They all walked into camp.
Cal looked surprised but pleased to see the mountain man. “Howdy, Preacher! You’re the one who killed that panther?”
“I dang sure did.” Preacher was lean almost to the point of scrawniness and had a rather angular face with a predatory look to it, reminiscent of a hawk. Silver bristles covered his jaw. His skin was the color of old saddle leather and seemed to be about the same thickness. He’d been known to boast that he had a hide like an alligator.
He wore denim trousers, a fringed buckskin shirt, and a battered old brown hat with a high crown. Twin Colt revolvers were holstered on his hips, and he carried a Henry rifle that was in perfect working condition and gleamed like new. He was old enough to have participated in the Battle of New Orleans during the War of 1812 and had experienced the fur trapping era at its height. He had also lived through the Civil War, had seen the coming of the railroads and the telegraph, had witnessed the near-eradication of the great buffalo herds, and fought countless battles against bad men of all sorts. The term mountain man could have been coined to describe him.
“I didn’t know you were anywhere in these parts,” Smoke said. “Have you come to join us for Christmas?”
“Well, it’s kinda worked out that way, I reckon. But I had another reason for wanderin’ this direction.”
“What’s that?” Smoke asked.
Preacher ignored the question and pointed to the coffee pot. “Anything still in that?”
“Might be a cup or so,” Smoke allowed.
“I could use it.”
Smoke had brought an extra tin cup with him—just as a matter of Western hospitality. You never knew when you might have a guest at the campfire, so it was a good idea to be prepared. He fetched the cup, filled it, and handed it to his old friend, who smacked his lips in anticipation before he took a drink.
Knowing that Preacher would get around to explaining himself when he was good and ready, and trying to prompt him before then would likely be a waste of time, Smoke asked, “Were you down close to the ranch headquarters earlier today, keeping an eye on the place?”
“Matter of fact, I was,” Preacher replied. “You know I don’t like to just waltz into a place without havin’ a look-see first, so I sat in the trees and watched for a while. When I seen you and the boy ride out with rifles and supplies for a few days, I figured you must be goin’ on a hunt o’ some kind so I decided to foller along and see what sort o’ game you was after.”
“You might’ve told us you were around.”
Preacher grinned. “Shoot, that woulda taken the fun out of it.”
“I had a hunch somebody was following us, you know,” Smoke said.
“You did?” Cal put in. “You didn’t say anything about it, Smoke.”
“Didn’t see any reason to.” Smoke shrugged. “I figured whoever it was would show himself sooner or later, and if he meant us any harm, we’d deal with it then.”
Preacher sipped some more coffee and said, “When I seen you boys headin’ up the mountain, I had a hunch you was after a big cat. Either that or a grizzle bear gone bad. I ever tell you about that griz that stalked me most o’ the way from Kansas to New Mexico Territory when I was leadin’ a wagon train over the Santa Fe Trail?”
“You’ve mentioned it before,” Smoke said dryly. “Along with every other outlandish adventure you had back in those days. Some of them were so loco I wondered if you were making them up.”
Preacher shook his head solemnly. “Nope, it was all the gospel truth. And I ain’t but scratched the surface. There’s all kinds o’ wild ruckuses I got myself mixed up in that I ain’t never told you about.”
“I’m sure you’ll get around to it,” Smoke said.
“Anyway,” Preacher went on as if the younger man hadn’t said anything, “when you fellers made camp, I circled around to get ahead of you. Figured I’d keep an eye on you, like a guardian angel, you know.”
“Anybody ever accuse you of being an angel, Preacher?” Cal asked.
“Well, not to speak of. But as I was sayin’ . . . even before that big ol’ cat let out that yowl, Dog and Horse had scented him, so I knowed he was hereabouts.”
“Where are Dog and Horse?” Smoke asked. “I was wondering about that.”
Preacher jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “They’re back in the trees a ways. I’ll fetch ’em in a bit. Thought we’d visit a spell first.”
