Ghost Valley (5 page)

“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 tar 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 someplace.”

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.

“How far?” Frank asked.

“Another four miles or so to the valley.” He looked up at the sky. “This squall is liable to git heavy up yonder, so git ready fer it.”

“I'm ready,” Frank replied. “Just show me where I can find that old mining town . . . a way down to it. I'll damn sure do the rest.”

“You're a hard-nosed feller, ain't you?” Buck asked with a hint of a twinkle in his eye.

“Some say I am. To me, this is just business. I'm paying back a debt.”

Buck wheeled his pony and rode out ahead, staying close to the brook. His head kept turning back and forth as though he expected something to happen.

He's wily old cuss,
Frank thought.

He was glad Buck had shown up when he did. Again, Frank was reminded of how much Buck was like Tin Pan. He supposed these mountains were full of such types, men who had left the ordinary world behind to live in total isolation, escaping an often tragic past to live here without bad memories.

All this, he told himself, was worth it . . . the suffering and hardship. Pine and Vanbergen had a lesson coming, and Frank was just the man to teach school.

He'd almost had them both, yet his prime interest had been getting Conrad back to safety unharmed. It had kept Frank from exacting the brand of vengeance he'd been known for most of his life....

Frank's shoulders were hunched into the wind, the collar of his mackinaw turned up, the brim of his hat pulled down against a building wall of snow as he followed the tracks of the gang holding Conrad.

“Just my luck,” he muttered, guiding his horse up a snowy ridge, leading his packhorse. “Even the weather's turned against me.”

It had been a rough ride up to the cabin, the four bounty hunters following him, including Jake Miller, who'd tried to gun him down for the fifteen thousand dollars on his head. Like in the old days, when he made his living by the gun. But with Conrad's life on the line, no amount of hardship would turn him aside. The boy couldn't take care of himself against a gang of white-trash gunslingers. The old days be damned. He still had it in him to fill an outlaw's body with lead . . . old age hadn't robbed him of the skill. Or the speed.

All that mattered now was finding Conrad, and getting him away from Ned Pine and his hired shootists. Conrad would be no match for them.

“Hell, he's only eighteen,” Frank said into the wind as more snow pelted him.

His first objective was to find a stream called Stump Creek and then ride north along its banks. If Bowers hadn't told him the truth about the outlaw gang's hideout, he would track him down and kill him . . . if the weather and a shoulder wound didn't get Bowers first between here and Durango.

Crossing the ridge, Frank saw an unexpected sight, an old mountain man leading a mule.

“Seems harmless enough. Most likely an old trapper or a grizzly hunter.”

Most of the old-time mountain men were gone now. Times had changed.

To be on the safe side Frank opened his coat so he could reach for his Colt Peacemaker. His Winchester was booted to his saddle, just in case a fight started at longer range, although Frank didn't expect any such thing. The old man in deerskins was minding his own business, leading his mule west into the storm with his head lowered.

The mountain man wearing the coonskin cap heard Frank's horses coming down the ridge. He stopped and watched Frank ride toward him, Frank's right hand near a belted pistol at his waist. The old man froze, out in the open, dozens of yards from any cover. He crouched a little, like he was ready for action.

“No need to pull that gun, stranger!” Frank called. “I mean you no harm.”

The gray-bearded man grinned. “Hell of a thing, to be caught out in this squall. Don't see many travelers in these parts, mister.”

“The name's Frank Morgan. I'm looking for Stump Creek, and a cabin north of here in a box canyon.”

The mountain man scowled. “What in tarnation would you want with the old robbers' roost? Are you on the dodge from the law some place?”

“Nope . . . leastways not around here. A gang of cutthroats led by a jasper named Ned Pine has taken my eighteen-year-old son as hostage. I aim to get my boy back.”

“Ol' Ned Pine,” the trapper said, his mule loaded with game traps and cured beaver skins. “I'd be real careful if I was you. Pine is a killer. So are them boys who run with him. They ain't no good, not a one of 'em.”

