damned. He still had it in him to fill an outlawâs body with lead . . . old age hadnât 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.
âHell, heâs only eighteen,â 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 hadnât told him the truth about the outlaw gangâs hideout, he would track him down and kill him . . . if the weather and a shoulder wound didnât get Bowers first between here and Durango.
Crossing the ridge, Frank saw an unexpected sight, an old mountain man leading a mule.
âSeems harmless enough. Most likely an old trapper or a grizzly hunter.â
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 didnât 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 Frankâs horses coming down the ridge. He stopped and watched Frank ride toward him, Frankâs 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.
âNo need to pull that gun, stranger!â Frank called. âI mean you no harm.â
The gray-bearded man grinned. âHell of a thing, to be caught out in this squall. Donât see many travelers in these parts, mister.â
âThe nameâs Frank Morgan. Iâm looking for Stump Creek, and a cabin north of here in a box canyon.â
The mountain man scowled. âWhat in tarnation would you want with the old robbersâ roost? Are you on the dodge from the law some place?â
âNope . . . 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
âOlâ Ned Pine,â the trapper said, his mule loaded with game traps and cured beaver skins. âIâd be real careful if I was you. Pine is a killer. So are them boys who run with him. They ainât no good, not a one of âem.â
âLike I said, my son is their prisoner. Iâm gonna kill every last one of them if I have to. I need directions to that creek, and the cabin.â
The mountain man cocked his head. âAinât one man tough enough to get that job done, Morgan. I know all about Pine and his hoodlums. Theyâll kill a man for sneezinâ if he gets too close to âem. Maybe you oughta rethink what youâre planninâ to do before it gets you killed. There could be as many as a dozen of âem.â
Frank nodded. âIâll think on it long and hard, mister, but Iâd be obliged if youâd point me in the direction of Stump Creek and that hideout.â
âKeep movinâ northwest. Youâll hit the creek in about ten miles. Turn due north and follow the creek into the canyon where Stump Creek has its headwaters.â
âIâm grateful. Names donât mean all that much out here, but you can give me your handle if youâre so inclined.â
âTin Pan is what I go by. Spent years panninâ these streams lookinâ for color. Never found so much as a single nugget, but thereâs plenty of beaver pelts to be had.â
âAppreciate the information, Tin Pan. I wonât make it to the creek until itâs nearly dark. If youâre of a mind to share a little coffee and fatback with a stranger, you can look for my fire.â
âMight just do that, Morgan. It gets a sight lonely out