Ghost Valley (2 page)

Frank couldn't help recalling his last run-in with Vanbergen and Ned Pine, and how close he had come to putting both of them in an early grave.

* * *

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 . . . that 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. But 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 saddle 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 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 and the horse. Jumping down from the saddle, he ran over to his son.

“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 the 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, then recognized Tin Pan and his mule, although someone else, a man in a 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. You ran out on me and my mother.”

Frank shrugged. “Suit yourself, Conrad, only that isn't exactly true. 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 mother.”

Tin Pan gave Frank a piercing stare. “Sounds like you oughta 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?”

“Sure did,” Tin Pan replied, “only some of ‘em turned back and took off at a high lope. He ain't got but half a dozen men with him now, but we're liable to run into 'em on the trail back south. There could be trouble.”

“I can handle trouble,” Frank remarked, stalking off to get his saddle horse and packhorse. Conrad's harsh words were still ringing in his ears.

“I never knew anyone could be so fast with a pistol,” Louis Pettigrew said. “But I saw it with my own two eyes. What a story this will make!”

Frank ignored the newsman's remark. There was another story that needed to be told, in detail, to his son. Apparently, Conrad didn't know all of the truth about why Frank had had to leave his beloved Vivian.

He mounted up and rode back to the trail. Conrad was still struggling to mount the outlaw's horse.

“Let's head southwest,” Frank said. “I'll ride out front to be sure this road is clear.”

“We'll be right behind you,” Tin Pan declared.

Conrad Browning did not say a word as they left the scene of his rescue.

* * *

Seven mounted men were crossing a creek at the bottom of a draw when Frank, Tin Pan, Pettigrew, and Conrad came to the crest of a rise.

“That's Vanbergen,” Louis Pettigrew said. “He's the one who told me all those false tales about you.”

Frank stepped off his horse with his Winchester .44-40, levering a shell into the firing chamber. “I'll warm them up a little bit,” he said. “You boys pull back behind this ridge. I'm gonna pump some lead at 'em.”

“The one in the gray hat is Vanbergen,” Pettigrew said as he turned his horse.

“I know who Victor Vanbergen is,” Frank growled. He'd put a bullet in the outlaw's hip not too long ago, and he was certain that Vanbergen remembered it.

Frank aimed for Vanbergen as his horse plunged across the shallow stream.

“Good to see you again, Vic,” Frank whispered, triggering off a well-placed shot, jacking another round into the firing chamber as the roar of his rifle filled the draw.

Vanbergen's body jerked. He bent forward and grabbed his belly, but before Frank could draw another careful bead on him, he spurred his horse into some trees on the east bank of the creek.

The other gunmen wheeled their horses in all directions and took off at a hard run. One rider fired a harmless shot over his shoulder before he went out of sight on the far side of the dry wash.

“I got him,” Frank said, searching the trees for Vanbergen as gun smoke cleared away from his rifle.

But to Frank's regret, he saw Vanbergen galloping his horse over a tree-studded ridge, aiming due north. Seconds later he was out of sight.

“I'll find you one of these days, Vic,” Frank said, grinding his teeth together. He strode back over the ridge and swung up in the saddle, booting his rifle.

“Did you get any of 'em?” Tin Pan asked.

“I shot Vanbergen in the belly. If Lady Luck is with me he's gut-shot and he'll bleed to death. But if he's still alive, one of these days I'll find him and settle this score for good.”

Conrad glowered at Frank. “Mom was right. You're nothing but a killer.”

“There were circumstances back then,” Frank explained. “If you give me the chance, I'll tell you about them.”

“I don't want to hear a damn thing you have to say, Frank. The only thing I want is for you to leave me alone.”

Frank tried to push the boy's remarks from his mind. The kid couldn't know what he'd been through back when Vivian was alive, or what her father had done to him.

A time would come when Frank would get the chance to tell his side of the story. In the meantime, he'd take the boy back to Durango and let a doctor check him over.

Then there was other unfinished business to attend to when he got back, and the thought of it brought a slight smile to his rugged face.

Frank had a good future if he made the most of it. He only hoped that one of these days Conrad would come around. At least listen to Frank's side of the story.

“I hope you'll grant me the time for an interview,” Louis Pettigrew said.

“We'll see,” Frank replied. “It depends....”

