Maxey led them into a rocky pass. Night shadows hid what lay beyond the entrance.
Just as they entered the passageway, a rifle shot echoed from rocks high on the rim. Dave Matthews let out a yelp and went tumbling from the saddle.
Then a hail of lead came at Maxey's posse from two sides. A horse went down, whickering in pain. Homer Martin, Trinidad's only blacksmith, shrieked and tumbled over his horse's rump with blood squirting from his head.
Bob Olsen was cut down by a withering blast of gunfire from the east side of the pass. His horse crumpled underneath him and he slumped over the animal's neck.
Jimmy Strunk, a boy of fifteen, began screaming for his mother when a bullet shattered his spine. He threw down his father's rifle and slid underneath his prancing pinto's hooves, trampled to death when his horse galloped away with his boot hung in a stirrup.
Buford Cobbs, a saloonkeeper, had his head torn from his torso by a .44-caliber slug that severed his spinal column. His head rolled off his shoulders like a grisly ball before he fell to the rocky floor of the pass.
Alex Wright, a cowboy from the Circle B Ranch, felt something enter his throat. He tried to yell, but only a stream of dark blood came from his neck. He threw up his hands to surrender to the shooters just seconds before he died. His horse plunged out from under him, sending him crashing to the ground with a dull thud.
Sheriff Charlie Maxey had only a brief moment to understand his mistake ... he'd ridden into a trap, an ambush.
He jerked his horse around and stuck spurs into its ribs as hard and fast as he could. His chestnut reached a full gallop at the same instant when a bullet passed cleanly through his liver, exiting through the front of his flannel shirt.
"Edith!" he cried, calling out his wife's name when a jolt of pain went through him. He dropped his rifle and clung to the saddle horn for all he was worth as the gelding galloped away from the booming guns.
He closed his eyes, trusting the horse to take him back home in the dark.
* * * *
Sheriff Maxey survived the ride back to Trinidad with blood covering his saddle, his horse's withers, his pants and shirt. His right boot was full of blood. His winded horse trotted down the main street of Trinidad and came to a halt in front of the sheriff's office.
Charlie Maxey finally released his iron grip on the saddle horn and fell to the ground. He took one final breath and lay still.
--------
*Fourteen*
Bud Johnson and George Garland sat inside a stand of trees above the lip of Ghost Valley.
Johnson was wanted in New Mexico Territory for bank robbery and murder. Garland had warrants out for him in Arkansas and Texas for petty crimes.
"It's cold up here," Bud whispered.
"Damn right it is," George agreed. "Ned said we couldn't have no fire on account of Morgan. He might see the flames or smell the smoke."
"Morgan's probably dead by now."
"Then where the hell is Carson?" George asked, rubbing his hands together. "And how come we ain't seen hide nor hair of Luke an' Will an' Mike?"
"Carson most likely made camp to wait out this storm. Same goes for the others. A horse don't travel too good into a wind full of snow."
"Carson didn't have no provisions with him, just some whiskey and jerky. He'd ride hard for the shack if he could. I'm sure of it."
"You're sayin' Frank Morgan got Carson? Nobody ever put so much as a nick in Carson's hide. He's the most careful man I ever knowed."
"All the same, he shoulda been here by now. It's damn near dark. The others shoulda been back. I've got a bad feelin' about this."
Bud took a pint bottle of whiskey out of his coat. "Have some more red-eye. It'll make the waitin' easier. Tom and Zeke are supposed to come up here to relieve us after it gets full dark."
George took the bottle and drank a thirsty gulp. Then he took a deep breath. "This here's the best invention since the gun, Bud. A man can't hardly live without it. I sure as hell hope them boys down at the shack don't drink it all up before we get there. Besides, this ol' ghost town gets kind'a spooky when the sun goes down."
"Whiskey helps," Bud agreed, peering over the top of a boulder at the snow-laden mouth of the valley below. "Hell, ain't nobody in his right mind gonna ride through this wind and snowfall tonight."
"How come Ned's so dead set on killin' Morgan?"
"It goes way back. Ned and Victor killed Morgan's woman and he come after 'em. Morgan killed a bunch of men in Vanbergen's gang and some of the boys who rode with Ned. Ned and Victor ain't never got over it. They want revenge for what Morgan did to 'em."
"Sounds like Morgan's the one with a reason for revenge, if you ask me. That was before I throwed in with Ned. I was just comin' out of Fort Worth at the time."
"I was there," Bud remembered. "Morgan's a killer, a damn good shootist."
"I used to hear stories about him. That was years ago, before I took up the outlaw trail. Folks said he was meaner'n a longhorn bull on the prod, and that nobody was any faster with a six-gun."
"He's just a man," Bud said, taking his own swallow of whiskey. "You can kill damn near any sumbitch if you go about it right."
"I hope Carson got him," George said.
"Maybe they killed each other."
"That could be what's taking the others so long, lookin' for the bodies in all this snow."
Bud leaned back against the rock with a blanket thrown over him. "That kid of Morgan's didn't have no backbone. When Ned started knockin' him around, he cried like a damn sugar-tit baby."
"I'll agree he wasn't much," George said. "Makes a man wonder why Morgan would go to all this trouble."
"I figure Morgan's dead by now. Soon as ol' Cletus Huling an' that Meskin get here with the crybaby, we'll head back south where it's warmer to rob a few banks an' trains. This here cold weather don't agree with me."
"It hurts my joints," George agreed. "I hate this cold. Soon as this business with Morgan is over, Ned promised we'd ride down to Texas. You can bet on one thing ... things swing to our side soon as Huling an' Diego get here. Huling is plumb crazy. If he took the notion, he'd kill Ned an' Victor all by hisself."
"I'm gonna ask Ponce to take us down to the Mexican border so we can get ourselves some pretty senyoritas."
"That damn sure sounds good on a day like this, sittin' up here at the top of this canyon without no fire. We're liable to freeze to death."
"It's gonna be pitch dark soon," Bud said. "That fire in the potbelly down at the shack is sure gonna feel good." He closed his eyes, pulling his hat brim over his face. "You keep an eye on that trail down to the valley for a spell. I'm gonna try an' get me some shut-eye. Zeke an' Tom oughta be up here to take over guard duty for us pretty damn soon."
"It's too damn cold to sleep," George said. "Pass me back that whiskey so I can stay warm."
* * * *
"I'm gonna throw in with you," Buck said. "Made up my mind on it."
"No need, unless you're just restless, or itching for a fight."
"Got nothing to do with restlessness, Morgan. I've been thinking about that eighteen-year-old boy of yours, and the way things are stacked against you. You've got a dose of revenge comin' to you. Long odds against you."
"I've never been one to worry about the odds," Frank said as he placed more sticks underneath the coffeepot. The smell of coffee filled the clearing.