The second man had pushed himself up from the rail and came at Ace again, stomping and kicking this time. Ace rolled away from a swiftly descending bootheel that might have broken his head open if it had landed. Before he could get up, a kick caught him on the left shoulder and sent pain shooting through him for a second before that arm and shoulder went numb. Without it to support him, he sprawled awkwardly on his back.
The man tried again to stomp his face in. Ace got his right hand up in time to block the boot. He heaved up on it, and although that effort didn’t topple the man, it made him stagger backward wildly for a couple of seconds.
That respite was long enough for Ace to get his knees under him and then scramble to his feet. He ducked his head as the man charged in. Ace took a couple of blows on his hunched shoulders, then rammed his right shoulder into the man’s chest and drove him backward against the rail. This time it cracked under the impact and broke apart, dumping both of them into the street.
The thin layer of snow scattered around them as they landed. Ace was on top, and both his knees drove deep into the man’s stomach. The feeling was seeping back into his left arm, but it still wasn’t working correctly. There was nothing wrong with his right, though, so he slugged away with that fist, smashing three hard, fast punches into the man’s face, which left him senseless.
Meanwhile, a few yards farther along the boardwalk, Chance had met the attack of the other two men with equal speed and skill. Chance dressed well and had the look of a dandy, but he could handle himself just fine in a fight.
Unfortunately for him, his opponents had better timing than the men Ace was battling. They came at Chance together and threw their punches at the same time, and he couldn’t avoid both fists. He blocked one punch, but the other caught him on the chin and made him reel back a step.
One man caught hold of Chance’s left arm and swung him hard against the building. Chance’s hat flew off his head. He caught a glimpse of a fist shooting toward his face and jerked his head to the side. The fist scraped his ear as it went by, but the force of the blow went into the wall. The man who had thrown the punch yelled from the pain that exploded through his knuckles as they struck the wood.
Chance lifted a left uppercut that levered the man’s head back. His opponents had actually done him a favor by slamming him against the wall. They were both in front of him and couldn’t get behind him or even flank him. It was almost like fighting back-to-back with his brother, which he had done many times in their adventurous lives.
For a long moment, a flurry of punches flew back and forth there on the boardwalk as the two men bored in on Chance. He blocked as many of the blows as he could, but inevitably, some of them landed. He tasted blood in his mouth.
But Chance’s pugilistic skills allowed him to deal out as much punishment as he was enduring, which was amazing considering the two against one odds. The same keenly honed reflexes and coordination that allowed him to deal cards with such speed and deftness sent his fists snapping out to land with stinging power on his opponents. His hands already ached, and he knew he might not be much good for card playing for a few days, while they recovered, but caught up in the heat of battle as he was, he didn’t care.
A solid right slewed one hardcase’s head to the side. His knees buckled. As he went down, Chance hit him with a left that stretched him on the boardwalk.
While Chance was throwing that punch, his remaining opponent took advantage of the opening and crowded in. He grabbed Chance by the throat with both hands and rammed him back against the wall again. The man’s thumbs pressed hard against Chance’s windpipe. Chance hammered punches at him, but at such close range, he wasn’t able to get much strength behind them.
Red rockets exploded behind Chance’s eyes and left glittering trails of sparks behind them. He caught hold of the man’s wrists and tried to dislodge the death grip, but he didn’t have enough strength to do it. Chance knew he was on the brink of passing out, and if that happened, there was a very good chance he would never wake up again....
A resounding thud sounded, followed by instant relief as the choking hands fell away from Chance’s neck. His vision wasn’t good, because the world had started swimming around him as he was deprived of breath, but it cleared quickly, and he saw his brother standing there over the man, who had just collapsed in a senseless heap at Chance’s feet. Ace’s Colt was in his hand, reversed so that he had been able to use the butt to knock out the man who’d been about to choke the life out of Chance.
“You all right?” Ace asked.
“Y-yeah,” Chance rasped. It hurt his throat to talk. “You?”
“Just banged up a mite.” Ace looked around. “What happened to the other fella?”
