There's enough gold to make you think you can live forever, but Shamus McGinty has hidden it where no one can ever find it.

The only way to find the gold is to stop looking, but once you find it, you won't even realize it.

So goes the legend of Shamus McGinty's gold.

After forty years, Morgan Armstrong thinks he's close to solving the legend, but he's at death's door. He offers a share of the gold to the ruthless outlaw Quinn Rogers in return for finding a cure to save his life. Quinn looks no farther than Fergal O'Brien, purveyor of a 'universal remedy' he claims will cure anything and everything.

Too bad for Morgan that it hasn't cured anyone yet, and too bad for Fergal when Quinn finds that out. His ultimatum to Fergal is simple: cure Morgan or die.

To avoid the wrong end of Quinn's gun, Fergal and his trusty bodyguard, Randolph, must find a way to help Morgan.

Their treatment just might be the key to solving the legend of Shamus McGinty's gold.

'What kind of fool goes outside on a day like this?'

To Vance's question, Quinn glanced through the saloon's swing doors. Outside, the wind drove the snow horizontally and deepened the snowdrift on the porch.

'There ain't anybody outside,' Quinn said.

For a moment the snow relented and a man's outline appeared on the porch. The man raised his arms to shield his face from the latest blast of snow, then staggered forward and grabbed the side of the doorway. He half-walked, half-fell into the saloon. A solid coating of snow encased the man from head to foot. A thick layer of ice encrusted his hat.

Although Quinn didn't want to stray from the stove's comforting embrace, he shuffled along the bench to provide the man with enough space to sit in the warmth.

The man staggered another pace and fell to his knees. Snow plummeted from his shoulders to the floor and added to the snowdrift.

The bartender dashed from behind the bar. He grabbed the man's nearest elbow and gestured to Quinn.

'Help me,' he shouted.

Quinn looked around the saloon. Aside from his four men and the bartender, the only other man in the room was a heavily bearded man who sat by the bar.

The heavily bearded man all but disappeared into his buffalo hide jacket. Only his eyes, framed by fur and his hair, were visible as he stared at the bartender and the newcomer.

With regret, Quinn stood. He sauntered from the stove. Immediately, the cold permeated his body. In eagerness to return to the warmth, Quinn grabbed the man by the spare elbow and dragged him along the floor.

Despite the man's thick skins, he was light. His trailing feet left a white path of fallen ice. Beneath Quinn's grip, the man's bony elbow and upper arm were free of surplus fat. The man glanced up. Rheumy eyes flashed their gratitude.

'Let's get you closer to the stove, old-timer,' Quinn said.

Quinn maneuvered the man on to the bench.

With a thin, shaking hand, the man prized his frozen hat from his head to reveal sparse hair as white as the landscape outside.

'Thank you kindly, young man,' he said, his voice gravely and tired.

Vance pushed a mug of coffee into the man's hand.

As the hot tin mug touched the man's fingers, he sighed. With his eyes closed, he hunched over the coffee. The warming fumes smothered his face.

Vance waggled his coffee mug from side to side.

'Bartender,' he shouted, 'more coffee.'

Quinn smiled. In the five years that Vance had worked for him, he'd never sat in a saloon and ordered anything but the roughest whiskey.

The bartender dashed behind the bar and returned with a new pot of coffee. He slammed it on the stovetop and rocked back and forth on his heels, making exaggerated arm movements across his chest in a futile attempt to generate heat.

'Anything more, sirs?' he said.

'Get the next batch of coffee started,' Vance said.

The bartender nodded and dashed back across the saloon as a howling blast of icy wind blew through the doorway.

'So, old-timer,' Quinn said. 'What were you doing outside on a day like this?'

'Morgan, the name's Morgan.'

Quinn poured more coffee.

'Well met, Morgan, but what were you doing? The snow trapped us here three days ago. Nothing could make us leave this stove. Except you're wandering around outside.'

Morgan slurped his coffee.

'I'm searching. Like I always do.'

'What for? Ain't nothing to find outside but death.'

'I know that. I came to Idaho for information. But I thought I'd pay for the journey by turning into a lump of ice, and having to wait for the thaw before someone would find my frozen bones. Now I can die in the warmth.'

'You won't die. You'll outlive us all.'

Morgan shook his head and mumbled something. Ice clumps showered from his scalp and sizzled against the stove. Then his eyes closed and, with a small sigh, he fell to his right against Quinn's shoulder.

Quinn pushed Morgan back into an upright position.

'Get that coffee inside you, old-timer,' Quinn said. 'You just need warmth.'

