"How far?" Frank asked.
"Another four miles or so to the valley." He looked up at the sky. "This squall is liable to git heavy up yonder, so git ready fer it."
"I'm ready," Frank replied. "Just show me where I can find that old mining town ... a way down to it. I'll damn sure do the rest."
"You're a hard-nosed feller, ain't you?" Buck asked with a hint of a twinkle in his eye.
"Some say I am. To me, this is just business. I'm paying back a debt."
Buck wheeled his pony and rode out ahead, staying close to the brook. His head kept turning back and forth as though he expected something to happen.
He's wily old cuss, Frank thought.
He was glad Buck had shown up when he did. Again, Frank was reminded of how much Buck was like Tin Pan. He supposed these mountains were full of such types, men who had left the ordinary world behind to live in total isolation, escaping an often tragic past to live here without bad memories.
All this, he told himself, was worth it ... the suffering and hardship. Pine and Vanbergen had a lesson coming, and Frank was just the man to teach school.
He'd almost had them both, yet his prime interest had been getting Conrad back to safety unharmed. It had kept Frank from exacting the brand of vengeance he'd been known for most of his life....
Nine
Frank's shoulders were hunched into the wind, the collar of his mackinaw turned up, the brim of his hat pulled down against a building wall of snow as he followed the tracks of the gang holding Conrad.
"Just my luck," he muttered, guiding his horse up a snowy ridge, leading his packhorse. "Even the weather's turned against me."
It had been a rough ride up to the cabin, the four bounty hunters following him, including Jake Miller, who'd tried to gun him down for the fifteen thousand dollars on his head. Like in the old days, when he made his living by the gun. But with Conrad's life on the line, no amount of hardship would turn him aside. The boy couldn't take care of himself against a gang of white-trash gunslingers. The old days be damned. He still had it in him to fill an outlaw's body with lead ... old age hadn't robbed him of the skill. Or the speed.
All that mattered now was finding Conrad, and getting him away from Ned Pine and his hired shootists. Conrad would be no match for them.
"Hell, he's only eighteen," Frank said into the wind as more snow pelted him.
His first objective was to find a stream called Stump Creek and then ride north along its banks. If Bowers hadn't told him the truth about the outlaw gang's hideout, he would track him down and kill him ... if the weather and a shoulder wound didn't get Bowers first between here and Durango.
Crossing the ridge, Frank saw an unexpected sight, an old mountain man leading a mule.
"Seems harmless enough. Most likely an old trapper or a grizzly hunter."
Most of the old-time mountain men were gone now. Times had changed.
To be on the safe side Frank opened his coat so he could reach for his Colt Peacemaker. His Winchester was booted to his saddle, just in case a fight started at longer range, although Frank didn't expect any such thing. The old man in deerskins was minding his own business, leading his mule west into the storm with his head lowered.
The mountain man wearing the coonskin cap heard Frank's horses coming down the ridge. He stopped and watched Frank ride toward him, Frank's right hand near a belted pistol at his waist. The old man froze, out in the open, dozens of yards from any cover. He crouched a little, like he was ready for action.
"No need to pull that gun, stranger!" Frank called. "I mean you no harm."
The gray-bearded man grinned. "Hell of a thing, to be caught out in this squall. Don't see many travelers in these parts, mister."
"The name's Frank Morgan. I'm looking for Stump Creek, and a cabin north of here in a box canyon."
The mountain man scowled. "What in tarnation would you want with the old robbers' roost? Are you on the dodge from the law some place?"
"Nope ... leastways not around here. A gang of cutthroats led by a jasper named Ned Pine has taken my eighteen-year-old son as hostage. I aim to get my boy back."
"Ol' Ned Pine," the trapper said, his mule loaded with game traps and cured beaver skins. "I'd be real careful if I was you. Pine is a killer. So are them boys who run with him. They ain't no good, not a one of 'em."
"Like I said, my son is their prisoner. I'm gonna kill every last one of them if I have to. I need directions to that creek, and the cabin."
