A Jensen Family Christmas

by William W. Johnstone

  “I have to go find Smoke and make sure he’s all right.”

  “Oh. Oh, dear.” Adelaide was a little wild-eyed but in control of herself. “Well, do whatever you think best, dear. I’ll see to the children.”

  Sally nodded and stepped out of the room into the hallway, holding the gun in front of her with both hands. Her thumb was looped over the hammer, ready to pull it back if she needed to. She heard shouting and shooting outside, but the battle sounded like it was dying down. She was confident that Smoke and his family and friends had emerged triumphant.

  But she wanted to see her husband with her own eyes and know that he was all right.

  She had just reached the top of the stairs when a faint whisper of sound came from behind her. She started to turn but froze at the touch of cold, sharp steel at her neck.

  “Throw the gun down the stairs, Sally,” Mariana Aguilar said. “Otherwise I will have to kill you, and I have no wish to do that.”

  “Mariana,” Sally said. “You don’t have to do this. Just because your husband has caused all this trouble—”

  “Truly, you think Sebastian came up with the plan to take this valley as our own?” Mariana laughed softly. “He is a bandit, nothing more. Crude and vicious, but he has his uses. He took me from the cantina that was my prison and brought me with him. He might have been content to waste the money he had with him on easy living, but I found a better use for it. A sanctuary where no one—no one!—would ever be able to force me to go back to the life I once led.”

  “Then everything you told me before . . . about the two of you . . . was a lie?”

  “We each make our own truths, do we not?” The knife at Sally’s throat pressed harder. She felt the sting of the blade, the warm trickle as a drop or two of blood slid down her neck. “Throw the gun down. I will not tell you again.”

  Sally tossed the gun down the stairs. It thudded and bounced and came to a stop.

  “Now we go,” said Mariana. “I have to find Sebastian.”

  * * *

  A gun blasted as Smoke started out the rear door. He ducked back as splinters stung his face. Aguilar fired again, then ran toward a group of saddled horses milling around, the mounts belonging to some of his men. If he managed to grab one of them, he might still get away.

  That had to be his hope, anyway. Smoke darted out of the house and snapped a shot after him. Aguilar cried out and staggered just as he reached the horses. They shied away from him, but as he twisted around, he managed to catch hold of a stirrup and steady himself. The gun in his hand sagged, but he didn’t drop it as he stumbled back a step toward Smoke.

  Smoke strode toward him, Colt held easily at his waist. He called, “It’s over, Aguilar. I know who you really are, and I know that whole land grant business was a sham. I reckon we’ll be sending you back to Texas. I figure the Rangers will be mighty happy to get their hands on you.”

  “I will not . . . go back,” Aguilar grated. “I will never go back. This is . . . my land now.”

  “Maybe you’ve fooled yourself into thinking that, but you’ve got no chance of ever making it come true.”

  “If I can . . . kill you . . .”

  From Smoke’s right came Luke’s voice, saying, “It’ll be the last thing you do, mister.”

  “Because you’ll be full of lead half a second later.” That was Ace, to Smoke’s left.

  “You took on the wrong family, Aguilar,” Matt said as he strode forward to join Luke. “You should’ve stayed in Texas.”

  “Overplayed your hand and lost the bet,” added Chance.

  From behind Smoke, Preacher said, “Me and Pearlie are backin’ your play, too, Smoke.”

  “And Cal and the rest of the boys would love to get in on this,” Pearlie put in.

  Smoke never took his eyes off Aguilar, but he could feel the strength of the force arrayed behind him. He said, “So you see, Aguilar, you don’t have any chance at all.”

  “No, Sebastian! Do not give up!”

  A shrill cry of pain came from the back door of the house. Smoke recognized his wife’s voice and jerked around. Mariana emerged, forcing Sally ahead of her. The knife she held at Sally’s throat glittered. A part of Smoke’s brain realized that it wouldn’t be doing that unless light from the moon and stars was shining on the blade. The overcast had finally broken.

  The other men split apart, forced by the threat to Sally’s life to create a lane, through which the two women advanced slowly. Smoke stayed where he was, between Mariana and Aguilar.

