Free Ghost Valley by William W. Johnstone

damned. He still had it in him to fill an outlaw’s body with lead . . . old age hadn’t robbed him of the skill. Or the speed.
    All that mattered now was finding Conrad, and getting him away from Ned Pine and his hired shootists. Conrad would be no match for them.
    â€œHell, he’s only eighteen,” Frank said into the wind as more snow pelted him.
    His first objective was to find a stream called Stump Creek and then ride north along its banks. If Bowers hadn’t told him the truth about the outlaw gang’s hideout, he would track him down and kill him . . . if the weather and a shoulder wound didn’t get Bowers first between here and Durango.
    Crossing the ridge, Frank saw an unexpected sight, an old mountain man leading a mule.
    â€œSeems harmless enough. Most likely an old trapper or a grizzly hunter.”
    Most of the old-time mountain men were gone now. Times had changed.
    To be on the safe side Frank opened his coat so he could reach for his Colt Peacemaker. His Winchester was booted to his saddle, just in case a fight started at longer range, although Frank didn’t expect any such thing. The old man in deerskins was minding his own business, leading his mule west into the storm with his head lowered.
    The mountain man wearing the coonskin cap heard Frank’s horses coming down the ridge. He stopped and watched Frank ride toward him, Frank’s right hand near a belted pistol at his waist. The old man froze, out in the open, dozens of yards from any cover. He crouched a little, like he was ready for action.
    â€œNo need to pull that gun, stranger!” Frank called. “I mean you no harm.”
    The gray-bearded man grinned. “Hell of a thing, to be caught out in this squall. Don’t see many travelers in these parts, mister.”
    â€œThe name’s Frank Morgan. I’m looking for Stump Creek, and a cabin north of here in a box canyon.”
    The mountain man scowled. “What in tarnation would you want with the old robbers’ roost? Are you on the dodge from the law some place?”
    â€œNope . . . leastways not around here. A gang of cutthroats led by a jasper named Ned Pine has taken my eighteen-year-old son as hostage. I aim to get my boy back.”
    â€œOl’ Ned Pine,” the trapper said, his mule loaded with game traps and cured beaver skins. “I’d be real careful if I was you. Pine is a killer. So are them boys who run with him. They ain’t no good, not a one of ’em.”
    â€œLike I said, my son is their prisoner. I’m gonna kill every last one of them if I have to. I need directions to that creek, and the cabin.”
    The mountain man cocked his head. “Ain’t one man tough enough to get that job done, Morgan. I know all about Pine and his hoodlums. They’ll kill a man for sneezin’ if he gets too close to ’em. Maybe you oughta rethink what you’re plannin’ to do before it gets you killed. There could be as many as a dozen of ’em.”
    Frank nodded. “I’ll think on it long and hard, mister, but I’d be obliged if you’d point me in the direction of Stump Creek and that hideout.”
    â€œKeep movin’ northwest. You’ll hit the creek in about ten miles. Turn due north and follow the creek into the canyon where Stump Creek has its headwaters.”
    â€œI’m grateful. Names don’t mean all that much out here, but you can give me your handle if you’re so inclined.”
    â€œTin Pan is what I go by. Spent years pannin’ these streams lookin’ for color. Never found so much as a single nugget, but there’s plenty of beaver pelts to be had.”
    â€œAppreciate the information, Tin Pan. I won’t make it to the creek until it’s nearly dark. If you’re of a mind to share a little coffee and fatback with a stranger, you can look for my fire.”
    â€œMight just do that, Morgan. It gets a sight lonely out