It had occurred to him that when this fracas started, there had been five men on the boardwalk around them, not four. The fifth man had stepped back and let the others do the fighting.
Now Ace tensed as he caught sight of a figure looming up from the shadows, with a gun thrust out in front of him.
“I know what you’re thinking, son,” the man said. “You’re going to try to turn that gun around and use it. I can tell you right now, you won’t make it.”
“Let’s both holster our irons and see what happens then,” Ace snapped.
The man chuckled and said, “Why would I do that? I’ve got the drop on both of you, and I’d be a fool to give it up.”
“Maybe so,” Chance said, forcing the words out through his sore throat, “but you can’t kill us both at the same time, and the one still standing is going to kill you.”
“Actually, that would be a pretty good challenge,” said Hinton, “but it’s not necessary. I think you boys have learned your lesson. Steer clear of Doña Mariana.”
“That’s what this is about?” Ace asked in amazement. “You jumped us because we were polite to a lady?”
“Well . . . that’s not all of it. But it’s part of my job to look out for that lady, and you—especially you, Fancy Dan—were being too forward with her. You were pretty damned disrespectful to me and my friends, too. You showed us up in front of her, and I don’t like that.”
“Isn’t it her husband’s job to look out for her?” Ace said.
Hinton’s shoulders rose and fell as he replied, “Don Sebastian’s got me and my associates to handle chores like that . . . and others, besides.”
Ace had a strong hunch those other chores involved gun work. He didn’t know exactly what had brought the Aguilars to Big Rock. Doña Mariana had said that she and her husband were moving here, or at least onto a ranch in the vicinity. Ace didn’t think the situation was quite that simple, though.
Right now, it didn’t matter. He said, “You can’t just gun us down. That would be cold-blooded murder. The sheriff here wouldn’t stand for it.”
“Monte Carson doesn’t worry me, but nobody’s paying me to kill you . . . yet. I’ll be fine with it if you’ll just avoid the lady in the future. Now, pouch that iron you’re holding, kid. Be mighty careful, though, when you’re turning it around to holster it.”
Slowly, Ace slipped the Colt back into leather. By now, the men he and Chance had battled with were starting to regain their senses, moaning and moving around a little where they lay on the boardwalk and in the street. Ace thought bleakly that he and Chance might have to fight this battle all over again—and it likely wouldn’t turn out the same way the next time.
Instead, Hinton said, “Go on, get out of here before they wake up good.”
“This isn’t over,” Chance blustered.
“This part of it is,” Hinton said calmly. “And if there is a next time . . . maybe I’ll just kill the both of you and be done with it.”
CHAPTER 33
The Sugarloaf
Smoke was eager to hear about the trouble that had brought Preacher’s companions here to the ranch, but since it was already late in the afternoon and was growing dark outside, Sally said there would be time for that after supper.
“I’m sur
e Mrs. DuBois and Mr. Monday are tired after traveling,” she said. “They can rest for a bit, and then we’ll eat.”
“That sounds wonderful, Mrs. Jensen, but you might as well call me Doc,” the man said. “Not many people call a tinhorn gambler like me ‘mister.’”
“You’re more than a tinhorn gambler, Doc,” Smoke said. “You took on the job of raising those two boys when you didn’t have to, and that tells me a lot about you.”
“They’re special youngsters,” Doc said with a smile. Something about the expression struck Smoke as being slightly mysterious, as if Doc knew more than he was saying.
“That they are,” agreed Smoke. “We’ve run into them enough times, and they’ve helped us out often enough, that we’ve come to think of them as honorary members of the family.”
Doc nodded and said, “I can understand that. I’m no blood relation to them, but I feel about them almost like they were my own sons.”
Adelaide DuBois spoke up, saying, “I can’t thank the two of you enough for your hospitality. I don’t know what I’d do without people like you and friends like Arthur here.” She smiled. “I mean, like Preacher.”
“We know his real name,” Sally said, returning the smile, “but it did take some prying to get it out of him.”
