empty mountains, a building snow storm, and a manhunt to find Vanbergen and Pine so Frank could exact his revenge.
A hatless figure rode out of the pines ahead of him, a man on a black and white pinto horse.
'It's Buck,' Frank said as Dog began to growl, stopping near a bend in the stream.
'Easy, Dog,' Frank commanded. 'He's okay.'
Buck rode down to meet him, his shoulders and hair dusted with fine snowflakes.
'It's clear all the way to the ravine below the rim of the valley,' Buck said, resting his Sharps across his lap. He rode an old McClellan Army saddle that had seen better days, with a beaded rifle boot of some Indian design below a stirrup. A pair of saddlebags was tied to the cantle.
'How far?' Frank asked.
'Another four miles or so to the valley.' He looked up at the sky. 'This squall is liable to git heavy up yonder, so git ready fer it.'
'I'm ready,' Frank replied. 'Just show me where I can find that old mining town ... a way down to it. I'll damn sure do the rest.'
'You're a hard-nosed feller, ain't you?' Buck asked with a hint of a twinkle in his eye.
'Some say I am. To me, this is just business. I'm paying back a debt.'
Buck wheeled his pony and rode out ahead, staying close to the brook. His head kept turning back and forth as though he expected something to happen.
_He's wily old cuss,_ Frank thought.
He was glad Buck had shown up when he did. Again, Frank was reminded of how much Buck was like Tin Pan. He supposed these mountains were full of such types, men who had left the ordinary world behind to live in total isolation, escaping an often tragic past to live here without bad memories.
All this, he told himself, was worth it ... the suffering and hardship. Pine and Vanbergen had a lesson coming, and Frank was just the man to teach school.
He'd almost had them both, yet his prime interest had been getting Conrad back to safety unharmed. It had kept Frank from exacting the brand of vengeance he'd been known for most of his life....
--------
*Nine*
Frank's shoulders were hunched into the wind, the collar of his mackinaw turned up, the brim of his hat pulled down against a building wall of snow as he followed the tracks of the gang holding Conrad.
'Just my luck,' he muttered, guiding his horse up a snowy ridge, leading his packhorse. 'Even the weather's turned against me.'
It had been a rough ride up to the cabin, the four bounty hunters following him, including Jake Miller, who'd tried to gun him down for the fifteen thousand dollars on his head. Like in the old days, when he made his living by the gun. But with Conrad's life on the line, no amount of hardship would turn him aside. The boy couldn't take care of himself against a gang of white-trash gunslingers. The old days be damned. He still had it in him to fill an outlaw's body with lead ... old age hadn't robbed him of the skill. Or the speed.
All that mattered now was finding Conrad, and getting him away from Ned Pine and his hired shootists. Conrad would be no match for them.
'Hell, he's only eighteen,' Frank said into the wind as more snow pelted him.
His first objective was to find a stream called Stump Creek and then ride north along its banks. If Bowers hadn't told him the truth about the outlaw gang's hideout, he would track him down and kill him ... if the weather and a shoulder wound didn't get Bowers first between here and Durango.
Crossing the ridge, Frank saw an unexpected sight, an old mountain man leading a mule.
'Seems harmless enough. Most likely an old trapper or a grizzly hunter.'
Most of the old-time mountain men were gone now. Times had changed.
To be on the safe side Frank opened his coat so he could reach for his Colt Peacemaker. His Winchester was booted to his saddle, just in case a fight started at longer range, although Frank didn't expect any such thing. The old man in deerskins was minding his own business, leading his mule west into the storm with his head lowered.
The mountain man wearing the coonskin cap heard Frank's horses coming down the ridge. He stopped and watched Frank ride toward him, Frank's right hand near a belted pistol at his waist. The old man froze, out in the open, dozens of yards from any cover. He crouched a little, like he was ready for action.
'No need to pull that gun, stranger!' Frank called. 'I mean you no harm.'
The gray-bearded man grinned. 'Hell of a thing, to be caught out in this squall. Don't see many travelers in these parts, mister.'
'The name's Frank Morgan. I'm looking for Stump Creek, and a cabin north of here in a box canyon.'
The mountain man scowled. 'What in tarnation would you want with the old robbers' roost? Are you on the dodge from the law some place?'
'Nope ... leastways not around here. A gang of cutthroats led by a jasper named Ned Pine has taken my eighteen-year-old son as hostage. I aim to get my boy back.'
'Ol' Ned Pine,' the trapper said, his mule loaded with game traps and cured beaver skins. 'I'd be real careful if I was you. Pine is a killer. So are them boys who run with him. They ain't no good, not a one of 'em.'
'Like I said, my son is their prisoner. I'm gonna kill every last one of them if I have to. I need directions to