* * *

And Conrad was safe now, even though the boy resented him for reasons he'd never fully understand. It was a burden Frank would have to bear, probably for the rest of his life. Conrad would never understand what had happened between his mother and Frank and Vivian's father. Some things were best left alone, even if they caused deep personal pain.

But affairs would not be completely settled until Frank found Pine and Vanbergen. This was what had brought him into the most rugged regions of the Rockies. Pine and Vanbergen had to pay for what they'd done.

He strolled up to the hotel desk. “I need a room for the night,” he said to a balding clerk.

“Cash in advance, mister. Two dollars hard money.”

Frank laid two silver dollars on the counter. “I hope you've got a bathhouse.”

“Sure do, stranger,” the clerk said, handing him a pen so he could sign the register. “No offense intended, but you smell like you could use one. Just follow that hallway out to the back and Bessie will bring you pails of hot water. The bath, and the towels, cost ten cents.”

Frank tossed a dime down before he signed “F. Morgan” on a page of the register. “Now if you can direct me to a good livery stable, I'll make arrangements for my horse.”

“There ain't but one. It's at the end of Main Street.”

Frank nodded and walked outside. Dog was waiting for him on the porch. Most of the buildings in town were empty, with boards over the windows. Glenwood Springs had the odor of decay about it.

“Let's go, Dog,” he muttered, untying his horse, aiming for the livery. He still wondered about the shadowy figure he'd seen at the cemetery. There was nothing wrong with Frank's eyes.

Sitting in a warm, soapy cast-iron bathtub, he thought back to his arrival at the edge of town. Sipping a bottle of whiskey he'd bought at a saloon next to the hotel, he recalled the figure he'd seen at the cemetery and the old man who'd told him that from time to time, some folks saw ghostlike figures of the Old Ones, the Ones Who Came Before. Frank wasn't a superstitious man, and what he'd seen, the man in buckskins, hadn't been a product of his imagination. He was sure of that.

Then he let his mind drift, enjoying the warmth of his bath and the whiskey, remembering what had started this whole affair and what had brought him to this part of Colorado Territory.

It had begun with a quest to rescue his son from two gangs of outlaws. Then there was the incident with Charlie Bowers....

* * *

“You're a sneaky bastard, Morgan,” Charlie Bowers said, lying in a patch of bloody snow, his shoulder leaking crimson fluid onto the snowfall. “Nobody ever snuck up on me like that before.”

“There's a first time for everything. Tell me where they took my boy, and who has him. The trail split a few miles back and I need to know what tracks to follow. Don't lie to me or I'll finish you off right here. A bullet in the right place will send you to eternity. Where the hell are they taking my son?”

“Ned and his bunch have got him.”

“Where's Victor Vanbergen?”

“They turned toward the river, to throw off any pursuit if you or some posse from Durango was getting too close. Ned's being real careful about this, and so is Vanbergen. They know about your old reputation.”

“Conrad's with Pine?”

“Yeah. Sam and Buster and Josh too. Mack and Curtis are ridin' rear guard. Arnie and Scott rode on ahead to get the cabin ready. They figured you'd be behind them all the way, once you picked up their trail. Hell, they're expecting you to show up.”

“The cabin? What cabin?”

“It's an old hideout. Sits beside Stump Creek at the edge of the badlands. Way back in a box canyon. Ned's gonna send somebody back to Durango to tell you where the ransom money is supposed to be dropped off.”

“Ned Pine's gotta be crazy. He knows I don't have that kind of money. Hell, all I'm gonna do is kill him and every one of his sidekicks.”

Charlie winced when the pain in his shoulder worsened. “It ain't gonna be as easy as you make it sound. They don't figure you've got big money. All Ned and Victor aim to do is kill you when you show up. They've got grudges against you from way back, and they won't rest easy till you're dead. Like I told you, it ain't gonna be easy gettin' close to 'em. They're gonna be ready for you.”

“Depends,” Frank said, squatting near Bowers.

“Depends on what?”

Frank chuckled mirthlessly. “On how mad I am when I get to that cabin.”

“There's too many of 'em, Morgan. One of them will get you before you reach the kid. Ned Pine's about as good with a gun as any man I ever saw. He's liable to kill you himself, if the others don't beforehand.”

“I wish him all the luck,” Frank said. “I've been trying to quit the gunfighter's trade for several years. Then some bastard comes along like Ned Pine, or Vic Vanbergen, and they won't let it rest. But I can promise you one thing....” Frank stared off at graying skies holding a promise of evening snow, a winter squall headed into the mountains.

