Ghost Valley (7 page)

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.

* * *

“I know it's you, Morgan!” Pine bellowed. “If you fire one more shot, I'll blow the kid's goddamn skull all over Lost Pine Canyon and leave him for the wolves!”

Pine edged out the front door of the cabin with his pistol under Conrad's chin.

“My men are gonna saddle our horses!” Pine went on with a fistful of Conrad's hair in his left hand. “One more gunshot and I blow your son's head off!”

Only silence filled the canyon after the echo of Ned's voice died.

“You hear me, Morgan?”

More silence, only the whisper of snow falling on ponderosa pine limbs.

“Answer me, you son of a bitch!”

The quiet around Ned was absolute. He squirmed a little, but he held his Colt under Conrad's jawbone with the hammer cocked.

“I'll kill this sniveling little bastard!” Ned called to what seemed like an empty forest.

And still, there was no reply from Morgan.

“Whoever you've got shootin' from up on the rim, you'd best tell that son of a bitch I mean business. If he fires one shot I'll kill your boy.”

Conrad Browning had tears streaming down his pale face and his legs were trembling. A dark purple bruise decorated one of his cheeks.

Ned looked over his shoulder at the cabin door. He spoke to Slade and Lyle. “You and Rich and Cabot get out there and saddle the best horses,” he snapped. “Tell Billy Miller to keep his gun sights on the back.”

“He ain't gonna shoot us?” Slade asked.

“Hell, no, he ain't,” Pine replied.

“What makes you so all-fired sure?”

“Because I've got a gun at his boy's throat. He came all this way to save him. Morgan knows that even if he shoots me, I'll kill this kid as I'm going down. Now get those goddamn horses saddled.”

“I see somebody up top!” cried Billy Miller, a boy from Nebraska who had killed a storekeeper to get a few plugs of tobacco.

“Kill the son of a bitch!” Ned shouted.

“He's gone now, but I seen him.”

“Damn,” Ned hissed, his jaw set. He spoke to Slade and Lyle again. “Get out there and put saddles on the best animals we've got. Hurry!”

“I ain't so sure about this, Ned,” Lyle said, peering out the doorway.

“Get out there and saddle the goddamn horses or I'll kill you myself!” Ned cried. “Morgan ain't gonna do a damn thing so long as I've got this gun cocked under his little boy's skull bone.”

Rich Boggs, a half-breed holdup man from Kansas, came out the front door carrying a rifle. “C'mon, boys,” he said in a quiet voice.

Lyle and Slade edged out the door with Winchesters in their hands.

“I don't like this, Lyle,” Slade said.

“Neither do I, but we can't stay here until this snow melts.”

Cabot Bulware, a former bank robber from Baton Rouge, was the last to leave the cabin. He spoke Cajun English. “Don't see no mens no place,
mon ami,
” he whispered. “Dis man Morgan be a hard
batard
to shoot.”

“Shut up and get the damn horses saddled,” Ned said, his hands trembling in the cold.

“Please don't shoot me, Mr. Pine,” Conrad whimpered. “I didn't do anything to you.”

“Shut up, boy, or I'll empty your brains onto this here snow,” Ned spat. “I ain't all that sure you've got any goddamn brains.”

“My father doesn't care what you do to me,” Conrad said. “He never came to see me, not even when you killed my mother.”

“That was an accident, sort of. Now shut up and let me think.”

Cabot, Lyle, Slade, and Billy made their way slowly to the corrals. Rich came over to Ned with his rifle cocked, ready to fire.

“You reckon Morgan will let us ride out of here?” Rich asked.

“Damn right he will.”

“You sound mighty sure of it.”

“I've got his snot-nosed kid with a gun under his jawbone. Even Morgan won't take the chance of shootin' at us. He knows I'll kill his boy.”

“I ain't seen him no place, Ned. I've been looking real close.”

“Help the others saddle our mounts. Frank Morgan is out there somewhere.”

“Are you sure it's him? Billy saw a feller up on the rim of the canyon. Maybe it's the law.”

“It ain't the law. It's Morgan.”