The mountain man cocked his head. "Ain't one man tough enough to get that job done, Morgan. I know all about Pine and his hoodlums. They'll kill a man for sneezin' if he gets too close to 'em. Maybe you oughta rethink what you're plannin' to do before it gets you killed. There could be as many as a dozen of 'em."
Frank nodded. "I'll think on it long and hard, mister, but I'd be obliged if you'd point me in the direction of Stump Creek and that hideout."
"Keep movin' northwest. You'll hit the creek in about ten miles. Turn due north and follow the creek into the canyon where Stump Creek has its headwaters."
"I'm grateful. Names don't mean all that much out here, but you can give me your handle if you're so inclined."
"Tin Pan is what I go by. Spent years pannin' these streams lookin' for color. Never found so much as a single nugget, but there's plenty of beaver pelts to be had."
"Appreciate the information, Tin Pan. I won't make it to the creek until it's nearly dark. If you're of a mind to share a little coffee and fatback with a stranger, you can look for my fire."
"Might just do that, Morgan. It gets a sight lonely out on these slopes. Besides, I'm plumb out of coffee. Been out for near a month now. But I've got a wild turkey hen we can spit on them flames tonight. Turkey an' fatback sounds mighty good, if it comes with coffee."
"You'll be welcome at my fire, Tin Pan. I'm headed west and north until I hit the creek. I'll have a pot of coffee on by the time you get there leading that mule."
"I can cover more ground than most folks figure. A mule has got more gumption than a horse when the weather gets bad. I'll be there ... pretty close behind you, unless I get a shot at a good fat deer. It'll take me half an hour to gut him and skin him proper."
Tin Pan had a Sharps booted to the packsaddle on his mule. There was something confident about the way the old man carried himself.
"Venison goes good with coffee," Frank said. He gazed into the snowstorm. "The only thing I've got to be careful about is having Ned Pine or a member of his gang spot my campfire. I may have to find a spot sheltered by trees to throw up my canvas lean-to. I don't want them to know I'm coming."
Tin Pan shook his head. "Not in this snow. The cabin you talked about is miles up the creek anyhow. Only a damn fool would be out in a storm like this. I reckon that makes both of us damn fools, don't it?"
Frank chuckled. "Hard to argue against it. I'll find that creek and get a fire and coffee going. It's gonna be pitch dark in an hour or two. I need to find the right spot to hide my horses and gear from prying eyes."
"You won't have no problems tonight, Morgan," Tin Pan said. "But if it stops snowin' before sunrise, you'll have more than a passel of troubles when the sun comes up. A man on a horse sticks out like a sore thumb in this country after it snows, if the sun is shinin'. That's when you'll have to be mighty damn careful."
"See you in a couple of hours," Frank said, urging his horse forward. "Just thinking about a cup of hot coffee and a frying pan full of fatback has got my belly grumbling."
"I'll be there," the mountain man assured him. "Sure hope you got a lump of sugar to go with that coffee."
"A bag full of brown sugar," Frank said over his shoulder as he rode down the ridge.
"Damn if I ain't got the luck today," Tin Pan cried as Frank rode out of sight into a stand of pines at the bottom of a steep slope.
Frank rode directly into the snowfall, his hands and face numbed by the cold. The outlaws' trail would be gone in an hour or less, with so much snow f
alling. He'd have to rely on the information Bowers and the mountain man gave him.
* * * *
His horses were tied in a pine grove. Frank huddled over a small fire, begging it to life by blowing on what little dry tinder he could find.
Stump Creek lay before him. He supposed the stream earned its name from the work of a beaver colony. All up and down the creek's banks, stumps from gnawed-down trees dotted the open spots.
The clear creek still flowed, with only a thin layer of ice on it. It was easy to break through to get enough water to fill his coffeepot.
He poured a handful of scorched coffee beans into the pot and set it beside the building flames. By surrounding the fire pit with a few flat stones, he had cooking surfaces on which he could place his skillet full of fatback.
If Tin Pan found his camp, it would be easy enough to rig a spit out of green pine limbs and skewer hunks of turkey onto sticks above the fire. Just thinking about a good meal made him hungry.
