The Last Gunfighter: Ghost Valley Read online

  "I missed you, Morgan!" a distant voice shouted. "But I ain't done yet!"

  Dog was crouched beside him ... it wasn't the first bullet the animal ever heard.

  One of Pine's or Vanbergen's men, Frank thought. There may be more than one.

  "Stay, Dog," he whispered, crawling backward away from the tree, keeping it between him and the shooter.

  Frank took off in a crouch, dodging and darting from one pine to the next, his chest welling with rage.

  Moving as quickly as he could, he began a wide circle that would take him around to the back of the ridge.

  * * * *

  He sighted a prone form using underbrush for cover at the top of the switchback, partially hidden in the shade to keep sunlight from gleaming off his rifle barrel.

  "Gotcha, you bastard," Frank whispered, drawing a bead on the man's back. Frank wouldn't shoot a man in the back without giving him a fair warning.

  "Hey, asshole! I'm back here!" he cried.

  The rifleman flipped over on his side, bringing his gun around as quickly as he could. It was just what Frank had been waiting for.

  He triggered a .44-caliber slug into the man's belly. The explosion near his ear almost deafened him.

  "Shit!" the rifleman bellowed, jerking when the bullet found its mark. A crimson stain exploded on his shirtfront. He dropped his rifle to grab his belly with both hands.

  Frank came to his feet, still covering the bushwhacker as he started toward him. Taking careful steps, he started up the back of the ridge.

  "Jesus! I'm shot!" the gunman moaned, blood pouring between his fingers.

  "That's a real good calculation of your situation," Frank told him. "You're gonna die for Ned Pine and Victor Vanbergen. Ask yourself if it was worth whatever they were paying you to ambush me."

  "You ain't gonna just leave me here, Morgan."

  "That's exactly what I'm gonna do. I hope you die slow, so you can think about what you just tried to do. Hurts a bit, don't it?"

  "You bastard."

  "I'm not a bastard. My ma and pa were married. You've been wrong about nearly everything so far, cowboy."

  "You gotta get me to a doctor."

  "I don't have to do a damn thing except climb on my horse and be on my way."

  "I can tell you where to find Ned an' Vic, only you gotta help me."

  "I already know where they are."

  "How the hell'd you find out?"

  "An Indian told me."

  The gunman raised his head to stare at Frank. "You seen 'em too?"

  Frank merely nodded.

  The shooter's head fell back on the grass. "Help me, Morgan. I'll be dead before dark if you don't."

  "Seems a shame. I'm touched by your predicament. I was on my way to Ghost Valley when some son of a bitch tried to shoot me from ambush. But I got behind you and shot you instead, and now you want me to have sympathy for you?"

  "Damn, Morgan. My belly hurts. I'm dyin'."

  "Appears that way. I'm gonna find your horse and turn it loose while you leak blood all over this pretty green grass. I fully intend to leave you right here."

  "It was just business, Morgan. Ned hired me to take you out. You're a hired gun, so you oughta know it damn sure ain't nothin' personal."

  "I'm not taking it personally."

  "You gotta help me get to a doctor."

  "Like hell. All I've got to do is keep riding toward that valley."

  "We shoulda killed that boy of yours when we had him, you cold-blooded sumbitch."

  "I'm no kind of son of a bitch. If you weren't already dying, I'd kill you over a remark like that."

  The gunman's breathing became ragged.

  "Hear that sound, back-shooter?" Frank asked, grinning a mirthless grin. "That's a death rattle in your chest. It won't be long now."

  "Help ... me."

  "Not today, cowboy. I've got business with your bosses and it won't wait."

  "Nobody ... can be ... that cold."

  "You just met him," Frank said savagely before he wheeled away to look for the shooter's horse.

  He found a dun gelding in a ravine and pulled the saddle off it, tossing the saddle to the ground. Frank slipped off the bridle and gave the horse its freedom.

  As he was turning to climb back up the ridge, he thought he saw a shadow move in the forest higher above him. A reflex, he raised his rifle and moved behind a pine tree.

  "I know I saw somebody," he whispered.

  But no matter how closely he looked, he saw nothing now and it gave him a spooky feeling. Who the hell would be watching him unless he came here to shoot at him? he wondered.