“What's that, Morgan?”

Frank glared down at Bowers. “I'll kill every last one of them. I may be a little bit rusty, but I can damn sure take down Ned Pine and his boys. One at a time, maybe, but I'll damn sure do it. Vanbergen don't worry me at all. He's yellow. He won't face me with a gun.”

“Everybody says The Drifter is past his prime, Morgan. I've heard it for years. You got too old to make it in this profession and folks know it.”

“Maybe I am too old. Ned Pine and his owlhoots are about to test me, and then we'll see if old age has caught up to me. We'll know when this business is finished. It depends on who walks away.”

“You damn sure don't act scared,” Bowers hissed, clenching his teeth when more pain shot from his shoulder. “Ned claims you ain't got the nerve you used to have, back when you made a name for yourself. Hell, that was more'n twenty years ago, according to Ned.”

Frank chuckled again. “I never met a man I was afraid of ... leastways not yet.”

“You gonna leave me here to die?” Bowers asked.

“Nope. I'm gonna take your guns and put you on that stolen stud. I'll tie your bandanna around your shoulder so you don't lose too much blood. It'll be up to you to find your way out of these mountains and canyons. I'm giving you a fifty-fifty chance to make it out of here alive. It's better odds than I aimed to give you.”

“But I'm hurtin' real bad. I don't know if I can sit a saddle.”

Frank shrugged, standing up with the ambusher's rifle cradled in his arm. “Better'n being dead, son. I'll fetch your horse and help you into the saddle.”

“But Durango's fifty miles from here, across rough country to boot.”

Frank halted on his way into the trees. “I can put you out of your misery now, if that's what you'd prefer. A slug right between the eyes and you won't feel a damn thing. You'll just go to sleep.”

“You'd murder a man in cold blood?”

“Wasn't that what you were tryin' to do to me?”

Bowers laid his head back against a rotted tree trunk. “I reckon I'm obliged for what you're gonna do ... I just ain't all that sure I'm gonna make it to town.”

“Life don't have many guarantees, Bowers,” Frank said. “You got one chance to make it. Stay in your saddle and aim for Durango. Otherwise, you're gonna be buzzard food. Hold on real tight to that saddle horn and if you know how to pray, you might try a little of that too.”

* * *

He brought the bay stud back to the clearing. Bowers lay with his head on the rotten log, groaning softly, his shoulder surrounded by red snow.

“Sit up, Bowers,” Frank demanded. “I'm gonna tie a bandanna around your shoulder.

“Jesus, my shoulder hurts,” Bowers complained. “I don't think I can make it plumb to Durango.”

“Suit yourself,” Frank said. “You can lie here and bleed to death, or you can sit that horse and test your luck riding out of these mountains.”

“You're cold-blooded, Morgan.”

“I'm supposed to stop looking for my son long enough to help a no-good son of a bitch who was trying to ambush me?” he asked, his face turning hard. “You'd have left me for dead if you'd gotten off the first shot. Don't preach me any sermons about what a man's supposed to do.”

“I ain't gonna make it,” Bowers whimpered. “I've lost too much blood already.”

“Then just lie there and go to sleep,” Frank said. “It won't take too long. First, you'll get real cold. The chills will set in. Then you won't be able to keep your eyes open. In an hour or two, you'll doze off. That'll be the last thing you know.”

“Damn, Morgan. You could take me to the closest doctor if you wanted.”

“I don't have the inclination, Bowers. You and the man you work for have taken my son. He's eighteen years old. You want me to cough up a big ransom, more money than there is in the whole territory of Colorado, only you know I can't pay it. Ned Pine and the rest of you figured you'd lure me into a death trap, only I've got news for Ned. A death trap works two ways. The man who lays it can get killed just as easy as the bait he's tryin' to lure into it. Pine and Vanbergen are about to find out how it works.”

“Help me on that horse, Morgan.”

“I said I would. I'll tie a rag around your wound so the hole in you won't leak so bad.”

“You got any whiskey?”

“Sure do. A pint of good Kentucky sour mash, only I ain't gonna waste any of it on you. It's gonna get cold tonight. I figure it's gonna snow. The whiskey I've got is gonna help me stay warm. I don't give a damn if you get froze stiff before you get back to Durango.”

“You ain't got no feelings, Morgan.”

“Not for trash like you. Nothing on earth worse than a damn bushwhacker.”

“It's what Ned told me to do.”

