Free Ghost Valley by William W. Johnstone Page B

himself. “They better not have done any harm to my boy or I’ll make ’em die slow.”
    His saddle horse raised its head, looking east with its ears pricked forward.
    â€œThat’ll be the old mountain man,” he said, standing up to walk to the edge of the pine grove. An experienced mountain man Tin Pan’s age would be able to follow the scent of Frank’s from miles away.
    Frank looked up at the darkening sky. Swirls of snowflakes fell on the pine limbs around him.
    â€œI’ll need to rig my lean-to,” he mumbled. “No telling how much it’ll snow tonight.”
    â€œHello the fire!” a distant voice shouted.
    â€œCome on in!” Frank replied. “Coffee’s damn near done boiling!”
    â€œI smelt it half an hour ago, Morgan!”
    He saw the shape of Tin Pan leading his mule down to the creek through a veil of snow. It would be good to have a bit of company tonight. He was sure the old man had a sackful of stories about these mountains. Maybe even some information about the hideout where Ned Pine was holding Conrad.
    Frank buttoned his coat and turned up the collar. Then he picked up more dead pine limbs to add to the fire. But even as the pleasant prospects of good company and a warm camp lay foremost in his mind, he couldn’t shake the memory of Conrad and the outlaw bastards who held him prisoner.
    * * *
    â€œDamn that’s mighty good,” Tin Pan said, palming a tin cup of coffee for its warmth, with two lumps of brown sugar to sweeten it.
    â€œI’ve got plenty,” Frank told him. “I provisioned myself at Durango.”
    Tin Pan’s wrinkled face looked older in light from the flames. “I been thinkin’,” he said, then fell silent for a time.
    â€œAbout what?” Frank asked.
    â€œNed Pine. Your boy. That hideout up in the canyon where you said they was hidin’.”
    â€œWhat about it?”
    â€œIt’s mighty hard to get into that canyon without bein’ seen, unless you know the old Ute trail.”
    â€œThe Utes cleared out of this country years ago, after the Army got after them,” Frank recalled.
    â€œThat still don’t keep a man from knowin’ the back way in to that canyon,” Tin Pan said.
    â€œThere’s a back way?”
    Tin Pan nodded. “An old game trail. When these mountains were full of buffalo, the herds used it to come down to water in winter.”
    â€œCan you tell me how to find it?”
    Tin Pan shook his head. “I’d have to show it to you. It’s steep. A man who don’t know it’s there will ride right past it without seein’ a thing.”
    Frank sipped scalding coffee, seated on his saddle blanket near the fire. “I don’t suppose you’d have time to show me where it was....”
    â€œI might. You seem like a decent feller, and you’ve sure got your hands full, trying to take on Ned Pine and his bunch of raiders.”
    â€œI could pay you a little something for your time,” Frank said.
    Tin Pan hoisted his cup of coffee. “This here cup of mud will be enough.”
    â€œThen you’ll show me that trail?”
    â€œCome sunrise, I’ll take you up to the top of that canyon. I’ve got some traps I need to set anyhow.”
    â€œI’d be real grateful. My boy is only eighteen. He won’t stand a chance against Pine and his ruffians.”
    â€œDon’t get me wrong, Morgan. I ain’t gonna help you fight that crowd. But I’ll show you the back way down to the floor of the canyon. They won’t be expectin’ you to slip up on ’em from behind.”
    â€œI’ve got an extra pound of coffee beans. It’s yours if you’ll show me the trail.”
    â€œYou just made yourself a trade, Mr. Morgan. A pound of coffee beans will last me a month.”
    â€œIt’s done, Tin Pan,” Frank said, feeling better about things now.