"George Parsons. His daughter is buried here. I reckon that's all I need from you now, Mr. Morgan, only I sure as hell hope there won't be no more shootin' in my town."
"There won't be ... unless someone else starts it, the way this owlhoot did."
Sheriff Brewer turned back toward Glenwood Springs. "I'll send Old Man Harvey out to take care of the body. He's our undertaker, when he ain't bein' a blacksmith."
* * * *
Frank turned out the lamp in his tiny room and lay across the bed. His guns were on a washstand beside him. All this recent bloodshed was a result of Ned Pine and Victor Vanbergen, and the events that had brought Frank to this part of Colorado to put unfinished business to rest.
He thought about Conrad, and the snowstorm that had finally led Frank to the right spot to rescue his son....
* * * *
Frank watched from hiding as Ned Pine brought Conrad out of the cabin with a gun under his chin. The boy's hands were tied in front of him. Swirling snow kept Frank from seeing the boy clearly.
Five more members of the gang brought seven saddled horses around to the front. Frank was helpless. For now, all he could do was watch.
He wondered if Pine would execute his son for the men he'd already lost. But Pine needed a human shield to get him out of the box canyon. He needed Conrad alive. For now.
"Pine will kill Conrad when he hears the first gunshot," Frank whispered to himself. "I'll have to follow them, and wait until Ned makes a mistake."
He wondered where they were taking his son. Frank had taken a deadly toll on Pine's gang in a matter of hours, with the help of Tin Pan Rushing.
Frank felt something touch his shoulder, and he whirled around, snaking a pistol from leather. He relaxed and put his Peacemaker away.
"Don't shoot me," Tin Pan said softly. "They're clearin' out, as you can see."
"I've got no choice but to trail them. Maybe Ned will get careless somewhere."
"Where will they take him?"
"I've got no idea, but wherever it is, I'll be right behind them. I don't know this country."
"I do," Tin Pan said. "Been here for nigh onto twenty years."
"This isn't your problem. I appreciate what you've done for me, but I can handle it from here."
"I'll fetch one of them dead outlaws' horses from behind the canyon. I'll ride with you."
"No need, Tin Pan. This isn't your fight."
"I decided to make it my fight, Morgan. When some ornery bastards are holdin' a man's son hostage, he needs all the help he can get."
"That was a nice shot from up high a while ago. Couldn't have done any better myself."
"I was hopin' the wind didn't throw my aim off. But this ol' long gun is pretty damn accurate. I'll collect that horse and unsaddle the others so I can let 'em go. I'll bring your animals around, along with Martha, to the mouth of the canyon soon as they ride out."
"I'd almost forgotten about your mule."
"She's got more'n fifty cured beaver pelts tied to her back, and that's plenty to get me a fresh grubstake before the weather gets warm and the beavers start to lose their winter hair. You might say that's a winter's worth of work hangin' across her packsaddle."
"Here they come," Frank said, peering into the falling snow. "Stay still."
"No need for you to tell me what to do, Morgan. I know how to make it in this wilderness without being seen. Rest easy on that notion."
Ned Pine rode at the front with Conrad, Pine's gun still pressed to Conrad's throat. Two more gunmen rode behind Ned and the boy. A fourth outlaw came from the cabin leading a loaded packhorse.
The last pair of outlaws stayed well behind the others with Winchester rifles resting on their thighs.
"Keepin' back a rear guard," Tin Pan observed. "If we get the chance, we might be able to jump 'em in this snow. It's hard to see real well."
"I was thinking the same thing," Frank said. "One way or another, I've got to get rid of Pine's men before I take him on man-to-man."
"You'll need to pick the right spot, and the right time," Tin Pan reminded him.
"I'm a pretty good hand at that," Frank told him, moving back into the trees as Pine and his men rode out of the canyon with Conrad as their prisoner.
Snowflakes swirled around the men as they left the canyon and turned east, away from the badlands. Frank was surprised at the direction they took.
* * * *
Barnaby Jones parked his rented buggy in Cortez. His drive down from Denver had been brutal and he was sure he'd almost frozen to death. Had it not been for three bottles of imported French sherry, he was certain he wouldn't have made it through this wilderness in a blizzard.
He stopped in front of the sheriff's office and took a wool blanket off his lap before he climbed down from the seat. He removed his gloves. Cortez was a mere spot in the road, a dot on the map he'd bought in Denver after he got off the train.
"The things I do to get a story," he mumbled, wondering if his editor at _Harper's Magazine_ would appreciate the difficulty he'd gone through.
He entered the sheriff's door without knocking, enjoying the warmth from a cast-iron stove in a corner of the tiny room. A jail cell sat at the back of the place.
A man with a gray handlebar mustache looked up at him with a question on his face. He was seated at a battered rolltop desk with a newspaper in his lap.
"Sheriff Jim Sikes?" Barnaby asked.
"That's me." The lawman looked him up and down. "Stranger, you ain't dressed for this climate. Didn't anybody tell you it gets cold in Colorado Territory?"
" Yessiree, they did," Barnaby replied, offering his hand. "I am Barnaby Jones from _Harper's Magazine_ in New York. I'm wearing long underwear under my suit."
"What brings you to Cortez?" the sheriff asked.
Barnaby pulled off his bowler hat. "The United States marshal in Denver told me to look you up. I'm writing a story for my magazine about a retired gunfighter named Frank Morgan, and Marshal Williams said you would know if he's in this part of the country. One of our competitors, the _Boston Globe,_ has sent a reporter out here to interview this Mr. Morgan. I'd like to talk to him myself."
"Morgan ain't in these parts, mister. Marshal Williams is wrong about that. If Morgan was around, I'd know about it. I'd have dead men stacked up here like cordwood."
Barnaby edged over to the stove, warming his backside as best he could. "I have other information. A writer by the name of Louis Pettigrew from the _Globe_ found out that Morgan is in southwestern Colorado Territory. I'm only a day or two behind Mr. Pettigrew."
"You're both wrong."
"How can you be so sure, Sheriff?"
"Like I said, no dead bodies. Maybe you ought to have the wax cleaned out of your ears. I said it real plain the first time."
"But I _know_ he's somewhere close by. Pettigrew left the day before I did. He rented a horse in Denver and came down here. Something about Morgan's son being a prisoner of some outlaw gang."
"We've got a few outlaws," Sheriff Sikes said. "Some of 'em are in town right now. Victor Vanbergen and his bunch of toughs are down at the Wagon Wheel, but they haven't caused any trouble. I think they're just passing through."
"I never heard of Victor Vanbergen. Who is he?"
"A bank robber. A thief and a killer. But so long as he don't cause no trouble in my town, I'm leaving him and his boys alone."