* * * *
Frank sat on 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."
"I am afraid of Ned," Cabot replied. "I do not want to die out here in this snow."
Rich stood up suddenly in his stirrups and pulled his sorrel to a halt. "Who the hell is that with the rifle pointed straight at us?" he asked Cabot.
"There are two of them," Cabot replied. "There is another one on foot standing behind that tree, and he has a rifle aimed at us as well."
"Damn!" Rich exclaimed, ready to open his coat and reach for his pistol.
"Climb down, boys," a deep voice demanded. "Keep your hands up where I can see them."
"Morgan," Cabot whispered, although he followed the instructions he'd been given.
"Step away from your horses!"
They did as they were told. Rich could feel the small hairs rising on the back of his neck.
"Take your pistols out and toss 'em down!" another voice said from behind a tree trunk.
Rich threw his Colt .44 into the snow.
Cabot opened his mackinaw carefully and dropped his Smith and Wesson .45 near his feet.
"Get their horses and guns, Tin Pan," the man holding the rifle said. "I'll keep 'em covered."
An old man in a coonskin cap came toward them carrying a large-bore rifle. He picked up their pistols and took their horses' reins, leading the animals off the trail.
"All right, boys," the rifleman in front of them said. "I've got one more thing for you to do."
"What the hell is that, mister?" Rich snapped, giving Cabot a quick glance.
"Sit down right where you are and pull off your boots."
"What?"
"Pull off your damn boots."
"But our feet'll freeze. We'll get the frostbite."
"Would you rather be dead?"
"No," Cabot said softly, sitting down in the snow to pull off his boots.
"We'll die out here without no boots!" Rich complained. "We can't make it in our stocking feet."
"I can shoot you now," the rifleman said. "That way, your feet won't be cold."
Rich slumped on his rump and pulled off his stovepipe boots without further complaint.
"Now start walking," the rifleman said. "I don't give a damn which direction you go."
"We will die!" Cabot cried.
The lanky gunman came toward them and picked up their boots without taking his rifle sights off them. "Life ain't no easy proposition, gentlemen," he said. "Start walking, or I'll kill you right where you sit."
Both gunslicks limped away.
"Pretty sight, ain't it?" Tin Pan asked.
Frank merely nodded.
* * * *
He closed his eyes. Was his need for revenge so great that it was worth riding this vengeance trail?
Frank knew the answer as he drifted off to sleep. Dog was curled beside the bed, watching him with big liquid eyes.
Six
Frank reined his bay east at the river. Dog trotted beside the horse. After a big breakfast of pancakes and ham, with a pot of coffee at his elbow at Glenwood Springs' only cafe, he felt rested, better than he had in days. He'd purchased supplies at Colter's General Store, enough provisions to last him for a month or more.
He sighted a rock building and a faded, hand-painted sign reading GLENWOOD SPRINGS SANITARIUM hung above a pair of front doors. The place looked like it had fallen on hard times, like the rest of the town.
Frank swung over to a hitch rail and stepped down, wondering what Doc Holliday would be like. His waitress at the eatery had said that Holliday was dying with tuberculosis and word was he didn't have long, which was what George had said.
Frank let himself into the building. Dog watched him, resting on his haunches near the bay.
A gray-haired woman in a rumpled nurse's uniform greeted him.
"What can I do for you, mister?"
"I'd like to speak to Doc Holliday a moment."
"He don't want any visitors."
"It's important, ma'am. Someone's life may be in danger unless I can talk to him." It was more or less the truth. If Holliday could tell him where to find Ned Pine and Victor Vanbergen, their lives would damn sure be in grave danger when Frank caught up to them.
The woman frowned. "I'll ask him if he'll talk to you. Give me your name."
"Frank Morgan. He may not recognize the name, only please tell him I need to talk to him. I won't need but a minute of his time."
"I'll tell him, Mr. Morgan. You can take a seat over there by those windows."
The nurse disappeared down a dark hallway. Somewhere in the back of the building, Frank could hear bubbling water and soft splashing sounds, no doubt the hot mineral baths this place was known for, a spring coming from deep in the earth and filled with healing, or so some folks said.
"This place is damn near empty," he muttered.
The woman returned a moment later. She halted in front of Frank and glanced down at his gunbelt. "Doc says it's okay, but he asked if you was carryin' a gun."
"I'll leave it here on your desk," Frank replied, drawing his Colt, placing it on her desk top with a heavy thud. He still had a belly-gun hidden inside his shirt, not that he figured he'd be needing it.
"Come this way, Mr. Morgan," the nurse said, leading him down the hallway. "Doc said you could only stay a minute or two. He's feelin' real poorly now."
"I understand, ma'am," Frank told her as she opened a door into a small private room.
A frail, emaciated young man lay on a narrow bed below the room's only window, covered by a thin sheet and wool blanket to keep out the morning chill.
The woman closed the door behind Frank.
"Doc Holliday?" he asked softly. The man on the bed would scarcely weigh a hundred pounds. His cheeks and eyes were so deeply sunken into his face that he could have been dead, had he not spoken just then.