In a matter of minutes the sweet aroma of boiling coffee filled the clearing in the pines. Frank warmed his hands over the flames, letting his thoughts drift back to Conrad, and Ned Pine's gunslicks.
"I swear I'm gonna kill 'em," he said to himself. "They better not have done any harm to my boy or I'll make 'em die slow."
His saddle horse raised its head, looking east with its ears pricked forward.
"That'll be the old mountain man," he said, standing up to walk to the edge of the pine grove. An experienced mountain man Tin Pan's age would be able to follow the scent of Frank's from miles away.
Frank looked up at the darkening sky. Swirls of snowflakes fell on the pine limbs around him.
"I'll need to rig my lean-to," he mumbled. "No telling how much it'll snow tonight."
" Hello the fire!" a distant voice shouted.
"Come on in!" Frank replied. "Coffee's damn near done boiling!"
"I smelt it half an hour ago, Morgan!"
He saw the shape of Tin Pan leading his mule down to the creek through a veil of snow. It would be good to have a bit of company tonight. He was sure the old man had a sackful of stories about these mountains. Maybe even some information about the hideout where Ned Pine was holding Conrad.
Frank buttoned his coat and turned up the collar. Then he picked up more dead pine limbs to add to the fire. But even as the pleasant prospects of good company and a warm camp lay foremost in his mind, he couldn't shake the memory of Conrad and the outlaw bastards who held him prisoner.
* * * *
"Damn that's mighty good," Tin Pan said, palming a tin cup of coffee for its warmth, with two lumps of brown sugar to sweeten it.
"I've got plenty," Frank told him." I provisioned myself at Durango."
Tin Pan's wrinkled face looked older in light from the flames. "I been thinkin'," he said, then fell silent for a time.
"About what?" Frank asked.
"Ned Pine. Your boy. That hideout up in the canyon where you said they was hidin'."
"What about it?"
"It's mighty hard to get into that canyon without bein' seen, unless you know the old Ute trail."
"The Utes cleared out of this country years ago, after the Army got after them," Frank recalled.
"That still don't keep a man from knowin' the back way in to that canyon," Tin Pan said.
"There's a back way?"
Tin Pan nodded. "An old game trail. When these mountains were full of buffalo, the herds used it to come down to water in winter."
"Can you tell me how to find it?"
Tin Pan shook his head. "I'd have to show it to you. It's steep. A man who don't know it's there will ride right past it without seein' a thing."
Frank sipped scalding coffee, seated on his saddle blanket near the fire. "I don't suppose you'd have time to show me where it was...."
"I might. You seem like a decent feller, and you've sure got your hands full, trying to take on Ned Pine and his bunch of raiders."
"I could pay you a little something for your time," Frank said.
Tin Pan hoisted his cup of coffee. "This here cup of mud will be enough."
"Then you'll show me that trail?"
"Come sunrise, I'll take you up to the top of that canyon. I've got some traps I need to set anyhow."
"I'd be real grateful. My boy is only eighteen. He won't stand a chance against Pine and his ruffians."
"Don't get me wrong, Morgan. I ain't gonna help you fight that crowd. But I'll show you the back way down to the floor of the canyon. They won't be expectin' you to slip up on 'em from behind."
"I've got an extra pound of coffee beans. It's yours if you'll show me the trail."
"You just made yourself a trade, Mr. Morgan. A pound of coffee beans will last me a month."
"It's done, Tin Pan," Frank said, feeling better about things now. "I'm gonna pitch my lean-to while the fatback is cooking."
Tin Pan grinned. "I'll cut some green sticks for the hen I shot this morning. A man can't hardly ask for more'n turkey and fatback, along with sweet coffee."
Ten
They rode higher, following the creek. Frank was still taken with the thought that Buck reminded him of Tin Pan Calhoun and another snowbound journey into the mountains far to the south in pursuit of Pine and Vanbergen. The big difference now was that Frank didn't have to worry about harm befalling Conrad at the hands of these same murderers. Conrad was safe back in Trinidad, even though the boy behaved as though he resented the fact that Frank had rescued him.
But now, it was simply a kill-or-be-killed manhunt after the men who'd killed his wife and meant to do his son harm, and Frank intended to exact a pound of flesh from every last one of them.
