TWENTY-FOUR
Coy Cline was riding his horse up a snow-laden slope when he heard the crack of a rifle. Something struck his breastbone with tremendous force.
“Shit!” he shouted as his sorrel gelding bounded out from under him.
“What the hell was that?” Bud Warren cried.
“A bullet, you damn idiot!” Buster Pate replied, reining his bay into the trees.
Another gunshot rang out from a ridge above the rim of the valley.
“Son of a . . .” Bud bellowed, gripping his belly as a piece of hot metal passed through him, exiting next to his spine. He threw his pistol into the snow to hold onto the saddle horn with both hands.
“I'm shot!” Coy shrieked, toppling out of the saddle into a snowdrift.
Buster jumped off his horse. A sharpshooter from above was taking potshots at them in the dark.
“Help me, Buster!” Bud called from a dark place between two lines of trees.
Buster didn't answer him. Only a fool would give his position away in the dark.
Coy began to moan somewhere in the inky blackness. “You gotta help me,” he sobbed.
“Screw 'em,” Buster muttered. The shots had come from more than two hundred yards away. It would take a hell of a marksman to make that kind of shot at night, and a very large-bore rifle to boot.
“Morgan,” he whispered, gripping the stock of his rifle with gloved hands.
He'd been sure they were following Frank Morgan's trail of blood out of the valley, but now he wasn't so sure. Who the hell was shooting at them?
“You gotta help me,” Coy cried again. “I'm shot through the gut. I'm bleedin' real bad.”
From another spot in the pine woods, Bud began coughing until his throat was clear. “Jesus.”
Bud slid off his horse next to a pine trunk. He landed with a thud and groaned softly as his gelding galloped away to escape the bang of guns.
“I'm dyin' over here,” Bud croaked. “You boys gotta help me.”
Buster was only thinking of surviving the sharpshooter himself. He lay still for a moment.
“Where are you at, Buster?” Coy wondered, the pain in his voice garbling his words.
Buster wasn't about to answer him and make a target of himself.
The boom of a rifle came from above.
“Damn! Damn! Damn!” Coy screamed, flipping over on his back.
It was proof that Buster had been wise to remain silent until he knew where the rifleman was.
“Please help me,” Bud called. “I can't move my damn legs no more.”
Buster wanted to make sure his legs would move as he made his way back down the slope. He said nothing, closing his ears to Bud's cries.
He could hear Coy strangling on blood. Under better circumstances he would have offered his old partner some assistance, but not now. He knew with certainty that his life was at stake now.
“Where're you at, Buster?” Bud shouted. “You gotta come help me.”
Buster hunkered down to wait. Bud Warren was nothing but a hired killer in the first place, and someone at the top of the valley was giving him his just due, a payback he had coming after years as a gunman.
“If only we hadn't followed the smell of that damn smoke,” Buster said softly.
“I'm dyin',” Coy choked. “Send my share of the money to my ma back in Texas.”
Buster grinned, although there was little real humor behind it. No one in Ned Pine's bunch would send a share of the money anywhere ... if they got their hands on the money at all. It was beginning to look like the ransom money for Conrad Browning was going to be hard to collect.
“Morgan may be as tough as they say he used to be,” Buster muttered. “He's damn sure a hard sumbitch to kill, if you ask me.”
Buster went looking for his horse. Ned and Victor had to be told what had happened while they were following Frank Morgan's blood trail.
* * *
Ned glared at Buster. “What the hell do you mean, he got all of you?” Ned demanded.
“He got Coy an' Bud. Shot 'em right off the backs of their horses. I made it down the slope, but I was dodgin' lead the whole time.”
“In the dark?”
“Dark as pitch, Boss.”
“I thought you told me Morgan was wounded . . . that you found blood.”
“We did. He's got somebody with him. Don't know who the hell was doin' the shootin', but he can damn sure hit what he aims at.”
Victor Vanbergen was standing at a window. “That bastard,” he snapped.
Cletus Huling strode over to the fire to get more beans from the pot. “I'll handle Morgan,” he said, “if you raise my share to fifteen thousand.”
“You're too goddamn greedy,” Victor said. “You agreed to ten thousand.”
Cletus grunted. “It don't appear any of us is gonna collect a damn dime unless we find Morgan, an' even then we ain't sure he's got the money.”
“He wants this boy,” Ned said, turning to Conrad for a moment.
Cletus gave Ned a steely stare. “After all I've been through gettin' this kid up here, I'd better get the money you promised me in that telegram, Ned. If I don't, I'm gonna kill you an' Victor an' every other gunslick you've got left, if you have any left after Morgan gets through with you. He's killin' off your boys faster'n you can keep track of the number, an' that ain't no joke.”
“You can't talk to me like that, Cletus,” Ned said, his eyebrows furrowing.
“Like hell I can't,” Cletus replied. “I've killed better men than any of you. I'll kill every sumbitch in this valley unless I get my money.”
“There's seven of us,” Victor said from his spot by the window. “You'll never get us all.”
