Ghost Valley by William W. Johnstone

time.
    Then Dog halted suddenly, hair rigid along his backbone as he looked to the east.
    Frank drew rein on his horse at once, scanning the dark forest. A marksman worth his salt could kill him easily from those pines. Perhaps it was time to proceed with more care until he cleared this part of the road.
    He swung out of the saddle, using his bay for a shield to continue moving northwest, walking beside the horse’s shoulder. And still, Dog didn’t move, watching the trees with a low growl coming from his throat.
    â€œThat’s good enough for me,” Frank muttered, moving off the road to enter black forest shadows where he would make a more difficult target. Balancing his Winchester in the palm of his hand, he crept along at a snail’s pace.
    â€œWhat is it, Dog?” he whispered when he came to the spot in the road where his dog remained frozen between the ruts.
    Dog wouldn’t look at him, staring at the same spot on a wooded ridge, still growling.
    Now Frank was sure something, or someone, was out there. It would be a fool’s move to continue along the road until he found out what it was.
    He ground-hitched the bay and started walking softly among the pine trunks, using them for cover wherever he could. Dog trotted up beside him, his attention still fixed on the ridge.
    I wonder if it’s that Indian again, Frank thought.
    Dog had never given him a false signal despite the cur’s advancing age.
    With no warning, the sharp crack of a rifle’s report sounded from the ridge. Frank threw himself on the ground behind a ponderosa trunk, listening to the bullet sizzle high above his head.
    â€œDamn, that was close,” Frank said, gritting his teeth in anger. He knew now that he should have been more cautious, coming around behind the ridge instead of approaching it head-on.
    â€œI missed you, Morgan!” a distant voice shouted. “But I ain’t done yet!”
    Dog was crouched beside him . . . it wasn’t the first bullet the animal ever heard.
    One of Pine’s or Vanbergen’s men, Frank thought. There may be more than one.
    â€œStay, Dog,” he whispered, crawling backward away from the tree, keeping it between him and the shooter.
    Frank took off in a crouch, dodging and darting from one pine to the next, his chest welling with rage.
    Moving as quickly as he could, he began a wide circle that would take him around to the back of the ridge.
    * * *
    He sighted a prone form using underbrush for cover at the top of the switchback, partially hidden in the shade to keep sunlight from gleaming off his rifle barrel.
    â€œGotcha, you bastard,” Frank whispered, drawing a bead on the man’s back. Frank wouldn’t shoot a man in the back without giving him a fair warning.
    â€œHey, asshole! I’m back here!” he cried.
    The rifleman flipped over on his side, bringing his gun around as quickly as he could. It was just what Frank had been waiting for.
    He triggered a .44-caliber slug into the man’s belly. The explosion near his ear almost deafened him.
    â€œShit!” the rifleman bellowed, jerking when the bullet found its mark. A crimson stain exploded on his shirtfront. He dropped his rifle to grab his belly with both hands.
    Frank came to his feet, still covering the bushwhacker as he started toward him. Taking careful steps, he started up the back of the ridge.
    â€œJesus! I’m shot!” the gunman moaned, blood pouring between his fingers.
    â€œThat’s a real good calculation of your situation,” Frank told him. “You’re gonna die for Ned Pine and Victor Vanbergen. Ask yourself if it was worth whatever they were paying you to ambush me.”
    â€œYou ain’t gonna just leave me here, Morgan.”
    â€œThat’s exactly what I’m gonna do. I hope you die slow, so you can think about what you just tried to do. Hurts a bit, don’t it?”
    â€œYou bastard.”
    â€œI’m not a