“Like I said, my son is their prisoner. I'm gonna kill every last one of them if I have to. I need directions to that creek, and the cabin.”

The mountain man cocked his head. “Ain't one man tough enough to get that job done, Morgan. I know all about Pine and his hoodlums. They'll kill a man for sneezin' if he gets too close to 'em. Maybe you oughta rethink what you're plannin' to do before it gets you killed. There could be as many as a dozen of 'em.”

Frank nodded. “I'll think on it long and hard, mister, but I'd be obliged if you'd point me in the direction of Stump Creek and that hideout.”

“Keep movin' northwest. You'll hit the creek in about ten miles. Turn due north and follow the creek into the canyon where Stump Creek has its headwaters.”

“I'm grateful. Names don't mean all that much out here, but you can give me your handle if you're so inclined.”

“Tin Pan is what I go by. Spent years pannin' these streams lookin' for color. Never found so much as a single nugget, but there's plenty of beaver pelts to be had.”

“Appreciate the information, Tin Pan. I won't make it to the creek until it's nearly dark. If you're of a mind to share a little coffee and fatback with a stranger, you can look for my fire.”

“Might just do that, Morgan. It gets a sight lonely out on these slopes. Besides, I'm plumb out of coffee. Been out for near a month now. But I've got a wild turkey hen we can spit on them flames tonight. Turkey an' fatback sounds mighty good, if it comes with coffee.”

“You'll be welcome at my fire, Tin Pan. I'm headed west and north until I hit the creek. I'll have a pot of coffee on by the time you get there leading that mule.”

“I can cover more ground than most folks figure. A mule has got more gumption than a horse when the weather gets bad. I'll be there . . . pretty close behind you, unless I get a shot at a good fat deer. It'll take me half an hour to gut him and skin him proper.”

Tin Pan had a Sharps booted to the packsaddle on his mule. There was something confident about the way the old man carried himself.

“Venison goes good with coffee,” Frank said. He gazed into the snowstorm. “The only thing I've got to be careful about is having Ned Pine or a member of his gang spot my campfire. I may have to find a spot sheltered by trees to throw up my canvas lean-to. I don't want them to know I'm coming.”

Tin Pan shook his head. “Not in this snow. The cabin you talked about is miles up the creek anyhow. Only a damn fool would be out in a storm like this. I reckon that makes both of us damn fools, don't it?”

Frank chuckled. “Hard to argue against it. I'll find that creek and get a fire and coffee going. It's gonna be pitch dark in an hour or two. I need to find the right spot to hide my horses and gear from prying eyes.”

“You won't have no problems tonight, Morgan,” Tin Pan said. “But if it stops snowin' before sunrise, you'll have more than a passel of troubles when the sun comes up. A man on a horse sticks out like a sore thumb in this country after it snows, if the sun is shinin'. That's when you'll have to be mighty damn careful.”

“See you in a couple of hours,” Frank said, urging his horse forward. “Just thinking about a cup of hot coffee and a frying pan full of fatback has got my belly grumbling.”

“I'll be there,” the mountain man assured him. “Sure hope you got a lump of sugar to go with that coffee.”

“A bag full of brown sugar,” Frank said over his shoulder as he rode down the ridge.

“Damn if I ain't got the luck today,” Tin Pan cried as Frank rode out of sight into a stand of pines at the bottom of a steep slope.

Frank rode directly into the snowfall, his hands and face numbed by the cold. The outlaws' trail would be gone in an hour or less, with so much snow falling. He'd have to rely on the information Bowers and the mountain man gave him.

* * *

His horses were tied in a pine grove. Frank huddled over a small fire, begging it to life by blowing on what little dry tinder he could find.

Stump Creek lay before him. He supposed the stream earned its name from the work of a beaver colony. All up and down the creek's banks, stumps from gnawed-down trees dotted the open spots.

The clear creek still flowed, with only a thin layer of ice on it. It was easy to break through to get enough water to fill his coffeepot.

