Ghost Valley by William W. Johnstone Page A

bastard. My ma and pa were married. You’ve been wrong about nearly everything so far, cowboy.”
    â€œYou gotta get me to a doctor.”
    â€œI don’t have to do a damn thing except climb on my horse and be on my way.”
    â€œI can tell you where to find Ned an’ Vic, only you gotta help me.”
    â€œI already know where they are.”
    â€œHow the hell’d you find out?”
    â€œAn Indian told me.”
    The gunman raised his head to stare at Frank. “You seen ’em too?”
    Frank merely nodded.
    The shooter’s head fell back on the grass. “Help me, Morgan. I’ll be dead before dark if you don’t.”
    â€œSeems a shame. I’m touched by your predicament. I was on my way to Ghost Valley when some son of a bitch tried to shoot me from ambush. But I got behind you and shot you instead, and now you want me to have sympathy for you?”
    â€œDamn, Morgan. My belly hurts. I’m dyin’.”
    â€œAppears that way. I’m gonna find your horse and turn it loose while you leak blood all over this pretty green grass. I fully intend to leave you right here.”
    â€œIt was just business, Morgan. Ned hired me to take you out. You’re a hired gun, so you oughta know it damn sure ain’t nothin’ personal.”
    â€œI’m not taking it personally.”
    â€œYou gotta help me get to a doctor.”
    â€œLike hell. All I’ve got to do is keep riding toward that valley.”
    â€œWe shoulda killed that boy of yours when we had him, you cold-blooded sumbitch.”
    â€œI’m no kind of son of a bitch. If you weren’t already dying, I’d kill you over a remark like that.”
    The gunman’s breathing became ragged.
    â€œHear that sound, back-shooter?” Frank asked, grinning a mirthless grin. “That’s a death rattle in your chest. It won’t be long now.”
    â€œHelp . . . me.”
    â€œNot today, cowboy. I’ve got business with your bosses and it won’t wait.”
    â€œNobody . . . can be ... that cold.”
    â€œYou just met him,” Frank said savagely before he wheeled away to look for the shooter’s horse.
    He found a dun gelding in a ravine and pulled the saddle off it, tossing the saddle to the ground. Frank slipped off the bridle and gave the horse its freedom.
    As he was turning to climb back up the ridge, he thought he saw a shadow move in the forest higher above him. A reflex—he raised his rifle and moved behind a pine tree.
    â€œI know I saw somebody,” he whispered.
    But no matter how closely he looked, he saw nothing now and it gave him a spooky feeling. Who the hell would be watching him unless he came here to shoot at him? he wondered.
    He pondered the possibility that the Indian who spoke to him at the Glenwood Springs cemetery was watching him again. But he couldn’t quite make himself believe in old Indian ghosts. It had to be a Ute or a Shoshoni, a flesh-and-blood Indian.
    After a final examination of the woods he strode back to the spot where the gunman lay. The bushwhacker’s eyes were closed and his breathing was shallow.
    â€œAdios, you yellow bastard,” Frank said, trudging back toward his horse and the dog.
    He found his bay ground-hitched where he’d left him, and Dog sat patiently a few yards away in the tree shadows.
    â€œOut front, Dog,” Frank said, climbing into the saddle with his Winchester. He wondered if any more attempts would be made on his life before he found the valley.
    * * *
    He rode up on a clear, running brook coming out of the mountains. Gazing north, he could see faint traces of a trail following the east bank of the stream.
    Frank whistled Dog back from the far side of the shallow creek and began the steeper climb. Dog seemed unconcerned by anything flanking the trail, moving farther ahead with his ears drooping.
    The bay began to struggle climbing rocky spots, bunching its