“But you sent Charlie back to gun him down, an' then Sam and Buster and Tony rode our back trail. One man couldn't outgun Sam or Buster, and nobody's ever gotten to Charlie. Charlie's real careful.”

“Shut the hell up and help saddle our horses, Rich. You're wasting valuable time running your mouth over things we can't do nothing about. If Morgan got to Charlie and Sam and the rest of them, we'll have to ride out of here and head for Gypsum Gap to meet up with Vic.”

“One man can't be that tough,” Rich said, although he made for the corrals as he said it.

Ned was furious. He'd known Morgan was good, but that had been years ago.

Ned stood in front of the cabin with his Colt pistol under Conrad's chin, waiting for the horses. At the moment he needed a swallow of whiskey.

* * *

Louis Pettigrew had begun to have serious doubts. He'd been listening to Victor Vanbergen and Ford Peters talk about Frank Morgan for more than an hour . . . Louis had a page full of notes on Morgan.

But too many seasoned lawmen had told him that Morgan was as good as any man alive with a gun. Something about the stories he was hearing didn't add up.

“Morgan left his wife with a band of outlaws?” Louis asked with disbelief. “And they killed her?”

“Sure did,” Vic said.

“That ain't the worst of it,” Ford added. “She had this baby boy of Frank's. He left the kid with her too. That oughta tell you what kind of yellow bastard he is ... he was. The little boy's name was Conrad Browning.”

“Did Mr. Morgan ever come back to visit his son?” Louis asked.

“Not that anybody knows of. He was raised by somebody else. Morgan was rotten through an' through. Any man who'd abandon his own son ain't worth the gunpowder it'd take to kill him, if you ask me.”

Vic nodded. “That's a fact. Morgan went west and left his boy to grow up alone. That's why we say he was yellow. No man with even a trace of gumption would leave his kid to be raised by somebody else.”

“Morgan was a no good son of a bitch,” Ford said, waving to the barkeep to bring them more drinks at the Boston writer's expense.

“I can't believe he'd do that,” Louis said, turning the page on his notepad.

“You didn't know him like we did,” Ford said. “He was trash.”

“I don't understand how so many people could be wrong about him,” Louis said. “I've heard him described as fearless, and one of the best gunmen in recent times.”

“Lies,” Vic said. “All lies.”

“He was short on nerve,” Ford added as more shot glasses of whiskey came toward their table. “I can tell you a helluva lot more about him, if you want to hear it.”

The drinks were placed around the table. Louis Pettigrew had a scowl on his face.

“I don't think I need to hear any more, gentlemen. It would appear I've come all this way for nothing . . . to write a story about a gunfighter who had a reputation he clearly did not deserve.”

“You've got that part right,” Vic said.

Ford nodded his agreement.

Vern wanted to get in his two cents' worth. “Frank Morgan is washed up as a gunfighter. You'd better write your story about somebody else.”

“Dear me,” Pettigrew said, closing his notepad, putting his pencil away. “It would seem the last of the great gunfighters is no more.”

A blast of cold wind rattled the doors into the Wagon Wheel Saloon. Pettigrew glanced over his shoulder. “I suppose I should seek lodging for the night and a stable for my horse. I think in the morning I'll ride toward Denver and catch the next train to Boston.”

“Sounds like a good idea to me,” Vic said. “You won't be givin' your readers much if you write a story about Frank Morgan.”

“So it would appear, gentlemen. I appreciate your time and your honesty. I suppose some men live on reputations from the past.”

“That's Morgan,” Ford said. “I hate to inform a feller that he's wasted his time, but I figure you have if you intend to write about Frank.”

Pettigrew pushed back his chair. “So many people want to read the dime novels about true-life heroes out here in the West. Some of our best-selling books in the past have been about Wild Bill and Buffalo Bill Cody. There's even this woman, Calamity Jane they call her, who can outshoot most men with a rifle or a pistol. Our readers love this sort of thing. We can't print enough of them.”

“Nobody wants to read about Frank,” Vic said. “It'd be a waste of good paper and ink.”

* * *

Pettigrew had gone outside before Ford and Vic began to laugh over their joke.

“You spooned him full of crap,” Vern said, grinning. “He bought every word of it.”