"That's me," Holliday replied. "You can take that chair in the corner. I've heard of you, Morgan. You have a reputation as a man with an intemperate disposition."
Frank grinned weakly and eased over to the wooden chair. "I've heard much the same about you, Doc."
Holliday tried for a laugh that ended in a series of wet coughs. With a slender-fingered hand he wiped blood from his mouth with a blood-soaked rag. "What brings you to me, Morgan? Nurse Miller said it was important."
"Ned Pine and Victor Vanbergen. I need to know where they are."
"A nasty pair. Cowards, both of them. However, they'll shoot a man in the back and he'll be just as dead as if they'd faced him."
"I know. I almost had them a few weeks back in the south part of the territory. They were holding my son for ransom to get at me. I
got my boy back, but Pine and Vanbergen got away clean."
"A damn shame. They need to take the dirt nap. What makes you so sure they're here?"
"I picked up their trail. They've still got a few gunslicks with 'em. One of 'em tried to jump me here in Glenwood Springs last night while I was down by the old cemetery. He came at me with a shotgun. It only makes sense that it was one of Pine's or Vanbergen's shooters. The only thing that troubles me is how they knew I was here, not that it matters, since I'm gonna kill 'em all anyway if I get the chance."
"You're not worried about the odds?"
"I never worry about the odds. I lost their trail south of here by a few miles. I figured they'd come here for whiskey and supplies."
"They did. That was a couple of weeks ago."
"Some old man in town told me to look for 'em in a place called Ghost Valley. It doesn't show on the map I've got with me."
"It won't," Holliday replied. "But that's where you'll find them, most likely. There are remnants of an old mining town in a deep valley to the north. They hole up in a cabin on the west edge of the town. Nobody lives there now."
"How do I find it?"
Doc broke into another fit of bloody coughing. Frank waited for him to clean his mouth and chin.
"There's a two-rut wagon road that angles northwest of town into the mountains. It's a steep climb. Ride three or four miles until you come to a little stream. Swing off the road and follow that stream through the pines. It's a rough climb in places. I hope you're riding a good mountain horse."
"I am."
"The stream wanders for about six miles. You'll come to a place where it cuts between two ridges. Ride up the more nothern one. There won't be any trail to follow. Ride slow and very carefully. When you come to the top you'll be looking into Ghost Valley. There's an old Indian burial ground down below. You'll see the mounds. The mining town is to the east, what's left of it."
"What about those old Indians, Doc? I thought I saw one yesterday near the Glenwood Springs Cemetery as I was riding into town."
"Some people claim they can see them. I've never seen one. I think it's poppycock. The Anasazi have been gone for hundreds of years."
"I saw something," Frank assured him. "My dog growled when he saw it. The Indian wasn't my imagination." He left out the part about the whispered voice he'd heard.
"Maybe he was a Ute or a Shoshoni," Holliday suggested as he wiped his mouth again, "although most of the tribes have been driven farther north by the Army."
"He was an Indian, whatever breed he was." Right then, Frank couldn't shake the eerie feeling that perhaps he had seen a ghost, even though there wasn't a superstitious bone in his body that he knew of.
Holliday dismissed the subject with a wave of a pale hand. "I've never seen an Indian around here and I've been here for three months. I've only been bedridden over the past month. As you can see, I'm at death's doorway. Doc Grimes tells me it won't be long now."
"Sorry to hear it, Doc," Frank said.
"Funny," Holliday told him, smiling as he stared up at the ceiling. "I've always assumed a bullet in the back would take me to my grave. I'd planned to die with my boots on, as the old saying goes. This is a horrible way for a man to cash in his chips."
"I'd rather go out quick myself," Frank agreed.
Holliday glanced at him. "You may get your chance if Pine or Vanbergen sees you first. They won't do it honorably. You can bet your last dollar on that."
"I've already become acquainted with them," Frank said in a low growl. "I'll be ready when the time comes."
"You sound like a very confident fellow, Morgan. Are you that good with a gun?"
"I've gotten by. Tried to quit years ago, until this business with my son came about."
"Good luck, Morgan," Holliday said, his voice trailing off. "Now if you don't mind, I need to close my eyes. I just took a dose of laudanum and I'm sleepy. Follow that stream until it passes between those ridges. Ride up to the crest of the valley, and from there on, you'd better have eyes in the back of your head."
"I'm obliged, Doc," Frank said, coming to his feet. "I wish you the best."
"My best days are already gone, Morgan," Holliday replied as his eyelids batted shut. "However, I must say I had a wonderful time while it lasted."
Frank started for the door.
"One more thing, Morgan," Holliday said, his throat clotted so that he was hard to understand.
"What's that, Doc?"
"Make sure nobody follows you out of town. Vanbergen and Pine have friends here. Quite possibly back-shooters who have been warned to keep an eye out for you."
