A Jensen Family Christmas

by William W. Johnstone

  “And those kids,” added Luke.

  “And maybe Pearlie, since he probably rode right in on them,” Smoke said. “That would explain the shots we heard.” His voice hardened. “Do like I said and be ready to move when the time comes. We’re going to root out those rats.” He looked over at Ace and Chance. “Are you two sure you want to be in on this?”

  “Just try and keep us out,” Chance said.

  The Sugarloaf ranch house

  Sally knelt next to the sofa in the parlor and knotted a bloody rag around Pearlie’s right thigh. The bleeding where a bullet had gone straight through his leg had slowed down but didn’t appear to have completely stopped yet. One of Aguilar’s men stood guard in the corner, with a rifle in his hands.

  “I’m sure sorry, Miss Sally,” the foreman said, his voice taut from the pain of his wound. “As soon as I figured out them fellas were some of Aguilar’s hired guns, I should’a turned my horse around and lit a shuck outta here, instead of tryin’ to fight it out with ’em. That way I could’a warned Smoke and the others.”

  “You just followed your instincts, Pearlie,” she told him. “No one can fault you for that.” She paused as she finished the rough job of bandaging his wound. “Anyway, you got several shots off. That was probably enough to let Smoke know that something is wrong.”

  “Yeah, more’n likely.” Pearlie grimaced. “And more’n likely, Aguilar’s gonna be damned sorry he ever tried to pull off this slick job.” He glanced across the room to another sofa, where Adelaide DuBois sat with the three children huddled around her. “Pardon my language, ma’am.”

  “Don’t worry about that, Mr. Fontaine,” Adelaide said. “Right now, I feel the same way.”

  Mariana Aguilar came into the parlor and nodded toward Pearlie. She said to Sally, “Your man, he is not badly hurt?”

  “Bad enough,” Sally said. “And totally unjustified. Your husband has no right to do any of this.”

  Mariana shook her head and said, “I wish no one would be hurt, but Sebastian, he must have what is his.”

  “But it’s not—” Sally stopped. She was tired of the argument. She didn’t know if Mariana was totally deluded or just filled with the same sort of greed that possessed her husband.

  Travis Hinton stepped into the parlor and said to Mariana, “Don Sebastian sent me to find you. He says you need to go on upstairs and stay there.”

  “There is about to be more fighting?” she asked.

  “Bound to be. That fella”—Hinton nodded toward Pearlie—“tried to claim Jensen and the rest were nowhere around when he rode in, but Don Sebastian doesn’t believe that, and neither do I. Jensen will be showing up soon. I reckon we can count on that.”

  The gunman’s fingers caressed the butt of his Colt in anticipation. The gesture made a little shudder go through Sally.

  Mariana said, “I want Señora Jensen, Señora DuBois, and the children to come with me, so they will be safe.”

  “The boss didn’t say anything about that,” Hinton replied with a frown.

  “Then he did not forbid it, did he?”

  “All right. But that cowboy’s going, too, and, Carpenter, you’ll keep an eye on him.” Hinton chuckled. “We found a pistol hidden in the seat of that buggy. You were about to try to blast me, weren’t you, Miz Jensen?”

  “Maybe,” Sally said.

  “That’s why I don’t trust you, and I’m not gonna let you have a chance to get your hands on another gun. You watch her, too, Carpenter. She’s probably more dangerous right now than this ranch hand is.”

  “I wouldn’t bet your life on that, you low-down skunk,” Pearlie said.

  “I don’t bet my life on anything except my own gun hand,” Hinton snapped. “Get up.”

  With the hardcase called Carpenter covering them, Sally helped Pearlie onto his feet. He hobbled across the parlor to the stairs and climbed them slowly, again with Sally’s assistance. Carpenter followed them; then Mariana ushered Adelaide, Bodie, Hannah, and Teddy up the stairs in front of her. The children were clearly terrified, but so far they had kept their fear under control, except for a few muffled sobs from the two younger ones. Bodie was obviously struggling to keep a look of resolute courage on his face.

