no reminder.”

  “Time comes, if it don’t look like Morgan intends to pay, I say we cut our losses an’ ride out of here.”

  “But we come all this way.”

  “What difference will it make how far we rode if we wind up dead?”

  Sammy nodded, knocking snowflakes off the brim of his hat. “And now we gotta watch out for Huling. We’re liable to be caught on two sides of a shootout.”

  “Just don’t sleep too hard. Let’s get back inside before Ned gets edgy about us bein’ gone.”

  They trudged through the snow to the door of the shack as the storm let up briefly. Sammy glanced over his shoulder at the rim of the valley.

  “Spooky place,” Sammy whispered, kicking snow off his boots. “I see why it’s called Ghost Valley. Things just don’t seem all that natural here.”

  Skeeter was about to open the door when he saw shapes moving on one of the slopes. He dropped the coffeepot and reached for his pistol. “Who the hell is that?” he cried, jerking his Colt from leather.

  “Injuns,” Sammy replied, sweeping back the coat tails of his mackinaw, drawing his gun. “They’re too far out of range for a handgun.”

  “I count four,” Skeeter said, peering into a swirling curtain of small snowflakes. “What the hell are they doin’ here?”

  “Better tell the boss,” Sammy said, pushing the door to the shack open.

  Skeeter picked up the coffeepot just as the four Indians rode out of sight into a stand of pines.

  “Injuns!” Sammy bellowed from inside the cabin. “We seen ’em just now.”

  Ned and Cletus rushed outside cradling rifles. Skeeter pointed to the spot where the four riders disappeared. “They’re gone now,” he said.

  “How many?” Ned snapped.

  “Wasn’t but four. They was way up yonder on that mountain slope.”

  “I don’t see a damn thing,” Cletus said.

  “They rode into them trees. Haven’t seen ’em since.”

  Ned lowered the muzzle of his Winchester. “Probably just passin’ through,” he said.

  “Prob’ly same ones I saw ridin’ in,” Cletus added. “Like I told you, they didn’t have no guns that I could see. Just sat there watchin’ us.”

  Ned grunted and turned back inside. “To hell with a bunch of Indians,” he said. “All we need right now is to find Frank Morgan an’ find out how he aims to hand over that money for his kid.”

  Cletus and the others came inside, closing the door behind them.

  “May not be that easy,” Cletus said. “You say he’s wounded. And he’s got a sidekick. Could be we’ll have to go take that money away from him now.”

  TWENTY-TWO

  Frank awakened to the sweet smell of coffee, or so he thought. He tried to lift his head, using all the strength he could muster, and still he failed.

  “Take it easy, Frank,” a woman’s voice said. For a moment he didn’t know who was speaking to him. Nor did he have any idea where he was.

  He stopped struggling, gazing up at the same sod roof he’d seen before, and now things began coming back to him.

  “No sense in fightin’ it,” another voice said, and then Frank saw Buck Waite standing over him.

  “I keep ... blacking out,” he mumbled. No matter how hard he tried he couldn’t regain his senses.

  “You got a bad fever in that shoulder, Morgan.”

  “I can’t ... just lie here.” Events were coming back to him in fragments . . . his ride to Ghost Valley, the men he killed along the way, and the gunshot from behind that took him down when he least expected it.

  “That’s damn near all you’ll be able to do for a spell in the shape you’re in.”

  “The girl... your daughter, she told me you overheard them talking down in the ghost town. One of them said... they had Conrad.”

  “Appears that way. He’s hardly more’n a boy, from what I saw an’ heard of him.”

  “Have they harmed him?”

  “Looked like somebody had cut on one of his ears, but he was okay when they took him inside. I got close enough to the cabin so’s I could hear ’em.”

  “The bastards.”

  “Ned Pine is damn sure a bastard. Victor Vanbergen ain’t much better. That’s a rough bunch they got with ’em too, but the one who brung your boy is the worst, if my opinion makes any difference.”

  “What was . . . his name?”

  “Cletus. I didn’t stay long enough to hear ’em say he had a last name.”

  “I don’t know anyone who’s named Cletus.”

  “He looks like a rough customer. Carries a shotgun an’ a pistol. Got a Winchester too. He didn’t come all this way on no sightseein’ trip.”

  “I’ve got to get to Conrad before they hurt him. He’s not cut from the same cloth as the rest of us. He won’t stand a chance against them.”

  “How is it that a boy of yours can’t take care of himself?” Buck asked.

  “We never were around . . . each other. His mother and I were separated when he was born.”

  “Here’s some special tea, Frank,” Karen said, offering him a steaming cup. “I laced it with a bit of Pa’s corn squeeze, so you’d like it better.”

  Frank pushed himself up on one elbow, noticing that his left shoulder and arm were badly swollen.

  “That bark tea will help some,” Buck said. “It’s an old Indian remedy for fever an’ poisoned blood. Drink as much of it as you can.”

  Frank allowed Karen to hold the cup to his lips so he could take a few swallows. Despite the whiskey, the tea was bitter, harsh on his tongue.

