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reins and rode on out of the mining camp. He did not look back.
    Frank also had a hunch that Conrad would haul his ashes out for a warmer clime before icy winter locked up everything.
    Frank had received word on the way to Denver that the Pine and Vanbergen gangs would not winter in the deep Rockies. It was just too damn cold and the gangs ran the risk of getting snowed in and trapped. Frank did not know whether to believe that or not, but without a warm place to hole up, he had no desire to stay in the middle of the high country when the temperature dropped to thirty below zero.
    Frank headed southwest. He had him a hunch, and he often played out his hunches. Besides, Frank had learned that the southwest part of Colorado Territory was Pine’s old stomping grounds. He had kin down there. Ned had not been born there, but came to that part of the territory when he was run out of wherever the hell he did come from . . . and the stories about that were many and varied. The stories about Vic were also many and varied. No one really knew what to believe about either of the gang leaders, except that they were both vicious killers without a shred of morals or conscience.
    The area around Durango had more than its share of gold and silver mines that were still producing, there was lots of money floating around, and that would be a good place for the gangs to winter. Although Frank knew that the winters down there could be tough.
    Frank was in no hurry, and he stopped often to check his back trail and to let Dog limp around, stretch his legs, and tend to business. Dog was healing fast and putting on weight, each day spending more time on the ground and less time riding the pack animal.
    Frank was astonished at the number of people he saw on his way south. The country was filling up fast and settling.
    Indian trouble was, for the most part, over. There would occasionally be a band of young bucks jumping the reservation and causing some trouble, but that was happening less and less as more settlers moved in.
    Frank spent a lot of time wondering why Pine and Vanbergen would do such a stupid thing as hunt him down and burn him out, then leave a direct challenge for him to come get them.
    â€œArrogance, I reckon,” Frank muttered. He had been on the trail for a week, and had just entered the high grassland basin in the center of Colorado Territory, on the east side of the Platte. He had made camp for the evening with a lot of daylight left and had just dumped in the coffee and pulled the pot off the fire, setting it on the rocks that circled the small fire. He added a bit of cold water to settle the grounds, and leaned back against his saddle. Dog was lying by him when the animal suddenly raised his head and uttered a low growl.
    â€œEasy,” Frank said, putting a hand on Dog’s head. “Quiet now, boy.”
    â€œHello, the fire.” The shout came out of the brush. “I’m friendly. That coffee sure smells good.”
    â€œCome on in,” Frank called. His hand was on the butt of his .45.
    A young man stepped into the small clearing, leading his horse. The man looked to be in his mid-twenties and was not wearing a pistol . . . at least none that Frank could see.
    â€œHowdy,” the young man said. “Name is Jeff Barton.”
    â€œGlad to meet you,” Frank said. “I’m Frank. Come on in. Coffee will be ready in a few minutes.”
    â€œLet me take care of my horse,” Jeff said. “He’s tired.”
    â€œLooks it. There’s a little crick over there.” Frank pointed. “Come a long way?”
    â€œA fair distance,” Jeff replied. He let his horse drink a little, then pulled him back, stripped the saddle from him, and hobbled the animal. He got a cup from his saddlebags and walked over to the fire, settling down with a sigh of contentment.
    Frank hid his knowing smile. Jeff was no horseman. He was butt-sore. “Weary some?”
    â€œYou bet.