The Last Gunfighter: Ghost Valley

by William W. Johnstone

  "Rest'll be the very best thing for you right now, Mr. Morgan."

  "Why don't you call me Frank?"

  "Wouldn't be proper. We ain't acquainted."

  He grinned. "Then let's get acquainted. Tell me why a pretty girl like you is living up here in these mountains with her father."

  "He needs me."

  "It has to be more than that. Buck seems like he's able to take care of himself."

  "All we've got is each other," Karen said quietly, moving over to the woodstove to add more pine limbs.

  "Why did you come up here with him in the first place?" Frank asked.

  "To be away from folks. Pa had a hard time durin' the war an' he didn't want to be around so many people. Nothin' up here but deer, elk, an' grizzly bears, besides the smaller varmints along the creeks."

  "Don't you ever get lonely?"

  "No. I like it up here."

  Another blast of wind screamed around the eaves of the small cabin.

  "But you're miles from any settlement."

  She turned away from the potbelly to stare at him. "When we feel the need to see folks we can ride down to Glenwood Springs, or over to Cripple Creek. When we don't, there ain't nobody who bothers us up here."

  "Sounds peaceful," he said, reaching for the whiskey with his right hand.

  "It is. Pa wants it that way."

  "Why?"

  "On account of the war. He said he's seen enough of what men can do to each other."

  "I understand that," Frank said, taking a big swallow of corn whiskey.

  "You sound like pretty much of a loner yourself," Karen said as she closed the stove door.

  "I am. I reckon it's for the same reasons your pa likes it up in these mountains. It don't take long for a man to get enough of civilization."

  "We get by," Karen said. "The winters can be hard sometimes."

  "And cold," Frank surmised.

  "The cabin stays warm. We get ready for winter with plenty of firewood. This place could use a few more chinks between some of the logs."

  Frank pushed a moth-eaten wool blanket off his chest and struggled to a sitting position, movement that only increased the pain in his left side.

  "You shouldn't be movin' around, Frank," she said, coming over to him.

  "I can't stay here. I've got business over in that ... Ghost Valley, they call it."

  "It'll keep for a few days," Karen assured him.

  "Not this," Frank said darkly. "I've been looking for those jaspers for weeks. It won't be settled until Ned Pine and Victor Vanbergen are dead."

  "Pa says you're a killer."

  He took the whiskey jug again and drank deeply before he answered her question. "There was a time when I made a living at it. But not now."

  "You just said..." Karen's voice faded.

  " This is different. This is personal."

  "You won't be strong enough," she warned. "This cold drains all the strength out of a body."

  "Not mine," he replied. "I'm used to the cold ... or the heat."

  She came over to him and sat beside him on the cot, with worry in her eyes. "Pa says you aim to go up against that bunch of outlaws single-handed."

  He nodded, and drank more whiskey.

  "You don't know those men," Karen said. "They're all paid killers."

  "I know 'em real well. That part don't scare me one little bit. They shot me, but it was because I got careless and let one of 'em get behind me."

  "But Pa said your son was safe now, down in Trinidad or thereabouts."

  "I aim to make 'em pay for what they did to Conrad. I won't let 'em get away with it."

  "Pa says there's a lot of them hard cases in the valley."

  "I've thinned 'em down by a few."

  "You killed some of them?"

  "A handful. Your father gave me some help."

  "Pa said he wasn't gonna kill no more men after the war was over."

  Frank sighed. "I reckon he made an exception. I owe him for what he did."

  "We came up here to live peaceful," Karen whispered, staring at a cabin window covered with deer hide.

  "I may have pulled him into a fight that wasn't any of his affair," Frank explained.

  "Did you ask him to help you kill those men?"

  He wagged his head. "Nope. He did it on his own and that's a fact."

  Karen was thoughtful a moment. "We try to live quiet. Even when those Indians come around, Pa gets along with 'em and gives 'em what they want."

  Frank remembered the Indian he'd seen outside the cemetery at Glenwood Springs. "Do you mean the Old Ones? The Ones Who Came Before?"

  "Some call 'em that," Karen admitted, although she seemed nervous about it.

