'Like hell. All I've got to do is keep riding toward that valley.'
'We shoulda killed that boy of yours when we had him, you cold-blooded sumbitch.'
'I'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.
'Hear that sound, back-shooter?' Frank asked, grinning a mirthless grin. 'That's a death rattle in your chest. It won't be long now.'
'Help ... me.'
'Not today, cowboy. I've got business with your bosses and it won't wait.'
'Nobody ... can be ... that cold.'
'You 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.
'I 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.
'Adios, 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.
'Out 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 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.
'Maybe 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 leanto when snow or rain forced him to a halt.
'It 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.
'Proof 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.