  Hinton blew out the lamp in the parlor and stepped outside again. As Sally heard him close the front door behind him, she thought about Smoke. Earlier, Pearlie had whispered to her that Smoke was indeed close by, along with Luke, Matt, Preacher, Ace, and Chance. He had told her that Ace had been rescued safely but that Doc hadn’t made it. Smoke had wanted to break that news to her, according to Pearlie, but under the circumstances, he thought it best that she know.

  “Don’t you worry,” Pearlie said to her now as they climbed the stairs. “This’ll all be over soon. Smoke’ll see to that.”

  “I hope so, but Aguilar has more than twenty men.”

  “Yeah, and there are five Jensens, plus Preacher, out there. Those varmints don’t know it, but they’re plumb outnumbered.”

  * * *

  The ranch house was dark and quiet as Smoke rode slowly toward it. With snow all around on the ground, on the roof, and in the branches of the trees, everything appeared as peaceful as could be, almost like one of those Christmas scenes in a Currier and Ives lithograph.

  Smoke knew how deceptive that was, though. Death lurked behind all that apparent tranquility.

  Smoke didn’t take his horse to the barn, as he normally would have. He rode directly to the house and swung down from the saddle in front of the porch. Before he could move toward the steps, someone warned from the shadows, “Stop right there, Jensen.”

  “Hinton,” Smoke said, recognizing the gunman’s voice.

  “You don’t sound surprised.”

  “I’m not.”

  Hinton eased forward into view with another man beside him. That man spoke up, saying, “Let us not waste time, Señor Jensen. I have a deed here. You will sign it, giving me title to the ranch known as the Sugarloaf.” A coal glowed orange as Aguilar drew in on the cigar clenched between his teeth. “Once this ranch is mine, I will deal with the rest of the valley.”

  “You’re loco, mister,” Smoke said. “I’m not signing that deed or anything else. You can’t steal this ranch from me.”

  “I am not stealing anything. We are making a fair trade, you and I. Your ranch . . . for the lives of your wife, the old woman, the children, and all your men.”

  “You’d threaten innocent women and children?”

  “I do what I must,” said Aguilar.

  For a moment, Smoke didn’t say anything. He was calculating where Luke and the others would be. They’d had time to move in on the ranch on foot. Nobody was better at moving stealthily and spotting enemies than Preacher, and the others were almost as good. By now they would be ready to strike at Aguilar’s men in swift and deadly fashion.

  “You may have crossed the border and put on a bunch of airs,” said Smoke, “but you’re still the same cheap Mexican bandido you always were, Aguilar.”

  That gibe pushed Aguilar over the edge. He threw down the deed in his left hand, jerked up the gun in his right, and the cigar fell from his mouth as he shouted, “Kill him, Hinton! Kill the gringo bastard!”

  CHAPTER 46

  Hinton’s hand flashed toward the gun on his hip at the same time Smoke made his draw. The two Colts cleared leather at the exact same instant.

  But Smoke had to worry about Aguilar, too, since the bandit’s gun was already out and spouting flame at him. Smoke shifted a hair to his left, and that movement slowed him down just enough for Hinton to get off the first shot. Aguilar’s bullet fanned Smoke’s cheek.

  Hinton’s ripped through his coat, missing him by less than an inch.

  The .45 roared and bucked in Smoke’s fist. He saw Hinton take a step back and knew the shot had found its mark. Hinton gasped, “You son of a—” and fired again. This time the slug whined past Smoke’s ear.

  Smoke snapped a shot at Aguilar, but the ma
n was already ducking back through the door after firing once. The bullet chewed splinters from the jamb.

  Hinton stumbled forward on the porch. Smoke was about to shoot him again when the Texan lost his grip on his gun. It slipped through his fumbling fingers and fell. Hinton came after it, plunging headlong to land with his arms and legs sprawled across the steps and his face buried in the snow at their foot. He didn’t move.

  Smoke bounded over him and leaped across the porch into the doorway. As he did so, a muzzle flash from the other side of the foyer split the shadows. Smoke didn’t know where the bullet went, but it missed him. He returned the fire and then through the echoes heard rapid footsteps headed toward the back of the house. With his top gunman dead, Aguilar was fleeing, rather than standing and fighting.

  Smoke went after the man who had tried to steal the Sugarloaf.