“Time'll tell,” Cletus remarked, his right hand near his pistol. “If I get the money you promised me, there won't be no trouble.”
Victor's eyes strayed to Ned's. They both knew how dangerous Cletus could be, one reason they'd contacted him to capture the Browning boy.
“Take it easy, Cletus,” Ned said. “No call to get so riled up.”
“Just so long as I get my damn money,” Cletus told him as he took a spoonful of beans and shoveled them into his mouth. “That's the only reason I'm here,” he added, chewing without taking his eyes from either Ned or Victor, his back to the wall beside the hearth.
Ned looked at Buster. “Are you sure Coy an' Bud are dead?” he asked.
“Same as dead,” Buster answered. “Coy couldn't hardly talk an' Bud was cryin' like a sugar-tit baby. I damn sure wasn't gonna look for 'em with Morgan shootin' down on us the way he did just now.”
“What makes you so sure it was Morgan?” Victor asked, an eye still on Cletus as he walked over to the fire to warm his back and his hands.
“I ain't,” Buster replied. “Only whoever it was could damn sure shoot in the dark.”
“Morgan brought somebody with him this time,” Ned told the others.
“Sounds like it,” Cletus agreed. “A wounded feller ain't gonna have the best aim. You said you found blood in the snow, an' two sets of footprints.”
“We did,” Buster agreed.
“Reckon one of them Injuns I saw when we rode in is helpin' him?”
“Them Injuns don't help nobody. We hardly ever see 'em around here,” Ned said. “They ain't never come down an' talked to us.”
“How come they hang around here?” Cletus asked.
“Nobody knows. We asked folks down in Glenwood Springs. They tell stories about 'em.”
“What kind of stories?”
Ned looked down at his boots a moment. “About how they're called the Old Ones, the Ones Who Came Before. Some of the old-timers around here claim they're the Anasazi, the Injuns who built all them old mud houses up on the bluffs.”
“What the hell does that have to do with anything?” Cletus asked him.
Ned seemed reluctant to answer right at first. “They've all been dead for hundreds of years, Cletus, or so the locals tell it.”
“So that's where them ghost stories come from?”
“Most likely.”
Buster spoke. “The sumbitch shootin' at me an' Coy and Bud wasn't no ghost. Leastways, the bullets, was real enough to knock 'em off their horses.”
“It was Morgan,” Cletus said, sounding sure of it.
“That's the way I've got it figured,” Buster answered in a faraway voice.
Cletus walked over to the door and opened it a crack. For a time he stared out at the snowy night.
“What are you doin', Cletus?” Ned asked.
Cletus didn't answer until he closed the door. “I may not wait for him to come to us.”
“What?” Victor seemed surprised.
“I may go after him myself.”
“That'd be plumb crazy,” Buster said. “He's just waitin' up there on that rim for one of us to try it.”
“Wait until it gets light,” Ned suggested. “That way, you can see his tracks.”
“I ain't much on waitin',” Cletus replied, “not when I'm owed ten thousand dollars.”
“But you won't know where to look,” Ned said.
Cletus shook his head. “When you're huntin' a man, it's easy to know where to look.”
Victor shrugged. “Suit yourself on it, Cletus, only be sure to bring us our part of the money if you find him.”
“Are you sayin' I'd double-cross you, Vic?”
“No. Didn't mean that at all.”
Ned went to the door and peered out. “It's stopped snowin', looks like. A man would be easier to find now.”
Buster shuffled off to a corner of the fireplace. “You'd best have eyes in the back of your head,” he said. “Morgan, or whoever it was, can see like a cat at night.”
“I was born with eyes in the back of my head,” Cletus said quietly, shouldering into his mackinaw. “That's how come I'm still alive.”
“You want us to send some of the boys with you, Cletus?” Victor asked.
“Hell, no. They'd only be in the way.”
“Find out where Morgan's hidin',” Ned suggested. “Then come get the rest of us an' we'll kill him an' sack up all that damn money.”
Cletus picked up his rifle. “I'll let you know if I find him.”
“And the money,” Victor said, glancing at the Browning boy tied to a chair.
Cletus moved to the door and prepared to go outside. “One thing don't figure,” he said thoughtfully.
“What's that?” Ned asked.
“If Morgan brought all that money up here to get his son back, then how come he ain't just sent word to you that he's ready to pay?”
Ned and Victor gave each other questioning looks. Ned spoke first. “We ain't set eyes on him yet.”
Cletus wasn't convinced. “It don't sound to me like he intends to pay that ransom at all.”
“Then why the hell is he here?” Victor asked.
“To kill every last one of you,” Cletus replied, opening the door carefully. “By the way he's been actin' since I got here, it don't appear he's in no money-payin' mood.”
TWENTY-FIVE
Buck came back to the cabin an hour before dawn. He came through the door soundlessly while Frank was drinking another cup of whiskey and bark tea. Karen sat near him in a hide-bottom chair.