“Yeah, like pulling a tooth,” added Smoke.
The old mountain man said, “It’s just that I been called Preacher so long, I don’t hardly know how to answer to my borned name. All my family and most of the folks who ever knowed me by that moniker are long gone now.”
Adelaide squeezed his arm and said, “You’re the last of your line? I didn’t know that.”
“Well . . . I am and I ain’t.” Preacher grinned at Smoke. “I reckon I’m one of those—what’d you call ’em?—honorary Jensens.”
“No doubt about it,” Smoke agreed.
Sally said, “Why don’t the two of you come with me? I’ll take you up to the rooms you’ll be using, so you can rest a bit, and then I need to get back to my kitchen.”
“If there’s anything I can do to help, dear . . . ,” Adelaide began.
“Not at all. You’re a guest. Although with a lot of company in the house, I’ll probably need a hand now and then before Christmas is over!”
She ushered the two visitors out of the parlor, leaving Smoke and Preacher there. They listened to the footsteps going up the stairs; then Smoke said quietly, “How bad is the trouble?”
“Bad enough I figured it’d be a good idea to get Adelaide here, where she’d be safe. But I ought to let her explain it. The whole thing’s a mite personal.”
“What about Doc Monday?”
Preacher shook his head and said, “Now that, I don’t reckon I can tell you, because I plumb don’t know much. We run into Doc on the way out here from town. He was ridin’ one of those saddle horses Dicky Patterson rents out, and a fella name of Bill Malkin was chasin’ him. From the sound of what Doc said, this Malkin is an owlhoot of some sort and wants him dead, but I don’t know the details. I gave Doc my hogleg to hold him off whilst we was out-runnin’ him to the ranch.”
“I heard those shots, I think.”
“Wouldn’t be surprised,” Preacher said. “Malkin give up the chase when we reached the turnoff from the main road, but Doc seems convinced he’ll be back. He’s hopin’ that by comin’ here, he can find those Jensen boys, Ace and Chance, and they’ll give him a hand dealin’ with Malkin.”
“Ace and Chance may well be here,” Smoke said, nodding, “but if Doc needs help, I’ll be glad to pitch in.”
“I figured as much. That’s why I told him to pile on into the buggy and I’d bring him here.”
Smoke clapped a hand on his old friend’s shoulder and said, “You did the right thing. Sally and I will always lend a hand to someone who needs it. And I know that you feel the same way, which is good, because we’ve got some pretty bad trouble of our own brewing.”
Preacher’s eyes narrowed. He said, “I had a feelin’ that somethin’ was goin’ on here at the Sugarloaf, and it wasn’t nothin’ good. But Sally was a-fussin’ over Adelaide and ol’ Doc, so I didn’t push her for answers. But you can tell me all about it, Smoke.” A gleam appeared in the old mountain man’s eyes. “Just who is it we’re gonna need to shoot?”
* * *
Dinner was a big pot of savory beef stew, along with beans and corn bread, greens, and apple pie. Sally had invited Pearlie and Cal to join the rest of them for dinner, so the big table in the dining room, while not full, had enough people around it to create a festive mood.
At least under normal circumstances it would have. Tonight, with the weariness and strain that were visible on the faces of both Adelaide DuBois and Doc Monday, the atmosphere was more subdued. Pearlie and Cal tried to lighten the mood with some of their usual banter, but when the japes fell flat, they abandoned the effort and concentrated on eating.
“This is all mighty good, Miss Sally, just like always,” Pearlie said.
“Can’t wait to try that apple pie,” added Cal.
After the meal was finished—and Cal had declared the apple pie to be as delicious as ever—Sally stood up and said, “Mrs. DuBois . . . Adelaide . . . if you wouldn’t mind giving me a hand in the kitchen . . . ?”
“Of course, dear,” the older woman responded as she got to her feet, as well. “After you’ve welcomed me into your home like this, especially at this time of year, it’s the least I can do.”
The five men had gotten up when Sally did. She waved them back into their chairs and told them, “Go ahead and enjoy your coffee.”