  He pondered the possibility that the Indian who spoke to him at the Glenwood Springs cemetery was watching him again. But he couldn't quite make himself believe in old Indian ghosts. It had to be a Ute or a Shoshoni, a flesh-and-blood Indian.

  After a final examination of the woods he strode back to the spot where the gunman lay. The bushwhacker's eyes were closed and his breathing was shallow.

  "Adios, you yellow bastard," Frank said, trudging back toward his horse and the dog.

  He found his bay ground-hitched where he'd left him, and Dog sat patiently a few yards away in the tree shadows.

  "Out front, Dog," Frank said, climbing into the saddle with his Winchester. He wondered if any more attempts would be made on his life before he found the valley.

  * * * *

  He rode up on a clear, running brook coming out of the mountains. Gazing north, he could see faint traces of a trail following the east bank of the stream.

  Frank whistled Dog back from the far side of the shallow creek and began the steeper climb. Dog seemed unconcerned by anything flanking the trail, moving farther ahead with his ears drooping.

  The bay began to struggle climbing rocky spots, bunching its muscles to make the ascent. Foamy lather began to form on its neck and shoulders and its breathing grew labored at the higher altitude.

  Frank saw small brook trout in the stream, suspended in deeper pools above glittering beds of colorful stones. Had it not been for his deadly purpose here, he would have stopped to enjoy the clean, pine-scented air and spend time relaxing, maybe even go fishing for a spell.

  But this was a business trip, with scores to settle, and the only thing on his mind was finding Vanbergen and Pine and the rest of the gang. If Frank Morgan had his way, a peaceful valley hidden between these peaks would run red with blood before the week was out.

  Gray clouds began to scud across the sky, coming from the north, and soon the forest shadows were dim when the sun was blocked out. Frank supposed it wasn't too late in the year for a spring snowstorm. At higher elevations, it could snow almost any time.

  He had plenty of warm clothing and a mackinaw, just in case, and a pair of worn leather gloves. While snow wasn't the weather he would have ordered for a manhunt, it might give him cover when he found the gang.

  A chill wind came with the clouds, and he shivered once. It had been snowing when he'd finally caught up with Ned and Vic and Conrad before.

  "Maybe it's a good omen," he mumbled, turning up his shirt collar.

  Before long he could feel a hint of ice on the winds as the stream coursed higher. Tied around his bedding behind the cantle of his saddle was a small canvas tarp to keep things dry, and it also served as a makeshift leanto when snow or rain forced him to a halt.

  "It don't matter what the weather's like," he said savagely, keeping his eyes on the trail. "A goddamn hurricane won't keep me from finding that valley.

  Mile after empty mile passed quietly under the bay's hooves without Dog giving any indication of danger. Frank slumped in the saddle, deciding upon a stop for jerky and a tin of peaches in another hour or so.

  Farther ahead, high on a switchback, he glimpsed a black bear watching him.

  "Proof enough the way is clear for a spell," he told himself in a hoarse whisper.

  * * * *

  He came to a small clearing an hour later, and halted his ho
rse to swing down. With water from the stream, he could eat salted pork and sweet peaches here, with a good vantage point for watching his surroundings.

  He opened a package of butcher paper and sat on a nearby rock to chew jerky, saving the peaches for a final touch. He dipped a tin cup full of water from the stream while his horse grazed on the clearing's grasses.

  Dog sat on his haunches in front of him with a begging look in his eyes.

  "You'll get some," Frank promised. "Humans eat first around here."

  He tossed Dog a scrap of jerky, and had begun opening the peach tin with his bowie knife, when suddenly Dog jumped up, snarling, looking east.

  "Take it easy, stranger," a thin voice said from behind him. "I've got my Sharps aimed at yer back."

  Frank glanced over his shoulder, his blood running cold. "How the hell did you slip up on me, old-timer?" He saw an old man dressed in buckskins covering him with a long-barrel buffalo gun.

  " 'Twas easy. You been pretty careful most o' the way, but yer belly got the best of you."

  Frank wondered if he had time to make a play for his pistol before a bullet took him down. "Are you aiming to kill me?"

