Dog sat on his haunches in front of him with a begging look in his eyes.
'You'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.
'Take 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.
' '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?'
'Nope. Jest curious. You shot a man back yonder a ways an' I was wonderin' about it.'
'He was trying to bushwhack me.'
'I seen that. Still didn't know what it was all about.'
'He 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.'
'Sounds reasonable enough.'
'I take it you're not with them. If you were, you'd have already killed me.'
'If you mean that bunch down in Ghost Valley, I damn sure ain't none of their kind.'
'Will you put that gun down and have some peaches?'
'I might. I'll give it some thought.'
'My name's Frank Morgan.'
'I'm called Buck Waite.'
'I'd sure be obliged if you lowered that gun.'
'Don't make a snatch fer that pistol you're carryin'. I've got one myself an' I'll kill you deader'n pig shit if you do.'
'No reason for a gun, I don't reckon, if you don't aim to shoot me.'
The man with shoulder-length red hair and a red beard flecked with gray lowered the muzzle of his rifle. Frank noticed he had an old Navy Colt tucked into a deerskin belt around his waist.
'Come have some peaches,' Frank offered. 'If you're willing, I need to ask you about getting into that valley. It's real clear you know your way around these mountains.'
--------
*Eight*
'So you claim yer name is Morgan,' Buck said, spearing a slice of peach with the tip of a heavy bowie knife. 'Some men who come to this country don't use their right name. You right sure yer name is Morgan?'
'I'm Frank Morgan.'
Buck's rifle lay near his feet. His left hand was never far from his pistol. He gave Frank an appraising look. 'You stalked that feller pretty good. I was watchin'.'
'I thought I saw someone higher up. Just a shadow moving in the trees.'
'I don't git around good as I used to. Old age, an' the damn rheumatiz in my joints. I couldn't fool this dog much, but there was a time when I could.'
'What puts you in these mountains?' Frank asked, though by the look of the old man the answer was clear. He made his living off the land.
'I run a few traplines. Sell a few elk and bear hides now an' then. Mostly I just live. Fish for trout. Enjoy the scenery.'
'So you're a mountain man?'
'Nope. The real mountain men are long gone, or dead an' buried. There ain't as much wild game as there used to be. I came here after the war. Wanted to be away from so-called civilization after watchin' neighbors kill each other over a bale of cotton an' nigra slaves. I gave up on what men call bein' civilized after thousands an' thousands of men got shot over somethin' they didn't understand. I fought for the Confederacy, but I never owned no slaves. Them slave owners let us poor men do their fightin' for 'em while they smoked big cigars an' drank whiskey. I got tired of bein' civilized after I killed half a hundred men just 'cause they was wearin' blue. I came up here after my wife died from yellow fever. I made up my mind to live here as long as I could, until I got too old an' feeble to take care of myself.'
'Tell me about Ghost Valley.'
Buck, almost toothless, slurped on a piece of peach. 'It's an old mining town. The placer mines played out years ago. It's a ghost town now.'
'Vanbergen and Pine and their men are there?'
'Sure are. I'd call 'em sorry sons of bitches. Won't bother me none if you kill 'em all. They shoot more deer an' elk than they kin eat an' don't smoke the rest ... leave it on the ground to rot. Git drunk as hell an' shoot guns in the air. Make a helluva ruckus, pissin' in the stream so's a man don't know what he's drinkin'. They could use a good killin', if you ask me.'
