“Yes, but they brought trouble with them,” Chance said.
“As usual,” Ace added.
Louis said, “That’s another thing . . . How could the two of you possibly know all this that you’ve told us?”
“Dramatic license,” Chance replied with a smile.
“And they told us about it later,” Ace said.
“Now,” Chance said, “do you want to hear the rest of the story or not?”
Denny said, “I want to know where the two of you were. After all, you’re supposed to be the main part of it, remember?”
“When the Jensens get together, everybody has a part to play,” Chance said.
“But for the record,” Ace put in, “we were down in New Mexico . . .”
CHAPTER 14
Raton, New Mexico
The Sangre de Cristo Mountains loomed north of the settlement. From a distance, they appeared to be an impassable barrier to anyone who wanted to continue traveling into Colorado. But as they rode closer, Ace and Chance Jensen were able to see the place where the rocky, thickly wooded heights folded back on themselves to form the fabled Raton Pass, one of the most important landmarks on the original Santa Fe Trail.
“Looks like quite a climb up there,” Chance commented as their horses ambled along the trail, which up ahead turned into the main street of the town that took its name from the pass. The ground had a dusting of snow on it, and some of the powdery white stuff had collected on the branches of the pine trees they passed, too.
“Yeah, but from what I’ve heard, people on horseback don’t have any trouble making it,” Ace said. “With a strong enough team, you can even take a wagon over Raton Pass. Plenty of folks have done it. The trail is hardly ever closed, even in the winter like this.”
Chance shivered and said, “I’ll bet it’s even colder up there at the summit. It’s chilly enough down here! We need to find a nice saloon and warm our old bones a little.”
Ace smiled. Their bones weren’t exactly “old,” since both of them were in their early twenties. They were the same age, technically, since they were twins, although Ace had been born a few minutes earlier than Chance.
They were fraternal twins, not identical, so while they bore a strong resemblance to each other, there were obvious differences, as well. Those differences extended beyond the physical. Ace knew good and well his brother had more in mind than warming up when he said he wanted to find a saloon. If some good whiskey, a pretty saloon girl or two, and maybe a card game were involved as well, Chance would be happy.
“It’s late enough in the day that we probably ought to spend the night,” Ace said. “We still have plenty of time to make it to the Sugarloaf before Christmas.”
“That sounds good to me,” Chance agreed. “I don’t recall where the next good-sized settlement is, north of the pass.”
“I wouldn’t want to get to the ranch late, though,” Ace mused. “It was mighty nice of Miss Sally to invite us.”
Chance grinned and said, “Hey, we’re Jensens, too, aren’t we?”
“Not blood relations. We just have the same name. Although I’ve been wondering about that ever since we were at the Sugarloaf last time and I heard Luke talking about how he used to know a woman named Lettie . . .”
“Yeah, yeah, I know, and that was our ma’s name, according to what Doc told us.” Chance laughed. “At least you’ve started coming up with crazy ideas about Luke being our father, instead of Smoke. When we first met him, you got it in your head that he was our pa.”
“Not really. You can’t blame me for wanting to know the truth, though.”
“The truth of the past is still the past,” Chance said. “We can’t change it, and it doesn’t have anything to do with the present unless we let it. So I don’t see any point in worrying about it. Just be glad we have a place to go for Christmas and look forward to all the good food Miss Sally will have on hand. I know I’m looking forward to it!”
His brother had a point there, thought Ace. They would be surrounded by friends and warmth and plenty to eat. They were lucky. Beyond lucky, Ace thought.
“Afterward, though, we’re still going to ride on up to the sanitarium and visit with Doc, right?” he said.
Chance nodded and said, “Sure. It’s been a while since we’ve seen him. I’d like to know how he’s doing.”