  * * *

  Luke and Matt were positioned at either end of the bunkhouse, watching Smoke’s confrontation with Aguilar and Hinton. When the shots began to thunder, several of Aguilar’s gun-wolves ran out of the building to gun Smoke down from behind.

  That was their intention, anyway, but Luke and Matt didn’t give them time to do that. They stepped into the open, and Luke shouted, “Hey!” causing the gunmen to stop short and try to swing around. Luke and Matt opened fire, and for a long moment, the area in front of the bunkhouse was a storm of lead sweeping back and forth. Gun flame stabbed through clouds of powder smoke that rolled across the scene. Both Jensens felt bullets slap through the air near them but remained unhit as their slugs plowed down Aguilar’s hardcases.

  Yelling and more gunfire broke out inside the bunkhouse. Luke turned toward the door and lifted both Remingtons, but he held his fire when he recognized the young cowboy who burst into the open and brandished a gun.

  “Hold your fire, Cal!” Luke called. “I think they’re all down out here.”

  “Luke!” Cal exclaimed. “Matt! We jumped the ones who were still inside—”

  “Figured as much, kid,” said Luke. “Anybody hurt?”

  “Yeah, a couple of us were hit. I don’t know how bad.” Cal looked around. “Where’s Smoke?”

  “Last I saw of him, he was headed into the house after Aguilar,” said Matt.

  “Then come on!” Cal cried, breaking into a run in that direction. “What are we waiting for?”

  * * *

  Ace and Chance were at the back door of the barn. A few minutes earlier, after scouting the smokehouse and not finding any of Aguilar’s men lurking around it, they had carried Doc’s body into the little building and placed it carefully and respectfully on the ground. They hated to leave Doc there, but at least his body would be safe for a while.

  Smoke had told them to wait until the shooting started to make their move, and so far that delay had drawn their nerves taut . . . nerves that were already under a strain because of Doc’s death and the life-changing declaration that had followed it.

  Both of them believed what Luke had told them, but they weren’t sure what to do about it. Or whether they should do anything about it. The revelation that Luke was their father didn’t have to alter their normal course of action. It wasn’t like all of them were going to settle down together. Ace and Chance didn’t believe that was possible for Luke, any more than it was for themselves.

  Then shots rang out, and the future had to take a backseat to the present. With a grunt of effort, Ace hauled the heavy door open, and Chance charged into the barn, with his brother right on his heels.

  Ace had brought a gun taken from one of the fallen members of Lane Thackery’s gang back where that battle had been fought. As the group of Aguilar’s gunmen posted in the barn started to boil out to open fire on Smoke, Ace and Chance took them from behind, slashing bullets through their ranks. Killers fell without knowing what had hit them, but some of them managed to stay on their feet, swing around, and throw lead at the Jensen boys. A bullet cut Ace’s right calf just above the top of his boot and dropped him to one knee, but he steadied himself with his left hand on the ground and drilled the gun-wolf who had just wounded him. A few feet away, Chance’s Smith & Wesson barked again and again.

  Then, as the last of the hired guns fell, a bullet kicked up dirt between them, causing Chance to jerk a look over his shoulder.

  “Ace! Up in the hayloft!”

  Ace rolled one way and Chance dived the other as more slugs sizzled between them. Both of their guns blasted at once, and the man who’d been hidden in the loft, cutting down on them with a Winchester, went up on his toes as their bullets ripped through him at an angle. He dropped the rifle and then followed it down, turning over once in the air before landing on his back in a lifeless sprawl.

  Ace struggled to his feet. Chance saw the blood on his trouser leg and said, “You’re winged!”

  “Not too bad,” Ace assured him. “There’s still shooting going on out there. We need to be right in the middle of it.”

  “Where else would Jensens be?” Chance responded with a grin.

  * * *

  When he was a young man, during the fur-trapping era, Preacher had waged a long, bloody war against the Blackfoot tribe in the Rocky Mountains. In those days, he had been able to slip unseen and unheard into a village full of his enemies at night, slit the throats of half a dozen sleeping warriors, and slip back out without anyone knowing he had been there . . . until the next morning, when his grim work was discovered. This had prompted the Blackfeet to dub him the Ghost Killer, and Blackfoot mothers had used the threat of that deadly phantom to frighten their children into behaving.