  "Are they Utes? Shoshoni?"

  "No one knows. They've lived here for a very long time. I only saw 'em a few times. Pa says they're real careful about showin' themselves to strangers."

  "Who are they?" Frank wanted to know.

  "Ask Pa about it."

  "I already did. He didn't tell me much."

  Karen got up off the cot, as though she didn't care to talk about it anymore. "I'll warm up some more of this soup. It'll help you get your strength back."

  "You didn't answer my question," he persisted.

  "I didn't aim to. Ask my pa about it."

  The pain in Frank's shoulder forced him back down on the bed and he closed his eyes.

  The Indian he saw beyond the cemetery fence at Glenwood Springs had seemed real enough.

  He tried to recall what Doc Holliday told him about the local Indians. Some folks claimed they were like ghosts from the past, some tribe called the Anasazi.

  "I saw one of them," he told Karen.

  She turned quickly from the potbelly where she was warming his soup.

  "It's true," he said. "I couldn't get a good look at him, but he was there, and he spoke to me."

  "You're joshin'," Karen said.

  "I'm completely serious."

  She went back to her cast-iron pot. "An' just what did this Indian say?"

  "He directed me to Ghost Valley. That's one reason why I'm here."

  "What's the other reasons?" she asked without turning around to look at him.

  "A white man, a gunfighter by the name of Doc Holliday, told me this is where I could find Pine and Vanbergen."

  "You'll have to ask Pa about that. I mind my own business when it comes to gunfighters an' Indians. Only, Pa told me you were a gunfighter, so I reckon I shouldn't be talkin' to you now."

  "That was a long time ago," Frank said sleepily as the corn whiskey began to do its work.

  Twenty

  He saw Jake Allison standing at the end of a dusty street in Abilene, Texas, and he knew something was wrong, since this moment came from his distant past. Jake was a deadly gunman with a far-flung reputation as a quick-draw artist. And Allison was long dead, by the hand of Frank Morgan.

  Jake came toward him, his gun tied low on his leg. He wore a flat-brim hat, stovepipe boots, and a leather vest, with a bandanna around his neck.

  "Time we settled this, Morgan!" Jake shouted from the far end of the street.

  "Suits the hell outta me, Jake," Frank heard himself say in a voice that was not his own.

  "You been talkin' about how you're gonna kill me. I'll give you the chance."

  Frank began taking measured steps toward Allison, his hand near his gun. "It won't be just talk, Jake. You killed that boy and his brother up on the Leon River. They were friends of mine and I don't take that sort of thing lightly."

  "The sheriff ruled it was self-defense, Morgan."

  "Sheriff Stokes is in the pockets of the cattlemen's association, the crooked outfit you work for."

  "You can't prove a damn thing. Them Miller boys went for their guns first."

  "They weren't gunmen and you know it. They'd have never gone for a gun against a rattlesnake like you."

  "You talk mighty tough, Morgan," Jake said as he walked closer.

  Frank grinned. "Differe
nce between you and me is, I can back it up."

  Jake stopped, spreading his feet slightly apart. "Time we quit all this jabberin'."

  Frank kept moving closer, judging the distance, ready to make his play. "I'm done with words myself, Jake. I'm gonna give you the first pull. Go for that damn gun whenever you're ready."

  "You're tryin' to trick me."

  "How's that?"

  "You damn sure won't give me the first chance at the draw an' you know it. I'm too fast for you."

  A crowd had begun to gather along the boardwalks of Abilene to watch the affair. Everyone was listening to what was being said.

  Frank halted his strides when they were fifty feet apart. "I'll wait till I see your hand move for the butt of that pistol," he said.

  "You ain't got the nerve."

  "We'll stand here until we both die of old age, Jake, unless you make your play. I won't draw on a man first, and you can take that to the bank. If you don't draw, I swear I'll give you the worst beating you ever had."

  "You yellow bastard. You're bluffin'." Jake's jaw was set when he said it.

  "One way to find out, asshole, is to reach for iron. I'll wait."

  "If you do, you're a dead man."

  "Maybe," Frank replied, sounding casual about it. "You can piss on my grave if you're right about it."

