"I'm grateful, but I don't need your help," Morgan said.
"You ain't seen what's waitin' for you down in Ghost Valley yet," Buck replied. "Leave these sumbitches where they lay. A fool can see they ain't goin' nowhere. We'll fetch their horses an' turn 'em loose. This gut-shot bastard won't last but an hour or two."
--------
*Eleven*
Conrad was walking home at twilight with his mind drifting after another day at the store. His small, two-room log cabin lay at the outskirts of Trinidad. The day's receipts at the store had been good, better than usual. His mother would have been proud of him. He was continuing to expand the fortune she'd left him when she was murdered. Conrad took no small amount of pride in seeing his wealth grow.
He gave little thought to his father, not even knowing his whereabouts now. Nor did he care, one way or another. Frank Morgan was no father to him. He was a killer, a gunfighter, a man who did not exist in Conrad's life as he lived it now, and it was better to put his father's memory aside. Even though his father had saved his life from a gang of cutthroats a few weeks back, it was something Conrad wanted to forget. He hoped he never had to set eyes on Frank Morgan again.
But there were times when Conrad wondered what his dad was really like. All Conrad had to go on were stories about a man who killed other men for a living, stories told to him by his late grandfather, before his mother was taken from him by an assassin's bullet. But there was no denying Frank Morgan's reputation as a shootist for hire. Those tales continued to circulate up and down the Western frontier, and when Conrad heard them, he turned away and went about other business. Hearing how many men his father had killed was not the sort of thing he cared to do. It was a part of the past, not his past, part of the early days when his father made a living with a gun.
"Good evening, Conrad," Millie Cartwright said as she passed him on the boardwalk.
He stopped and bowed politely, removing his hat. "Good evening to you, Miss Cartwright," he said, smiling. "It's so good to see you again."
"I see you are carrying ledger books under your arm," she said, smiling coyly, her face, framed by dark ringlets of deep brown hair, turning pink.
"A day's work is never done," he replied. "I have to balance the books. I've been too busy at the store to have the time to get it done."
"Then your mercantile business must be good," Millie said to him.
"Indeed it is. I may have to hire another clerk if things remain at their present pace. More and more people are coming west these days."
Then Millie's face darkened. "I was so glad to hear that you made it safely away from those outlaws. Your father must be a terrible man, if you'll pardon me for saying so. The outlaws took you prisoner, I was told, hoping that your father would pay a handsome price for your safe return. He killed them."
"I hardly ever talk about my father, Miss Cartwright," he said. "He is a part of my distant past, a man I'd rather forget if I can."
"Some say he is a professional murderer."
"I can't deny it. I've only met him a few times ... this last time, when he rescued me from those outlaws. But in truth, the men who took me only did so because they wanted to force my father to pay ransom for me. If I wasn't the son of Frank Morgan, I would be able to live my life in peace. He has made a lot of enemies."
"I'm so sorry, Conrad," Millie said. "It must be quite a burden for you. Anyone who knows you well can't believe that you are the son of a hired killer. You are a gentle soul, and you care about people."
"I thank you for your kind remarks," he said.
"You deserve every kindness. You run an honest store and you treat people fairly."
He grinned. "Perhaps we might have dinner one night, if you have no objections."
Millie looked askance at him. "I fear my parents would not agree to it, Conrad. My father still remembers stories about the deeds attributed to your father. I'm so sorry. I know he's wrong about you, that you might be anything like Frank Morgan. But I have to honor my parents' wishes."
"I understand," he said softly, glancing down at his boots. "It seems I'll never outgrow my father's bad reputation, even though I don't really know him. He left my mother before I was born."
Millie reached for him and touched his arm. "Maybe we can find a way to spend some time together," she whispered. "If you rented a buggy, we might take a picnic lunch into the mountains and no one would know."
He was momentarily cheered by the thought. Then his face fell again. "How sad it is to bear the burdens of my father's sins. It seems I'll carry them with me for the rest of my life. But I would love to rent a carriage and take you to some quiet place for a picnic lunch. Would the end of the week be okay with you?"
"I'll drop by the store and let you know," Millie replied, "but now I must hurry home. There's a pretty place by Catclaw Springs where we could go and no one would see us. It's a beautiful spot."
"I know the place," Conrad said with excitement in his voice. "There are big oak and pine trees above a spring pool below the waterfall. I'll buy a bottle of wine and some good cheese."
Millie's face turned a faint shade of red. "I can bake a loaf of bread and slice some sugar-cured ham from the smokehouse. I'll even bake a peach cobbler for dessert."
"Saturday," Conrad said. "Late in the afternoon, after I close the store. You can meet me behind the livery and no one will know."
"I'm looking forward to it, although I have to make sure my parents think I'm going somewhere else. See you on Saturday, Conrad."
He bowed again as she walked off toward her clapboard house on the north side of Trinidad.
"Things aren't so bad after all," he said to himself as he made a turn down a side street toward home.
Skies turned inky above southwestern Colorado as he made his way toward his house. Winking stars filled the heavens. He thought about what it would be like to have a picnic with Millie, and for the first time in months he felt happy, content, at peace with himself and the world around him.
He came to his cottage and fumbled in his pocket for the key, keeping the bank bag containing the day's receipts under his arm. Conrad had taken in more than four hundred dollars from settlers heading west, and a smaller amount from local residents who traded with him on a regular basis.
When he put his key in the lock, he heard a deep voice behind him.
"Be real still, boy. If you don't pay real close attention to me, I'm gonna kill you. You're worth as much to me dead as you are alive."
Conrad glanced over his shoulder. A burly cowboy with a thick gray beard stood behind him holding a sawed-off shotgun with the biggest barrels he'd ever seen.
" This is a ten-gauge," the stranger explained. "If I pull both these triggers they'll be scrapin' you off your own front door."
"Who are you?" Conrad asked. "What do you want with me?"
"Name's Cletus. That's all you need to know."
"I'll give you my money ... all the money from the store I took in today."
"Peanuts," Cletus said. "I ain't here for chicken feed."
"What do you want?"
"Just you, little boy. You're worth ten thousand dollars to me in Glenwood Springs. Now turn around an' walk around the back of your house. I got a horse waitin' for you."