Authors: William W. Johnstone
Ghost Valley (9 page)
SIXTEEN
Frank heard a distant rifle shot, figuring Buck had found another target. Then suddenly something struck his left shoulder and he went down, stunned, tumbling through the snow, his mind reeling,
He tried to scramble back to his feet. He heard Dog give a soft whimper, and then everything went black around him. He knew he was falling and couldn't help himself.
* * *
He awakened to the smell of wood smoke. He saw the dim outline of a cabin roof above his head. Very slowly, waves of pain shot through his left side, down his arm, and across his ribs.
He heard himself groan.
“You okay, Morgan?” a faintly familiar voice asked from the mist around him.
“Where am I?”
“My place.”
“Where the hell is your place? What happened to me down in that valley?” Slowly, events returned to him as he regained consciousness.
He saw a man with a tangled red beard leaning over him, and he tried to remember who the stranger was.
“You took a chunk of lead, Morgan. It ain't too bad nor too deep. I dug it out with my knife. I'm sure as hell glad you was asleep when I done it. You hollered like a stuck pig after I got it out.”
“I suppose I'm lucky to be alive,” he said, unable to recall how anyone could have gotten behind him to catch him with his guard down.
“That's fair to say.”
“Your name is Buck . . . Buck Waite. Things are coming back to me now.”
“This here's my daughter, Karen. She fixed you some soup made outta dried wild onions an' elk meat. When you feel up to it, she'll give you some.”
Frank's eyes wandered across the small log cabin, until they came to rest on a pretty young woman dressed in deerskin pants and a fringed top, with her dark red hair tied in a ponytail.
“Pleased to meet you, Karen,” he mumbled. “Sorry it has to be under these bad circumstances. I feel like a damn fool right now.”
She came over to him. He guessed her age at thirty or less, and as he first surmised, she was pretty. “You lost a lot of blood,” she said. “Let me know when you want some soup.”
“Something smells mighty good,” Frank managed, “but I sure do wish I had a spot of whiskey to help with this pain in my shoulder.”
“We've got some corn squeeze. Daddy makes it himself out of Indian corn in the summer.”
“I could use some,” Frank croaked, trying to sit up on a crude cot made of rawhide strips and pine limbs.
“Lie back down,” Karen told him. “I'll fetch you some of the whiskey.”
“Where's Ned Pine and the others?” he asked.
“Back down in Ghost Valley,” said Buck. “I seen 'em find that patch of blood you left in the snow, so I figure they's sure they got you.”
“They're wrong,” Frank said. “I'm not dead yet . . . unless this is all a dream.”
“You ain't dreamin', Morgan,” Buck said. “But it'll be a spell before you can move around.”
“Where's Dog? And my horse?”
“The bay is out yonder in the corral. This dog of your'n won't leave the foot of your bed. Every time I try to take him outside, the bastard growls at me an' shows his teeth.”
“He's harmless . . . most of the time,” Frank said.
“I ain't gonna take no chance. The damn dog can stay right where he is till hell freezes over for all I care.”
Frank chuckled, although the movement in his chest pained him some.
“Here's your soup,” Karen said, appearing above him with a steaming tin cup. “It'll be a bit salty. It's the only way we have to preserve the elk meat for the winter.”
He sat up slowly and took the cup she offered him, finding a cloth bandage around his left arm and shoulder. “I'm much obliged to both of you,” he said. He gave Buck a glance. “Buck didn't tell me that he had a beautiful daughter.”
“Wasn't none of yer damn business till now,” Buck answered quickly.
“Sorry.” Frank took a sip from the cup, resting a trembling right elbow. “It's delicious.”
Karen came back with a clay jug. She brought it over and set it beside him on the dirt floor of the cabin. “This here's the whiskey. Drink what you want. It's got a touch of a burn to it.”
Buck scowled at his daughter. “It wouldn't be worth a damn if it didn't,” he said. “Whiskey without no kick to it is just branch water.”
“May as well take a bath in it,” Frank agreed, reaching for the jug when his pain grew worse.
“It'll help,” Buck said.
