“That ain’t what’s worryin’ me,” Slade told his partner. “I’m worried that he’s still as good as they say he was.”
Twenty-nine
Louis Pettigrew saw them a couple of hours after dawn. They were riding behind him on the far side of a yawning snow-covered valley, a gang of men numbering at least a dozen. They were headed in his direction.
He’d heard about outlaw gangs in this part of Colorado Territory, and something told him to get away from these men if he could.
He heeled the rented horse into a lope.
“It could be that gang they told me about at the Wagon Wheel Saloon,” he said aloud, drumming his shoes into the horse’s sides for all he was worth.
He wasn’t thinking about Frank Morgan any longer, or the story he’d come here to write; just getting out of this part of Colorado Territory alive would be enough to satisfy him after finding out the truth regarding Morgan and his overblown reputation.
His horse galloped through the snow on an old mining road that had begun to climb into snow-clad mountains. He remembered the road from his ride down out of Denver before the late spring snowstorm hit.
“The things I agree to do just to get a story,” he muttered softly.
He’d been to Africa and South America in search of news his readers wanted, but this trip to the Wild West had been an utter waste. Frank Morgan, one of the last living gunfighters, was a myth, a legend in the overactive imaginations of men with nothing else to talk about.
* * *
“Who the hell is that?” Tin Pan asked, watching a man in a derby hat riding hard in their direction. He only caught brief glimpses of the rider coming through the snow. It was an odd place to find anyone who was pushing a horse so hard. That spelled trouble in Tin Pan’s experience.
“I’ve got no idea,” Frank replied. “Whoever he is, he’s in a hurry. Unusual in this weather.”
“Maybe somebody’s after him,” Tin Pan suggested. “Sure does seem like it.”
“Hard to say,” Frank told the old trapper, squinting into the snowfall. “He’s dressed like a city slicker. This is a real strange place to find a tinhorn, especially when the weather’s this bad.”
“And one that’s in a hurry,” Tin Fan reminded him. “I was thinkin’ the same thing.”
“Yeah. I’ll ride on ahead to keep an eye on Ned Pine and my boy. You stay back and watch this fellow. See what he’s up to, and if anybody’s after him. Maybe he’s being followed. That would explain why he’s riding so fast. There could be somebody behind him.”
“Martha will tell me,” Tin Pan said. “After he rides by this knob, if she keep lookin’ southwest, I’ll know there’s somebody on his trail.”
“I never met a man who put so much trust in a mule,” Frank said with a grin.
Tin Pan gave him a sideways look. “You’ll learn one of these days, son, if you stay alive long enough. A mule has got better instincts than any dog or any man. Better senses too. If you aim to stay in this high country, you’ll get yourself a good mountain mule.”
Frank was still grinning when he rode off to the north behind Ned and Conrad and the two remaining gunmen who were with Ned now.
* * *
Tin Pan stepped out from behind a tree with his rifle aimed at the man in the bowler. “Hold it right there, mister,” he said in a loud voice.
The man jerked his winded horse to a halt and threw his hands in the air. “If you intend to rob me, sir, you’ll be sorely disappointed. I’m not carrying any large amount of money, just a few dollars.”
“I ain’t no highwayman. You’re gonna kill that horse if you keep runnin’ him through these snowdrifts. You can lower them hands now.”
The stranger let his palms drop to the top of his saddle horn, though he did it slowly.
“Speak up,” Tin Pan demanded, still holding his rifle at the ready.
“There’s an outlaw gang behind me. It may be a man by the name of Ned Pine. There are at least a dozen of them. They’re following me. At least that’s the way it appears. I was told this area had several outlaw gangs roaming about, and to be very careful to avoid them.”
“Ned Pine ain’t followin’ you,” Tin Pan declared. “He’s in front of you, and my partner, Frank, is trailin’ him into these here mountains.”
“Could that be Frank Morgan?” the stranger asked.
“Maybe. What business is it of yours? How come you know his name?”
“I came out West, out here from Boston, to write a story about him. He was a gunfighter.”
“He could be called that.”
“Only, I found out he’s a fraud. There is no story to write about him.”
