Ghost Valley by William W. Johnstone Page B

muscles to make the ascent. Foamy lather began to form on its neck and shoulders and its breathing grew labored at the higher altitude.
    Frank saw small brook trout in the stream, suspended in deeper pools above glittering beds of colorful stones. Had it not been for his deadly purpose here, he would have stopped to enjoy the clean, pine-scented air and spend time relaxing, maybe even go fishing for a spell.
    But this was a business trip, with scores to settle, and the only thing on his mind was finding Vanbergen and Pine and the rest of the gang. If Frank Morgan had his way, a peaceful valley hidden between these peaks would run red with blood before the week was out.
    Gray clouds began to scud across the sky, coming from the north, and soon the forest shadows were dim when the sun was blocked out. Frank supposed it wasn’t too late in the year for a spring snowstorm. At higher elevations, it could snow almost any time.
    He had plenty of warm clothing and a mackinaw, just in case, and a pair of worn leather gloves. While snow wasn’t the weather he would have ordered for a manhunt, it might give him cover when he found the gang.
    A chill wind came with the clouds, and he shivered once. It had been snowing when he’d finally caught up with Ned and Vic and Conrad before.
    â€œMaybe it’s a good omen,” he mumbled, turning up his shirt collar.
    Before long he could feel a hint of ice on the winds as the stream coursed higher. Tied around his bedding behind the cantle of his saddle was a small canvas tarp to keep things dry, and it also served as a makeshift lean-to when snow or rain forced him to a halt.
    â€œIt don’t matter what the weather’s like,” he said savagely, keeping his eyes on the trail. “A goddamn hurricane won’t keep me from finding that valley.
    Mile after empty mile passed quietly under the bay’s hooves without Dog giving any indication of danger. Frank slumped in the saddle, deciding upon a stop for jerky and a tin of peaches in another hour or so.
    Farther ahead, high on a switchback, he glimpsed a black bear watching him.
    â€œProof enough the way is clear for a spell,” he told himself in a hoarse whisper.
    * * *
    He came to a small clearing an hour later, and halted his horse to swing down. With water from the stream, he could eat salted pork and sweet peaches here, with a good vantage point for watching his surroundings.
    He opened a package of butcher paper and sat on a nearby rock to chew jerky, saving the peaches for a final touch. He dipped a tin cup full of water from the stream while his horse grazed on the clearing’s grasses.
    Dog sat on his haunches in front of him with a begging look in his eyes.
    â€œYou’ll get some,” Frank promised. “Humans eat first around here.”
    He tossed Dog a scrap of jerky, and had begun opening the peach tin with his bowie knife, when suddenly Dog jumped up, snarling, looking east.
    â€œTake it easy, stranger,” a thin voice said from behind him. “I’ve got my Sharps aimed at yer back.”
    Frank glanced over his shoulder, his blood running cold. “How the hell did you slip up on me, old-timer?” He saw an old man dressed in buckskins covering him with a long-barrel buffalo gun.
    â€œ ’Twas easy. You been pretty careful most o’ the way, but yer belly got the best of you.”
    Frank wondered if he had time to make a play for his pistol before a bullet took him down. “Are you aiming to kill me?”
    â€œNope. Jest curious. You shot a man back yonder a ways an’ I was wonderin’ about it.”
    â€œHe was trying to bushwhack me.”
    â€œI seen that. Still didn’t know what it was all about.”
    â€œHe was one of the men who kidnapped my son. I got my boy back, and now I aim to make the men who took him pay.”
    â€œSounds reasonable enough.”
    â€œI take it you’re not with them. If you were, you’d