TWENTY-EIGHT
Ken Oldham was riding his horse up a steep incline when he heard the thud of a gun. Something entered his abdomen like a hot knife.
“I'm shot!” he shrieked, toppling out of the saddle into a snowdrift.
Another gunshot blasted from a ridge above the lip of the valley.
“Holy shit!” Harry bellowed, gripping his belly as a piece of hot metal passed through him, exiting next to his spine. He threw his rifle into the snow to hold onto the saddle horn with both hands.
Harry jumped off his horse, gripping his wound with one hand. A sharpshooter from above was taking potshots at them in the shadows of dawn.
“Help me, Harry,” Ken called from a dark place between two lines of trees.
Harry didn't answer him. Only a fool would give his position away now.
Ken began to groan somewhere in the forest. “You gotta help me.”
“Not now,” Harry 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, and a very large-bore rifle to boot. But he had to go to the aid of his downed brother.
* * *
“Morgan,” Ken wondered aloud, 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? Morgan was supposed to be mortally wounded.
“You gotta help me,” Ken cried again. “I'm shot through the gut. I'm bleedin' real bad.”
From another spot in the pine woods, Harry began coughing until his throat was clear. “Jesus.”
Ken crawled over to a pine trunk. He was out of breath, and wheezed softly as his gelding galloped away to escape the bang of guns.
“I'm dyin' over here,” he croaked. “You've gotta help me, Harry.”
Harry was only thinking of surviving the sharpshooter himself. He lay still for a moment.
“Where are you at, Harry?” Ken wondered, pain in his voice.
Harry wasn't about to answer him, making a target of himself, even though the cry came from his brother.
The boom of a rifle came from above.
“Damn! Damn! Damn!” Ken screamed, flipping over on his back.
It was proof that Harry had been wise to remain silent until he knew where the rifleman was.
“Please help me,” Ken called. “I'm hurt real bad. I don't think I can move....”
Harry wanted to make sure his legs would move as he made his way back down the slope. He said nothing, closing his ears to Ken's cries.
He could hear Ken choking. Under better circumstances he would have offered his brother some assistance, but not now. He knew with certainty that his life was at stake if he made the wrong choice.
“Where're you at, Harry?” Ken shouted. “You gotta come help me.”
Harry squatted behind a tree with his rifle ready. His belly wound was bleeding badly.
Moments later he felt himself losing consciousness, and when he looked down at the snow around him it was red with blood . . . his blood.
He fell over on his chest and took a shuddering breath, wondering about his brother.
* * *
Dog led Frank over to two bloody bodies stretched out in the snow. Both men appeared to be dead. Dog growled and looked down the slope, a sure indication that someone else was close to the spot.
Buck came up behind Frank, making almost no noise in spite of the new-fallen snow.
“I got one more, maybe another,” Buck told him.
“I heard them yell,” Frank said. “I still haven't found the bastard wearing the bowler.”
“Last I saw of him was down yonder.”
“Yeah, but he isn't there no more.”
“Maybe you got him, Morgan.”
“I missed. I saw bark fly off a tree when I had my best shot at him.”
“Heard his shotgun go off twice, then a pistol.”
“He's had plenty of time to reload.”
“I'll make a circle. I'll be off to your left, so don't take a shot at me.”
Frank closed his eyes when a wave of fresh pain from his shoulder raced through him. “Don't worry, Buck. I won't shoot unless I know what I'm shooting at.”
The old man moved off into the woods.
Frank spoke to Dog. “Find him for me, Dog, but be real careful about it.”
Dog padded away from the pine trunk with his tail in the air, his nose lifted for scent. Frank hid behind the tree, wondering how many more men Pine and Vanbergen had with them in Ghost Valley.
“We've already taken on a small army,” he whispered to himself.
Frank watched Dog move lower. Then suddenly the animal stopped.
“There he is,” Frank whispered, and moved away from the ponderosa as silently as he could.
* * *
He found the man he'd been looking for . . . the gunman's derby lay in the snow behind his head. But what puzzled Frank most was the crude arrow sticking in the gunslick's ribs.