While the Jensen brothers were growing up, Ennis “Doc” Monday had been the only father they had known. They had been aware from an early age that he wasn’t actually their father, but he had raised them their whole lives, after their mother died shortly after giving birth to them. Ace didn’t think their real father, whoever he was, could have been any closer to them. It had been hard, going out on their own, but Doc’s health had gotten bad, and he had gone into the sanitarium and had insisted that Ace and Chance not feel tied down. Blood relation or not, the boys had the same sort of restless nature Doc did, so they had agreed, although reluctantly.
Since then, Ace and Chance had drifted, but they tried to make it to the MacMurphy Sanitarium once or twice a year to check on Doc. At the start, it had been their hope that eventually he would improve to the point that he could leave the sanitarium and rejoin them in roaming the West. But that hadn’t happened, and Ace had come to realize that Doc actually liked it at the sanitarium and didn’t want to leave. It had become a home, of sorts, to a man who had never really had one.
First things first, though, Ace told himself as he and Chance rode along Raton’s main street. If it were up to him, that would have been finding a hotel room for the night, but he knew Chance was searching for a likely-looking saloon.
Chance spotted one and pointed it out to his brother, saying, “Look there. The Lady Luck Saloon. That’s got to be an omen, doesn’t it?”
“Maybe. If you believe in omens.”
Chance grinned again and said, “What gambler doesn’t? Come on, Ace.”
He turned his horse toward the saloon, which had a big sign proclaiming its name attached to the railing along the balcony that ran across the second floor. The Lady Luck looked like it might be the biggest and best saloon in Raton. Chance had a positive genius for sniffing out such places.
As they drew rein in front of this one, though, something unexpected happened. With the temperature as low as it was, and thick gray clouds overhead and a chilly breeze blowing, the batwings that normally would be swinging in the saloon’s entrance were tied back, and the regular doors, which had pebbled glass in their upper panels, were closed to keep the cold air out.
They burst open suddenly, and a small figure raced out of the saloon. Boots clomping heavily, a man lunged onto the boardwalk after him and yelled, “Come back here, you little redskin bastard!”
The Indian boy leaped off the boardwalk, ducked under the hitch rail, and started into the street.
“Stop him!” the man giving chase shouted at Ace and Chance. “He’s a thief!”
Chance took his left foot out of the stirrup and stuck his leg out. The boy tried to dart around it, but he was going too fast. His momentum carried him into Chance’s leg. His own legs continued churning, but the upper half of his body went backward. He landed hard on his back and let out a stunned “Ooof!”
Instantly, a look of regret passed over Chance’s face. He had reacted instinctively, Ace knew, and now he was wondering if he had done the right thing. The Jensen brothers tended to side with underdogs, and this scrawny Indian youth, in ragged clothes that couldn’t be doing much to block that cold wind, certainly looked like he fell into that category.
The man who strode out into the street after him, on the other hand, appeared to be well fed and warm in a long, thick sheepskin coat. He wore a black hat with a round brim and crown and an eagle feather sticking up from a snakeskin band. The coat hung open, revealing that he was a two-gun man, with a pair of revolvers riding in holsters attached to crisscrossing cartridge belts. His face was ruddy from drink or the cold or both.
The Indian boy was having
trouble catching his breath after the fall had knocked the air out of his lungs. Gasping, he tried to scoot away as the man reached down to grab him. He got hold of the boy’s shirt collar with his left hand, hauled him to his feet, and drew back his right hand.
“A good beatin’ will teach you not to steal from your betters,” he said.
Now Chance looked downright angry. Ace felt the same way. He spoke up, saying sharply, “Hold it, mister. No matter what he did, you’ve got no call to hit that boy.”
The man looked up in obvious surprise and demanded, “What are you talkin’ about? He’s an Indian and a thief. I’ve got every right in the world to wallop him. Hell, in some places, they cut off your hands if you steal something. I used to be a sailor, so I know. He’ll be gettin’ off lucky with a beatin’.”
Having said that, the man ignored the Jensen brothers and got ready again to strike the boy.
This time it was the metallic sound of gun hammers being cocked that stopped him.