Morgan chuckled. 'I need more than warmth. I know when my time has come, and that time is now.'

With stately grace, Morgan tumbled from the bench to the floor. He lay on his side, the coffee splashing across the saloon floor beside him.

Quinn dropped to his knees and examined the prone Morgan. The only action he could think of was to get more warmth into his frail body. He drew Morgan's legs to his chest and wrapped him around the base of the stove. From inches away, the heat would burn Morgan's skin even through his thick clothes, but the cold was the greatest danger to him.

By the bar, the bartender nodded in encouragement.

The heavily bearded man glared back over his beard.

Wisps of steam rose from Morgan's clothes. Small pools of water spread from his body. Morgan gasped and waved a hand, beckoning feebly towards Quinn.

In curiosity, Quinn edged forward.

Morgan's lips formed the shape of words.

Despite his closeness, Quinn couldn't hear what Morgan said.

'Don't speak, old-timer. Concentrate on getting warm.'

'Come closer,' Morgan muttered. Although his voice carried to Quinn, it was still weak.

With a sigh, Quinn leaned forward. He positioned his ear above Morgan's mouth.

'What do you want to say?'

'Come closer.'

Quinn smiled. 'Can't get any closer, old-timer.'

'All right. I probably ain't got much time left, so before I die I need to tell someone my secret.'

Morgan coughed. The action shook his head and freed more ice clumps to clatter against Quinn's face.

'This ain't the time for last messages, old-timer. You'll be fine.'

Quinn lifted his head and smiled in the hope that Morgan might believe him.

'This is the time,' Morgan muttered, his voice weakening.

'You can tell me. Except you'll be fine once you're warmer,' Quinn said, with less confidence than before.

He leaned down again and positioned his ear close to Morgan's mouth.

'Have you heard of the legend of Shamus McGinty's gold?' Morgan whispered, slurring his words.

Around him, Quinn's men chuckled.

Quinn sat up, sneering.

'Yeah, I've heard a lot of meaningless talk about finding the gold when you're not looking for it, or some other fool thing.'

Morgan rolled on to his back and lifted a shaking finger.

'The exact words of the legend are that there's enough gold to make you think that you can live forever, but Shamus McGinty has hidden the gold where nobody can ever find it.' Morgan coughed and took several shallow breaths. 'The only way to find the gold is to stop searching, but when you have found it, you won't know that you have.'

Morgan closed his eyes.

While providing a wide smile, Quinn leaned back on his haunches.

'Ain't the time for fireside tales, old-timer.'

'This is the time for fireside tales,' Morgan said, his voice gaining strength.

Morgan opened his eyes and with a thin hand, he grabbed Quinn by the chin. With a claw-like grip, he clutched his fingers and dragged Quinn's face down to his.

'Rest, old-timer,' Quinn said and shook his head, but Morgan clung on.

'If I don't tell someone soon,' Morgan said, 'I never will. So, tell me, what else do you know about the legend of Shamus McGinty's gold?'

Surprising himself with his gentleness, Quinn laid a hand over Morgan's hand and prized away his fingers.

'Like you say, it's a legend. Nobody has ever found the gold that Shamus McGinty discovered because nobody knows where he hid it. As McGinty disappeared forty years ago, I doubt anyone will ever find it. Assuming the gold existed.'

Morgan wheezed, his face slackening as he looked to the ceiling. His gaze seemed to be far from this cold saloon.

'The gold existed and I know where Shamus McGinty hid it.'

With only a slight interest in this tale, Quinn shook his head and smiled.

'You don't know. Now rest, old-timer.'

As Morgan turned, the gaze from his rheumy eyes pierced Quinn, demanding his attention and hinting at the man that Morgan once used to be.

'Tell me one thing. Do you think I'm old enough to have known Shamus McGinty?'

Quinn examined the wrinkled old-timer. On Morgan's small amount of visible skin, the numerous scars and unhealed blemishes suggested the colorful life that he'd lived.

'You are old enough,' Quinn said, and leaned forward. 'But if you knew Shamus McGinty, prove it.'

'How?' Morgan mouthed.

'Showing me Shamus McGinty's gold might be a start.'

Morgan drew in a long rattling breath.

Quinn thought that this might be Morgan's last breath. Then he breathed again with a short rasp.

With a bony finger, Morgan gestured through the swing doors.

'The gold is far from this frozen wilderness. It's in the warmth, down south in Kansas.'

'Where in Kansas?'

'I know where it is,' Morgan whispered, while staring at Quinn, 'but Shamus McGinty hid the gold well. Nobody could find it from directions.'

'Hidden ain't much use to us.'