“What the hell is this?” Frank asked himself softly, taking a closer look at the feathered arrow, and the circle of blood around the dead man.
He gave the trees around him a closer examination. Only an Indian, perhaps one of the Old Ones, could have killed the gunman coming after him with an arrow.
“I thought Buck said they were peaceful.”
Frank moved away when Dog gave no indication that anyone was close by.
Taking quick stock of his situation, he crept farther down the steep descent with his rifle ready when he felt sure it was safe to continue. A quarter of a mile away, on the valley floor, he saw snow-clad buildings, the ghost town where his son was being held for ransom.
TWENTY-NINE
Victor Vanbergen took a peek out the door of the shack. “I heard that rifle fire twice,” he said to Ned Pine. “I'm tired of sittin' here. That bastard Huling will double-cross us if he gets a chance. That could've been his gun, an' now he's got his hands on all that money. He's got a rifle booted to that saddle of his. Wasn't no shotgun I heard a minute ago, but it damn sure coulda been Huling's rifle.”
“What do you aim to do?” Ned asked.
“I'm goin' up there myself to kill Morgan. Or Cletus Huling, if he's tryin' to steal our money. A man can't trust a bounty hunter like Huling. Hell, he killed his own partner, Diego Ponce, on the way up here. You can't trust a sorry son of a bitch like him.”
“Maybe Ken an' Harry got both Huling an' Morgan in a cross fire. That coulda been the shots we heard just now, if you think about it.”
“I ain't leaving nothin' to chance. You boys keep an eye on that kid. Somethin' don't feel right this mornin'. When I get an itch that don't scratch right, I feel it all the way down to my bones.”
“Be careful, Vic,” Ned warned. “Morgan's got hisself a partner. We already know that, so don't take no chances bein' out in the open.”
“I don't give a damn about taking a few chances. I'm tired of all this waitin' while our boys get killed off. Wait here till I get back.”
Ned edged closer to the door. “How do we know you won't run out on us if you find that loot yourself, Victor? That's a helluva lot of money.”
Vanbergen wheeled toward Pine and clawed for his gun, but Ned was faster, snaking out his Colt just a fraction sooner than Victor.
“You son of a bitch!” Victor cried.
Ned fired a thundering bullet into Victor's chest, sending him rolling out the door of the cabin into the snow with his legs kicking furiously. A dark stain spread around him as his pistol fell from his hand.
“How come you to do that?” a gunslick asked from inside the shack, standing behind the Browning boy as the echo of the gunshot, trapped inside the tiny cabin, faded away until all was quiet.
“He went for his gun first,” Ned said, watching Victor squirm beyond the doorway. “I ain't takin' no shit off nobody in this deal. When a man tries to double-cross me, he'll pay for it with his life.”
“Jesus, Ned. He was your partner. . . .”
“A man ain't got many partners when it comes to money. I had to kill him. I never did trust Victor all the way. There was somethin' about him.”
“But he was on our side.”
“Not anymore. He's on his backside now. Won't be long until he's dead.”
“I ain't so sure that was smart, Ned.”
Ned turned to the gunman who spoke to him. “What ain't smart is for you to keep runnin' your mouth, or you'll wind up just as dead as Victor. I'll kill you same as I did him unless you keep your mouth closed.”
“Yessir. I was only thinkin' out loud about what you just done.”
“You ain't smart enough to do no thinkin'. Just keep your mouth shut an' do what I tell you to do.”
“Yessir, Boss. Whatever you say.”
“I'm gonna take a look around,” Ned said, shouldering into his coat.
“What the hell do we do with this kid if you don't come back?”
Ned gave the pair of gunmen inside the cabin a final look before he walked outside. “Kill the little son of a bitch, for all I care.”
“You ain't gonna run out on us if you get your hands on that money, Ned?” It was the half-breed who spoke.
“Are you accusin' me?” Ned snapped.
“No . . . I ain't, but I was just wonderin'.”
“Stop your goddamn wondering. Keep an eye on this door and an eye on the kid. Wait for me till I get back.”