Heavier swirls of tiny snowflakes came at the two riders from above, and Frank shivered inside his mackinaw.
"It's gonna git a mite nasty higher up," Buck said. He had a crudely fashioned coat made from the fleece and hide of a mountain bighorn sheep wrapped around him to keep him warm as the temperature dropped rapidly.
"All the better," Frank muttered. "The cold and the snow will keep Vanbergen and Pine inside where it's warm. I'll have a better chance of slipping up on them."
Buck nodded once. "Sure hope you know what you're doin', Morgan. I done told you there's a helluva lot of 'em, an' you's jest one man. There's one you need to be 'specially careful of, a damn half-breed. Wears his hair like a Choctaw, shaved on both sides of his skull. One time, he damn near saw me watching 'em right after they got here. He carries an old Henry rifle an' he don't miss much around him."
"I'll get it done," Frank assured him. "I'm not worried about some half-breed. I need to see the lay of things around that old mining town first."
Buck grinned, studying the high country before them. "I'll have to hand it to you, Morgan, you ain't got no small poke when it comes to nerve."
Frank ignored the remark. "How much farther is it to that trail?"
"Ain't far. Don't git your britches in a knot. We'll be there before you know it."
Dog stopped long enough to shake snow from his coat. Then he trotted on ahead of the riders.
"That fleabag has got good eyesight an' hearin'," Buck said. "He don't hardly miss a thing. If I hadn't been downwind from him when we first met up, he'd have heard me sure, or smelt me when I come down to find out who you was."
Frank knew the pads on Dog's feet would be half frozen by now, and he meant to stop and make a small fire out of dead pine limbs, sheltering it with his tarp so no one would see the smoke curl into the sky. Dead limbs gave off precious little smoke, unlike green wood.
* * * *
Two more hours of steady climbing came to an abrupt halt when Dog stopped, his fur standing rigid down his back, a low growl coming from his throat.
"Trouble," Frank whispered as he and Buck reined down on their horses.
"I smelt it too. Somebody's got a fire up yonder round that turn. A lookout, most likely, only he ain't got the stomach for this cold. The damn fool's burnin' green wood. Le
t's git these horses into the trees an' we'll git round behind him. I done told you I ain't gonna take a hand in this fight ... it's all yours. But I'll help you find who's layin' for you up there, if I can."
"I'm obliged, Buck."
They reined their horses to the trees. Frank called Dog over to stay with the horses, then drew his Winchester and levered a shell into the chamber. "I'll follow you, Buck," he said. "Just show me where he's at."
"Could be more'n one," Buck warned.
"That suits me even better. The more of them I can take down before I get Vanbergen, the easier my job's gonna be when I get there."
Buck turned into a northwesterly wind with his Sharps over his shoulder. Frank followed in his footsteps, moving slowly among the ponderosas.
Buck paused now and then to scent the wind. Frank also smelled the smoke.
"Won't be far now," Buck said. "Most likely on the top of that ridge where they could see anybody comin'."
"Can we find a piece of higher ground?" Frank asked as he peered into the snowfall.
"Jest follow me an' I'll show you. The shootin' part is up to you. I ain't killed nobody since the war, an' I don't aim to take up the habit again. You'll be on your own when we find the bastards."
"I understand," Frank said.
* * * *
Two men in cowboy hats were huddled around a small fire inside a pine grove overlooking the creek. Their horses were tied deeper in the forest behind them.
"Yonder they is," Buck whispered. "If you're any good with that Yellow Boy repeater, you can kill 'em now."
"I never shoot a man in the back, Buck," he replied quietly. "I'll give 'em one chance to toss down their guns. If they give up peaceful, I'll take their horses, boots, and guns so they can start walking back toward Glenwood Springs."
"Their feet'll freeze off."
" They'll still be alive," Frank told him, raising his rifle to his shoulder as he leaned out from behind a pine truck.
"Get those hands up where I can see 'em!" Frank bellowed. "If you make a move toward a gun, I swear I'll kill you!"
The Last Gunfighter: Ghost Valley Page 6