Cal said, “So you knew the panther was around and were just waiting for him to show up?”
“Yep,” Preacher replied, nodding gravely. “I seen him climb up on top o’ that boulder and was linin’ my sights on him whilst he was fixin’ to jump on Smoke.”
“Cut it a little close before you fired, didn’t you?” Smoke asked.
“Varmint’s dead, ain’t it? And it appears you don’t have a scratch on you.”
Smoke had to laugh. Preacher was right. Anyway, even when he wasn’t, it didn’t do any good to argue with him. With so many years behind him, the old mountain man was pretty set in his ways.
“I’m much obliged to you for what you did, Preacher. And you know we’re always glad to see you around here, especially at this time of year. Sally will be happy to find out that you’ve come to spend Christmas with us.” Smoke paused. “You are staying for Christmas, aren’t you?”
“Figured I would,” Preacher said, then a frown creased his forehead. “I ain’t so sure that pretty little wife o’ yours will be happy to see me, though.”
“Why in the world wouldn’t she be?”
“Because I got trouble on my trail, Smoke. Somebody’s out to kill me.”
Cal stared at Preacher in surprise, but Smoke’s face remained calm and almost expressionless. He had known that sooner or later Preacher would get around to explaining the real reason he was there, and it seemed like the old mountain man was about to do so.
“You’d better tell us about it,” Smoke said. “This isn’t the first time somebody’s been gunning for you.”
“Not hardly,” Preacher agreed, “but it’s one of the few times that the feller who wants my hide is an old friend of mine. You recollect me tellin’ you about Eagle-Eye Callahan?”
“The name’s vaguely familiar.”
“Him and me done some fur trappin’ together about forty years ago. Good man, but he never really took to the life. He wound up buildin’ a tradin’ post up Montany way and ran it for years and years. Folks always liked him, so he did a good business. He acquired hisself a wife, too, gal name of Louisa who came from St. Louis. Fine woman. Never afraid of hard work, and easy on the eyes, too.”
“Sounds like you admired her,” Smoke commented.
“I did,” Preacher admitted, “but not in any sort o’ improper way, you understand. Eagle-Eye is my friend. I’d never go to messin’ with his woman. I always stopped by and visited with ’em when I was in that neck o’ the woods. Turns out that mighta been a mistake.”
“How’s that?”
Preacher grimaced. “Louisa passed away nigh on to six months ago, and Eagle-Eye found a cache o’ letters she’d writ over the years. Letters, uh, to me.” The old mountain man held up a gnarled hand to forestall anything Smoke or Cal might say. “She never mailed ’em. I never laid eyes on ’em and didn’t know nothin’ about ’em until Eagle-Eye told me about findin’ ’em. It seems like Louisa, uh, had . . . feelin’s . . . for me, and she poured ’em all into those letters. Reckon that helped her get it all out, even if she never sent ’em. I still ain’t read ’em and hope I never do. From the way ol’ Eagle-Eye was actin’, they was a mite on the, uh, bold side, I reckon you could say.”
“We get the idea,” Smoke said. “But if nothing ever happened between you and this woman—”
“It didn’t, I swear up one way and down the other. Nothin’ ever happened ’cept inside her head.”
“Then it’s not your fault she wrote a bunch of love letters to you. Surely her husband realized that.”
“
I tried to get him to see that when he come to see me,” Preacher said glumly, “but he’s got it in his head that I musta done somethin’ to encourage Louisa to feel that way. He figures that casts a shadow on his marriage and besmirches his honor, so there’s only one thing he can do about it.”
“He wants to kill you.”
“That’s right, and ol’ Eagle-Eye is so blamed stubborn he ain’t gonna stop comin’ after me until he’s done it—or forced me to kill him to stop him.” Preacher sighed. “To tell you the truth, I don’t think he cares much which way it turns out, as long as one of us dies.”