  Jake's right hand made a dive for his Colt ... Frank saw the muscles in his arm tense a fraction of a second before he made the move.

  Frank's hand dipped for the butt of his weapon, a practiced move, one he'd refined over many years. His gun came out, cocked and ready, before Jake could clear leather.

  In a flash, Frank saw the fear in Jake's eyes when he knew he'd been beaten to the draw.

  "Adios, Jake," Frank whispered as he pulled the trigger on his Peacemaker.

  The thunder of a gunshot echoed up and down the main street of Abilene. For a fleeting moment, all was still until the sound faded.

  Jake Allison's knees quivered. A red stain began to spread across the front of his vest. He let his pistol fall to the caliche roadway, it landed beside his right boot, making a soft thud.

  A whispered gasp escaped the lips of onlookers. All eyes were on Jake as he took a half step backward on uncertain, trembling legs.

  "Goddamn you, Morgan!" Jake bellowed, still full of fight even though his legs wouldn't support him.

  Frank moved toward his mortally wounded adversary, still clutching his pistol. Jake sank to his knees, reaching for the hole in his chest.

  Now murmurs of whispered conversation spread through the onlookers. Frank came to a halt a few yards from Allison and the puddle of crimson forming around him.

  "I warned you," Frank said, lowering his weapon.

  Jake rocked back on his haunches with blood pouring between his fingers. "Ain't ... nobody ... that fast," he stammered as more blood began to dribble from his mouth, proof of a lung wound that would claim his life in minutes.

  "Think about those Miller brothers while you die, Jake," Frank said while bystanders edged closer to the scene of Allison's death. "They were kids. Young cowboys barely old enough to shave."

  "Like hell!" Jake spat, weaving back and forth as he sat on his rump.

  "No sense arguing about it now," Frank told him. "You're the same as dead."

  The crowd around Frank and Jake parted as a man with a star on his shirt hurried up to them.

  "Frank Morgan, you're under arrest!" Sheriff Stokes barked as he swung a shotgun up at Frank.

  "What's the charge?" Frank asked.

  "Cold-blooded murder."

  "He drew first," Frank protested, still holding his gun at his side.

  "That ain't the way I saw it, Morgan. Now drop that damn pistol an' throw your hands in the air!"

  Frank glanced around him. Half a hundred people had been witnesses to what had happened. "These folks saw it. Allison went for his gun and I had to defend myself."

  Sheriff Stokes was about to speak when someone from the crowd spoke up.

  "That's right, Sheriff. Morgan wouldn't draw first against Allison. We all seen it."

  Stokes gave the speaker a glare. "What the hell would you know about anything, Jimmy?" he growled.

  Then a woman's voice came from the back of the group. "I saw it myself, Sheriff Stokes. Mr. Allison took out his gun before Mr. Morgan did."

  Stokes glanced at the woman. "Are you right sure, Miz Wilkinson? I sure wouldn't question the word of the preacher's wife."

  "I'm quite sure of what I saw, Sheriff, and I'll testify to it in court."

  The sheriff's shoulders slumped. He lowered his shotgun and looked at Frank. "Maybe I didn't see things none too clear from where I was in front of my office," he said in a much quieter voice.

  Frank holstered his Peacemaker. "All this dust, when the wind blows, can get in a man's eyes," he said.

  At the same moment Jake Allison fell over on his face and let out a moan.

  "I reckon somebody oughta send for Doc Weaver," the sheriff said.

  "No need," Frank said absently, turning away. "He'll be dead before a sawbones can get here."

  Stokes spoke to him as he was striding away.

  "What makes you so all-fired sure of that, Morgan?"

  Frank stopped just long enough to glance over his left shoulder. "I put a bullet through his heart. Looks like it might have nicked his lung. Either way, he's headed for an undertaker."

  Curious citizens of Abilene backed away from him as he strode from the scene. He had taken another life, adding to his fearsome reputation, and yet he hadn't wanted things to end this way. He would have preferred to see Jake Allison stand trial for the murder of the Miller brothers.

  It seemed trouble, and gunplay, followed him wherever he went.

