Barnaby reached inside his heavy wool coat, taking out a few papers. "Who is Ned Pine?"
"A hired gun. Worse than Vanbergen. He heads up one of the oldest outlaw gangs in this part of the West, but the last I heard of him he was down south. Texas, I think."
"Mr. Pettigrew of the _Boston Globe_ believes he's here, and that he has Frank Morgan's son as a hostage."
"It's news to me," Sheriff Sikes remarked. "I'd have had something over the telegraph wire by now if Ned Pine and his men were close by."
Barnaby shook his head. "I still think I have good information about Pine. And Morgan."
Sikes went back to reading his paper. "You're welcome to look around Cortez," he said, a hint of impatience in his hoarse voice. "But Morgan ain't here, and neither is Pine. Vanbergen just showed up today. I judge he'll be gone by tomorrow if this snow lets up."
"Where can I hire a room for the night?" Barnaby asked. "And I need a place to stable my buggy horse."
"Ain't but one hotel in town, the Cortez Hotel. It's just down the street. You can't miss it."
"Have I come too late to buy dinner?"
"Mary over at the cafe might have some stew left. She's about to close, so I'd hurry if I was you."
"Thank you, Sheriff. I'm thankful for the information you gave me."
"You're wasting your time in Cortez looking for Ned Pine or Frank Morgan. We don't get many of the real bad hard cases in this town. They usually pass right on through, if the weather's decent."
Barnaby put on his hat and walked out the door. The wind had picked up after sundown, and bits of ice and snow stung his cheeks as he climbed back in his snow-covered buggy.
* * * *
Frank sat on his horse, watching Ned Pine and his men ride across a snow-covered valley.
"He's got those two men covering the back trail," he said to Tin Pan.
"This snow is mighty heavy, Morgan," Tin Pan said. "If we ride around 'em and cut off those two gunslingers, we can put 'em in the ground."
"They're keeping about a quarter mile between them and Ned," Frank said. "If this snow keeps up, Ned won't notice if I jump in front of them and have them toss down their guns."
"You ain't gonna kill 'em?"
"Not unless they don't give me a choice."
"What the hell are you gonna do? Tie the both of them to a tree?"
"I'll show you, if they'll allow it. Follow me and we'll cut them off."
* * * *
Rich Boggs was shivering, nursing a pint of whiskey in the icy wind. "To hell with this, Cabot," he said. "We're not making a dime messing around with Frank Morgan's kid. I say we cut out of here and head south."
"Ned would follow us and kill us," Cabot Bulware replied with a woolen shawl covering his mouth. "This is a personal thing for Ned."
"I'm freezin' to death," Rich said.
"So am I," Cabot replied. "I'm from Baton Rouge. I'm not used to this cold, _mon ami."_
"To hell with it then," Rich remarked. "When Ned and Lyle and Slade and Billy ride over that next ridge, let's get the hell out of here."
"I am afraid of Ned," Cabot replied. "I do not want to die out here in this snow."
Rich stood up suddenly in his stirrups and pulled his sorrel to a halt. "Who the hell is that with the rifle pointed straight at us?" he asked Cabot.
"There are two of them," Cabot replied. "There is another one on foot standing behind that tree, and he has a rifle aimed at us as well."
"Damn!" Rich exclaimed, ready to open his coat and reach for his pistol.
"Climb down, boys," a deep voice demanded. "Keep your hands up where I can see them."
"Morgan," Cabot whispered, although he followed the instructions he'd been given.
"Step away from your horses!"
They did as they were told. Rich could feel the small hairs rising on the back of his neck.
"Take your pistols out and toss 'em down!" another voice said from behind a tree trunk.
Rich threw his Colt .44 into the snow.
Cabot opened his mackinaw carefully and dropped his Smith and Wesson .45 near his feet.
"Get their horses and guns, Tin Pan," the man holding the rifle said. "I'll keep 'em covered."
An old man in a coonskin cap came toward them carrying a large-bore rifle. He picked up their pistols and took their horses' reins, leading the animals off the trail.
"All right, boys," the rifleman in front of them said. "I've got one more thing for you to do."
"What the hell is that, mister?" Rich snapped, giving Cabot a quick glance.
"Sit down right where you are and pull off your boots."
"What?"
"Pull off your damn boots."
"But our feet'll freeze. We'll get the frostbite."
"Would you rather be dead?"
"No," Cabot said softly, sitting down in the snow to pull off his boots.
"We'll die out here without no boots!" Rich complained. "We can't make it in our stocking feet."
"I can shoot you now," the rifleman said. "That way, your feet won't be cold."
Rich slumped on his rump and pulled off his stovepipe boots without further complaint.
"Now start walking," the rifleman said. "I don't give a damn which direction you go."
"We will die!" Cabot cried.
The lanky gunman came toward them and picked up their boots without taking his rifle sights off them. "Life ain't no easy proposition, gentlemen," he said. "Start walking, or I'll kill you right where you sit."
Both gunslicks limped away.
"Pretty sight, ain't it?" Tin Pan asked.
Frank merely nodded.
* * * *
He closed his eyes. Was his need for revenge so great that it was worth riding this vengeance trail?
Frank knew the answer as he drifted off to sleep. Dog was curled beside the bed, watching him with big liquid eyes.
--------
*Six*
Frank reined his bay east at the river. Dog trotted beside the horse. After a big breakfast of pancakes and ham, with a pot of coffee at his elbow at Glenwood Springs' only cafe, he felt rested, better than he had in days. He'd purchased supplies at Colter's General Store, enough provisions to last him for a month or more.
He sighted a rock building and a faded, hand-painted sign reading GLENWOOD SPRINGS SANITARIUM hung above a pair of front doors. The place looked like it had fallen on hard times, like the rest of the town.
Frank swung over to a hitch rail and stepped down, wondering what Doc Holliday would be like. His waitress at the eatery had said that Holliday was dying with tuberculosis and word was he didn't have long, which was what George had said.
Frank let himself into the building. Dog watched him, resting on his haunches near the bay.
A gray-haired woman in a rumpled nurse's uniform greeted him.
"What can I do for you, mister?"
"I'd like to speak to Doc Holliday a moment."
"He don't want any visitors."
"It's important, ma'am. Someone's life may be in danger unless I can talk to him." It was more or less the truth. If Holliday could tell him where to find Ned Pine and Victor Vanbergen, their lives would damn sure be in grave danger when Frank caught up to them.
The woman frowned. "I'll ask him if he'll talk to you. Give me your name."