  "Nope. Jest curious. You shot a man back yonder a ways an' I was wonderin' about it."

  "He was trying to bushwhack me."

  "I seen that. Still didn't know what it was all about."

  "He was one of the men who kidnapped my son. I got my boy back, and now I aim to make the men who took him pay."

  "Sounds reasonable enough."

  "I take it you're not with them. If you were, you'd have already killed me."

  "If you mean that bunch down in Ghost Valley, I damn sure ain't none of their kind."

  "Will you put that gun down and have some peaches?"

  "I might. I'll give it some thought."

  "My name's Frank Morgan."

  "I'm called Buck Waite."

  "I'd sure be obliged if you lowered that gun."

  "Don't make a snatch fer that pistol you're carryin'. I've got one myself an' I'll kill you deader'n pig shit if you do."

  "No reason for a gun, I don't reckon, if you don't aim to shoot me."

  The man with shoulder-length red hair and a red beard flecked with gray lowered the muzzle of his rifle. Frank noticed he had an old Navy Colt tucked into a deerskin belt around his waist.

  "Come have some peaches," Frank offered. "If you're willing, I need to ask you about getting into that valley. It's real clear you know your way around these mountains."

  Eight

  "So you claim yer name is Morgan," Buck said, spearing a slice of peach with the tip of a heavy bowie knife. "Some men who come to this country don't use their right name. You right sure yer name is Morgan?"

  "I'm Frank Morgan."

  Buck's rifle lay near his feet. His left hand was never far from his pistol. He gave Frank an appraising look. "You stalked that feller pretty good. I was watchin'."

  "I thought I saw someone higher up. Just a shadow moving in the trees."

  "I don't git around good as I used to. Old age, an' the damn rheumatiz in my joints. I couldn't fool this dog much, but there was a time when I could."

  "What puts you in these mountains?" Frank asked, though by the look of the old man the answer was clear. He made his living off the land.

  "I run a few traplines. Sell a few elk and bear hides now an' then. Mostly I just live. Fish for trout. Enjoy the scenery."

  "So you're a mountain man?"

  "Nope. The real mountain men are long gone, or dead an' buried. There ain't as much wild game as there used to be. I came here after the war. Wanted to be away from so-called civilization after watchin' neighbors kill each other over a bale of cotton an' nigra slaves. I gave up on what men call bein' civilized after thousands an' thousands of men got shot over somethin' they didn't understand. I fought for the Confederacy, but I never owned no slaves. Them slave owners let us poor men do their fightin' for 'em while they smoked big cigars an' drank whiskey. I got tired of bein' civilized after I killed half a hundred men just 'cause they was wearin' blue. I came up here after my wife died from yellow fever. I made up my mind to live here as long as I could, until I got too old an' feeble to take care of myself."

  "Tell me about Ghost Valley."

  Buck, almost toothless, slurped on a piece of peach. "It's an old mining town. The placer mines played out years ago. It's a ghost town now."

  "Vanbergen and Pine and their men are there?"

  "Sure are. I'd call 'em sorry sons of bitches. Won't bother me none if you kill 'em all. They shoot more deer an' elk than they kin eat an' don't smoke the rest ... leave it on the ground to rot. Git drunk as hell an' shoot guns in the air. Make a helluva ruckus, pissin' in the stream so's a man don't know what he's drinkin'. They could use a good killin', if you ask me."

  "That's what I aim to do."

  "It's gonna snow," Buck said, glancing up at the dark gray skies above them. "By tomorrow mornin' these slopes will be plumb white."

  "That won't bother me. Maybe it'll give me some cover when I slip up on 'em."

  "You any good at slippin' up on a man, Morgan? You got careless a time or two back yonder. The dog most likely saved your life when he sounded. I heard him growl."

  "I reckon I was. This old dog has saved my skin more than once."

  "I've got a dog back at my cabin. Feed him bear meat so he'll have some tallow on his bones. Like me, he's gettin' a mite old fer this country. Won't be long till both of us have to head fer lower ground an' stay there."

  "How many men are camped at the abandoned town?"

  "Hard to tell. Helluva lot. They come and go."

  "Well, their luck is about to run out, no matter how many there are."

  "You act like you kin handle yerself."