His head jerked around toward the two young men on horseback. He saw that Ace and Chance had both drawn their guns and were holding them low, close by their holsters, but leveled in his general direction. He was so surprised he let go of the boy’s shirt. The youngster was still panting a little, but he was able to dart away, race to the mouth of a nearby alley, duck into it, and disappear.
“What in blazes?” the man muttered. “You’re throwin’ down on me? Because of an Indian kid?”
“It doesn’t matter who he is,” Ace said. “You don’t need to be whaling away on a youngster who’s a fraction of your size.”
“But he stole!” The man’s face flushed even more. He looked like he was about to pop a blood vessel. “I set my poke on the bar just for a second, and the filthy little bastard grabbed it and took off!” He rubbed his angular jaw. “He shouldn’t have been in there to start with. Redskins don’t need to be around liquor. Everybody knows that!”
“So he got away with your money?” Ace asked.
“Yeah—because of you two!”
Chance said, “We’re sorry about that. But you should have just taken it back from him instead of trying to beat him.”
The man’s eyes narrowed as he glared angrily at the brothers. He said, “By all rights, you ought to pay me back what I lost. I mean, I yelled first thing that he was a thief. You knew he had stolen something, and you still let him get away.”
Ace frowned. The man had a point, he supposed. He and his brother had reacted to the sight of a much larger man about to hurt a boy and hadn’t thought everything through. The way the situation was shaping up, nobody had really done the right thing here.
“We’re sorry, mister—”
“Starkey,” the man broke in, introducing himself. “Clint Starkey.”
“We’re sorry, Mr. Starkey. It seems to me we’re all sort of to blame for this.”
“Not me,” snapped Starkey. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Other than threaten a kid,” Chance said, his voice equally sharp.
“Oh, the hell with it!” Starkey said as he made an abrupt, dismissive gesture. “There wasn’t more than twenty dollars in that poke, and I’ve got more.” He jabbed a finger at Ace and Chance. “But you two steer clear of me! The next time I see you, I might not be so forgivin’.”
With that, he turned and stalked back into the Lady Luck Saloon, then slammed the door behind him.
Chance sighed and said, “Well, so much for going in there to warm up, get a drink, and maybe rustle up a poker game.”
He slipped his gun, a .38 caliber Smith & Wesson Model 2 revolver, back into the cross-draw rig under his coat.
Ace pouched his iron, a Colt .45, as well. He said, “There are bound to be other saloons in this town. We’ll find one, or maybe this really was an omen and we ought to forget about that and hunt up a hotel instead.”
“Time enough for that later,” Chance responded without hesitation. He turned his horse away from the hitch rail. They had never tied their mounts or even swung down from their saddles.
Ace followed suit. They rode past the alley where the Indian boy had disappeared. Ace glanced along the passage but saw no sign of him.
That was because the boy was waiting at the next corner for them, Ace realized as he saw the youngster step out and raise a hand in a tentative signal for them to stop.
“What do you want?” Chance asked in an annoyed voice. “Do you speak English?”
The boy’s head bobbed up and down. He said, “I speak English good. Learned at mission school.”
“You’d better run on home,” Ace told him. “You don’t want to be around here, in case Starkey comes around again.”
“That Clint Starkey bad man,” the boy said solemnly.
“Then why did you steal from him?” Chance asked.
“Very hungry. Little sisters very hungry.” The boy hung his head. “But it is a sin to steal. Learned that at mission school, too.”
“Maybe you ought to give Starkey his money back,” Ace suggested.
“Or give it to us, and we’ll see that he gets it,” Chance said. “You might not want to go around him again. He warned us not to.”
The boy started edging away, clearly uncomfortable with the idea of giving back the money he had stolen. He said, “I stopped you to warn you, too.”
“What about?” Ace asked.
“Starkey. Do not believe anything he says. He won’t forget you pulled guns on him. He will get even. He will kill you!”
With that, the boy whirled and raced away, back toward the alley. He ducked to the left at the far end and disappeared around the building’s back corner.