“A fraud?”
The man nodded. “I met some gentlemen in Cortez who know him and they told me all about him. He shoots his victims in the back, or murders them in their sleep. He isn’t a real shootist at all.”
“Who told you that, mister?”
The man glanced behind him before he spoke again. “One was named Ford Peters. Mr. Peters knew Morgan from years back. Then another gentleman by the name of Vic Vanbergen told me the rest of the story, about how sneaky Frank Morgan was, and that he was a coward.”
Tin Pan chuckled.
“What is so funny?”
“You’ve got several things mighty wrong,” Tin Pan began as the humor left his face. “First off, Frank Morgan may be the quickest draw with a handgun this side of the whole Mississippi River.”
“I was told otherwise,” the stranger said. He sounded sure of it.
“You got bad information,” Tin Pan continued. “But when you listened to Victor Vanbergen, you were hearin’ from one of the leaders of the outlaw gangs you’re so worried about. Him and ol’ Ned Pine have robbed banks and trains all over. I don’t know him personal, just by reputation, but he’s a no-good cutthroat and a robber by profession. If you met him, you’re lucky he didn’t rob you.”
“I didn’t know . . .”
“Well, now you do.”
“I’d heard from various lawmen that Frank Morgan was a real gunfighter, perhaps one of the last of his breed. My name is Louis Pettigrew. I’m with the Boston Globe and my readers are hungry for stories about real-life gunmen. But those men told me Morgan was a fake ... that he wasn’t a real gunfighter at all in the true sense of the word. They described him as a common murderer.”
“Morgan’s the real thing. You can print that if you take the notion. He’s killed eight or nine of Ned Pine’s outlaws and before it’s all over, he’ll kill the rest of ’em and most likely Ned Pine himself.”
Pettigrew glanced over his shoulder. “My God,” he mumbled softly. “The men I was talking to last night are outlaws and robbers?”
“Now you’re gettin’ the picture,” Tin Pan told him. “Like I said, you’re lucky you wasn’t robbed yourself.”
“Would Mr. Morgan grant me an interview so I can present his story to my readers?”
“Can’t say for sure. One thing you can count on . . . he ain’t talking to nobody until he gets his son back.”
“His son?”
“Ned Pine is holding his boy for ransom. Morgan is after Ned to save his boy’s life. He ain’t just some cold-blooded killer.”
Darker clouds scudded over the knob where Tin Pan was talking with Louis Pettigrew. The snowflakes grew thicker on gusts of wind.
“I’d like to talk to Mr. Morgan,” Pettigrew said. “I’d like to tell our readers his side of the story.”
“You’ll have to wait until his business with Ned Pine is settled, that’s for sure.”
“May I ride along with you in order to meet him?” Pettigrew asked.
“Maybe. If you can do it quiet. I won’t guarantee that Morgan will talk to you.”
“I’ll take that chance,” Pettigrew said.
Tin Pan lowered the muzzle of his Sharps. “My name’s Tin Pan. Clarence Rushing was what I was called back when I was a sight younger.”
“Pleased to meet yo
u, Mr. Rushing. Or Mr. Tin Pan.”
“Tin Pan is what they call me. I used to pan for gold in these mountains.”
“Did you find any?”
“Not a single flake of placer. I trap for furs now. It pays better. Ride that horse over this hill and I’ll fetch my mule and a borrowed horse. We’ll catch up to Morgan in a couple of hours . . . maybe less.”
“What about those men behind me?”
Tin Pan chuckled. “Morgan will take care of Vanbergen and his gang, just like he did the bunch with Ned Pine. You’ve got a chance to give your readers back in Boston a first-hand account of how a gunfighter goes about his profession, if things go like I figure they will.”
* * *
Ford Peters spoke to Vern. “This is the dumbest thing I’ve ever done. We ain’t robbin’ nobody. We’re followin’ Vic back to Gypsum Gap so we can freeze our asses off while Ned Pine gets his revenge against this Frank Morgan.”
“We damn sure ain’t makin’ no money,” Vern agreed as they rode at the back of Vic’s gang.