“What about Victor?” the other hired gun asked. “He ain't dead yet.”
Ned glanced down at Vanbergen. “Won't take him long. I shot him in just the right place.”
“Damn, Ned. That was cold-blooded.”
“He went for his gun against me. Take a good look outside. This is what happens to any son of a bitch who pulls a gun on Ned Pine. Remember that, boys.”
Ned trudged off across the snow to fetch his horse, ignoring the soft cries of his former partner as the man lay dying in front of the shack.
* * *
Rays of early morning light slanted into the shed where they kept their horses while Ned saddled his black gelding. Long shadows fell away from pines around the corral. It was the time of day when a man's eyes were tested, he thought, when a man was not quite sure of what he saw.
And when he looked across the valley floor, he saw a sight that made him wonder about his eyes. It looked like an Indian aboard a piebald pony was half hidden in a clump of trees on one of the slopes.
Ned wasn't worried about a lone Indian. He led his horse out of the corral, tightened the cinch strap, and mounted up to ride south, toward the gunshots they'd heard a few minutes after dawn.
He looked over his shoulder at Victor while he collected his reins. Ned had brought a sudden end to a five-year partnership when he drew his pistol just now, but it was the price Victor had to pay for reaching for his own gun.
“So long, Vic,” Ned said, putting a spur to his black horse.
He rode off, preparing himself for a test against the gunfighting skills of Frank Morgan.
THIRTY
Frank heard someone behind him. He whirled around in spite of the pain in his shoulder, wondering who was slipping up on his backside.
Buck came toward him through a line of trees, cradling his rifle in the crook of an arm. “I seen by your tracks you found that feller in the bowler.”
“I did,” Frank replied. “He had an arrow in his gut, which means there's someone else in these woods who's doing some shooting.”
“Kind'a odd,” Buck agreed. “Them Injuns ain't never showed me nothin' but a peaceful side in all the years me an' Karen been up here.”
“They sure as hell aren't ghosts,” Frank said, glancing back at the valley.
“Never said they was, Morgan. It was you who came up with that story.”
“Somebody in Glenwood Springs said they were ghosts of the Old Ones, the Ones Who Came Before.”
“They leave real tracks just like ordinary folks, most of the time.”
“What do you mean by 'most of the time'?”
Buck took his time answering. “Once or twice I've seen 'em up here, but their ponies didn't leave no tracks in the snow, or in the mud close to a creek.”
“Maybe you just didn't look hard enough.”
Buck chuckled. “I make a livin' lookin' for tracks, Morgan.”
“Could be your eyes are getting bad, Buck.”
“I seen that arrow in that feller's side plain enough. My eyes are still good.”
“It's hard to figure why an Indian who has no stake in this fight would take a side.”
“Some things just don't make no sense, Morgan. Just be glad that galoot is dead.”
“I am. Now I've gotta fetch my horse and ride down to the ghost town . . . before Pine and Vanbergen make up their minds to kill my son.”
“I'll ride along,” Buck said.
“No need. I can handle it alone.”
“You're a hardheaded cuss, Morgan.”
Frank turned away to climb back up the slope. “So they tell me,” he replied, balancing his Winchester in his good hand as he plodded through the snow.
“I'll collect my pinto,” Buck said. “Just in case you run into more'n you can handle. I'll stay back a ways so I can keep an eye on things.”
“Suit yourself on it, Buck . . . but like I told you, I can handle this business myself.”
He heard Buck laugh softly before he disappeared into the pines.
Frank knew he owed the old man and his daughter a tremendous debt. He wondered if he'd be alive now had it not been for Buck Waite and Karen.
He climbed aboard his bay painfully, sighting downslope for a time. The way looked clear. However, experience had taught him that looks could be deceiving.
* * *
A lone horseman crossed the valley floor, keeping his mount to a walk. Frank saw him clearly even though the distance was great, half a mile or more.
“I'll keep watching him,” Frank muttered, staying deep in the forest.
