Frank's jaw muscles went tight. 'If I can find Vanbergen and Pine, I intend to kill them for what they did to my Vivian, and to Conrad.'
'Could be I can tell you where to find 'em,' the old man said.
Frank turned around abruptly. 'Where?'
The man aimed a thumb toward the snow-clad peaks north of Glenwood Springs. 'Up yonder. Doc ... that's Doc Holliday, he knows where they're at.'
'Would he tell me?' Frank asked, feeling his blood begin to boil.
'Can't say fer sure, Mr. Morgan. But you can ask him for yourself, if you've a mind to.'
'Where is Holliday?'
'At the sanitarium.'
'Where is it?'
'Just ride down to the river an' turn east. You'll see it plain as day.'
'I'll do it first thing in the morning.'
'Doc, he's cranky as hell, but he's in a lot of pain, so they say.'
'All I want to know is where I can find Vanbergen and Pine,' Frank explained.
'Doc knows 'em. Leastways he knows where they go to hide out from the law.'
'I appreciate what you've told me,' Frank said.
The old-timer turned toward town. 'That Ned Pine, he ain't no good. If there's a sumbitch in Colorado who deserves to die, it's him.'
'What's your name?' Frank asked as the old man walked off.
'They call me George. I reckon that's all you need to know.'
A moment later George was out of sight around a bend in the road. Frank made up his mind to talk to Doc Holliday right after sunrise.
As he was about to head back to the hotel he saw a slight movement in the pine trees behind the burial ground. Again, he reached for his pistol.
A shape appeared, a slender man dressed in buckskins. He walked with a swinging gait toward the rear of the cemetery and then he stopped.
Small hairs swirled on the back of Frank's neck. He was looking at the same Indian he'd seen when he came into Glenwood Springs this afternoon.
'Who are you?' Frank shouted.
No one answered him and the Indian did not move.
'I asked you a question,' Frank called. 'Who the hell are you?'
A soft voice spoke to him, even though the Indian was more than a hundred yards away beyond the cemetery fence.
'Go to the mountains.'
Frank wrapped his fingers around the butt of his Colt Peacemaker ... an odd sensation touched some inner part of him, one he couldn't explain.
'Walk around here so I can see your face,' he said.
'Go to the mountains,' the Indian said again.
'What for?' Frank asked.
'To find the men you seek. Ride to Ghost Valley.'
'Why should I take any advice from you, and how is it you know I'm looking for anybody? You won't even tell me who the hell you are.'
'I am One Who Came Before. We are called Anasazi. This is all you need to know.'
'But how is it that you know I'm looking for a couple of men?'
'Go to the mountains,' the Indian said for the third time. 'One of the men you seek is behind you now.' Then he wheeled away and disappeared into the forest.
'Damn,' Frank whispered. He gave some thought to following the Indian. Or was this all a product of his imagination?
Frank glanced over his shoulder, just in time to see a man cradling a shotgun walking toward him from the direction of Glenwood Springs.
'Are you Frank Morgan?' the man cried, bringing the shotgun to his shoulder. Frank wasted no time drawing his pistol, aiming it, drawing back the Colt's hammer.
'I asked you a question, you son of a bitch!'
'Here's my answer,' Frank bellowed. His trigger finger curled.
A shot rang out, echoing off the mountainsides surrounding the cemetery.
The stranger with the shotgun stumbled, staggering to keep his footing. He fired a load of buckshot into
