"That'll be Tony and Sam. I told both of 'em we oughta be careful sneaking up on your fire."
The light from Tin Pan's lantern showed the pain on Buster's face. A bullet hole in his chest leaked blood, and by the amount of blood coming from Buster's mouth, Frank knew the bullet had pierced a lung.
"I need to know about Ned Pine's hideout, and my son, Conrad Browning. Is my boy okay?" Frank asked, his deep voice with an edge to it.
"Ned's gonna kill him ... but only after he lures you up there so he can kill you." Buster issued his warning between gasps for air.
"I'm a hard man to kill, Buster. How many men has Pine got with him?"
"Eleven more. You ain't got a chance, Morgan. If Ned don't get you himself, then Lyle or Slade will. They're guarding your boy. Lyle is as good with a gun as any man on earth. Slade's just as good." Buster paused and winced. "Jesus, my chest hurts. I can't hardly breathe." He coughed up blood, shivering, unable to move his limbs.
"How many men are guarding the entrance into the canyon?" Frank asked.
"To hell with you, Morgan. Find out for yourself. See if you don't get killed."
Frank brought the barrel of the Peacemaker down to Buster's mouth and held the muzzle against his gritted teeth. "I'm only gonna ask you one more time, Buster, and then I'm gonna blow the top of your head off. How many men are guarding the entrance to the canyon?"
Buster stared at the pistol in Frank's hand. "I'm gonna die anyway, 'less you take me to a doctor."
"Ain't many doctors in these mountains. A few hours ago your pardner, Charlie Bowers, was wanting one real bad. About all I can do for you is put you on your horse and send you toward Durango tonight, like I did Charlie Bowers. You feel like you can make a fifty-mile ride?"
"I'll freeze to death, if I don't bleed to death first. I need some whiskey."
"I've got whiskey in my saddlebags. Good Kentucky sour mash too. Now I'm not saying I'd waste any of it on you, but your chances are better if you tell me what I want to know about who's guarding the entrance to that canyon."
"Josh. Josh and Arnie are watchin' the canyon from a rock pile at the top."
"Has Ned or any of the others injured my boy?" Frank tapped Buster's front teeth with his pistol barrel to add a bit of emphasis to his question.
"Ned slapped him around some...." Buster broke into another fit of bloody coughing. "Ned's after you. He swore he was gonna kill you. He won't kill your boy until he sees you lyin' dead someplace."
"Damn," Tin Pan sighed, balancing his Sharps in the palm of his hand. "That Pine's a rotten bastard, to hold a kid as bait like he is."
"Gimme ... some of that whiskey, like you promised," Buster said.
"I didn't promise you anything, Buster," Frank said, taking his gun away from Buster's teeth. "I only said I had some in my saddlebags. If I poured a swallow down your throat, it'd just leak out onto the snow on account of that big hole in your gut. I think I'll save my whiskey for a better occasion. Be a shame to waste good sour mash on a man who's gonna be dead in a few minutes."
"You bastard," Buster hissed.
"I've been called worse," Frank replied. "But I've never been one to be wasteful. I grew up mighty poor. Pouring whiskey into a dying man is damn sure a waste of the distiller's fine art."
"Are you just gonna leave me here to die?" Buster croaked, blood bubbling from his lips.
"There's another way," Frank said.
Buster blinked. "What the hell are you talkin' about, Morgan?"
"I can put a bullet through your brain and you won't be cold or hurt anymore."
"That'd be murder.
"Ned and the rest of you killed my wife. That was murder. In case you don't read the Bible, it says to take an eye for an eye."
"You ain't got no conscience, Morgan. Ned told us you was a rotten son of a bitch."
"I've got no conscience when it comes to men who kill women and harm kids who can't defend themselves. To tell the truth, killing you and Pine and all of his gang will be a downright pleasure."
"Jesus ... you ain't really gonna do it, are you?" Buster whispered.
Frank stood up, holstering his Colt. "I damn sure am unless they give me back my son."
"Put me on my horse, Morgan. Give me a fightin' chance to live."
"It don't appear you can sit a horse, Buster, but if you want I can tie you across your saddle."
Tin Pan shook his head. "Hell, Morgan, this sumbitch is already dead. Leave him where he lays. Have you forgot that him an' his partners just tried to kill you?"
"I'm a forgiving man," Frank said dryly. "Just because some gunslick tries to take away all you have, or all you're ever gonna have, don't mean you can't show any forgiveness for what he tried to do." He gazed down at Buster for a time. "Are you truly sorry you tried to kill me?" he asked.
" Hell, no," Buster spat, still defiant. "If I'd had the right shot at you, it'd be you layin' in this snow with a hole in your guts."
Frank chuckled, but there was no humor in it. He glanced over at Tin Pan. "See what I mean?" he asked. "We've got a killer here with no remorse. I think I'll just leave him here to die slow. His pardners are already dead. We'll take their horses and deliver 'em to Ned Pine. Send them into that canyon with empty saddles, a little message from me that this fight has just started."
"It's your fight," Tin Pan said.
Frank slapped the old mountain man on the shoulder. "I'm glad I had you siding with me. You dropped that outlaw quicker'n snuff makes spit."
"It was the coffee," Tin Pan replied. "A man who'll offer a stranger a cup of coffee with brown sugar in it way up in these slopes deserves a helping hand."
Frank gave Tin Pan a genuine laugh. "Let's fetch their horses down to our picket line. Feel free to take any of their guns you want. Where they're going, they won't be needing a pistol or a rifle."
Tin Pan grinned. "Reckon we could add a splash of that Kentucky sour mash to the next cup of coffee?"
"You can have all of it you want."
Buster coughed again; then his feet began to twitch with death throes.
"You see what I was talking about?" Frank asked. "It would have been a waste of good bottled spirits to pour even one drop of it into a dead man."
* * * *
"What makes a printer from Indiana get filled with wanderlust for the mountains?" Frank asked, drinking coffee laced with whiskey after the outlaws' horses were tied in the trees along with Frank's animals and the mule.
"Dreamin', I reckon. I saw tintypes of the Rockies and I just knew I had to see 'em for myself."
"And you planned to pay for it by panning for gold in these high mountain streams?"
"There was a gold rush on back then. Men were finding gold nuggets as big as marbles."
"But you never found any," Frank said.
"Not even a flake of placer gold. This country had been panned out by the time I got here. The only other way is to dig into these rocky slopes. I never was much for using a pick and a shovel."
"So you've turned to trapping?"
"It's a living. I'm happy up here, just me and old Martha for company. I had me a Ute squaw once, only she ran off with a miner who had gold in his purse."
"I owe Martha a sack of corn," Frank remembered. "She heard this bad bunch sneaking up on us."
Tin Pan smiled. "Martha earns her keep. She can tote three hundred pounds of cured pelts and she don't ever complain. Once in a while she gets ornery and won't cross a creek if it's bank-full, but I reckon that just shows good sense."