Frank's mind was on other matters right then. “How far is this place from Ghost Valley?” he asked.
“Far enough. They'll never find you here.”
“You right sure about that?”
“Sure as I am that the sun's gonna rise tomorrow. You'll feel better by then.”
Frank pulled the cork from the jug with his teeth, spat it out, and drank deeply from the corn whiskey. He took a deep breath and drank again. “That's mighty good squeeze,” he said when he felt the burn all the way to his belly.
“I don't make bad shine,” Buck said. “There's a secret to it.”
“I'd say you've found the secret,” Frank replied, then took a third swallow.
“Drink the soup if you can,” Karen said, smiling at him. When she did, she was prettier than ever.
“I'll do my best,” he said. Frank's mind returned to the business at hand. “Where are my guns?” he asked.
“I picked up yer Winchester when you dropped it. Yer pistol is over yonder by the potbelly stove.”
“Feels good to be warm.”
“It's the whiskey,” Buck said.
“It's the soup,” Karen added, giving her father a subtle wink.
“Like hell,” Buck snapped. “Soup never did nobody so much good as the right kind of home-brewed whiskey.”
Karen turned away without saying another word.
Frank drank more soup, chasing it with whiskey, as a dark mood settled over him. His plan for revenge against Ned Pine and Victor Vanbergen had ended with a bullet.
“Damn,” he whispered, wondering how he could have been so foolish as to let a gunman get behind him.
Buck stirred in a rawhide chair near the potbelly. “Wasn't your fault, Morgan,” he said.
“How's that?” Frank asked, taking note of the subtle curves beneath Karen's buckskins while she added split wood to the stove.
“It was snowin',” was all Buck said.
“I should have known better.”
“Careless was all you was.”
“Careless can get a man killed,” Frank replied, settling back against a lumpy pillow. “Men in my profession know that real well.”
“Maybe you shouldn't stay in that gunfightin' profession no longer?”
“I'd quit years ago. If it hadn't been what they did to my wife and my boy . . .”
Buck snorted softly. “Don't sound like that son of yours is much good at takin' care of hisself.”
“He isn't,” Frank agreed, feeling the whiskey soften the pain in his shoulder. “It isn't his fault. It's a long story that doesn't need telling, but I never got the chance to raise him proper.”
“Maybe I'm just bein' nosy, but how's that?”
“Be quiet, Dad,” Karen said. “He doesn't want to talk about it now.”
“Sorry,” Buck mumbled, returning to his sweetened coffee as snowflakes fell softly on the cabin roof.
“I was forced to leave my wife before the boy was born.” Frank said it with anger thickening his voice. “I didn't see him at all until he was a grown man.”
“There!” Karen snapped. “I told you not to pry into it, Dad.”
“You've got my apologies again,” Buck said.
Frank closed his eyes for a moment, remembering the past he wanted to forget. “It's okay. I've learned to live with it over the years.”
Karen came over to him. “Do you want more soup? Or some coffee?”
“No, ma'am,” he replied, noticing that Dog had come over to the cot to lick his hand. “I might be able to use more of that whiskey.”
“Good squeeze, ain't it?” Buck asked, grinning.
“I've never tasted any better. As soon as I'm strong enough I'll need my horse . . . and my guns.”
“I figure I know why,” Buck said.
“I came all this way for a reason. I'll feel better in a little bit.”
“It'll be dark soon,” Buck said. “No sense gettin' out in this cold when a man can't see. Whatever you aim to do to them fellers, it can wait till mornin'.”
“I'm not much on waiting.”
“You'll need your strength,” Karen said, offering him the clay jug. “If you go out in this weather, it'll drain you something awful.”
“She's right,” Buck said. “Wait fer sunrise. The men you're after will be easier to see. Right now, I'm guessin' they figure they got you, even though they ain't found your body. In the snow back yonder you left a hell of a puddle of red, an' they'll think it's the end of you.”
“I'm wasting time here,” Frank said, swallowing more of the whiskey while he looked steadily into Karen's soft brown eyes. “I need to be on the move.”