  Old or not, Preacher was still damn near as stealthy as he had been back then. Because of that, no one saw him approach the Sugarloaf ranch house. He was just one more shadow in the night. No one heard him raise a window and climb in, and his feet on the rear staircase as he crept up it made no sound.

  Smoke would be starting the ball soon, Preacher was sure of that. But before that happened, he wanted to locate Sally, Adelaide, those young’uns, and any other hostages Aguilar might have in here. As he paused in the upstairs hallway, he saw a faint line of light under a doorway farther along the hallway. He slipped up to it silently and put his ear against the door to listen.

  “Bound to wind up with a bullet in your gizzard,” someone was saying inside the room. “I’ve seen it happen over and over again to hombres just like you who were dumb enough to go up against Smoke Jensen.”

  That was Pearlie’s voice, thought Preacher as a grim smile tugged at his mouth. He was glad to know that the foreman was still alive. Still full of piss and vinegar, too, from the sound of him.

  “Shut your mouth, mister,” a man responded harshly. “Jensen would need a small army to take on our bunch.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong. When I left him, he had everybody he needed to win this war. And that ain’t even countin’ Cal and the rest of the boys. You may have disarmed ’em, but that don’t mean they won’t fight back as soon as they get the chance.”

  “You’re wasting your breath arguing with him, Pearlie.” That was Sally, and another surge of relief went through Preacher at the knowledge that she sounded all right, too. “He’s going to have to find out for himself . . . to his everlasting regret.”

  Preacher wished that Adelaide would speak up, too, so he could stop worrying about her. Instead, one of the kids said, “I don’t like this. I wish all these men would leave. It’s going to be Christmas tomorrow!”

  “You’re right, sweetheart,” Sally said. “This is no time for such terrible things to be happening. Sometimes we don’t have any choice but to deal with them, though.”

  Preacher had a Colt in his right hand. With his left, he reached down and took hold of the doorknob. Moving so slowly that it wouldn’t be noticed, he tried to turn the knob. It didn’t budge. Locked on the inside, he thought. That made things more difficult, but it wasn’t going to stop him. He backed off a little, sensing that the showdown was going to come soon.

&nb
sp; His instincts didn’t fail him. Only a few more seconds had ticked by when guns suddenly roared from the front of the house.

  Preacher reared back, lifted his foot, and kicked the door. Wood splintered and gave, and the panel flew open. He was through the door in less than a heartbeat, his eyes going to the roughly dressed, bearded hardcase who was trying to bring a rifle to bear on him. Preacher pressed the Colt’s trigger. The gun boomed, and Aguilar’s man flew back against the wall behind him as if slapped by a giant hand. He didn’t fall or drop the rifle, though, so Preacher shot him again, the bullet drilling a neat hole an inch above the man’s right eyebrow.

  That was the end of it. The Winchester and the dead gun-wolf both clattered to the floor.

  All three kids were screaming in terror from the gunfire. Sally and Adelaide tried to comfort and quiet them. Preacher heaved a great sigh when he saw that Adelaide appeared to be unharmed.

  Pearlie, with a bloody bandage around his thigh, shuffled forward and picked up the rifle. More shooting came from outside, and then some blasts that sounded like they were somewhere in the house.

  “Reckon our side needs some help, Preacher?” asked Pearlie.

  “Let’s go find out,” the old mountain man said.

  * * *

  Sally’s heart still pounded wildly, but as Preacher and Pearlie hurried out of the room, she took a deep breath and turned to Adelaide.

  “You’re all right, aren’t you?”

  “I’m fine, dear,” the older woman assured her. The three children were still crying, but they had stopped screaming.

  “Can you watch these little ones?”

  Adelaide glanced at the dead man’s bloody, crumpled body and said, “They might calm down better if we weren’t in here.”

  “That’s a good idea. There’s another bedroom right across the hall. Why don’t you take them in there and stay with them until I come back to get you?”

  “Of course, but . . . where are you going?”

  Sally stepped over to the dead gunman, reached down, and took hold of the revolver holstered on his hip. She pulled the iron out of leather and straightened.