Cletus wheeled toward the chair where Conrad was sitting. 'You'd damn sure better be wrong about that, boy, or this is where somebody'll be diggin' your grave.'
Skeeter gave Conrad a yellow-toothed grin. 'We'll be buryin' you right beside your pappy, sonny, if this ground ain't too froze to dig.'
'He won't pay,' Conrad said again.
'He'd damn sure better,' Ned snapped, glaring at the youth with slitted eyes.
A gust of wind rattled a loose windowpane on one side of the shack. Cletus almost dropped his plate of beans to reach for his pistol.
'You're kind'a jumpy, ain't you?' Victor asked.
Cletus directed a cold stare at Vanbergen. 'It's what keeps me alive.'
Conrad began to cough, holding his sides, ignoring the beans he'd been offered.
'What the hell's the matter with him?' a gunslick asked.
'Who gives a damn,' Cletus said. 'All he's gotta do is stay alive until we collect that money. He can cough his goddamn head off for all I care.'
'Reckon we oughta put somethin' on his ear?' Skeeter asked softly.
'Hell, no,' Ned answered. 'Leave him be. He ain't gonna bleed to death from no scratch like that. Hell, it's just a part of his ear.'
Skeeter ducked his head and went over to the fireplace, taking down a tin coffeepot. 'I'll go out an' fetch some more snow so's we can have fresh coffee. This shit tastes like wagon grease.'
'Suit yourself,' Ned told him. 'Just be careful walkin' around out there. We don't know who's with Morgan ... but we do know he's a pretty damn good shot.'
'I won't have to go far,' Skeeter replied, pausing after he opened the door. 'It's still snowin' like hell out yonder. I damn sure ain't took no likin' to this here north country. Be glad to get back where it's warm.'
Skeeter went out into the storm, closing the door behind him.
* * * *
Skeeter Woolford tasted fear while he was out gathering fresh snow. There was something about Cletus Huling that gave him a dose of worry.
He saw Sammy coming toward him in the darkness after putting the horses in the shed behind the shack.
Sammy walked up to him, speaking in low tones. 'We'd best keep an eye on that Huling feller,' he said. 'I don't trust a man who'll kill his partner just 'cause he claims he got on his nerves.'
'I was thinkin' the same thing,' Skeeter said. 'He's liable to rob us of all the money after we get it, or kill every damn one of us in our sleep.'
'He's damn sure a sneaky bastard,' Sammy agreed. 'I won't sleep a wink till this is over.'
'Keep your pistol handy,' Skeeter warned, dipping snow off the top of a drift.
'I will,' Sammy said, glancing up and down the empty street running through the abandoned mining town, a roadway now covered with several inches of snow. 'Besides that, we gotta keep an eye out for that bastard Morgan an' his pardner.'
'Just between you an' me,' Skeeter confided, 'Ned an' Victor have gone plumb crazy over this whole idea. It was dumb to grab that kid again. Morgan didn't pay the last time. All he done was shoot the hell outta a bunch of us.'
'I don't need no reminder.'
'Time comes, if it don't look like Morgan intends to pay, I say we cut our losses an' ride out of here.'
'But we come all this way.'
'What difference will it make how far we rode if we wind up dead?'
Sammy nodded, knocking snowflakes off the brim of his hat. 'And now we gotta watch out for Huling. We're liable to be caught on two sides of a shootout.'
'Just don't sleep too hard. Let's get back inside before Ned gets edgy about us bein' gone.'
They trudged through the snow to the door of the shack as the storm let up briefly. Sammy glanced over his shoulder at the rim of the valley.
'Spooky place,' Sammy whispered, kicking snow off his boots. 'I see why it's called Ghost Valley. Things just don't seem all that natural here.'
Skeeter was about to open the door when he saw shapes moving on one of the slopes. He dropped the coffeepot and reached for his pistol. 'Who the hell is that?' he cried, jerking his Colt from leather.
'Injuns,' Sammy replied, sweeping back the coat tails of his mackinaw, drawing his gun. 'They're too far out of range for a handgun.'
'I count four,' Skeeter said, peering into a swirling curtain of small snowflakes. 'What the hell are they doin' here?'
'Better tell the boss,' Sammy said, pushing the door to the shack open.
Skeeter picked up the coffeepot just as the four Indians rode out of sight into a stand of pines.
'Injuns!' Sammy bellowed from inside the cabin. 'We seen 'em just now.'