  Dog was watching him from the foot of the bed as he slowly sat up and took the cup in his right hand.

  “The storm’s let up,” Buck said. “Those boys down in the valley ain’t goin’ nowhere. They’s waitin’ on you to show up with money to pay for your son’s release.”

  “I’m gonna release ’em, all right,” Frank said, trembling with a curious weakness before he took several more swallows of tea and whiskey. “I’m gonna kill every one of the bastards as soon as I can walk.”

  “Maybe a day or two,” Buck suggested.

  “I can’t wait that long,” Frank replied, glancing over at his rifle and pistol belt.

  “Seems to me you ain’t got no choice,” Buck said as he went over to a stool near the fire. “That poison in your arm is gonna keep you here.”

  “I’ve had worse,” Frank told him, moving his injured arm a bit.

  “They’ll kill you, Frank,” Karen said softly. “You can’t take care of yourself in this condition. Pa will keep an eye on what’s going on in the valley until you’re strong enough to get on a horse.”

  “That could be too late,” Frank said, flexing the fingers on his left hand, making sure he could steady his rifle with it if the occasion arose.

  “You won’t be helpin’ that boy of yours none if you get shot again,” Buck said from his place beside the stove. “It’s smarter to wait.”

  Frank thought about Conrad, finding it hard to believe that one of Pine’s or Vanbergen’s men had ridden all the way down to Trinidad to capture him again.

  “I missed my chance to kill Ned and Victor a few weeks ago,” he reminded himself. “All I cared about at the time was getting my boy back home safe and sound.”

  “Life is full of little mistakes,” Buck said, chuckling as he added wood to the fire. “Gives a man
a whole bunch of regrets if he thinks about ’em too long.”

  “I’ll get them,” Frank said, sipping scalding, bitter tea while his mind was on the shack down in Ghost Valley. “I swear to you I’ll get ’em all this time.”

  Buck shook his head. “You ain’t gonna get nothin’ but a grave marker unless you wait for that arm to heal some. That’s a bad wound.”

  “My son’s life is more important.”

  “Listen to me, Morgan,” Buck said, picking up the jug of whiskey. “The men down yonder in that valley are bad hombres, the killin’ kind. If you go after ’em before you’re ready to handle yourself, that kid of yours will die an’ so will you. I know that bunch. They come up here mighty regular to hide out from the law.”

  “I know their type,” Frank said, thinking back over his years as a gunfighter. “They don’t scare me. If I can sit my horse, I can get ’em.”

  “Won’t be so simple,” Buck said. “They know you’re up here in these mountains now. They’ll be expectin’ you. You lost the element of surprise.”

  “I know,” Frank sighed, watching Karen move away from him, momentarily distracted. “I suppose I should be more grateful for what the two of you have done for me. I’d probably be dead in this snow somewheres if it hadn’t been for you. Just wanted you to know I appreciate what you’ve done for me. I won’t forget it either.”

  “We don’t want no thanks,” Buck remarked. “Just wait here until you can travel. I told you when we first met I came up here to get away from killin’ an’ such, after the war. But in your case I’ll make an exception. I’ll help you get your boy back.”

  “I wasn’t asking,” Frank said.

  “I know,” Buck replied. “Just call it somethin’ I’ve made up my mind to do.”

  “Again, I’m obliged to both of you.”

  Buck gave him a stern look. “Drink that damn tea. I didn’t go out in this god-awful storm to fetch back bark if you ain’t gonna drink the tea from it.”

  Frank drank half the cup, feeling better as the minutes passed. He noticed that Karen was rolling out dough on a small table.

  “Are you baking a pie in the dead of winter?” he asked, trying to sound playful.

  “Makin’ biscuits,” she said without turning around to look at him.

  “Can’t say as I’m all that hungry,” he admitted.

  Buck grinned. “You will be, soon as you smell them turtle-head biscuits my girl makes. Puts ’em in a Dutch oven on top of this stove. We’ve got fatback to go with ’em, and a dab of good cane syrup.”

  “Maybe I’ll be hungry after all,” Frank said, gazing around the cabin. Skins and antlers were used for wall decorations on the logs, along with a rusty trap or two.

  “Drink your tea,” Karen scolded. “It’ll bring your fever down in no time.”

  “The whiskey helps,” he said, grinning at her.

  She returned his smile with one of her own, and he was reminded again how pretty she was.

  Frank became aware that Buck was watching him. He took his eyes off Karen.

  “I’ll hand it to you, Morgan,” Buck said.

  “How’s that?” he asked.

  “When you get your mind set on somethin’, you stay hell-bent in that direction.”

  “Are you talking about going after my son?”

  Buck nodded.

  “I don’t see how a father can do things any other way,” he replied.

  “It’s the way you aim to go about it. There’s still ten or twelve men down in that shack. A man with good sense would have brought some help.”

  “I’ve always worked alone,” he said, gazing off at a window of the cabin.

  “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.”