tracks you found that feller in the bowler.'
'I did,' Frank replied. 'He had an arrow in his gut, which means there's someone else in these woods who's doing some shooting.'
'Kind'a odd,' Buck agreed. 'Them Injuns ain't never showed me nothin' but a peaceful side in all the years me an' Karen been up here.'
'They sure as hell aren't ghosts,' Frank said, glancing back at the valley.
'Never said they was, Morgan. It was you who came up with that story.'
'Somebody in Glenwood Springs said they were ghosts of the Old Ones, the Ones Who Came Before.'
'They leave real tracks just like ordinary folks, most of the time.'
'What do you mean by 'most of the time'?'
Buck took his time answering. 'Once or twice I've seen 'em up here, but their ponies didn't leave no tracks in the snow, or in the mud close to a creek.'
'Maybe you just didn't look hard enough.'
Buck chuckled. 'I make a livin' lookin' for tracks, Morgan.'
'Could be your eyes are getting bad, Buck.'
'I seen that arrow in that feller's side plain enough. My eyes are still good.'
'It's hard to figure why an Indian who has no stake in this fight would take a side.'
'Some things just don't make no sense, Morgan. Just be glad that galoot is dead.'
'I am. Now I've gotta fetch my horse and ride down to the ghost town ... before Pine and Vanbergen make up their minds to kill my son.'
'I'll ride along,' Buck said.
'No need. I can handle it alone.'
'You're a hardheaded cuss, Morgan.'
Frank turned away to climb back up the slope. 'So they tell me,' he replied, balancing his Winchester in his good hand as he plodded through the snow.
'I'll collect my pinto,' Buck said. 'Just in case you run into more'n you can handle. I'll stay back a ways so I can keep an eye on things.'
'Suit yourself on it, Buck ... but like I told you, I can handle this business myself.'
He heard Buck laugh softly before he disappeared into the pines.
Frank knew he owed the old man and his daughter a tremendous debt. He wondered if he'd be alive now had it not been for Buck Waite and Karen.
He climbed aboard his bay painfully, sighting downslope for a time. The way looked clear. However, experience had taught him that looks could be deceiving.
* * * *
A lone horseman crossed the valley floor, keeping his mount to a walk. Frank saw him clearly even though the distance was great, half a mile or more.
'I'll keep watching him,' Frank muttered, staying deep in the forest.
The rider crossed the valley and started up a steep trail toward a rocky ridge overlooking the valley. His horse had to struggle to make the climb up a snow-covered trail. The ridge, ending abruptly where a sheer cliff overlooked Ghost Valley, was a straight drop of more than a hundred feet.
'Wonder why the hell he's headed up there?' Frank asked himself, reining his bay to the east to approach the ridge from an angle that held plenty of cover. Snow-clad pine trees would cover most of his progress until he reached the cliff, if that were truly the rider's destination.
There was something vaguely familiar about the way this horseman sat a saddle, he thought.
He halted his horse suddenly when he caught a glimpse of an Indian watching from the top of the cliff, perched atop a red and white pinto pony. But just as suddenly, in the blink of an eye, the Indian was gone when a gust of wind kicked up a swirl of snowflakes. When the snow settled, the cliff top was as it had been before ... empty.
'Maybe it's the whiskey Karen gave me.' He recalled Karen fondly just then. She had a strange natural beauty that appealed to him.
Frank kept riding toward the towering cliff, keeping his eyes on the horseman climbing toward the top along a twisting trail. There was no doubt in Frank's mind that this was one of Vanbergen's or Pine's men, sent out to kill him. But he also knew he had to keep a close watch for the Indian he'd seen moments before, just in case the redskin was killing every white man who came to their hidden valley.
Dog trotted well out in front, his nose to the ground, now and then lifting it to scent the air. The ridge of hair lay flat on his back, a sure sign that the animal sensed nothing in front of them.
The horseman would reach the top of the cliff long before Frank could get there. Frank's final approach would have to be slow, cautious, on foot, ready for anything if this was the rider's destination.
Dog stopped for a moment to lap up a few mouthfuls of snow before he continued to lead Frank toward the bluff.
* * * *
