Ghost Valley by William W. Johnstone

“I’m gonna pitch my lean-to while the fatback is cooking.”
    Tin Pan grinned. “I’ll cut some green sticks for the hen I shot this morning. A man can’t hardly ask for more’n turkey and fatback, along with sweet coffee.”

TEN
    They rode higher, following the creek. Frank was still taken with the thought that Buck reminded him of Tin Pan Calhoun and another snowbound journey into the mountains far to the south in pursuit of Pine and Vanbergen. The big difference now was that Frank didn’t have to worry about harm befalling Conrad at the hands of these same murderers. Conrad was safe back in Trinidad, even though the boy behaved as though he resented the fact that Frank had rescued him.
    But now, it was simply a kill-or-be-killed manhunt after the men who’d killed his wife and meant to do his son harm, and Frank intended to exact a pound of flesh from every last one of them.
    Heavier swirls of tiny snowflakes came at the two riders from above, and Frank shivered inside his mackinaw.
    â€œIt’s gonna git a mite nasty higher up,” Buck said. He had a crudely fashioned coat made from the fleece and hide of a mountain bighorn sheep wrapped around him to keep him warm as the temperature dropped rapidly.
    â€œAll the better,” Frank muttered. “The cold and the snow will keep Vanbergen and Pine inside where it’s warm. I’ll have a better chance of slipping up on them.”
    Buck nodded once. “Sure hope you know what you’re doin’, Morgan. I done told you there’s a helluva lot of ’em, an’ you’s jest one man. There’s one you need to be ’specially careful of, a damn half-breed. Wears his hair like a Choctaw, shaved on both sides of his skull. One time, he damn near saw me watching ’em right after they got here. He carries an old Henry rifle an’ he don’t miss much around him.”
    â€œI’ll get it done,” Frank assured him. “I’m not worried about some half-breed. I need to see the lay of things around that old mining town first.”
    Buck grinned, studying the high country before them. “I’ll have to hand it to you, Morgan, you ain’t got no small poke when it comes to nerve.”
    Frank ignored the remark. “How much farther is it to that trail?”
    â€œAin’t far. Don’t git your britches in a knot. We’ll be there before you know it.”
    Dog stopped long enough to shake snow from his coat. Then he trotted on ahead of the riders.
    â€œThat fleabag has got good eyesight an’ hearin’,” Buck said. “He don’t hardly miss a thing. If I hadn’t been downwind from him when we first met up, he’d have heard me sure, or smelt me when I come down to find out who you was.”
    Frank knew the pads on Dog’s feet would be half frozen by now, and he meant to stop and make a small fire out of dead pine limbs, sheltering it with his tarp so no one would see the smoke curl into the sky. Dead limbs gave off precious little smoke, unlike green wood.
    * * *
    Two more hours of steady climbing came to an abrupt halt when Dog stopped, his fur standing rigid down his back, a low growl coming from his throat.
    â€œTrouble,” Frank whispered as he and Buck reined down on their horses.
    â€œI smelt it too. Somebody’s got a fire up yonder round that turn. A lookout, most likely, only he ain’t got the stomach for this cold. The damn fool’s burnin’ green wood. Let’s git these horses into the trees an’ we’ll git round behind him. I done told you I ain’t gonna take a hand in this fight . . . it’s all yours. But I’ll help you find who’s layin’ for you up there, if I can.”
    â€œI’m obliged, Buck.”
    They reined their horses to the trees. Frank called Dog over to stay with the horses, then drew his Winchester and levered a shell into the chamber.