“Shape you're in,” Buck said, “you won't be able to move very damn far.”
Dog whimpered softly and licked Frank's hand again.
“You see?” Karen said with a smile. “Even your dog agrees with us.”
“Dog never was all that smart,” Frank told her, reaching for the dog's forehead to give it a rub.
“Is that his name?” Karen asked.
“I couldn't think of one much better at the time,” he explained.
The woman giggled.
“What's so funny?” Frank asked.
“The name. I'm afraid to ask what name you gave to your horse.”
“Mostly, I just call him Horse . . . when I'm not mad at him over something.”
Karen put the jug beside him on the mattress and walked over to the stove, warming her hands.
“Gonna get cold tonight,” Buck announced. “I'll give that horse of yours an' my pinto a little extra corn. It's late in the year for a squall like this.”
Buck got up and headed for the cabin door, hesitating when he reached for the latch string. “Maybe you brung all this bad weather with you, Morgan?”
His eyelids felt heavy, and he didn't answer the old man as he drifted off to sleep.
SEVENTEEN
Frank knew he was dreaming . . . perhaps because of the wound in his shoulder and the whiskey Karen had given him. He found himself drifting back to another meeting with Pine in the lower Rockies, when he'd happened upon old Tin Pan Rushing and some help he hadn't expected while he was searching for his son.
* * *
Tin Pan lit a small railroad conductor's lantern before he followed Frank into the trees. Yellow light and tree trunk shadows wavered across the snow as they walked with their backs to the wind and snow.
“The one that's moanin' is over here,” Tin Pan said, raising his lantern higher to cast more light on the few inches of snow covering the ground.
“I hear him,” Frank said, covering their progress with his Peacemaker.
“Hope he ain't in good enough shape to use his gun,” Tin Pan said.
“He won't be,” Frank assured him.
The first body they came to was a stumpy cowboy wearing a sheepskin coat. He lay in a patch of bloody snow. His chest was not moving.
“This is the feller I shot,” Tin Pan said.
“I got the one who called himself Tony. He's farther to the right. Let's see what the live one has to say,” Frank said with a look to the east. “The other two won't have much when it comes to words. I can hear the last one making some noise. Let's find him first.”
“That'll be the one who called himself Buster,” Tin Pan remembered.
“I don't give a damn what his name is. I'm gonna make him talk to me, if he's able,” Frank replied, aiming for the groaning sounds.
A dark lump lay in the snow. Frank could hear horses in the trees about a hundred yards away stamping their hooves now and then, made nervous by the gunshots.
He came to the body of a man lying on his back, his mouth open, a rifle held loosely in his right hand. Blood oozed from his lips onto the flattened hat brim behind his head. The man groaned again.
Frank knelt beside him as Tin Pan held the lantern above his head.
“Howdy, Buster,” Frank said.
Buster's pain-glazed eyes moved to Frank's face.
“You ain't Charlie,” he stammered.
“Nope. I sure as hell ain't Charlie. Mr. Bowers and I met back on the trail. I shot him. Put him on his horse headed for Durango. That's fifty hard miles in a storm like this. A man would bet long odds against him making it all that way in the shape he's in. He's probably dead by now. But I gave him the chance to save his ass ... if he's tough enough to make that ride to Durango.”
“You're . . . Frank Morgan.”
“I am.”
“We thought it was Charlie's fire we seen.”
“You were mistaken. You and your pardners made another big mistake when you tried to jump me. Tony, and some other fella who was with you, are both dead.”
“That'll be Tony and Sam. I told both of 'em we oughta be careful sneaking up on your fire.”
The light from Tin Pan's lantern showed the pain on Buster's face. A bullet hole in his chest leaked blood, and by the amount of blood coming from Buster's mouth, Frank knew the bullet had pierced a lung.
“I need to know about Ned Pine's hideout, and my son, Conrad Browning. Is my boy okay?” Frank asked, his deep voice with an edge to it.
“Ned's gonna kill him . . . but only after he lures you up there so he can kill you.” Buster issued his warning between gasps for air.
“I'm a hard man to kill, Buster. How many men has Pine got with him?”