Vic's expression changed. “We don't need some damn reporter hangin' around while Ned's got Frank's boy.”

“We got rid of the reporter,” Ford said. “I figure he'll head for Denver at first light.”

“If this storm don't snow him in,” Vern observed, watching snowflakes patter against the saloon windows. “That's one helluva long ride up to Denver when the weather's as bad as this.”

“We'll stay here tonight,” Vic said. “Go tell the rest of the boys to find rooms and put their horses away.”

Vern stood up, stretching tired muscles after the ride from Gypsum Gap. “I'm damn sure glad to hear you say that, Boss,” he said.

“Me too,” Ford agreed. “Our asses could have froze off. It sure is late in the year for so much snow.”

Vic looked out at the storm. “We need to send a couple of riders down to Lost Pine Canyon,” he said, “just to make sure Ned got Morgan and that boy.”

“We'd have heard by now,” Ford observed.

“Somebody from Ned's bunch would have come lookin' for us if they needed help,” Vern said. “Hell, Morgan's just one man an' Ned's got nearly a dozen good gunmen with him. Slade an' Lyle are enough to drop Morgan in his tracks.”

“I hope you're right,” Vic said. “Morgan can be a sneaky son of a bitch.”

“He ain't
that
sneaky,” Ford said.

Vic glanced at Ford and smiled. “How the hell would you know, Ford? In spite of what you told that Easterner, you've never set eyes on Frank Morgan in your life. He could walk in here right now and you wouldn't recognize him.”

Ford chuckled. “You're right about that, Boss. I just couldn't pass up the opportunity.”

Vern started for the door, sleeving into his coat as he passed the potbelly stove. “You damn sure did a good job of it, Ford Peters. For a while there, I thought maybe you an' Frank was half brothers.”

“I could kill you over a remark like that,” Ford said.

Vic tossed back the last of his third drink. “Tell the boys to settle in for the night, Vern. I'll send a couple of 'em over to the canyon tomorrow so we'll know what's keepin' Ned. I had it figured he oughta be here by now.”

* * *

Conrad remembered that time all too clearly . . . and by all accounts he was headed back into the hands of Pine and Vanbergen again.

“Damn the rotten luck,” he whispered, with Cletus Huling holding a shotgun at his back.

Sheriff Charlie Maxey looked up from a stack of WANTED posters on his desk when a slender young man wearing suspenders and a tin star burst into his office, slamming the door behind him.

“What is it, Dave?”

His deputy, Dave Matthews, was out of breath. “You ain't gonna believe this, Sheriff, but them sorry sons of bitches done it again.”

“Done what?”

“Took Morgan's boy, Conrad Browning, prisoner.”

“What?”

“I seen it myself. An' I recognized the bastard who took him.”

“Who the hell was he?” Maxey cried, standing up to take a rifle from a rack behind his desk.

“The sorriest son of a bitch who ever straddled a saddle. Cletus Huling, that damn bounty hunter from down in the Texas Panhandle. You remember when he come up here last year after Boyd Haskins?”

“Huling is in Trinidad?”

“He
was.
He took Conrad at gunpoint an' headed north into the mountains.”

“Round up a posse. I'll deputize every man who's willing to ride with us.”

“Won't be many,” Dave said, taking a rifle down for his own use.

“And why the hell is that, Dave?”

“On account of Huling. Damn near everybody knows who he is after he blowed Haskins plumb to eternity, an' everybody in this town knows he's a damn cold-blooded killer who'll shoot a man in the back.”

“Round up as many men as you can,” Sheriff Maxey said with a sigh. “I'll go saddle my horse. See how many men you can find with a backbone and a gun, then get your own horse saddled. You can show us which way they went. I sure as hell hope you're wrong about this.”

“I ain't wrong, Sheriff. I got two good eyes.” Dave Matthews turned for the door, then hesitated. “Seems like I seen another feller outside of town waitin' for them. He was way off, so I couldn't make out what he looked like, 'cept for just one thing.”

“What was that one thing?”

“He was a Mexican. He was wearin' this big sombrero on his head, only it was pulled real low in front so I couldn't make out his face.”

“How do you know he was with Huling?”

