Ghost Valley by William W. Johnstone Read Free Book Online Page B

eyelids closing again. “But he could be looking the other way for a handful of silver when those outlaws ride into town. He won’t be the first crooked lawman I ever met.”
    â€œMe either,” Frank said. “Thanks for the warning, Doc. I aim to bring ’em down . . . every last one.”
    Holliday didn’t answer, his nostrils flaring gently with opium slumber.
    Frank let himself out, and walked back up the hall to fetch his pistol. He saw the nurse seated behind her desk, and came over for his gun.
    â€œThank you, ma’am,” he said, holstering his Colt. “I’m much obliged.”
    â€œIs Doc asleep?” she asked. “I just gave him his laudanum before you arrived.”
    â€œYes, ma’am, he’s asleep.”
    Frank went outside and untied his bay, mounting after a look down the empty road back to town. He reined away from the sanitarium and heeled his horse to a jog trot.
    Remembering the directions Doc gave him, he knew he would have to pass through Glenwood Springs to reach the right wagon road, a ride that would attract attention should any of the gang be watching for him.
    â€œSuits the hell outta me,” he mumbled. It would be just as easy to kill a few more of them here, rather than wait for an ambush somewhere in the mountains looming above the sleepy little village.
    He rode through Glenwood Springs at the same slow trot, with an eye out for anyone who seemed to be watching him. He passed the sheriffs office, and noticed that Tom Brewer came out on the boardwalk to stare at him with unfriendly eyes.
    â€œHe’s on the take,” Frank told himself quietly. He’d seen that same look in men’s eyes before.
    Riding past a blacksmith’s shop, he noticed a new pine coffin on a pair of sawhorses. “One less back-shooting bastard to worry about,” he said aloud, urging his horse to a short lope as he rode away from Glenwood Springs into a dense ponderosa forest.
    Less than a quarter mile from town he found the two-rut wagon road Doc Holliday had described. Frank reined his horse to a halt and looked behind him. No one was following him now, but it was too soon to tell.
    He swung onto the wagon ruts and started up a steep hill. The pines grew so close to the road they were like walls on either side. Deep shadows lay before him. It was the perfect place for an ambush.
    â€œOut front, Dog!” Frank bellowed.
    Dog understood his job. He trotted out in front of Frank and the bay until he was more than a hundred yards ahead.
    â€œA little insurance,” he said, pulling his Winchester from its saddle boot to jack a shell into the firing chamber. He lowered the hammer gently and rested the rifle across the pommel of his saddle.
    He slowed the bay to a walk and kept his eyes glued to the ruts and shadows. If Pine or Vanbergen meant to jump him on his way to the valley, they’d have their hands full.
    Dog continued up the steep ascent without making a sound or giving a warning. The old dog’s senses were as keen as ever and he was rarely taken by surprise.
    â€œLet the bastards come, if they want,” Frank said grimly. “I got a little surprise for ’em....”

SEVEN
    Frank rode slowly between the pines, stopping every so often to check his back trail, and to listen for the sounds of another horse. Dog sat in the middle of the road panting, watching the man and the horse behind him, when Frank reined his animal to yet another stop.
    â€œIt’s quiet,” he whispered. “Maybe too damn quiet.”
    But there was no evidence that anyone was following him, and Dog had sensed nothing ahead.
    â€œGetting jumpy in my old age,” Frank told himself, although he had the eerie feeling that he was being watched.
    He heeled his horse forward, continuing up the steady climb toward snowcapped peaks. The creak of saddle leather and the soft drum of the bay’s hooves filled the silence around him for a