The rider crossed the valley and started up a steep trail toward a rocky ridge overlooking the valley. His horse had to struggle to make the climb up a snow-covered trail. The ridge, ending abruptly where a sheer cliff overlooked Ghost Valley, was a straight drop of more than a hundred feet.
“Wonder why the hell he's headed up there?” Frank asked himself, reining his bay to the east to approach the ridge from an angle that held plenty of cover. Snow-clad pine trees would cover most of his progress until he reached the cliff, if that were truly the rider's destination.
There was something vaguely familiar about the way this horseman sat a saddle, he thought.
He halted his horse suddenly when he caught a glimpse of an Indian watching from the top of the cliff, perched atop a red and white pinto pony. But just as suddenly, in the blink of an eye, the Indian was gone when a gust of wind kicked up a swirl of snowflakes. When the snow settled, the cliff top was as it had been before... empty.
“Maybe it's the whiskey Karen gave me.” He recalled Karen fondly just then. She had a strange natural beauty that appealed to him.
Frank kept riding toward the towering cliff, keeping his eyes on the horseman climbing toward the top along a twisting trail. There was no doubt in Frank's mind that this was one of Vanbergen's or Pine's men, sent out to kill him. But he also knew he had to keep a close watch for the Indian he'd seen moments before, just in case the redskin was killing every white man who came to their hidden valley.
Dog trotted well out in front, his nose to the ground, now and then lifting it to scent the air. The ridge of hair lay flat on his back, a sure sign that the animal sensed nothing in front of them.
The horseman would reach the top of the cliff long before Frank could get there. Frank's final approach would have to be slow, cautious, on foot, ready for anything if this was the rider's destination.
Dog stopped for a moment to lap up a few mouthfuls of snow before he continued to lead Frank toward the bluff.
* * *
Ned wanted to hold the highest ground, and the sheer drop he was aiming for would be the perfect spot to watch for Morgan if he made a play to get his boy back.
His horse finally reached the top of the trail. Ned rode it across a flat spot, and swung down to tie the gelding deep in the trees behind the bluff.
He pulled his rifle and walked slowly toward the edge of the cliff where he would have the best vantage point. His jaw was set. He was determined to get Morgan this time, and the ransom money. Victor was dead. Most of their hired guns were dead, and he didn't give a damn what happened to the remaining men, or the Browning kid. All that mattered now was getting his revenge against Morgan and heading south as a rich man.
He crept to the top of the cliff and peered into the quiet valley. Then he gave his surroundings a careful inspection, just to be sure no one was behind him.
But just as he was all but certain he was alone, he saw a figure step out from behind a tree.
“Morgan, you son of a bitch!” he cried, bringing his Winchester up.
“I am not Morgan,” a feathery voice said.
Ned fired at the man, even though he was partially hidden in deep forest shadows. The bark of his rifle resounded off the sides of Ghost Valley, yet the figure remained where he was, watching Ned.
Ned jacked another shell into the firing chamber and fired again, with the same result. The man watching him simply stood where he was.
Ned levered another round into his rifle, wondering how his aim could be so bad.
“It is time for you to die, white-eyes,” the strange voice said.
“Like hell,” Ned cried, triggering off another thundering shot.
And then he saw an Indian step out into a small patch of sunlight, and his blood ran cold. “What the hell are you doin' here?” he demanded. “This ain't none of your affair, you redskin bastard!”
“We are the keepers of this valley. You have come here with black hearts. It is time for you to die . . . for all of you to die.”
Ned readied another bullet in his rifle, just as a blasting gust of wind washed off the face of the slope above him. He lost his footing and staggered backward, trying to regain his feet on slippery snow.
His left foot lost its purchase. He turned his head just in time to see the edge of the cliff. And again the wind struck him, blinding him with snowflakes, driving him farther backward in spite of every effort he was able to muster to remain where he was.
Ned was swept off the lip of the ledge. He let out a scream as he felt himself falling. His scream became a wail when his lungs emptied while he was plummeting hundreds of feet toward a pile of snow-crested rocks.
His last thought was of the Indian, and the wind, before he died in a mass of broken bones and torn flesh.