'Maybe not,' Morgan whispered with a slight gleam in his eyes. 'But I'll take you there and you can have as much gold as you want.'

'The old-timer ain't fit to travel to Kansas,' Vance said. 'The only thing he'll do is die.'

Having played along with Morgan's game for long enough, Quinn pulled his Colt from under his skins. With a steady hand, he aimed the weapon at Morgan.

'Vance is right. You won't live long enough to take us to the gold. So, you'll tell me. Where is Shamus McGinty's gold?'

As Morgan stared down the barrel of the gun his rheumy eyes shone.

'Your threats to a dying man ain't concerning me.'

Quinn gripped his Colt tightly for a few moments and then sighed. He grimaced and pushed it back into his holster.

'What do you suggest then, old-timer?'

When Morgan spoke, his voice was a faint breeze, lost against the wind howling outside.

Quinn shook his head.

'I didn't hear that, old-timer.'

With a bent finger, Morgan beckoned.

Quinn leaned forward. He pressed his ear to Morgan's mouth.

Morgan whispered a few words.

With a smile, Quinn pushed back from Morgan to face his men.

'What did the old-timer say?' Vance asked.

'He said, 'make me live'.'

As Morgan closed his eyes, small ice slips on his eyelashes nestled on his hollowed cheeks.

Quinn slumped back on the bench.

'What do you reckon, Vance?'

Vance knelt beside Morgan. He rocked his head to the side and laid it on Morgan's chest.

'He has a heartbeat. He's still with us.'

'No,' Quinn snapped. 'I meant about Shamus McGinty's gold.'

'I've heard the legend, but if we want to discover if the old-timer is telling the truth, we'll have to help him.'

Quinn nodded and leapt to his feet.

'Go to the horses and get more blankets,' he shouted.

Vance and his three other men pushed to their feet and strode to the swing doors. Vance stopped in the doorway and turned back.

'And if we make him live and he's lying to us?' he asked.

Quinn leaned over Morgan. His shadow produced by the nearest oil-lamp darkened the prone old-timer.

'I'll make him wish that he'd frozen to death,' Quinn muttered.

The barest hint of a smile twitched at the edge of Morgan's mouth.

Smiling, now that Morgan had heard his threat, Quinn gestured to the bartender.

'More hot coffee too,' he shouted.

The bartender nodded and dashed into his back store.

The heavily bearded man, who'd sat by the bar, had now gone.

Quinn hadn't heard this man leave, but he dismissed him from his thoughts. He had other matters to consider. Visions of more gold than any man could ever want dangled in Quinn's mind and to get it, he only had to make Morgan live.

Interrupting his thoughts, the bartender returned and slammed another steaming pot of coffee on the stove.

'Looks to me like this old-timer was worth saving,' the bartender said.

Quinn glared at the bartender.

'What do you mean?'

'I wouldn't mind getting my hands on Shamus McGinty's gold.'

'So, you were listening to our conversation? Because I don't like that.'

The bartender rubbed his hands.

'Yeah, I tend to listen when I hear gold mentioned.'

'That's unfortunate,' Quinn muttered.

'Unfortunate?' the bartender said, smiling.

With a quick twitch of his arm, Quinn pulled his Colt and aimed it at the bartender's forehead. He grinned.

'Yeah, unfortunate for you.'

The traditional western hero is brave, fearless and never shies from danger. Fergal O'Brien has none of these qualities.

He's always interested in the quick buck. He doesn't care too much who he rips off and he's an abject coward, who, at the first sign of danger, runs faster than anyone.

But deep down (very deep down) he has his charming side and some admirable qualities as he makes his way in the dangerous world of the Wild West in the only way he knows how. And he also has a side-kick, Randolph McDougal, who has all the admirable attributes he so lacks.

Fergal faces a dilemma that ought to force him to change his ways — after years of selling a dodgy 'universal remedy' that he claims cures all ills, but which only gives his customers belly ache, he has a chance to acquire gold beyond his wildest dreams — but only if he can cure a dying old-timer.

Strangely, he finds a way to make his tonic work. Although having done it, he can't work out how his fortunes have suddenly changed.

And as Fergal is blessed with more deviousness than is healthy and a capacity to attract trouble that is even less healthy, his good fortune doesn't last and, before he gets anywhere near the gold, everybody wants him dead.

I enjoyed writing this novel because I could deal with someone who didn't solve all his problems with a gun, but solves them by sticking to his strengths — even if those strengths are cheating, running, and hiding.

I hope that Fergal O'Brien will ride again one day and double-cross a few more suckers.