Ghost Valley Read online

  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. Let’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!”

  One man seated before the fire whirled and came out with a pistol. Frank squeezed the Winchester’s trigger immediately.

  The clap of a .44 rifle exploding ended the high country silence. A yelp of pain followed as the cowboy went spinning away from the fire onto snowy ground with blood pumping from his chest.

  The second cowboy tried to scramble for a stand of nearby trees. Frank’s second bullet cut him down instantly, curling him into a ball as he clutched his belly, yelling at the top of his lungs with the agony of a gut-shot wound.

  “Nice shootin’, Morgan,” Buck remarked. “That was damn near a hundred an’ fifty yards. You ain’t half bad with that saddle gun.”

  Frank stepped out from behind the tree. “That’s two of them I won’t have to worry about. I’ll turn their horses loose and we can get back on that trail. It won’t be long till Vanbergen and Pine figure out that some of their little lost lambs won’t be coming back home.”

  He moved cautiously down to the fire. The first man he shot was dead, staring blankly at gray skies. The second lookout was still squirming around in a patch of crimson snow, his face knotted in pain.

  Frank walked over to him, resting his rifle barrel against the man’s left temple. “Where are the others?” he asked in a voice as cold as the wind swirling around them.

  “To . . . hell with ... you, Morgan. Find out for . . . yourself if you’ve got . . . the nerve.”

  “I have never been short on nerve, cowboy,” he said. “I’d imagine you could use a drink of whiskey right now.”

  “Yeah. I’m ... hurtin’ like hell.”

  “Too bad,” Frank replied. “I can assure you it’ll only get worse.”

  “You . . . bastard. How’d you slip up on us?”

  “It was too damn easy. For a hired gun, you ain’t very damn smart about fires.”

  “It was . . . cold.”

  “You’re gonna get a lot colder. When most of your blood leaks out, you’ll get a bad case of the shivers.”

  “I ain’t scared of dyin’, you cold-assed son of a bitch. You won’t get past Ned an’ Vic.”

  “I have before.”

  “Not . . . this time. They’ve got a surprise for you.”

  “A surprise?”

  “Damn right. You’ll see.” Then the man lapsed into unconsciousness.

  Frank glanced over his shoulder at Buck Waite. Buck had a deep frown on his face.

  “Looks like they’re ready for you, Morgan,” Buck said quietly. “You can’t jest run down to that valley an’ start off killin’ that gang.”
>
  He gave the mountain peaks above them a sweeping glance before he spoke again. “Tell you what I’ll do. Seein’ as these is special circumstances, I’ll try to help you out. I told you I ain’t shot nobody since the end of the war. But I’m gonna do what I can.”

  “I’m grateful, but I don’t need your help,” Morgan said.

  “You ain’t seen what’s waitin’ for you down in Ghost Valley yet,” Buck replied. “Leave these sumbitches where they lay. A fool can see they ain’t goin’ nowhere. We’ll fetch their horses an’ turn ’em loose. This gut-shot bastard won’t last but an hour or two.”

  ELEVEN

  Conrad was walking home at twilight with his mind drifting after another day at the store. His small, two-room log cabin lay at the outskirts of Trinidad. The day’s receipts at the store had been good, better than usual. His mother would have been proud of him. He was continuing to expand the fortune she’d left him when she was murdered. Conrad took no small amount of pride in seeing his wealth grow.

  He gave little thought to his father, not even knowing his whereabouts now. Nor did he care, one way or another. Frank Morgan was no father to him. He was a killer, a gunfighter, a man who did not exist in Conrad’s life as he lived it now, and it was better to put his father’s memory aside. Even though his father had saved his life from a gang of cutthroats a few weeks back, it was something Conrad wanted to forget. He hoped he never had to set eyes on Frank Morgan again.

  But there were times when Conrad wondered what his dad was really like. All Conrad had to go on were stories about a man who killed other men for a living, stories told to him by his late grandfather, before his mother was taken from him by an assassin’s bullet. But there was no denying Frank Morgan’s reputation as a shootist for hire. Those tales continued to circulate up and down the Western frontier, and when Conrad heard them, he turned away and went about other business. Hearing how many men his father had killed was not the sort of thing he cared to do. It was a part of the past, not his past, part of the early days when his father made a living with a gun.

  “Good evening, Conrad,” Millie Cartwright said as she passed him on the boardwalk.

  He stopped and bowed politely, removing his hat. “Good evening to you, Miss Cartwright,” he said, smiling. “It’s so good to see you again.”

  “I see you are carrying ledger books under your arm,” she said, smiling coyly, her face, framed by dark ringlets of deep brown hair, turning pink.

  “A day’s work is never done,” he replied. “I have to balance the books. I’ve been too busy at the store to have the time to get it done.”

  “Then your mercantile business must be good,” Millie said to him.

  “Indeed it is. I may have to hire another clerk if things remain at their present pace. More and more people are coming west these days.”

  Then Millie’s face darkened. “I was so glad to hear that you made it safely away from those outlaws. Your father must be a terrible man, if you’ll pardon me for saying so. The outlaws took you prisoner, I was told, hoping that your father would pay a handsome price for your safe return. He killed them.”

  “I hardly ever talk about my father, Miss Cartwright,” he said. “He is a part of my distant past, a man I’d rather forget if I can.”

  “Some say he is a professional murderer.”

  “I can’t deny it. I’ve only met him a few times . . . this last time, when he rescued me from those outlaws. But in truth, the men who took me only did so because they wanted to force my father to pay ransom for me. If I wasn’t the son of Frank Morgan, I would be able to live my life in peace. He has made a lot of enemies.”

  “I’m so sorry, Conrad,” Millie said. “It must be quite a burden for you. Anyone who knows you well can’t believe that you are the son of a hired killer. You are a gentle soul, and you care about people.”

