Ghost Valley Read Online Free PDF

buckskins. He walked with a swinging gait toward the rear of the cemetery and then he stopped.
    Small hairs swirled on the back of Frank’s neck. He was looking at the same Indian he’d seen when he came into Glenwood Springs this afternoon.
    â€œWho are you?” Frank shouted.
    No one answered him and the Indian did not move.
    â€œI asked you a question,” Frank called. “Who the hell are you?”
    A soft voice spoke to him, even though the Indian was more than a hundred yards away beyond the cemetery fence.
    â€œGo to the mountains.”
    Frank wrapped his fingers around the butt of his Colt Peacemaker . . . an odd sensation touched some inner part of him, one he couldn’t explain.
    â€œWalk around here so I can see your face,” he said.
    â€œGo to the mountains,” the Indian said again.
    â€œWhat for?” Frank asked.
    â€œTo find the men you seek. Ride to Ghost Valley.”
    â€œWhy should I take any advice from you, and how is it you know I’m looking for anybody? You won’t even tell me who the hell you are.”
    â€œI am One Who Came Before. We are called Anasazi. This is all you need to know.”
    â€œBut how is it that you know I’m looking for a couple of men?”
    â€œGo to the mountains,” the Indian said for the third time. “One of the men you seek is behind you now.” Then he wheeled away and disappeared into the forest.
    â€œDamn,” Frank whispered. He gave some thought to following the Indian. Or was this all a product of his imagination?
    Frank glanced over his shoulder, just in time to see a man cradling a shotgun walking toward him from the direction of Glenwood Springs.
    â€œAre you Frank Morgan?” the man cried, bringing the shotgun to his shoulder.
    Frank wasted no time drawing his pistol, aiming it, drawing back the Colt’s hammer.
    â€œI asked you a question, you son of a bitch!”
    â€œHere’s my answer,” Frank bellowed. His trigger finger curled.
    A shot rang out, echoing off the mountainsides surrounding the cemetery.
    The stranger with the shotgun stumbled, staggering to keep his footing. He fired a load of buckshot into the ground before he fell to his knees.
    Frank rushed forward, reaching the gunman just before he went over on his back.
    â€œWhere’s Vanbergen? Where’s Pine?” Frank demanded with his gun clamped in his fist.
    The bearded cowboy lay motionless with blood leaking from a wound in his chest. His eyes batted shut.
    â€œHow the hell did you know I was here?” Frank asked, knowing the man would never answer him.
    He put his smoking six-shooter away and headed back toward town. He would have to report the incident to the local sheriff and if possible, get the dead man’s identity.
    Somehow, Pine and Vanbergen already knew he was here, hot on their trail. But what puzzled Frank most was how the Indian had known that a member of the gang was coming for him.

FIVE
    Sheriff Tom Brewer looked down at the body in the light of a coal-oil lantern. “Can’t say as I’ve ever seen him in Glenwood Springs before.”
    â€œHe tried to kill me with that shotgun,” Frank said. “I had no choice.”
    Brewer glanced up at Frank. “I heard you was in town, Mr. Morgan. I know your reputation. You’re a killer for hire, a paid shootist. I won’t tolerate that in my jurisdiction.”
    â€œIt was self-defense, Sheriff.”
    â€œI reckon I’ll have to take your word for it, unless there was any witnesses.”
    â€œNone. An old man who said his name was George was here before this gunslick showed up, only he left before the trouble started.”
    â€œGeorge 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.”
    â€œThere won’t be ... unless someone else starts it, the way this