“Then ask Ned or Victor for some of their whiskey. Mine is staying in my saddlebags.”

“I ain't gonna make it,” Charlie said again as he tried to sit up.

“I'll notify your next of kin that you tried as hard as you could,” Frank said, pulling off Bowers's bandanna. “Now sit up straight and pull off your coat so I can tie this around that shoulder as tight as I can.

“It damn sure hurts,” Bowers said, sliding his mackinaw off his damaged arm.

“A shame,” Frank told him. “Seems like they ought to make a slug that don't cause any pain when it takes a rotten bushwhacker down. No sense in hurting a dirty back-shooter any more than it's absolutely necessary.”

He hoisted Charlie Bowers into the saddle, the mackinaw covering the bandage Frank had made for his shoulder wound. As the sun lowered in the west, spits of snow had already begun to fall.

“Tell me where I find Stump Creek,” Frank said. “Then direct me to the cabin.”

“Stump Creek is due west . . . maybe ten more miles across this bunch of ravines. When you get to the first creek, you swing north. Stump Creek winds right up in that canyon where the cabin is hid.”

“If there isn't any cabin, or any creek, I'm gonna come looking for you,” Frank warned.

“It's there. They're both there. When you get to the canyon they'll have a guard or two posted high on them rock walls on either side. Watch your ass.”

“I always do. Now you'd best head for Durango. It'll take you all night to make the ride.”

“It's snowin', Morgan. How about just one sip of the sour mash?”

“I already told you . . . I don't waste good whiskey on back-shooters. Besides, you've got a leak in your arm. Why let good whiskey spill out on the ground?”

“You're a bastard, Morgan.”

“Maybe so. But I'm still alive. Unless you get to Durango by sunrise, the same can't be said for you. Keep that horse aimed southeast. Don't let go of the saddle horn. If you're as tough as you say you are, you'll make it.”

“And if I don't? What if I freeze to death?”

“You'll make a good meal for the coyotes and wolves. Now get riding.”

“How 'bout giving me back my rifle. I may need it if the wolves get too close. They can smell blood.”

“No deal. You used it to take a shot at me. What's to keep you from trying it again?”

“You've got my word, Morgan. All I'm trying to do is stay alive.”

“Then you'll have to do it without a gun, Bowers. Heel that horse southeast.”

“I wish I'd have killed you, Drifter.”

Frank gave him a one-sided grin. “Plenty of men have wished the same thing. The trouble is, so far, wishing just hasn't gotten it done.”

Bowers drummed his heels into the bay stallion's sides as more snow pelted down on the clearing.

Frank watched Bowers ride out of sight into the trees. “He'll make it,” Frank muttered, heading for his saddle horse and pack horse with Bowers's rifle in the crook of his arm.

He needed to keep moving until dark, if the weather allowed, until he found Stump Creek. During the night he would give the canyon and the cabin an examination, making plans for the way he would make his approach in the morning.

Snow began to fall in windblown sheets as he mounted his horse and wound the lead rope on his packhorse around his saddle horn.

He turned northwest. “I'm coming, Pine,” he said, tilting his hat brim to block the snow. “Conrad damn sure better be in good shape when I get there.”

It had been years since Frank Morgan went on the prowl to kill a man, or several of them. He'd tried to put his killing days behind him.

“Some folks just won't let it alone . . . won't let it rest,” he told himself.

He had no doubt that he could kill Ned Pine, or Victor Vanbergen and their gangs. It would take some time to get it done carefully.

The soft patter of snowflakes drummed on his hat brim and coat. He thought about Conrad, hoping the boy was okay. A kid his age had no way to prepare for the likes of Pine and Vanbergen in these modern times. But back when Frank was a boy, the country was full of them.

“I'm on my way, son,” he whispered as a wall of white fell in front of him. “Just hang on until I get there. I promise I'll make those bastards pay for what they've done to you.”

* * *

Frank climbed out of the tub and toweled dry. It was time to stop living in the past and get on with the business of hunting down Ned Pine and Victor Vanbergen.

But as he put on clean denims and his last clean shirt, he had difficulty shaking the image of the man he'd seen behind the cemetery.

“There's no such thing as ghosts,” he told himself while he combed through his hair.

And still he wondered why the old man standing near the gate into the cemetery had claimed he couldn't see the Indian who walked back into the pine tree shadows.

Frank pondered the possibility that old age was robbing him of his senses.