“I say we light a shuck out of here and go back to Texas,” Ford said.
“Vic will send the rest of the boys after us if we run out on him. They’ll hunt us down.”
“If this snow gets any heavier, nobody’ll know we’re gone until we’ve got a few hours’ lead time. We can make it, if we push our horses.”
“It’s taking a helluva chance.”
“We take chances every time we rob a bank or hold up a train. We could get our heads blowed off, ridin’ with Vanbergen.”
“But we’ve got a chance to make some money while we take those chances,” Ford said.
“We damn sure ain’t got that chance here,” Vern agreed.
“First chance we get, let’s ride back,” Ford suggested in a whisper.
“It makes sense.”
“Snow’s startin’ to fall heavier. It’ll make it easier for us to get away.”
Vern swallowed, pulling his bandanna higher on his face to warm his nose and mouth. “I’m with you, Ford. Whenever you decide to light out of here, we’ll ride like hell back to the south.”
“Just give this snow a few more minutes. Hell, Vic won’t know we’re gone until we’re halfway back to Cortez if this snow gets any worse.”
“Maybe we hadn’t oughta use this road,” Vern wondered as they rounded a stand of trees.
“Only way to make good time. We spur these broncs until their flanks are bloody. We can steal fresh horses back in Cortez and make for the Texas panhandle, or head for the New Mexico Territory line.”
“Suits the hell out of me,” Vern said. “I’ve never been so goddamn cold in my life, and as far as I can tell we’re doing this for nothing.”
“You’ve got that right. I’m flat busted, and Vic ain’t showed no signs of wantin’ to fill my pockets with a share of any bank loot.”
“Let’s pick our spot and disappear,” Vern said. “I’ll bet Al and Todd will go with us.”
Ford nodded. “Ride up there an’ talk to ’em. But be sure you pull ’em off to one side. If Vic finds out what we’re planning to do, he’ll start shooting at us. Some of the others will side with him too.”
Vern urged his horse up to the rear of the bunch and motioned Al, then Todd, off the trail. The others didn’t seem to pay any attention to what Vern was doing.
The three men held a short conversation; then Vern trotted his horse back to Ford.
“They’re ready to pull stakes whenever we are,” Vern said through his ice-covered bandanna.
“Now’s as good a time as any,” Ford said.
Four riders peeled away from the rear of Victor Vanbergen’s gang. They struck a lope toward the south, glancing over their shoulders until they were half a mile away.
“We done it,” Vern said to the rest of the men. “Vic won’t send anybody after us now, an’ by the time he notices we’re gone, this snow will have covered our tracks.”
Thirty
Two hours of following Ned and his men through dense forests along a winding road had put an edge on Frank’s nerves. The pair of gunmen at the rear had fallen back about a hundred yards, and they seemed to be talking softly to each other. Frank wondered about them, why they were dropping farther back. Were they planning to run out on Ned?
“Time I made my move,” Frank said, tying off his horses in a pine grove. On foot, he approached a turn in the road where the two outlaws would be out of Ned’s line of vision for a short time.
He was taking a huge risk. Gunshots might force Ned to shoot Conrad. But the boy was lashed over his saddle and by all appearances, he was unconscious... perhaps even dead. It was a gamble worth taking.
Frank slipped up to a thick ponderosa trunk where the road made a bend. He opened his coat and swept his coattails behind the butts of his twin Peacemakers.
When the distance was right, he stepped out from behind the tree to face the gunmen.
“Howdy, boys,” he said, bracing himself for what he knew would follow. “You’ve got two choices. Toss your guns down and ride back wherever you came from, or go for those pistols. It don’t make a damn bit of difference to me either way. I’d just as soon kill you as allow you to ride off.”
“Morgan!” one of the riders spat.
“You’ve got my name right.”
Before another word was said the second outlaw clawed for his six-shooter. Frank jerked his right-hand Colt and fired into the gunman’s chest.
The man was knocked backward out of his saddle when his horse spooked at the sound of gunfire, tossing its rider over the cantle of his saddle into the snow as the sorrel gelding ran off into the trees.
But it was the second man Frank was aiming at now, as the fool made his own play.