CHAPTER 4
Texas State Penitentiary, Huntsville
Uniformed guards surrounded the big man as he walked along the corridor toward the warden’s office. They seemed nervous, as well they might have. The man they were escorting gave off an energy like that of a caged animal. He looked a little like an animal, in fact—a mountain lion, big and muscular, with tawny hair. His face was round, and his eyes were set a little too close together, making him look like he wasn’t very smart.
People had thought that about him before, and they had underestimated Jim Bleeker much to their regret. Actually, there was a very cunning brain behind those close-set, pale blue eyes.
He shrugged his brawny shoulders, stretching the fabric of the suit coat he wore. He would have preferred wearing what he’d had on when he was arrested in San Antonio eight long years earlier, but those duds were long gone, replaced by the Bexar County jail uniform he had worn until he was convicted and sent to prison, where he’d been issued penitentiary garb. Upon release, the state gave a man a new suit when he was released from prison, although it was the cheapest possible outfit they could manage.
Doesn’t matter, Bleeker told himself. Once I’m out from behind these gray walls, I won’t be wearing it for long.
The group arrived at the warden’s office and one of the guards knocked.
The warden’s pasty-faced secretary opened the door. He tried not to look directly at Bleeker, but he kept cutting wary glances in the convict’s direction.
“Here he is,” the guard said, “just like Warden Cartmill wanted.”
The secretary nodded. “Come on in. He’s waiting.”
Bleeker didn’t wait for the guards to prod him into motion. He strode through the door and into the outer office with the bold, easy gait of a free man—which was exactly what he would be, very soon.
The secretary hustled over to open the door to the inner office, the warden’s private sanctum.
A good-sized man with thinning dark hair and a jutting beard, Warden John Cartmill stood to his feet and extended his hand across the big desk. “Jim,” he greeted Bleeker as the two men shook. “I suppose you felt like this day would never come.”
“It took its own sweet time getting here,” Bleeker agreed. “The past six months seemed more like six years.”
“It took that long to work on the governor and get him to see that your sentence should be commuted. You were sentenced to twenty years for that bank robbery in San Antonio, you know, and you’ve served less than half of that.”
“Figured saving a warden’s life ought to be worth something.”
“It is, it is,” Cartmill assured him, waving him into the black leather chair in front of the desk. “And there’s no denying that you’ve been a model prisoner as well, even before the day of that riot.”
Bleeker settled himself into the chair, enjoying the comfortable feel of its upholstery. After eight years of never sitting anywhere except his bunk with its thin mattress or the hard benches in the prison mess hall, it was amazing how good it felt just to sit in a nice chair.
Cartmill cleared his throat and went on. “Of course, if they had been able to convict you of any of those murders you were suspected of . . .”
Bleeker just smiled and let that pass. They both knew that if the law had caught up to him for everything he had done, he would have swung from the gallows.
But that wasn’t what had happened, and now he was a changed man. He had proven that by being on his best behavior inside the walls, and then by stepping in to save the warden’s life when Cartmill was cornered in the yard by several angry convicts during a riot. Bleeker had taken a hell of a beating that day, but he had dished out plenty of punishment, too, and he’d held the would-be killers at bay until a group of guards showed up to rescue Cartmill.
One of the guards hadn’t realized exactly what was going on, had taken Bleeker for one of the rioters, and slammed a club into his kidneys with enough force that he pissed blood for a week afterwards. He still did from time to time.
But he didn’t hold any grudge about that, no, sir. Just a misunderstanding, that was all it was.
Once again Cartmill cleared his throat. He picked up a piece of paper from his desk and said, “This is the order from the governor commuting your sentence, Jim. You’re a free man. You didn’t have to come here to my office. You could have walked out of those gates and never looked back. But I’m glad you were willing to stop by on your way out. That gives me the chance to thank you once more for what you did for me . . . and to apologize for what happened afterwards.”
Bleeker waved a hand. “Don’t worry about that, Warden. Wasn’t your fault. Doolittle just made a mistake, that’s all.”
“Yes, well, I appreciate your attitude.”
“Was there anything else, Warden?” Bleeker was starting to get a little restless. He was ready to be out.