  “Step aside, Señor Jensen,” Mariana hissed. “Sebastian and I are leaving this place, and no one will follow us, because Señora Jensen is coming with us.”

  “Don’t do it, Smoke,” Sally said. “Don’t let them get away.”

  Smoke said, “I don’t intend to.”

  “You have no choice,” said Mariana. “Do as I say, or I put this knife all the way in Sally’s throat.”

  “You do that, you and your husband will both die.”

  “But it will not bring her back to life, will—”

  Sally suddenly twisted in Mariana’s grasp and lashed out with an elbow at the other woman’s face. The knife must have bitten into her neck, but she kept moving and cried, “Smoke, behind you!” as she dived to the ground.

  Smoke whirled and saw that the wounded Aguilar had summoned up the strength to lift his gun. He had been about to shoot Smoke in the back when Sally made her move. It would have been a futile gesture— the others would have filled him with a pound of lead in the blink of an eye—but his hatred had forced his hand up with the gun in it.

  Smoke fired at the same time Aguilar did. The bandit’s bullet whipped past Smoke. The slug from Smoke’s gun smashed into Aguilar’s chest and knocked him back. He dropped his revolver, reeled from side to side in an effort to hold himself up, but crumpled inevitably to the ground, to lie in the snow as a dark, motionless heap.

  Smoke heard gasping and turned, saw Mariana stumbling toward him. She still had the knife in her right hand, but her left was pressed to her belly, a dark stain spreading around it. Smoke knew then where Aguilar’s bullet had gone.

  Mariana lifted the knife, driven on by her own dying hate, to try to bury it in Smoke’s flesh, but she was still ten feet away when she collapsed facedown in the snow and didn’t move again.

  Smoke looked at Luke and Matt and said, “The rest of Aguilar’s men?”

  “Most of them are dead,” Matt replied. “The few who aren’t are tied up good and tight in the bunkhouse, with men guarding them.”

  Smoke pouched his iron and hurried to Sally, who had gotten up from where she had fallen. She was using her right hand to brush snow off her dress while she held her left to her neck. Smoke took her in his arms and asked, “How bad is it?”

  “Just a cut, Smoke, that’s all. I’ll be fine, I promise.”

  He hugged her and let relief wash through him. Then he said, “Come on, everybody. Let’s go back around front.”

  He wanted to leave Aguilar and Mariana back here together. And he would see to it they were buried together in Big Rock. Maybe they deserved that much.

  Whether or not they were together in hell . . . well, there wasn’t much he could do about that.

  When the group reached the front porch, they found Adelaide and the three children waiting for them. The older woman said, “Some of your cowboys said it would be all right for us to come out here, Mr. Jensen. They said the fight was over.”

  “It is over,” Smoke said as he put an arm around Sally’s shoulders. “And look up there. You can see the stars again. The clouds are gone.”

  “I reckon it’s after midnight by now,” said Preacher. “That means it’s Christmas Day.”

  Smoke might have said, “Merry Christmas,” but he was just too blasted tired.

  CHAPTER 47

  The Sugarloaf, Christmas morning

  Maybe Luke was right, Smoke thought as he listened to the happy sounds of the three youngsters playing wit
h the toys Luke had given them as presents. Maybe it was time he and Sally started thinking about having some little ones of their own. There was plenty of room in the house. They had built it with that in mind, in fact, expanding from the log cabin Smoke had built when they first came to the valley, back when he was pretending that the notorious outlaw and gunfighter Smoke Jensen was dead.

  Sally sat next to him on one of the sofas in the parlor, snuggled against him, with his arm around her shoulders. The cut on her neck she had suffered the night before had a bandage on it, but that was the only sign of the trouble. Inside and out, the bodies had been carried away and the blood had been cleaned up. Out in the bunkhouse, the two hands who had been wounded in the fighting were patched up and resting, expected to recover fully from their injuries.