  “I thank you for your kind remarks,” he said.

  “You deserve every kindness. You run an honest store and you treat people fairly.”

  He grinned. “Perhaps we might have dinner one night, if you have no objections.”

  Millie looked askance at him. “I fear my parents would not agree to it, Conrad. My father still remembers stories about the deeds attributed to your father. I’m so sorry. I know he’s wrong about you, that you might be anything like Frank Morgan. But I have to honor my parents’ wishes.”

  “I understand,” he said softly, glancing down at his boots. “It seems I’ll never outgrow my father’s bad reputation, even though I don’t really know him. He left my mother before I was born.”

  Millie reached for him and touched his arm. “Maybe we can find a way to spend some time together,” she whispered. “If you rented a buggy, we might take a picnic lunch into the mountains and no one would know.”

  He was momentarily cheered by the thought. Then his face fell again. “How sad it is to bear the burdens of my father’s sins. It seems I’ll carry them with me for the rest of my life. But I would love to rent a carriage and take you to some quiet place for a picnic lunch. Would the end of the week be okay with you?”

  “I’ll drop by the store and let you know,” Millie replied, “but now I must hurry home. There’s a pretty place by Catclaw Springs where we could go and no one would see us. It’s a beautiful spot.”

  “I know the place,” Conrad said with excitement in his voice. “There are big oak and pine trees above a spring pool below the waterfall. I’ll buy a bottle of wine and some good cheese.”

  Millie’s face turned a faint shade of red. “I can bake a loaf of bread and slice some sugar-cured ham from the smokehouse. I’ll even bake a peach cobbler for dessert.”

  “Saturday,” Conrad said. “Late in the afternoon, after I close the store. You can meet me behind the livery and no one will know.”

  “I’m looking forward to it, although I have to make sure my parents think I’m going somewhere else. See you on Saturday, Conrad.”

  He bowed again as she walked off toward her clapboard house on the north side of Trinidad.

  “Things aren’t so bad after all,” he said to himself as he made a turn down a side street toward home.

  Skies turned inky above southwestern Colorado as he made his way toward his house. Winking stars filled the heavens. He thought about what it would be like to have a picnic with Millie, and for the first time in months he felt happy, content, at peace with himself and the world around him.

  He came to his cottage and fumbled in his pocket for the key, keeping the bank bag containing the day’s receipts under his arm. Conrad had taken in more than four hundred dollars from settlers heading west, and a smaller amount from local residents who traded with him on a regular basis.

  When he put his key in the lock, he heard a deep voice behind him.

  “Be real still, boy. If you don’t pay real close attention to me, I’m gonna kill you. You’re worth as much to me dead as you are alive.”

  Conrad glanced over his shoulder. A burly cowboy with a thick gray beard stood behind him holding a sawed-off shotgun with the biggest barrels he’d ever seen.

  “This is a ten-gauge,” the stranger explained. “If I pull both these triggers they’ll be scrapin’ you off your own front door.”

  “Who are you?” Conrad asked. “What do you want with me?”

  “Name’s Cletus. That’s all you need to know.”

  “I’ll give you my money . . . all the money from the store I took in today.”

  “Peanuts,” Cletus said. “I ain’t here for chicken feed.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Just you, little boy. You’re worth ten thousand dollars to me in Glenwood Springs. Now turn around an’ walk around the back of your house. I got a horse waitin’ for you.”

  “What is this all about?” Conrad asked.

  “Your old no-good daddy, Frank Morgan. He’s a rotten son of a bitch. Me an’ some other boys are gonna trade you for all the money ol’ Frank can raise. An’ if he don’t come up w
ith the money, I’m gonna put a hole plumb through your back.”

  Conrad turned around to get a better look at the man covering him with the shotgun. “I don’t even know my father. He’s a gunfighter. We haven’t spoken to each other but once over the past twenty years.”

  “Shut your damn mouth an’ walk around behind this cabin, boy. I’d just as soon kill you right here. Be easier takin’ you to high country.”

  “And what if I refuse to go?”

  “Then you’re a dead man.”

  Conrad dropped the moneybag he was carrying . . . it landed with a thud on his front porch. “Take my money,” he told the gunman. “But leave me here. My father wouldn’t give a plug nickel to save my skin.”

  “That ain’t what I hear, boy. I’ll take your sack of money, only I’m damn sure takin’ you along with it. March around to the back of this house an’ climb on that sorrel horse. I’m gonna tie your hands. If you cry out, or make even one sound, I’ll blow you to pieces.”

  Conrad’s knees were trembling as he walked off the porch to circle his cabin. Once again, it seemed, his father’s legacy had shown up to ruin his peaceful existence.

  He mounted a sorrel mare with the gunman’s weapon aimed at his face.

  “Turn north,” Cletus growled. “If we pass anybody, don’t say a goddamn word. You do, an’ I’ll cut you in half so’s your daddy has two pieces of you to bury.”

  As dusk became dark, Cletus Huling and Conrad started north at a slow jog trot. Cletus rode behind Conrad with his shotgun leveled.

  Conrad closed his eyes for a moment. Again, he was a prisoner of men who wanted revenge against his father. Of all the men on earth Conrad despised, it was his father. Being a killer, he had sentenced Conrad to life at the hands of wanted men who would only use him to get at Frank.

  Dusk became full dark. Conrad shuddered as they headed for the distant peaks marking the southern end of the Rockies.

  TWELVE

  Conrad recalled those last moments in the snowbound cabin in the mountains, when Frank and an old man riding a mule had Ned Pine’s gang surrounded. Pine, the toughest of the lot, had shown genuine fear of Conrad’s father that day when the gang was boxed in.