“Do you think he’s right?” Ace asked his brother. “Have we just ridden straight into trouble again?”
Chance laughed and said, “We wouldn’t be Jensens if we didn’t, would we?”
CHAPTER 15
The MacMurphy Sanitarium
The survival instinct welled up inside Doc and made him thrash around on the bed as Bill Williams—or Malkin or whatever his name was!—tried to choke him to death. Doc arched his back and attempted to throw his assailant off him, while at the same time punching Williams in the head.
Doc would have been the first one to admit, though, that he was a lover, not a fighter. The blows he landed were awkward and didn’t pack much power. They didn’t seem to bother Williams at all. His hands just clamped tighter around Doc’s throat.
Doc’s madly whirling thoughts settled down a little. A certain sense of calm came over him. Was that the realization of impending death? Fear still filled his brain, but he remembered something else that he should have thought of before now.
He writhed enough on the bed to slide his hand underneath his pillow. His fingers closed around the butt of the little pistol he had put there earlier, as was his habit, and he yanked the gun out and slashed at Williams’s face with it.
Doc still didn’t have much strength, but the gun made a difference. Williams grunted in pain and then cursed. His grip loosened for a second. Doc hit him a second blow, this time smacking the gun against the side of his head. When Doc bucked up from the mattress again, Williams toppled to the side, slid off the bed, and thudded to the floor beside it.
Gasping for air, Doc rolled the other way as fast as he could. He came off the bed, and his feet hit the floor. He stumbled but caught himself with his left hand on the small bedside table. Turning, he lifted the gun in his right.
Williams was just pulling himself to his feet on the other side of the bed. In the shadowy room, he was a dark, bulky shape, but Doc heard his harsh breathing. All he had to do was aim at that sound and start pulling the trigger, Doc told himself. At this range, he couldn’t miss, and even the small-caliber bullets would do considerable damage.
He didn’t fire, though, and when he thought about it, he knew why.
Williams laughed.
“Can’t pull the trigger, can you?” he said. “You’re not a killer, Doc. You never have
been. Me, on the other hand—”
“You’re an outlaw and a murderer,” Doc snapped. “I know who you are—Malkin!”
Well, that was a stupid thing to say, Doc told himself. He had just confirmed that he’d discovered this man’s true identity.
But Malkin had come into his room to kill him, anyway, Doc reminded himself. What he had just said didn’t really matter that much. Malkin already wanted him dead.
“Yeah, I figured when I saw you come out of my room that you knew more than you should,” Malkin said. “I was sure of it when I saw you’d moved my gun and my letters. What made you suspicious of me to start with? That old biddy Bennett tell you she spotted me with the gun one day?”
“I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about,” Doc said stiffly. He wasn’t going to get Mrs. Bennett into trouble, too. “I’ve never been in your room, Bill.”
Malkin laughed again and said, “That’s not going to work. You just called me by my real name, remember?”
Doc cursed himself mentally. All right, that had been a mistake, after all. It was just so hard to think straight with his heart pounding so frantically and his throat hurting where Malkin had choked him; and now, just to make things worse, the hand with the gun in it was starting to shake. The trembling was bad enough he wasn’t sure he could hit Malkin anymore, even at such close range....
“Come on, Monday,” the outlaw continued. “Tell me who else knows and I’ll make it easy on you.”
“You mean you won’t kill me?”
“No, I’ll still kill you, but you can lay down in bed again and I’ll use a pillow on you instead of my hands. It won’t hurt as bad. It’ll be just like going to sleep. That’s what I should have done to start with. I reckon I’m just used to more direct methods. I like to be able to feel it when the life goes out of somebody I’m killing.”
A shudder went through Doc that didn’t have anything to do with the condition that made his hands shake at times. He knew he was facing a monster across this bed.
“I’m going to start shouting for help,” he said. “You’re going to stand there until someone comes, and then the law will be summoned.”
A Jensen Family Christmas Page 10