Free Ghost Valley by William W. Johnstone Page A

on these slopes. Besides, I’m plumb out of coffee. Been out for near a month now. But I’ve got a wild turkey hen we can spit on them flames tonight. Turkey an’ fatback sounds mighty good, if it comes with coffee.”
    â€œYou’ll be welcome at my fire, Tin Pan. I’m headed west and north until I hit the creek. I’ll have a pot of coffee on by the time you get there leading that mule.”
    â€œI can cover more ground than most folks figure. A mule has got more gumption than a horse when the weather gets bad. I’ll be there . . . pretty close behind you, unless I get a shot at a good fat deer. It’ll take me half an hour to gut him and skin him proper.”
    Tin Pan had a Sharps booted to the packsaddle on his mule. There was something confident about the way the old man carried himself.
    â€œVenison goes good with coffee,” Frank said. He gazed into the snowstorm. “The only thing I’ve got to be careful about is having Ned Pine or a member of his gang spot my campfire. I may have to find a spot sheltered by trees to throw up my canvas lean-to. I don’t want them to know I’m coming.”
    Tin Pan shook his head. “Not in this snow. The cabin you talked about is miles up the creek anyhow. Only a damn fool would be out in a storm like this. I reckon that makes both of us damn fools, don’t it?”
    Frank chuckled. “Hard to argue against it. I’ll find that creek and get a fire and coffee going. It’s gonna be pitch dark in an hour or two. I need to find the right spot to hide my horses and gear from prying eyes.”
    â€œYou won’t have no problems tonight, Morgan,” Tin Pan said. “But if it stops snowin’ before sunrise, you’ll have more than a passel of troubles when the sun comes up. A man on a horse sticks out like a sore thumb in this country after it snows, if the sun is shinin’. That’s when you’ll have to be mighty damn careful.”
    â€œSee you in a couple of hours,” Frank said, urging his horse forward. “Just thinking about a cup of hot coffee and a frying pan full of fatback has got my belly grumbling.”
    â€œI’ll be there,” the mountain man assured him. “Sure hope you got a lump of sugar to go with that coffee.”
    â€œA bag full of brown sugar,” Frank said over his shoulder as he rode down the ridge.
    â€œDamn if I ain’t got the luck today,” Tin Pan cried as Frank rode out of sight into a stand of pines at the bottom of a steep slope.
    Frank rode directly into the snowfall, his hands and face numbed by the cold. The outlaws’ trail would be gone in an hour or less, with so much snow falling. He’d have to rely on the information Bowers and the mountain man gave him.
    * * *
    His horses were tied in a pine grove. Frank huddled over a small fire, begging it to life by blowing on what little dry tinder he could find.
    Stump Creek lay before him. He supposed the stream earned its name from the work of a beaver colony. All up and down the creek’s banks, stumps from gnawed-down trees dotted the open spots.
    The clear creek still flowed, with only a thin layer of ice on it. It was easy to break through to get enough water to fill his coffeepot.
    He poured a handful of scorched coffee beans into the pot and set it beside the building flames. By surrounding the fire pit with a few flat stones, he had cooking surfaces on which he could place his skillet full of fatback.
    If Tin Pan found his camp, it would be easy enough to rig a spit out of green pine limbs and skewer hunks of turkey onto sticks above the fire. Just thinking about a good meal made him hungry.
    In a matter of minutes the sweet aroma of boiling coffee filled the clearing in the pines. Frank warmed his hands over the flames, letting his thoughts drift back to Conrad, and Ned Pine’s gunslicks.
    â€œI swear I’m gonna kill ’em,” he said to