“I got two of 'em,” Buck said, leaning his buffalo gun in a corner. “They was followin' the smell of our smoke from this here fireplace.”
“Two?” Frank asked, clearing his head to hear what the old man had to say.
“One of 'em got away. It was hard to see in that forest down yonder, but I don't figure it'll be long before more of 'em start looking' for us up here.”
Frank tossed the wool blanket off his shoulders, flexing his bad arm. “Hand me my shirt, Karen,” he said. “I think I can pull on my boots.”
“You ain't strong enough, Morgan,” Buck said.
“I reckon I'm about to find out.”
“Don't do it, Frank,” Karen pleaded.
“I've got no choice. Pine and Vanbergen know I'm here and they're sending men after me now.”
Steadying himself, he put his cup of tea and whiskey on the dirt floor and pushed himself upright. “Hand me my shirt,” he said again.
“I can handle 'em, if they don't come all at once,” Buck said.
“It's not your responsibility . . . it's mine,” Frank said, taking the flannel shirt Karen offered him. “It's me they want, and the ransom money they think I'm carrying.”
“You didn't bring any ransom money, did you?” Karen asked him.
He shook his head. “Nope. Just a load of lead for what they've done. I intend to pay them in heavy metal, but not the kind they're expecting.”
Buck sighed. “I'll go out an' saddle your horse. It'll be light soon.”
“I'd be obliged,” Frank told him, buttoning the front of his shirt, ignoring the pain, then stepping into one stovepipe boot, and then the other.
“This is crazy,” Karen said, watching Frank struggle to get dressed.
“Maybe,” Frank replied. “Now if you'll hand me my coat and that Winchester in the corner. There's a box of shells in my saddlebags.”
“And what if I won't?” Karen asked, folding her arms across her chest.
Frank pretended he didn't hear her. “I may have to have you help me strap on my gunbelt.”
Dog whimpered softly, sensing his master's pain, coming over to him to lick the back of his hand.
“You can go, Dog,” he said gruffly. “Two sets of eyes are better than one.”
Dog trotted over to the door as soon as Buck went out to saddle the bay.
“Please don't do this, Frank,” Karen said. “To tell the truth, I've gotten mighty fond of you.”
“This is business, Karen. Dirty business, and not of my own making. My only son is down in that valley now. What kind of father would I be if I didn't go after him?”
“But you're hurt bad.”
“I've been hurt this badly before. It takes a helluva lot more than one bullet to kill me ... if it don't go in at the right place.”
“You're hardheaded, Frank Morgan.”
He eased into his mackinaw. “So I've been told. My ma used to tell me the same thing nearly every day. Now help me strap on that gunbelt.”
“I'll never understand men,” Karen said, moving over to the bed to get his Colt.
Frank grinned in spite of the throbbing ache in his left shoulder. “I never met a woman who did,” he told her gently while she reached around him to buckle on his cartridge belt just below the top of his denims.
“Thanks,” he said softly, and for reasons he couldn't explain at the time, he bent down and kissed her lightly on the lips.
She returned his kiss and stepped back, and now there was a trace of a smile on her face. “That was nice, Frank. You come back so we can do that again.”
“I have every intention of coming back.”
“Just make sure you do.”
He walked over to the doorway, his back hunched against the pain pulsing through his chest. He was certain that if he could get on his horse, he could make it.
* * *
Bud Warren lay in the snow, fighting back waves of nausea. The hole in his lower abdomen felt like it was on fire and when his fingers touched the area, they came back wetâhe knew it was blood.
“Are you there, Coy?” he asked in a weakened voice thick with phlegm.
Coy didn't answer him the first time.
“Coy! Coy!”
And then a shadow moved in the darkness, standing over him now.
“Is . . . that you, Coy?”
“Why do you come here?” an unfamiliar voice asked, a voice with a curious accent.
“That ain't you, Coy. Who the hell are you?”
“I am a keeper of this valley.”
“A keeper? What the hell is that supposed to mean? Are you Frank Morgan?”
“I do not know this Frank Morgan.”
“Then what's your damn name?”
“I am called Isa.”
“What kind of name is that? I can't see you real good. It's too damn dark.”
“In your language, it is the word for coyote.”
“In my language? What the hell are you talkin' about, stranger? You're Morgan. If I could find my gun, I'd kill you right here an' now.”
“I am not Morgan. You will not kill me. You have no weapon and you are dying.”
“I ain't dyin'. I've got a hole in my belly, that's all it is.”
“You will die.”
“You ain't no damn doctor, an' you've got a real stupid name.”
“I will be the one who kills you.”
Bud raised his head off the snow, blinking furiously to clear his eyes. He saw a man dressed in buckskins with a bow and arrow.
“You're a damn Injun!” he cried.
“I am Anasazi.”
Bud saw an arrow being fitted to the bow.
What the hell is an Anasazi?
he thought, slipping toward unconsciousness again, remembering what he'd been told about Frank Morgan.
But who the hell was this Indian?