“Eleven more. You ain't got a chance, Morgan. If Ned don't get you himself, then Lyle or Slade will. They're guarding your boy. Lyle is as good with a gun as any man on earth. Slade's just as good.” Buster paused and winced. “Jesus, my chest hurts. I can't hardly breathe.” He coughed up blood, shivering, unable to move his limbs.
“How many men are guarding the entrance into the canyon?” Frank asked.
“To hell with you, Morgan. Find out for yourself. See if you don't get killed.”
Frank brought the barrel of the Peacemaker down to Buster's mouth and held the muzzle against his gritted teeth. “I'm only gonna ask you one more time, Buster, and then I'm gonna blow the top of your head off. How many men are guarding the entrance to the canyon?”
Buster stared at the pistol in Frank's hand. “I'm gonna die anyway, 'less you take me to a doctor.”
“Ain't many doctors in these mountains. A few hours ago your pardner, Charlie Bowers, was wanting one real bad. About all I can do for you is put you on your horse and send you toward Durango tonight, like I did Charlie Bowers. You feel like you can make a fifty-mile ride?”
“I'll freeze to death, if I don't bleed to death first. I need some whiskey.”
“I've got whiskey in my saddlebags. Good Kentucky sour mash too. Now I'm not saying I'd waste any of it on you, but your chances are better if you tell me what I want to know about who's guarding the entrance to that canyon.”
“Josh. Josh and Arnie are watchin' the canyon from a rock pile at the top.”
“Has Ned or any of the others injured my boy?” Frank tapped Buster's front teeth with his pistol barrel to add a bit of emphasis to his question.
“Ned slapped him around some. . . .” Buster broke into another fit of bloody coughing. “Ned's after you. He swore he was gonna kill you. He won't kill your boy until he sees you lyin' dead someplace.”
“Damn,” Tin Pan sighed, balancing his Sharps in the palm of his hand. “That Pine's a rotten bastard, to hold a kid as bait like he is.”
“Gimme . . . some of that whiskey, like you promised,” Buster said.
“I didn't promise you anything, Buster,” Frank said, taking his gun away from Buster's teeth. “I only said I had some in my saddlebags. If I poured a swallow down your throat, it'd just leak out onto the snow on account of that big hole in your gut. I think I'll save my whiskey for a better occasion. Be a shame to waste good sour mash on a man who's gonna be dead in a few minutes.”
“You bastard,” Buster hissed.
“I've been called worse,” Frank replied. “But I've never been one to be wasteful. I grew up mighty poor. Pouring whiskey into a dying man is damn sure a waste of the distiller's fine art.”
“Are you just gonna leave me here to die?” Buster croaked, blood bubbling from his lips.
“There's another way,” Frank said.
Buster blinked. “What the hell are you talkin' about, Morgan?”
“I can put a bullet through your brain and you won't be cold or hurt anymore.”
“That'd be murder.
“Ned and the rest of you killed my wife. That was murder. In case you don't read the Bible, it says to take an eye for an eye.”
“You ain't got no conscience, Morgan. Ned told us you was a rotten son of a bitch.”
“I've got no conscience when it comes to men who kill women and harm kids who can't defend themselves. To tell the truth, killing you and Pine and all of his gang will be a downright pleasure.”
“Jesus . . . you ain't really gonna do it, are you?” Buster whispered.
Frank stood up, holstering his Colt. “I damn sure am unless they give me back my son.”
“Put me on my horse, Morgan. Give me a fightin' chance to live.”
“It don't appear you can sit a horse, Buster, but if you want I can tie you across your saddle.”
Tin Pan shook his head. “Hell, Morgan, this sumbitch is already dead. Leave him where he lays. Have you forgot that him an' his partners just tried to kill you?”
“I'm a forgiving man,” Frank said dryly. “Just because some gunslick tries to take away all you have, or all you're ever gonna have, don't mean you can't show any forgiveness for what he tried to do.” He gazed down at Buster for a time. “Are you truly sorry you tried to kill me?” he asked.
