'I've got whiskey in my saddlebags. Good Kentucky sour mash too. Now I'm not saying I'd waste any of it on you, but your chances are better if you tell me what I want to know about who's guarding the entrance to that canyon.'
'Josh. Josh and Arnie are watchin' the canyon from a rock pile at the top.'
'Has Ned or any of the others injured my boy?' Frank tapped Buster's front teeth with his pistol barrel to add a bit of emphasis to his question.
'Ned slapped him around some....' Buster broke into another fit of bloody coughing. 'Ned's after you. He swore he was gonna kill you. He won't kill your boy until he sees you lyin' dead someplace.'
'Damn,' Tin Pan sighed, balancing his Sharps in the palm of his hand. 'That Pine's a rotten bastard, to hold a kid as bait like he is.'
'Gimme ... some of that whiskey, like you promised,' Buster said.
'I didn't promise you anything, Buster,' Frank said, taking his gun away from Buster's teeth. 'I only said I had some in my saddlebags. If I poured a swallow down your throat, it'd just leak out onto the snow on account of that big hole in your gut. I think I'll save my whiskey for a better occasion. Be a shame to waste good sour mash on a man who's gonna be dead in a few minutes.'
'You bastard,' Buster hissed.
'I've been called worse,' Frank replied. 'But I've never been one to be wasteful. I grew up mighty poor. Pouring whiskey into a dying man is damn sure a waste of the distiller's fine art.'
'Are you just gonna leave me here to die?' Buster croaked, blood bubbling from his lips.
'There's another way,' Frank said.
Buster blinked. 'What the hell are you talkin' about, Morgan?'
'I can put a bullet through your brain and you won't be cold or hurt anymore.'
'That'd be murder.
'Ned and the rest of you killed my wife. That was murder. In case you don't read the Bible, it says to take an eye for an eye.'
'You ain't got no conscience, Morgan. Ned told us you was a rotten son of a bitch.'
'I've got no conscience when it comes to men who kill women and harm kids who can't defend themselves. To tell the truth, killing you and Pine and all of his gang will be a downright pleasure.'
'Jesus ... you ain't really gonna do it, are you?' Buster whispered.
Frank stood up, holstering his Colt. 'I damn sure am unless they give me back my son.'
'Put me on my horse, Morgan. Give me a fightin' chance to live.'
'It don't appear you can sit a horse, Buster, but if you want I can tie you across your saddle.'
Tin Pan shook his head. 'Hell, Morgan, this sumbitch is already dead. Leave him where he lays. Have you forgot that him an' his partners just tried to kill you?'
'I'm a forgiving man,' Frank said dryly. 'Just because some gunslick tries to take away all you have, or all you're ever gonna have, don't mean you can't show any forgiveness for what he tried to do.' He gazed down at Buster for a time. 'Are you truly sorry you tried to kill me?' he asked.
' Hell, no,' Buster spat, still defiant. 'If I'd had the right shot at you, it'd be you layin' in this snow with a hole in your guts.'
Frank chuckled, but there was no humor in it. He glanced over at Tin Pan. 'See what I mean?' he asked. 'We've got a killer here with no remorse. I think I'll just leave him here to die slow. His pardners are already dead. We'll take their horses and deliver 'em to Ned Pine. Send them into that canyon with empty saddles, a little message from me that this fight has just started.'
'It's your fight,' Tin Pan said.
Frank slapped the old mountain man on the shoulder. 'I'm glad I had you siding with me. You dropped that outlaw quicker'n snuff makes spit.'
'It was the coffee,' Tin Pan replied. 'A man who'll offer a stranger a cup of coffee with brown sugar in it way up in these slopes deserves a helping hand.'
Frank gave Tin Pan a genuine laugh. 'Let's fetch their horses down to our picket line. Feel free to take any of their guns you want. Where they're going, they won't be needing a pistol or a rifle.'
Tin Pan grinned. 'Reckon we could add a splash of that Kentucky sour mash to the next cup of coffee?'
'You can have all of it you want.'
Buster coughed again; then his feet began to twitch with death throes.
'You see what I was talking about?' Frank asked. 'It would have been a waste of good bottled spirits to pour even one drop of it into a dead man.'
* * * *
'What makes a printer from Indiana get filled with wanderlust for the mountains?' Frank asked, drinking coffee laced with whiskey after the outlaws' horses were tied in the trees along with Frank's animals and the mule.
'Dreamin', I reckon. I saw tintypes of the Rockies and I just knew I had to see 'em for myself.'
'And you planned to pay for it by panning for gold in these high mountain streams?'