"I killed one of them last night. Sheriff Tom Brewer made it real plain he didn't want me hanging around. Makes me wonder if he's a friend to Pine and Vanbergen."
"I doubt if you have anything to fear from Brewer," Holliday said, his eyelids closing again. "But he could be looking the other way for a handful of silver when those outlaws ride into town. He won't be the first crooked lawman I ever met."
"Me either," Frank said. "Thanks for the warning, Doc. I aim to bring 'em down ... every last one."
Holliday didn't answer, his nostrils flaring gently with opium slumber.
Frank let himself out, and walked back up the hall to fetch his pistol. He saw the nurse seated behind her desk, and came over for his gun.
"Thank you, ma'am," he said, holstering his Colt. "I'm much obliged."
"Is Doc asleep?" she asked. "I just gave him his laudanum before you arrived."
"Yes, ma'am, he's asleep."
Frank went outside and untied his bay, mounting after a look down the empty road back to town. He reined away from the sanitarium and heeled his horse to a jog trot.
Remembering the directions Doc gave him, he knew he would have to pass through Glenwood Springs to reach the right wagon road, a ride that would attract attention should any of the gang be watching for him.
"Suits the hell outta me," he mumbled. It would be just as easy to kill a few more of them here, rather than wait for an ambush somewhere in the mountains looming above the sleepy little village.
He rode through Glenwood Springs at the same slow trot, with an eye out for anyone who seemed to be watching him. He passed the sheriff's office, and noticed that Tom Brewer came out on the boardwalk to stare at him with unfriendly eyes.
"He's on the take," Frank told himself quietly. He'd seen that same look in men's eyes before.
Riding past a blacksmith's shop, he noticed a new pine coffin on a pair of sawhorses. "One less back-shooting bastard to worry about," he said aloud, urging his horse to a short lope as he rode away from Glenwood Springs into a dense ponderosa forest.
Less than a quarter mile from town he found the two-rut wagon road Doc Holliday had described. Frank reined his horse to a halt and looked behind him. No one was following him now, but it was too soon to tell.
He swung onto the wagon ruts and started up a steep hill. The pines grew so close to the road they were like walls on either side. Deep shadows lay before him. It was the perfect place for an ambush.
"Out front, Dog!" Frank bellowed.
Dog understood his job. He trotted out in front of Frank and the bay until he was more than a hundred yards ahead.
"A little insurance," he said, pulling his Winchester from its saddle boot to jack a shell into the firing chamber. He lowered the hammer gently and rested the rifle across the pommel of his saddle.
He slowed the bay to a walk and kept his eyes glued to the ruts and shadows. If Pine or Vanbergen meant to jump him on his way to the valley, they'd have their hands full.
Dog continued up the steep ascent without making a sound or giving a warning. The old dog's senses were as keen as ever and he was rarely taken by surprise.
"Let the bastards come, if they want," Frank said grimly. "I got a little surprise for 'em...."
Seven
Frank rode slowly between the pines, stopping every so often to check his back trail, and to listen for the sou
nds of another horse. Dog sat in the middle of the road panting, watching the man and the horse behind him, when Frank reined his animal to yet another stop.
"It's quiet," he whispered. "Maybe too damn quiet." But there was no evidence that anyone was following him, and Dog had sensed nothing ahead.
"Getting jumpy in my old age," Frank told himself, although he had the eerie feeling that he was being watched.
He heeled his horse forward, continuing up the steady climb toward snowcapped peaks. The creak of saddle leather and the soft drum of the bay's hooves filled the silence around him for a time.
Then Dog halted suddenly, hair rigid along his backbone as he looked to the east.
Frank drew rein on his horse at once, scanning the dark forest. A marksman worth his salt could kill him easily from those pines. Perhaps it was time to proceed with more care until he cleared this part of the road.
He swung out of the saddle, using his bay for a shield to continue moving northwest, walking beside the horse's shoulder. And still, Dog didn't move, watching the trees with a low growl coming from his throat.
"That's good enough for me," Frank muttered, moving off the road to enter black forest shadows where he would make a more difficult target. Balancing his Winchester in the palm of his hand, he crept along at a snail's pace.
"What is it, Dog?" he whispered when he came to the spot in the road where his dog remained frozen between the ruts.
Dog wouldn't look at him, staring at the same spot on a wooded ridge, still growling.
Now Frank was sure something, or someone, was out there. It would be a fool's move to continue along the road until he found out what it was.
He ground-hitched the bay and started walking softly among the pine trunks, using them for cover wherever he could. Dog trotted up beside him, his attention still fixed on the ridge.
I wonder if it's that Indian again, Frank thought.
Dog had never given him a false signal despite the cur's advancing age.
With no warning, the sharp crack of a rifle's report sounded from the ridge. Frank threw himself on the ground behind a ponderosa trunk, listening to the bullet sizzle high above his head.
"Damn, that was close," Frank said, gritting his teeth in anger. He knew now that he should have been more cautious, coming around behind the ridge instead of approaching it head-on.
The Last Gunfighter: Ghost Valley Page 4