He poured a handful of scorched coffee beans into the pot and set it beside the building flames. By surrounding the fire pit with a few flat stones, he had cooking surfaces on which he could place his skillet full of fatback.

If Tin Pan found his camp, it would be easy enough to rig a spit out of green pine limbs and skewer hunks of turkey onto sticks above the fire. Just thinking about a good meal made him hungry.

In a matter of minutes the sweet aroma of boiling coffee filled the clearing in the pines. Frank warmed his hands over the flames, letting his thoughts drift back to Conrad, and Ned Pine's gunslicks.

“I swear I'm gonna kill 'em,” he said to himself. “They better not have done any harm to my boy or I'll make 'em die slow.”

His saddle horse raised its head, looking east with its ears pricked forward.

“That'll be the old mountain man,” he said, standing up to walk to the edge of the pine grove. An experienced mountain man Tin Pan's age would be able to follow the scent of Frank's from miles away.

Frank looked up at the darkening sky. Swirls of snowflakes fell on the pine limbs around him.

“I'll need to rig my lean-to,” he mumbled. “No telling how much it'll snow tonight.”

“Hello the fire!” a distant voice shouted.

“Come on in!” Frank replied. “Coffee's damn near done boiling!”

“I smelt it half an hour ago, Morgan!”

He saw the shape of Tin Pan leading his mule down to the creek through a veil of snow. It would be good to have a bit of company tonight. He was sure the old man had a sackful of stories about these mountains. Maybe even some information about the hideout where Ned Pine was holding Conrad.

Frank buttoned his coat and turned up the collar. Then he picked up more dead pine limbs to add to the fire. But even as the pleasant prospects of good company and a warm camp lay foremost in his mind, he couldn't shake the memory of Conrad and the outlaw bastards who held him prisoner.

* * *

“Damn that's mighty good,” Tin Pan said, palming a tin cup of coffee for its warmth, with two lumps of brown sugar to sweeten it.

“I've got plenty,” Frank told him. “I provisioned myself at Durango.”

Tin Pan's wrinkled face looked older in light from the flames. “I been thinkin',” he said, then fell silent for a time.

“About what?” Frank asked.

“Ned Pine. Your boy. That hideout up in the canyon where you said they was hidin'.”

“What about it?”

“It's mighty hard to get into that canyon without bein' seen, unless you know the old Ute trail.”

“The Utes cleared out of this country years ago, after the Army got after them,” Frank recalled.

“That still don't keep a man from knowin' the back way in to that canyon,” Tin Pan said.

“There's a back way?”

Tin Pan nodded. “An old game trail. When these mountains were full of buffalo, the herds used it to come down to water in winter.”

“Can you tell me how to find it?”

Tin Pan shook his head. “I'd have to show it to you. It's steep. A man who don't know it's there will ride right past it without seein' a thing.”

Frank sipped scalding coffee, seated on his saddle blanket near the fire. “I don't suppose you'd have time to show me where it was....”

“I might. You seem like a decent feller, and you've sure got your hands full, trying to take on Ned Pine and his bunch of raiders.”

“I could pay you a little something for your time,” Frank said.

Tin Pan hoisted his cup of coffee. “This here cup of mud will be enough.”

“Then you'll show me that trail?”

“Come sunrise, I'll take you up to the top of that canyon. I've got some traps I need to set anyhow.”

“I'd be real grateful. My boy is only eighteen. He won't stand a chance against Pine and his ruffians.”

“Don't get me wrong, Morgan. I ain't gonna help you fight that crowd. But I'll show you the back way down to the floor of the canyon. They won't be expectin' you to slip up on 'em from behind.”

“I've got an extra pound of coffee beans. It's yours if you'll show me the trail.”

“You just made yourself a trade, Mr. Morgan. A pound of coffee beans will last me a month.”

“It's done, Tin Pan,” Frank said, feeling better about things now. “I'm gonna pitch my lean-to while the fatback is cooking.”

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.”