  Luke sat in an armchair, with his legs stretched out in front of him and crossed at the ankles. He was smoking one of his infrequent pipes. The rich, pleasant smell of the tobacco blended with the delicious aroma of the turkey roasting in the oven, as well as that of baking bread. Luke smiled as he watched the children playing in front of the fireplace, where flames danced merrily.

  Then his eyes lifted to Ace and Chance, who sat on the other side of the room, and his expression grew more solemn. Ace’s right trouser leg showed the bulge where his wounded calf was bandaged. The same was true for the dressing on the wound on Chance’s upper left arm.

  “Boys, we need to have a talk,” Luke began.

  Ace shook his head and said, “Not now.”

  “Not on Christmas Day,” Chance added. “Time enough for that later.”

  “Yeah, it’s already been more than twenty years, hasn’t it?” Ace said.

  Luke regarded them intently for a moment, then nodded and said, “All right. If that’s the way you want it.”

  Matt came into the room, holding a doughnut in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. He smiled and said, “I hope you don’t mind me stealing one of these early, Sally. I promise it won’t ruin my dinner.”

  She laughed and told him, “Just don’t let Cal see you with it. He’d be mortally offended if he knew somebody else got into the bear sign first!”

  Matt sat down to enjoy his midmorning snack. A warm, peaceful feeling filled the room. It might have been any happy home on Christmas morning, with the family members gathered around the tree, enjoying being together.

  Preacher and Adelaide strolled in, as well, arm in arm, and Preacher cleared his throat before announcing, “Folks, I reckon I got somethin’ to say—”

  A sharp, urgent knock on the front door interrupted him.

  Sally looked up and said, “Maybe that’s Monte. He’s still coming out to have dinner with us, isn’t he, Smoke?”

  “As far as I know,” Smoke replied, “but that didn’t sound like Monte’s knock.”

  The other men in the room seemed to share that feeling. All of them sat up straighter, as if worried that trouble had come calling on the Jensens once again.

  Smoke stood up and left the parlor to answer the summons. He wasn’t wearing a gun, but a loaded Winchester leaned in the corner beside the door, within easy reach.

  The caller didn’t appear threatening, at least not when Smoke swung the door open. He was in his thirties, fair haired, well dressed, and wore spectacles and held his hat in his hand.

  “Mr. Jensen?” he said. “That’s right.”

  “My name is George DuBois—”

  That was all Preacher had to hear. He stalked angrily into the foyer and exclaimed, “Watch out, Smoke! That’s the varmint who’s been tryin’ to kill Adelaide.”

  It was a good thing Preacher didn’t have a gun, Smoke realized. If the old mountain man had been armed, he might have been dusting the visitor’s britches with lead by now.

  George DuBois looked horrified by the accusation. He said, “That’s not true! I’d never harm my grandmother. I’m here to keep her from . . . to prevent any more . . .”

  As he struggled to find the words for what he was trying to say, Adelaide came into the foyer and gave him a stern look.

  “You shouldn’t be here, George,” she told him. “You can just turn around and ride away, and there won’t be any harm done.”

  “Grandmother,” George said. “I’m so glad to see that you’re all right. You haven’t . . . I mean, the old gentleman isn’t—”

  “The old gentleman is right here,” Preacher snapped, “and you ain’t wanted in these parts, sonny. Fact is, if you ever try to hurt your grandma again, I’ll plumb wring your neck and turn your carcass inside out!”

  George paled at that threat and even took a step back, but he stopped and visibly gathered his courage. After drawing a deep breath, he said, “I see that I’m going to have to be blunt, painful though it may be for all of us. I’m not here to harm my grandmother in any way, sir. I came to prevent her from killing you.”

  That brought shocked stares from Smoke, Preacher, and Sally, who had followed Adelaide into the foyer. After a couple of seconds went by, Preacher said, “Of all the loco—”

  “I would never hurt Arthur,” Adelaide said calmly. “We’re going to be married.”

  George shook his head and said, “No, Grandmother. You know you can’t do that.”

  “I don’t see why not.”

  George looked at Smoke and Preacher. “Please, gentlemen. I have proof of what I’m saying. Perhaps if you’d step outside, I could show you . . .”

