"Sounds reasonable enough."
"I take it you're not with them. If you were, you'd have already killed me."
"If you mean that bunch down in Ghost Valley, I damn sure ain't none of their kind."
"Will you put that gun down and have some peaches?"
"I might. I'll give it some thought."
"My name's Frank Morgan."
"I'm called Buck Waite."
"I'd sure be obliged if you lowered that gun."
"Don't make a snatch fer that pistol you're carryin'. I've got one myself an' I'll kill you deader'n pig shit if you do."
"No reason for a gun, I don't reckon, if you don't aim to shoot me."
The man with shoulder-length red hair and a red beard flecked with gray lowered the muzzle of his rifle. Frank noticed he had an old Navy Colt tucked into a deerskin belt around his waist.
"Come have some peaches," Frank offered. "If you're willing, I need to ask you about getting into that valley. It's real clear you know your way around these mountains."
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*Eight*
"So you claim yer name is Morgan," Buck said, spearing a slice of peach with the tip of a heavy bowie knife. "Some men who come to this country don't use their right name. You right sure yer name is Morgan?"
"I'm Frank Morgan."
Buck's rifle lay near his feet. His left hand was never far from his pistol. He gave Frank an appraising look. "You stalked that feller pretty good. I was watchin'."
"I thought I saw someone higher up. Just a shadow moving in the trees."
"I don't git around good as I used to. Old age, an' the damn rheumatiz in my joints. I couldn't fool this dog much, but there was a time when I could."
"What puts you in these mountains?" Frank asked, though by the look of the old man the answer was clear. He made his living off the land.
"I run a few traplines. Sell a few elk and bear hides now an' then. Mostly I just live. Fish for trout. Enjoy the scenery."
"So you're a mountain man?"
"Nope. The real mountain men are long gone, or dead an' buried. There ain't as much wild game as there used to be. I came here after the war. Wanted to be away from so-called civilization after watchin' neighbors kill each other over a bale of cotton an' nigra slaves. I gave up on what men call bein' civilized after thousands an' thousands of men got shot over somethin' they didn't understand. I fought for the Confederacy, but I never owned no slaves. Them slave owners let us poor men do their fightin' for 'em while they smoked big cigars an' drank whiskey. I got tired of bein' civilized after I killed half a hundred men just 'cause they was wearin' blue. I came up here after my wife died from yellow fever. I made up my mind to live here as long as I could, until I got too old an' feeble to take care of myself."
"Tell me about Ghost Valley."
Buck, almost toothless, slurped on a piece of peach. "It's an old mining town. The placer mines played out years ago. It's a ghost town now."
"Vanbergen and Pine and their men are there?"
"Sure are. I'd call 'em sorry sons of bitches. Won't bother me none if you kill 'em all. They shoot more deer an' elk than they kin eat an' don't smoke the rest ... leave it on the ground to rot. Git drunk as hell an' shoot guns in the air. Make a helluva ruckus, pissin' in the stream so's a man don't know what he's drinkin'. They could use a good killin', if you ask me."
"That's what I aim to do."
"It's gonna snow," Buck said, glancing up at the dark gray skies above them. "By tomorrow mornin' these slopes will be plumb white."
"That won't bother me. Maybe it'll give me some cover when I slip up on 'em."
"You any good at slippin' up on a man, Morgan? You got careless a time or two back yonder. The dog most likely saved your life when he sounded. I heard him growl."
"I reckon I was. This old dog has saved my skin more than once."
"I've got a dog back at my cabin. Feed him bear meat so he'll have some tallow on his bones. Like me, he's gettin' a mite old fer this country. Won't be long till both of us have to head fer lower ground an' stay there."
"How many men are camped at the abandoned town?"
"Hard to tell. Helluva lot. They come and go."
"Well, their luck is about to run out, no matter how many there are."
"You act like you kin handle yerself."
"I get by. What's the best way into the valley?"
"There's an old Injun trail. I kin show you."
"Are there any Indians around here? I saw one down in Glenwood Springs."
"Depends on what sort'a Injun yer talkin' about."
"I don't understand."
"There's Injuns, an' then there's _Injuns,_ only they don't let nobody git close, the last kind don't."
"Why is that? And who are they?"
"The Anasazi. Some folks claim there ain't none of 'em left up here, but they're damn sure wrong."
"An old man in Glenwood Springs called them ghosts, only I don't believe in ghosts."
Buck chuckled, taking another piece of peach. "You may come to change yer mind a bit. If they show themselves while you're around."
"You're talking in riddles," Frank said.
"Nope. Just tellin' you what might happen."
"I'm not here to chase Indian ghosts or real Indians. All I want is a shot at Pine and Vanbergen."
"If you're any good, you'll git that chance. That part's up to you."
"I'd be obliged if you'd show me that Indian trail. I'll do the rest."
"I reckon I will, Morgan. But let me warn you, this is real tough country. You're liable to freeze to death if those owlhoots don't git you first."
"I'll take that chance," Frank said, offering Buck the last peach. "Have you got a horse?"
"A Crow Injun pony. He's tied up yonder where yer horse wouldn't catch his scent. I'll fetch him down an' then we'll be on our way higher. Hope you brung a coat, 'cause it's damn sure gonna snow in a bit."
"I've got a coat. I'll wait for you here."
Buck shook his head. "Nope. You keep ridin' north. I'll scout the trail to see it's clear, then I'll ride back an' meet up with you."
"You make it sound like I'm not capable of scouting my own way up."
"That's yet to be proved, Morgan. You stay alive the next three or four days an' I'll call it proof enough."
Frank stood up. Buck unfolded his legs and steadied himself with his rifle as he climbed to his feet.
"Gimme a mile or two," Buck said, ambling toward the surrounding forest. "I'll be waitin' for you along this stream someplace."
Buck Waite was gone, moving soundlessly among the ponderosa trunks until he was out of sight. For some odd reason, Frank noticed that Dog was wagging his tail.
"You like the old man, Dog?" Frank asked, sheathing his knife. "Do you trust him?"
Dog's answer was to stare at the peach tin, waiting for a chance to lick the last of the syrup.
Frank caught his horse and bridled it, pulling the cinch tight before he mounted. It was perhaps the hand of fate that Buck Waite had come along when he did. It would be a help to have a man who knew these mountains show him the way into Ghost Valley.
Tiny spits of snow came on irregular gusts of wind coming down the slopes. Frank had shouldered into his mackinaw and put on his gloves when the temperature dropped quickly. A dusting of snow lay on pine limbs higher up. So far there had been no sign of Buck Waite, and after an hour of steady travel that had begun to worry him. Was the old man planning a double cross? He didn't seem the type, but in Frank's experience, a man never could tell who his friends and enemies were.