Frank fired a second shot. His bullet struck the outlaw in the head, twisting it sideways on his neck as he slumped over his horse’s withers. When the bay wheeled to get away from the loud noise, the gunman toppled to the ground. Blood spread over the snow beneath his head.
The bay galloped off, trailing its reins.
Frank walked over to both men. One was dead, and the other was dying.
With no time to waste, Frank took off at a run to collect his horse to go after Ned Pine. The only thing that mattered now was saving Conrad’s life . . . if the boy wasn’t already dead, or seriously injured.
* * *
Pine heard Frank’s horse galloping toward him from the rear and he looked over his shoulder, reaching inside his coat for his pistol. Frank had to make a dangerous shot at long range before Ned put a bullet in Conrad.
Frank aimed and fired, knowing it would take a stroke of luck to hit Pine. But the fates were with Frank today when the horse Conrad was riding tried to shy away, breaking its reins, dashing off into the trees with the boy roped to the seat of its saddle.
Frank knew he had missed Pine, even though the bullet had been close. Pine spurred his horse, firing three shots over his shoulder as he galloped off in another direction, continuing northward.
Frank understood what he had to do. Finding out about his son’s condition was more important than chasing down a ruthless outlaw. There would be plenty of time for that later, after he got Conrad to safety.
“We’ll meet again somewhere, Pine,” he growled as he reined into the trees to follow Conrad’s horse.
Moments later, he found his son. Jumping down from the saddle, he ran over to him.
“Are you okay, Conrad?”
Conrad blinked. “My head hurts. One of them hit me.” Then he gave Frank a cold stare. “What are you doing here? Why did you come?”
“I came to get you back,” Frank replied as he began unfastening the lariat rope holding Conrad across the saddle. He pulled out his knife and cut the ropes binding Conrad’s wrists and ankles.
Conrad slid to the ground on uncertain legs, requiring a moment to gain his balance. “How come you were never there when I was growing up, Frank Morgan?” he asked, a deep scowl on his face. “I wish t
he hell you’d never come here.”
“It’s a long story. I’m surprised your mother didn’t tell you more about it. It had to do with her father. And I was framed for something I didn’t do.”
“Save your words,” Conrad said, rubbing his sore wrists. “I don’t ever want to see you again the rest of my life. You mean nothing to me.”
Frank’s heart sank, but he knew he’d done the only thing he could.
He was distracted by the sounds of horses coming down a hill above the road. Frank reached for a pistol, until he recognized Tin Pan and his mule, although someone else, the man they’d seen earlier in the derby hat, was riding with him.
Tin Pan and the stranger rode up.
“Nice shootin’, Morgan,” Tin Pan said. “We saw it from up that slope when you gunned down those two toughs. Couldn’t get down in time to help you, although it didn’t appear you needed any help.”
“I saw the whole thing,” the stranger said. “You’re every bit as fast as they say you are. You killed two men, and you made it look easy.”
Tin Pan chuckled, giving Conrad a looking over before he spoke. “This here’s Mr. Louis Pettigrew from the Boston Globe, Morgan. He came all the way to Colorado Territory to get an interview with you.”
“You picked a helluva bad time, Mr. Pettigrew,” Frank said quickly. “Right now, I’m taking my son back to Durango. He’s been through a rough time and he may need to see a doctor. He has a gash on top of his head.”
Conrad stiffened. “Don’t ever call me your son again, Mr. Frank Morgan. You never were a father to me.”
Frank shrugged. “Suit yourself, Conrad. Maybe, after you’ve had time to think about it, we can talk about what happened back when you were born. It’ll take some time to explain.”
“I’d rather not hear it,” Conrad said, sulking. “You weren’t there when I needed you, and that’s all that mattered to me, or my late mother.”
Tin Pan gave Frank a piercing stare. “Sounds like you shoulda left this ungrateful boy tied to this horse while Ned Pine took him to Gypsum Gap.”
Frank didn’t care to talk about it with a stranger. “What about Vic Vanbergen and his bunch? Have you seen any sign of them on this road.”
Reprisal Page 19