“They joined up about a quarter mile north of town an' took off for the mountains together. Conrad, he was riding this big sorrel in between 'em.”

“Damn,” Maxey mumbled, taking a box of cartridges from his desk drawer. “See how many possemen you can find and meet me at the livery.”

Dave started out onto the boardwalk. “Poor ol' Conrad. It sure seems like he's had enough troubles, after what his daddy went through gettin' him back from Ned Pine an' Victor Vanbergen a few weeks ago.”

Maxey nodded as he too started for the office door. “Conrad ain't like his murderin' pappy. That boy is gentle as a spring lamb. But Frank, he's a mean-assed hombre who ain't afraid of nobody. If Morgan gets word that somebody took his boy again, there'll be hell to pay. I sure as hell hope it don't happen in my town.”

“I'll see how many men I can round up, Sheriff. Only don't count on our good citizens to swear in to make a posse goin'.. after Cletus Huling. If there's one man west of the Mississippi who's as good as Frank Morgan with a gun, it'll be that bastard Huling.”

Maxey became irritated with his deputy's complaining. “Go fetch as many men as you can, Dave, an' you might want to leave out the part about it being Huling we're after. All you gotta say is that somebody grabbed Conrad again. That ought to be enough to get us a few volunteers, seeing as how everybody likes that boy.”

Dave took off down the boardwalk carrying the Winchester. Sheriff Maxey locked his office door behind him.

It was the blackest of luck, to have Cletus Huling show up in Trinidad . . . it was like finding a skunk under your bed, Maxey thought.

But with enough men they stood a chance of riding Huling down. Maxey had no idea who the Mexican in the sombrero might be, not in Colorado Territory. There were damn few Mexicans this far north, since it was common knowledge a Mexican didn't take to cold weather.

He made haste for the livery, reminding himself that he needed to bring a heavy coat and gloves since the high country north of Trinidad would still be cold, with the possibility of snow this time of year.

* * *

Cletus halted on a pine-studded ridge to study their back trail. “Nobody followin' us yet,” he said to Diego Ponce as they sat their horses.

Diego scanned the lowlands behind them. His badly scarred face seemed to remain in a permanent scowl. “I see no one,” he said. “But they will come, if this whimpering boy is truly worth so much money.”

“He is,” Cletus assured him. “Our share of the take will be ten thousand in gold. An' if ol' Ned Pine an' Vanbergen don't play it straight with us, we'll kill 'em an' the boys who ride with 'em. That way, you an' me can split it between ourselves an' nobody'll be the wiser. Half the lawmen in Colorado Territory would just as soon see Pine an' Vanbergen dead anyhow. We'll be doin' folks a favor.”

Diego tried for a smile. “I like that. That way, we will have it all.”

Cletus glanced at Conrad. He had tied the boy's hands in front of him with a pigging string. Tears had formed in Conrad's eyes.

“This kid ain't gonna be no problem, but we've got to keep an eye out for his old man.”

“You tell me his name is Frank Morgan. I never hear of him before.”

“That's because you've been down in Mexico, Diego. If you'd spent any time north of the Rio Grande you'd know who Morgan is. A goddamn paid shootist, an' a damn good one. Only thing on our side is that he's gettin' a mite long in the tooth. I ain't sure how old he is, but he's old enough now to be a bit slower on the draw.”

Diego chuckled. “The best way to kill a man who is quick on the draw is to get behind him. If this Señor Morgan shows up, I will kill him myself.”

“Don't kill him until he comes up with the ransom money for his kid,” Cletus warned.

Conrad sniffled. “My father wouldn't pay a dime to have me set free. You men are wasting your time.”

“Shut up, kid!” Cletus snapped. “Ned Pine said your old man would pay a ton of money to get you back. Fifty thousand dollars is what he said you was worth.”

Conrad shook his head. “I hate my father. If you are counting on him to pay a ransom for me, I can assure you that it's a waste of time.”

Diego glanced at Cletus.

“Don't pay no attention to this crybaby,” Cletus said. “I know for a fact that Morgan has the money, an' that he'll pay it to get this snot-nose kid back.”

“Whatever you say, Cletus,” Diego said.

“Let's get headed north. Glenwood Springs is a hard three-day ride.”

