ghosts from the past, some tribe called the Anasazi.
'I saw one of them,' he told Karen.
She turned quickly from the potbelly where she was warming his soup.
'It's true,' he said. 'I couldn't get a good look at him, but he was there, and he spoke to me.'
'You're joshin',' Karen said.
'I'm completely serious.'
She went back to her cast-iron pot. 'An' just what did this Indian say?'
'He directed me to Ghost Valley. That's one reason why I'm here.'
'What's the other reasons?' she asked without turning around to look at him.
'A white man, a gunfighter by the name of Doc Holliday, told me this is where I could find Pine and Vanbergen.'
'You'll have to ask Pa about that. I mind my own business when it comes to gunfighters an' Indians. Only, Pa told me you were a gunfighter, so I reckon I shouldn't be talkin' to you now.'
'That was a long time ago,' Frank said sleepily as the corn whiskey began to do its work.
--------
*Twenty*
He saw Jake Allison standing at the end of a dusty street in Abilene, Texas, and he knew something was wrong, since this moment came from his distant past. Jake was a deadly gunman with a far-flung reputation as a quick-draw artist. And Allison was long dead, by the hand of Frank Morgan.
Jake came toward him, his gun tied low on his leg. He wore a flat-brim hat, stovepipe boots, and a leather vest, with a bandanna around his neck.
'Time we settled this, Morgan!' Jake shouted from the far end of the street.
'Suits the hell outta me, Jake,' Frank heard himself say in a voice that was not his own.
'You been talkin' about how you're gonna kill me. I'll give you the chance.'
Frank began taking measured steps toward Allison, his hand near his gun. 'It won't be just talk, Jake. You killed that boy and his brother up on the Leon River. They were friends of mine and I don't take that sort of thing lightly.'
'The sheriff ruled it was self-defense, Morgan.'
'Sheriff Stokes is in the pockets of the cattlemen's association, the crooked outfit you work for.'
'You can't prove a damn thing. Them Miller boys went for their guns first.'
'They weren't gunmen and you know it. They'd have never gone for a gun against a rattlesnake like you.'
'You talk mighty tough, Morgan,' Jake said as he walked closer.
Frank grinned. 'Difference between you and me is, I can back it up.'
Jake stopped, spreading his feet slightly apart. 'Time we quit all this jabberin'.'
Frank kept moving closer, judging the distance, ready to make his play. 'I'm done with words myself, Jake. I'm gonna give you the first pull. Go for that damn gun whenever you're ready.'
'You're tryin' to trick me.'
'How's that?'
'You damn sure won't give me the first chance at the draw an' you know it. I'm too fast for you.'
A crowd had begun to gather along the boardwalks of Abilene to watch the affair. Everyone was listening to what was being said.
Frank halted his strides when they were fifty feet apart. 'I'll wait till I see your hand move for the butt of that pistol,' he said.
'You ain't got the nerve.'
'We'll stand here until we both die of old age, Jake, unless you make your play. I won't draw on a man first, and you can take that to the bank. If you don't draw, I swear I'll give you the worst beating you ever had.'
'You yellow bastard. You're bluffin'.' Jake's jaw was set when he said it.
'One way to find out, asshole, is to reach for iron. I'll wait.'
'If you do, you're a dead man.'
'Maybe,' Frank replied, sounding casual about it. 'You can piss on my grave if you're right about it.'
Jake's right hand made a dive for his Colt ... Frank saw the muscles in his arm tense a fraction of a second before he made the move.
Frank's hand dipped for the butt of his weapon, a practiced move, one he'd refined over many years. His gun came out, cocked and ready, before Jake could clear leather.
In a flash, Frank saw the fear in Jake's eyes when he knew he'd been beaten to the draw.