  He rode out of Abilene that day with a warning ringing in his ears, to stay clear of that part of Texas if he wanted to avoid trouble with the law.

  * * * *

  "You were dreamin'."

  He heard the voice, and focused on the fuzzy face hovering above him.

  "I woke you up 'cause you seemed to be real agitated about somebody named Jake."

  He recalled the dream vividly. "Jake Allison," he croaked, his throat dry.

  "Who was he?" Karen asked.

  "A man I had to kill. It happened a long time ago. Don't know why I was dreaming about it."

  "Your fever's gettin' worse. Pa went out to fetch some aspen bark so I can brew you some tea."

  "Aspen bark?"

  "It helps with a fever sometimes. Your wound's gettin' worse. Pus is comin' out of it now."

  "I've gotta get back to that valley. Pine and Vanbergen will get away from me again ... I lost 'em once, but it won't happen again."

  "Pa says they're still there, only today two more men come ridin' into the ghost town."

  "Two more?" Frank tried to clear his head.

  "Pa slipped down close on foot the other night. He heard their names."

  "The other night? How long have I been asleep?"

  "Two days. You woke up every now an' then so I could give you some soup an' whiskey."

  Frank couldn't quite believe that he'd been unconscious for two days. He could see Karen's face clearly now. "The names of the other two..."

  "What about 'em?"

  "What were their names?"

  She frowned a moment. "One was named Cletus. They called the other one Conrad. Pa was sure hopin' it wasn't that boy of yours."

  He tried to bolt upright on the cot and could scarcely move. "That isn't possible. Conrad is safe down in Trinidad in the south part of the territory."

  "Pa only said that was his name. You can ask Pa soon as he gets back."

  Frank couldn't imagine how anyone could have taken Conrad from Trinidad a second time. Pine and Vanbergen were in Ghost Valley. Who was left among them that could take his son captive again? "Your pa must have been mistaken ... about one of 'em being named Conrad."

  "He told me that he slipped up right close in the dark an'
heard 'em talking."

  "Go find Buck. I have to ask him if he's sure about that name."

  "He'll be back right soon. There's aspens down by the creek and you've got to have the bark so your fever will go down."

  Frank closed his eyes briefly. Had he been so careless as to leave Conrad alone when he went after Ned and Victor? Had one of their gunmen taken Conrad captive again?

  "Where are my boots?" he asked feebly.

  "Right at the foot of the bed ... only you ain't gonna be needin' 'em for a day or two."

  "My shirt. My mackinaw," he continued, ignoring what the girl said for now.

  "Hangin' on pegs over yonder on the wall," she replied, giving him a strange look. "Only you ain't strong enough to get dressed yet."

  "I'll be the judge of that," he said. "If my boy is in that valley, I'm going after him right now."

  "You're too weak to climb on your horse," Karen said flatly as she put her hands on her hips. "And if you did get in the saddle, you'd fall off on your head. You've got a bad fever from your wound."

  "I can manage it. Bring me my shirt and my boots."

  "Not till Pa gets back, I won't."

  "Then I'll do it myself," he said, swinging his legs off the cot, closing his mind to the waves of pain racing from his left shoulder.

  Dog left his place by the potbelly stove and came over to him. Frank braced himself to stand up, leaning forward, placing his feet wide apart.

  Suddenly, a wave of swirling black fog enveloped him and he knew he was losing consciousness.

  "I told you so," the woman said, sounding as if she said it from far away as everything went dark around him.

  Twenty-one

  Cletus watched Conrad being tied to a sagging hide-bottom chair with coils of lariat rope. A coal-oil lamp lit up the room, illuminating the faces of hard men gathered inside the shack.

  "Here's your prize," Cletus said, aiming a thumb at Conrad Browning.

  Ned Pine nodded. "What happened to his ear?"

  "Diego had to cut it off to keep him quiet. He was makin' too damn much noise."

  "What happened to Diego Ponce?"

  "I had to kill him."

  Victor Vanbergen gave Cletus a one-sided grin. "You can be one mean hombre, Cletus."

  Cletus looked around the shack. "I don't take shit off nobody. Now, where's this kid's old man? An' where's my ten thousand dollars?"