“Will they send a posse after the boy?” Diego inquired.

Cletus grinned, revealing rows of yellowed teeth. “If they do, we'll kill the sons of bitches an' be done with them. Just keep an eye behind us. It's time we covered some ground before it gets full dark.”

“It is better if we do not have a fire when we make camp,” Diego said.

“We ain't gonna make camp. We'll keep pushing these horses all night. Come sunrise, we'll find us a ranch someplace an' take fresh horses.”

Diego turned his head north. “This is very empty country,
compadre.
What if there are no ranches where we can steal fresh horses?”

“We keep ridin' the ones we've got.”

Diego reined his brown gelding off the ridge. “I do not like this place.”

Cletus gave him a sour look. “Why the hell is that, Diego?” he asked, not really caring.

“Is too cold here,” the Mexican
pistolero
said. “Even a woman could not keep me warm on a night like this. Maybeso a bottle of tequila.”

Cletus led the way up the ridge toward dark mountain silhouettes looming in the distance. He knew he'd made the right choice when he'd brought Diego Ponce with him to earn this high bounty. Ponce was half crazy, as good with a bowie knife as he was with a pistol or a rifle. And when it came to killing men, no matter who they might be, he had no remorse, no misgivings about spilling their blood.

* * *

Diego trotted his horse up a steepening slope, catching up to Cletus and the boy.

“They come,” Diego said softly. “I counted seven of them and they are using their horses very hard.”

Cletus cast a look toward a narrow pass between mountains only a few hundred yards away. “We'll ambush the bastards here,” he said. “It'll be a posse from Trinidad. Won't be a one of them who knows how to shoot.”

“I will find a place to hide,” Diego said, spurring his horse past Cletus and Conrad.

* * *

Sheriff Maxey knew the trail was fresh. Every time he climbed down from the saddle he found crisp hoofprints made only hours ago.

“We're closing in on them, boys,” he said. “Get your rifles and shotguns ready.”

Maxey led them into a rocky pass. Night shadows hid what lay beyond the entrance.

Just as they entered the passageway, a rifle shot echoed from rocks high on the rim. Dave Matthews let out a yelp and went tumbling from the saddle.

Then a hail of lead came at Maxey's posse from two sides. A horse went down, whickering in pain. Homer Martin, Trinidad's only blacksmith, shrieked and tumbled over his horse's rump with blood squirting from his head.

Bob Olsen was cut down by a withering blast of gunfire from the east side of the pass. His horse crumpled underneath him and he slumped over the animal's neck.

Jimmy Strunk, a boy of fifteen, began screaming for his mother when a bullet shattered his spine. He threw down his father's rifle and slid underneath his prancing pinto's hooves, trampled to death when his horse galloped away with his boot hung in a stirrup.

Buford Cobbs, a saloonkeeper, had his head torn from his torso by a .44-caliber slug that severed his spinal column. His head rolled off his shoulders like a grisly ball before he fell to the rocky floor of the pass.

Alex Wright, a cowboy from the Circle B Ranch, felt something enter his throat. He tried to yell, but only a stream of dark blood came from his neck. He threw up his hands to surrender to the shooters just seconds before he died. His horse plunged out from under him, sending him crashing to the ground with a dull thud.

Sheriff Charlie Maxey had only a brief moment to understand his mistake . . . he'd ridden into a trap, an ambush.

He jerked his horse around and stuck spurs into its ribs as hard and fast as he could. His chestnut reached a full gallop at the same instant when a bullet passed cleanly through his liver, exiting through the front of his flannel shirt.

“Edith!” he cried, calling out his wife's name when a jolt of pain went through him. He dropped his rifle and clung to the saddle horn for all he was worth as the gelding galloped away from the booming guns.

He closed his eyes, trusting the horse to take him back home in the dark.

* * *

Sheriff Maxey survived the ride back to Trinidad with blood covering his saddle, his horse's withers, his pants and shirt. His right boot was full of blood. His winded horse trotted down the main street of Trinidad and came to a halt in front of the sheriff's office.

Charlie Maxey finally released his iron grip on the saddle horn and fell to the ground. He took one final breath and lay still.