“No, no, that’s all.” Cartmill stood up and held out his hand again.
Bleeker got to his feet and shook with the warden a second time, and then the guards escorted him out.
A few minutes later, after they had passed through the various gates and checkpoints, Bleeker and two of the guards stood at the main gates of the prison. As the gates opened slowly, Bleeker spotted Ray Morley standing in the shade of some trees across the road from the prison entrance, holding the reins of two horses.
“Don’t come back here, Bleeker,” said one of the guards standing behind him.
“I reckon you can count on that.” Bleeker walked briskly past the gates and across the road. He heard the gates closing behind him but didn’t look back to watch them.
It was enough just to be free again.
Morley grinned as Bleeker came up to him. “Damn, it’s good to see you again, boss.”
“You brought the clothes with you?” Now that Bleeker was outside, there was no time for sentiment. He had things to do, and the first one was getting rid of the lousy prison suit.
“I sure did.” Morley took a package wrapped in brown paper from the back of one of the horses, where it had been tied behind the saddle.
Bleeker took the package and walked into the trees. When he emerged a few minutes later, he was dressed in black from head to foot—boots, trousers, shirt, hat and gun belt strapped around his hips. The bone handle of the heavy revolver riding in the holster stood out in stark contrast to the rest of the outfit.
Bleeker took the reins of one of the mounts from Morley and swung up into the saddle.
“We gettin’ out of here, Jim?” Morley asked.
“Pretty soon,” Bleeker replied. “I’ve got one stop to make first.”
* * *
The house was out in the country, about five miles from Huntsville. The man who lived there had tried his hand at farming, but he wasn’t very good at it so his wife and three kids tended the crops while he supplemented their income by working as a guard at the prison.
Bleeker and Morley sat on their horses in the shadow of some oak trees about twenty yards from the house. Night had fallen, and nobody would see the two men unless they knew where to look.
“You sure you want to do this, boss?” Morley asked. “We could’ve put some miles behind us while we were waitin’ for it to get dark.”
“You’re not questioning me, are you, Ray?” Bleeker asked in a deceptively mild voice.
“Oh, hell, no,” the other man re
plied hastily. “I’d never do that, Jim. You know that. You never steered us wrong.”
“Except for that day in San Antonio. And it wouldn’t have happened then if we hadn’t been betrayed.”
“That’s right. It sure wasn’t your fault.”
Bleeker knew the outlaw was just trying to curry favor with him by agreeing, but it didn’t matter. Morley was a pretty sorry example, but he could be counted on to do what he was told, and he had never run out on his partners and caused his leader to be arrested and thrown into prison for eight long—very long—years.
Bleeker lifted his reins and nudged his horse into motion, riding toward the house slowly. Morley was beside him and just a little behind him.
“You know what to do,” Bleeker said over his shoulder as they neared the house.
“Yeah, sure.” Morley turned his horse and angled away in the darkness.
Bleeker rode openly up to the porch. Warm yellow light came from the front windows. He dismounted, looped his reins around the railing next to the steps, and climbed to the porch. In the dark clothes, he was barely visible.
His knuckles rapped sharply on the door. There was no response, but the silence on the other side of the panel had an unusual quality to it, a sense of something about to happen. It wasn’t the silence of an empty house.
It was the silence of a house where everyone inside was afraid.
Bleeker knocked again, more insistently.
After a moment, he heard a little shuffling on the other side of the door, and a nervous voice called, “Who’s out there? I’ve got a shotgun.”
“No need for that, Harry,” Bleeker replied in a jovial tone.
“Bleeker!” Harry Doolittle exclaimed. “You . . . you get away from here! Warden Cartmill told me I didn’t have to work today, so I wouldn’t have to see you—”
“Take it easy. You’re getting all worked up for nothing. I just wanted to say so long. I mean, hell, you apologized for the mistake you made, and I accepted it, so there’s no reason for you to worry about me doing anything to you.”
A Colorado Christmas Page 3