  "I get by. What's the best way into the valley?"

  "There's an old Injun trail. I kin show you."

  "Are there any Indians around here? I saw one down in Glenwood Springs."

  "Depends on what sort'a Injun yer talkin' about."

  "I don't understand."

  "There's Injuns, an' then there's Injuns, only they don't let nobody git close, the last kind don't."

  "Why is that? And who are they?"

  "The Anasazi. Some folks claim there ain't none of 'em left up here, but they're damn sure wrong."

  "An old man in Glenwood Springs called them ghosts, only I don't believe in ghosts."

  Buck chuckled, taking another piece of peach. "You may come to change yer mind a bit. If they show themselves while you're around."

  "You're talking in riddles," Frank said.

  "Nope. Just tellin' you what might happen."

  "I'm not here to chase Indian ghosts or real Indians. All I want is a shot at Pine and Vanbergen."

  "If you're any good, you'll git that chance. That part's up to you."

  "I'd be obliged if you'd show me that Indian trail. I'll do the rest."

  "I reckon I will, Morgan. But let me warn you, this is real tough country. You're liable to freeze to death if those owlhoots don't git you first."

  "I'll take that chance," Frank said, offering Buck the last peach. "Have you got a horse?"

  "A Crow Injun pony. He's tied up yonder where yer horse wouldn't catch his scent. I'll fetch him down an' then we'll be on our way higher. Hope you brung a coat, 'cause it's damn sure gonna snow in a bit."

  "I've got a coat. I'll wait for you here."

  Buck shook his head. "Nope. You keep ridin' north. I'll scout the trail to see it's clear, then I'll ride back an' meet up with you."

  "You make it sound like I'm not capable of scouting my own way up."

  "That's yet to be proved, Morgan. You stay alive the next three or four days an' I'll call it proof enough."

  Frank stood up. Buck unfolded his legs and steadied himself with his rifle as he climbed to his feet.

  "Gimme a mile or two," Buck said, ambling toward the surrounding forest. "I'll be waitin' for you along this stream somepla
ce."

  Buck Waite was gone, moving soundlessly among the ponderosa trunks until he was out of sight. For some odd reason, Frank noticed that Dog was wagging his tail.

  "You like the old man, Dog?" Frank asked, sheathing his knife. "Do you trust him?"

  Dog's answer was to stare at the peach tin, waiting for a chance to lick the last of the syrup.

  Frank caught his horse and bridled it, pulling the cinch tight before he mounted. It was perhaps the hand of fate that Buck Waite had come along when he did. It would be a help to have a man who knew these mountains show him the way into Ghost Valley.

  Tiny spits of snow came on irregular gusts of wind coming down the slopes. Frank had shouldered into his mackinaw and put on his gloves when the temperature dropped quickly. A dusting of snow lay on pine limbs higher up. So far there had been no sign of Buck Waite, and after an hour of steady travel that had begun to worry him. Was the old man planning a double cross? He didn't seem the type, but in Frank's experience, a man never could tell who his friends and enemies were.

  Dog trotted quietly up the slope beside the creek, his nose to the wind. Frank held his horse to a walk, keeping a close eye on the forests lining the stream. Meeting Buck in the mountains reminded him of a chance meeting with Tin Pan, the mountaineer who rode a mule, the man who'd helped him track Pine and Vanbergen when he'd finally tracked them down and rescued Conrad. It had been snowing that day, although much heavier than this light batch of flurries he encountered now. Odd, Frank thought, how similar this meeting with Buck was ... empty mountains, a building snow storm, and a manhunt to find Vanbergen and Pine so Frank could exact his revenge.

  A hatless figure rode out of the pines ahead of him, a man on a black and white pinto horse.

  "It's Buck," Frank said as Dog began to growl, stopping near a bend in the stream.

  "Easy, Dog," Frank commanded. "He's okay."

  Buck rode down to meet him, his shoulders and hair dusted with fine snowflakes.

  "It's clear all the way to the ravine below the rim of the valley," Buck said, resting his Sharps across his lap. He rode an old McClellan Army saddle that had seen better days, with a beaded rifle boot of some Indian design below a stirrup. A pair of saddlebags was tied to the cantle.