"I 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.
"Venison 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."
"You 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."
"See 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."
"I'll be there," the mountain man assured him. "Sure hope you got a lump of sugar to go with that coffee."
"A bag full of brown sugar," Frank said over his shoulder as he rode down the ridge.
"Damn 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.
"I swear I'm gonna kill 'em," he said to 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.
"That'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.
"I'll need to rig my lean-to," he mumbled. "No telling how much it'll snow tonight."
" Hello the fire!" a distant voice shouted.
"Come on in!" Frank replied. "Coffee's damn near done boiling!"
"I 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.
* * * *
"Damn 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.
"I'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.
"About what?" Frank asked.
"Ned Pine. Your boy. That hideout up in the canyon where you said they was hidin'."
"What about it?"
"It's mighty hard to get into that canyon without bein' seen, unless you know the old Ute trail."
"The Utes cleared out of this country years ago, after the Army got after them," Frank recalled.
"That still don't keep a man from knowin' the back way in to that canyon," Tin Pan said.
"There'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."
"Can 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...."
"I 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."
"I 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."
"Then you'll show me that trail?"
"Come sunrise, I'll take you up to the top of that canyon. I've got some traps I need to set anyhow."
"I'd be real grateful. My boy is only eighteen. He won't stand a chance against Pine and his ruffians."
"Don'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."
"I've got an extra pound of coffee beans. It's yours if you'll show me the trail."
"You just made yourself a trade, Mr. Morgan. A pound of coffee beans will last me a month."
"It's done, Tin Pan," Frank said, feeling better about things now. "I'm gonna pitch my lean-to while the fatback is cooking."
Tin Pan grinned. "I'll cut some green sticks for the hen I shot this morning. A man can't hardly ask for more'n turkey and fatback, along with sweet coffee."
--------
*Ten*
They rode higher, following the creek. Frank was still taken with the thought that Buck reminded him of Tin Pan Calhoun and another snowbound journey into the mountains far to the south in pursuit of Pine and Vanbergen. The big difference now was that Frank didn't have to worry about harm befalling Conrad at the hands of these same murderers. Conrad was safe back in Trinidad, even though the boy behaved as though he resented the fact that Frank had rescued him.