“Hell, no,” Buster spat, still defiant. “If I'd had the right shot at you, it'd be you layin' in this snow with a hole in your guts.”
Frank chuckled, but there was no humor in it. He glanced over at Tin Pan. “See what I mean?” he asked. “We've got a killer here with no remorse. I think I'll just leave him here to die slow. His pardners are already dead. We'll take their horses and deliver 'em to Ned Pine. Send them into that canyon with empty saddles, a little message from me that this fight has just started.”
“It's your fight,” Tin Pan said.
Frank slapped the old mountain man on the shoulder. “I'm glad I had you siding with me. You dropped that outlaw quicker'n snuff makes spit.”
“It was the coffee,” Tin Pan replied. “A man who'll offer a stranger a cup of coffee with brown sugar in it way up in these slopes deserves a helping hand.”
Frank gave Tin Pan a genuine laugh. “Let's fetch their horses down to our picket line. Feel free to take any of their guns you want. Where they're going, they won't be needing a pistol or a rifle.”
Tin Pan grinned. “Reckon we could add a splash of that Kentucky sour mash to the next cup of coffee?”
“You can have all of it you want.”
Buster coughed again; then his feet began to twitch with death throes.
“You see what I was talking about?” Frank asked. “It would have been a waste of good bottled spirits to pour even one drop of it into a dead man.”
* * *
“What makes a printer from Indiana get filled with wanderlust for the mountains?” Frank asked, drinking coffee laced with whiskey after the outlaws' horses were tied in the trees along with Frank's animals and the mule.
“Dreamin', I reckon. I saw tintypes of the Rockies and I just knew I had to see 'em for myself.”
“And you planned to pay for it by panning for gold in these high mountain streams?”
“There was a gold rush on back then. Men were finding gold nuggets as big as marbles.”
“But you never found any,” Frank said.
“Not even a flake of placer gold. This country had been panned out by the time I got here. The only other way is to dig into these rocky slopes. I never was much for using a pick and a shovel.”
“So you've turned to trapping?”
“It's a living. I'm happy up here, just me and old Martha for company. I had me a Ute squaw once, only she ran off with a miner who had gold in his purse.”
“I owe Martha a sack of corn,” Frank remembered. “She heard this bad bunch sneaking up on us.”
Tin Pan smiled. “Martha earns her keep. She can tote three hundred pounds of cured pelts and she don't ever complain. Once in a while she gets ornery and won't cross a creek if it's bank-full, but I reckon that just shows good sense.”
“You don't get lonely up here?”
“Naw. There's a few of us old mountain men still prowling these peaks. We get together once in a while to swap tales and catch up.”
“I think I understand,” Frank told him. “I've got a dog. I call him Dog. He's better company than most humans. I've had him for quite a spell.”
“Same goes for Martha,” Tin Pan said, glancing into the pines where his mule and the horses were tied. “She's right decent company, when she ain't in the mood to kick me if I don't get the packsaddle on just right.”
Frank chuckled. “I want you to know I'm grateful for you helping me with those gunmen.”
Tin Pan gave him a steady gaze. “You're takin' on too much, Morgan, tryin' to go after eleven more of 'em all by your lonesome.”
“I don't have much of a choice. They're holding my son hostage. I can't turn my back on it.”
“Maybe you do have a choice,” Tin Pan said after he gave it some thought.
“How's that?”
“I might just throw in with you to help get that boy of yours away from Ned Pine. I ain't no gunfighter, but I can damn sure shoot a rifle. If I find a spot on the rim of that canyon, I can take a few of 'em down with my Sharps.”
“It isn't your fight,” Franks said. “But I'm grateful for the offer anyhow.”
“I've been in fights that wasn't mine before,” Tin Pan declared. “Let me study on it some. I'll let you know in the morning what I've decided to do. I'd have to ask Martha about it. She don't like loud noises, like guns.”
* * *
Frank's eyes blinked open. The cabin was dark. Was it fate that had led him to Buck Waite and his beautiful daughter while he was on yet another manhunt?
It was hard to figure why unexpected friends showed up just when he needed them.
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