  “All right,” Smoke said as he picked up the Winchester. “But this had better not be some sort of trick.”

  “No trick, I assure you.”

  Preacher said, “Smoke, you don’t mean you believe this varmint—”

  “I’m willing to hear him out,” Smoke said. “That’s all I mean. And then, when he’s said his piece, if I need to run him off the Sugarloaf, I will.”

  “That’s fair enough,” said George.

  “Sally, why don’t you take Adelaide back into the parlor?” Smoke suggested.

  “All right, Smoke,” she said. She looked upset and confused, but she took Adelaide’s arm and steered the older woman back into the parlor.

  As Smoke and Preacher stepped out onto the porch with George DuBois and Smoke closed the door behind them, Adelaide was saying, “This is all unnecessary. . .”

  The sun was shining brightly today, glittering on the snow, but the temperature was still cold enough to make the men’s breath fog in front of their faces. The rented saddle horse George DuBois had ridden out here from Big Rock was tied to the porch railing. He reached inside his coat and brought out several pieces of paper. They were clippings from newspapers, Smoke saw as George held them out to him.

  “Those are obituaries,” George said. “As you can see, they come from several different cities.”

  Smoke scanned the printed names and read them aloud: “Charlie Repp. Homer Olmsted. John Nafziger.”

  “Wait just a damn minute!” said Preacher. “I know all those fellas. Been on fur-trappin’ expeditions with all of ’em, back in the old days. And they was friends with . . .”

  “That’s right,” George said as Preacher’s voice trailed off. “They were friends of my grandfather, too, just like you, sir.”

  Smoke read the death notices more closely and said, “Each of these says the fella was survived by a widow named . . . Adelaide.”

  “Yes, I’m afraid so. My grandmother was married to each of them. And although the obituaries say that each man died after a short illness, if you talk to the authorities in the towns where they lived, you’ll find that in each case, the law suspected that the men had been poisoned. There just wasn’t any proof of it.”

  Preacher looked flabbergasted. He said, “This is just . . . I can’t believe . . .”

  It was unusual for the old mountain man to be thrown for a loop, but clearly, he was.

  George went on, “Ever since I realized what was happening, I’ve been trying to find my grandmother before she could . . . well, before she could do it aga
in.”

  Smoke held up the newspaper clippings and said, “These don’t prove she’s done anything wrong.”

  “No, sir, they don’t,” George said. “But you have to admit, the circumstances are very suspicious.” He looked at Preacher. “Suspicious enough that when I found out she had come west with another old friend of my grandfather’s, I thought I ought to warn you.”

  “I don’t believe she’d ever hurt me,” Preacher declared. “In fact, I was gonna ask her to marry me just now in there, with the whole bunch gathered around.”

  “I really wish you wouldn’t, sir. I want to take her home with me.”

  “So you can get rid of her and inherit all her money?”

  “No. Because of this.”

  George reached inside his coat again and took out an envelope this time. He handed it to Preacher, who removed a sheet of paper and read it. When he was finished, he looked even more shaken than he had been before.

  “This is true?” he asked George.

  “You can see it for yourself.” George looked at Smoke and explained, “It’s a letter from my grandmother’s doctor back in St. Louis. She may look fairly healthy, but she’s actually very ill. A few more months . . .”

  George spread his hands helplessly.

  Preacher sighed, folded the letter, and returned it to the envelope. He said to Smoke, “Lemme see them obituaries.”

  Smoke handed over the clippings. Preacher read them all closely, then gave them back to George.

  “Only one thing to do,” he muttered. He turned and went back in the house.

  George looked at Smoke, who shrugged and said, “Come on. I’ve known him for years, and I don’t have any idea what he’s going to do, either.”

  In the parlor, Adelaide had sat down on the sofa with Sally. Preacher went to her and held out his hands. She smiled and took them, and he helped her to her feet.

  “Adelaide,” he said, “your grandson, George, is gonna spend Christmas with us, and then you and him are goin’ back home so he can take care of you. That’ll be nice, won’t it?”