Earlier, during a brief conversation between Smoke, Sally, and Preacher, they had agreed that Adelaide would tell her story to Sally, all of them thinking that she might be more comfortable giving the painful details of her problem to another woman. While that was going on, and while Smoke and the others lingered over cups of coffee, they would get Doc Monday’s story.
Smoke turned his chair so he could extend his legs in front of him and cross them at the ankles. He looked along the table to where the gambler was sitting, and said bluntly, “I understand you’ve got trouble on your trail, Doc. Tell us about it, and we’ll figure out what to do.”
“I don’t want to impose that much on you . . . ,” Doc began.
“It’s not imposing,” Smoke said. “You’re a friend—more than a friend—to Ace and Chance, which means the rest of us are your friends, too. Blood relations or not, Jensens stick together.”
“About that—” Doc stopped short and shook his head. “Never mind. If you’re sure you want to know, I can tell you about Bill Malkin . . . and why he wants me dead.”
“Go ahead,” said Preacher.
For the next few minutes, Doc explained about his stay in the MacMurphy Sanitarium and how the surly patient Bill Williams had turned out to be notorious train robber and outlaw Bill Malkin.
“He came close to killing me the same day I found out,” Doc went on. “It was a narrow escape indeed. I knew I couldn’t risk letting him catch me again.”
“You didn’t tell anyone at the sanitarium about this?” Smoke asked with a frown.
“What proof did I have? By the time anyone could check, Malkin would have disposed of everything that could identify him or even cast any doubt on his true identity. And then I would have been left in there with him, while he waited like a hungry tiger for an opportunity to pounce.” Doc shook his head. “Maybe I panicked a little, but it just seemed to me like the only safe thing to do was run.” His mouth twisted. “And as we’ve seen, even that wasn’t safe, because Malkin left the sanitarium, too, and came after me.”
Preacher said, “It ain’t likely he’ll be able to get to you here on the Sugarloaf. With me and Smoke around, not to mention Pearlie and Cal and the rest of the crew, he’d be bitin’ off a hunk that’s a heap too big for him to chew.”
“And that’s before Ace and Chance even get here,” Smoke added. “You’re safe, Doc.”
“But fo
r how long?” Doc shook his head. “I appreciate your hospitality, Smoke, but we both know I can’t stay here on the Sugarloaf from now on.”
Smoke shrugged and said, “You can if that’s what you want to do.”
“What I want is not to have to spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder.”
Preacher said, “That varmint Malkin’s gonna kick the bucket sooner or later. You said that he was hidin’ out at the sanitarium, but that his health was actually poor, too.”
“That’s the way it seemed to me. But say he dies in a few years. How would I ever know? How could I be sure?”
“There’s one way,” Smoke said. “Deal with him now. Capture him and turn him over to the law.”
“You’re talking about—”
Smoke nodded, having reached a decision. “That’s right. We’re going to set a trap for him.”
* * *
Adelaide DuBois sat at the kitchen table, using a cloth Sally had given her to dab at the tear streaks on her weathered cheeks.
“You don’t know how much it means to me to be able to talk to you about this, Sally,” she said. “I’ve kept it all inside for so long, just living with the worry and the outright fear. I know I told Arthur about it, but it’s different somehow, sitting and pouring out my heart to another woman.”
Sally reached across the table and rested her hand on Adelaide’s.
“I know,” she said. “Although Preacher is one of the finest men I’ve ever met, and he definitely does seem to have a soft spot for you.”
Adelaide smiled wanly and said, “It’s just because we’re such old friends. Of course, he and I were never really that close, but he and my Pierre . . . the one he calls Polecat . . . were partners on several fur-trapping expeditions, and after Pierre gave that up, Preacher came to see us several times in St. Louis. Really, I suppose he’s the only one I know who even still remembers those days. So many years have gone by. So much has changed . . .”
“Life has a habit of doing that,” Sally said in a gentle voice.
A Jensen Family Christmas Page 23