A Colorado Christmas

by William W. Johnstone

  “Beer.” Clark wanted a shot of whiskey, but money was tight. As the bartender filled a mug from a tap and set it in front of him, Clark went on. “I’m looking for a fella named Morley. Ray Morley.”

  For a second the bartender looked like he was going to deny knowing the man, but then he shrugged and nodded toward the far side of the room. “He’s at that table back in the corner.”

  “Much obliged,” Clark said as he slid a coin across the hardwood. “For the beer and the information.”

  The man grunted, scooped the coin from the bar’s polished top, and moved on.

  Clark picked up the mug of beer and took a sip. It was good. He had to stop himself from downing a larger swallow. He wanted to keep his wits about him so he carried the mug with him as he approached the table where Ray Morley sat alone, nursing a drink and dealing poker hands to himself.

  A thin, dark-faced man in a black hat, pants, and coat over a white shirt, the outlaw also wore a string tie . . . appropriate to his surroundings. When he leaned forward to add a card to the ones laid out on the table in front of him, Clark caught a glimpse of a gun butt in a holster under Morley’s left arm.

  Some men liked a shoulder holster like that.

  Clark never had. He preferred to have his Colt out in the open when he wore one, which he wasn’t at the moment. He paused at the table. “Mr. Morley?” He kept his hat on. He wasn’t about to go up to the man hat in hand, like a damn beggar.

  Morley glanced up. “That’s right. What can I do for you?”

  “I was up in Wyoming a while back. Talked to a fella named Clyde Saunders. He said you were looking for good men and that you were working with Jim Bleeker.”

  “Clyde runs off at the mouth, doesn’t he? What’s your name?”

  “Mitch Clark.”

  Morley looked him over for a second, then nodded. “Sit down for a spell and finish your drink.”

  Clark felt like he had passed a hurdle. He lowered himself into the empty chair across from Morley.

  “Who do you know besides Clyde Saunders?” asked Morley. “And do you ride alone?”

  Clark answered the second question first. “I’ve been riding with some other fellas for a spell. Curly Weaver, Jed Darby, Jimmy Pugh, and Hector Gomez. I expect you’ve heard of them.”

  Morley pursed his lips. “No, can’t say as I have. Wait a minute. Pugh . . . is he the one they call Blind Jimmy?”

  “That’s right,” Clark said, surprised that of the five of them, the youngster was the only one whose name Morley recognized. Of course, he might just be claiming not to have heard of them for reasons of his own, although Clark couldn’t think of what those might be.

  “What have the five of you been up to lately?”

  Clark knew Morley was asking about the jobs they had pulled. He leaned forward and said in a confidential tone, “We made some withdrawals from a few banks in Idaho and Wyoming. Stopped a stagecoach here and there.” He didn’t say anything about that last fiasco, when they had attempted to hold up an old man who was too careless about flashing his money, only to be chased off by a couple unseen riflemen. He pretended that hadn’t happened.

  When Morley just sat there in silence, Clark went on. “I hear tell Bleeker’s got a mighty big job planned. Word is that he’s going to tree a whole town and take everything that’s not nailed down. Well, I’m here to tell you, Mr. Morley, my pards and I will make good additions to your outfit. We’re a tough bunch, make no mistake about that.”

  “People like to gossip,” Morley said. “I don’t know you, Clark. You expect me to just tell you all our plans. Hell, you could be a lawman working undercover for all I know!”

  “A lawman?” Clark pressed a hand to his chest. “Me? Look at this.” He slid a hand inside his coat.

  Instantly, Morley sat up a little straighter and dropped the deck of cards. His hand was poised to grab that revolver in the holster under his arm.

  Clark brought out a folded piece of paper. He unfolded it and smoothed it onto the table. The paper had a crude but recognizable drawing of him on it, plus words in big letters that read WANTED FOR MURDER $500 REWARD.

  “That’s me,” Clark said as he tapped a finger on the WANTED poster. “You can see for yourself. I killed three people in Texas. The Rangers are after me, so I steer clear of the place. This town Jim Bleeker’s gonna tree, it’s not in Texas, is it?”

  Morley studied the reward dodger for a moment, then smiled thinly. “No, as a matter of fact it’s right here in Colorado. Jim makes the final decisions, but I’ve got a hunch he’ll want to take you and your friends along when we ride to Big Rock.”

  Eagle County, Colorado

  A signpost hammered into the hard ground at the side of the road pointed like an arrow to the south. Burned into it in slightly wavery letters was the legend BIG ROCK 40 MILLES.

  Chance Jensen grinned and said to his brother, “You want to fix it, don’t you?”

  “If you’re going to make a road sign, you ought to know how to spell miles,” Ace replied.

  Eagle-Eye Callahan frowned at the words burned into the wood. “Big Rock. Seems like I oughtta recognize the name of the place, for some reason.”

  “I know I’ve heard of it,” Ace said, “but I can’t remember why. Let me think about it for a minute.”

  The three of them had been riding together for a couple days after the holdup attempt Ace and Chance had thwarted. The Jensen boys had found old Eagle-Eye quite likable as he spun yarn after yarn about his years spent running a trading post in Montana. His time spanned from the height of the fur trapping era to the current days of the cattle empire.

  “We could ride on in that direction while you’re thinking about it,” Chance suggested in response to his brother’s comment. “I don’t know about you fellas, but I believe I saw a few snowflakes floating down a little while ago. We don’t want to get caught out in a blizzard.”

  “Big Rock’s too far away for us to reach it before dark,” Ace pointed out.

  “Maybe, but we might come upon another settlement between here and there where we can spend the night. Even if we don’t, we’ll need to find a better place to make camp than out here on this open trail.”

  It was a little unusual for Chance to be the practical one of the two brothers, but Ace had to admit he had a point. Ace heeled his horse into motion again. “Yeah, let’s head that direction.”

  The three men rode for a few minutes in silence, then Ace snapped his fingers. “I’ve got it. I remember Smoke Jensen saying that his ranch isn’t far from a town called Big Rock.”

  “Smoke Jensen!” Eagle-Eye exclaimed. “When you boys told me your names, it didn’t occur to me that you might be related to that goldang shootist!”

  “As far as we know, we’re not,” Ace said. “But as a matter of fact, we’ve met him a couple times. It’s been about a year since we saw him last, him and his brothers Luke and Matt.”

  “Is he as much of a ring-tailed, rip-roarin’, hell-raiser as they say he is?”

  “He just seemed like a nice friendly fella to me,” Chance said.

  “That’s right,” Ace agreed. “The sort of hombre you’d like to have for an uncle, maybe.”

  “But I wouldn’t ever want to get crosswise with him,” added Chance. “All those stories about how good he is with his guns . . . well, if anything, they just don’t say enough about how gun handy he is.”

  “Smoke Jensen,” Eagle-Eye said again, with a musing quality to his voice. “I know that name.”

  “Well, of course you do,” Chance said. “We were just saying—”

  “No, I’ve heard of him, of course, like most folks out here have by now. After what he did up in Idaho, facin’ off against all those killers at once . . .” Eagle-Eye shook his head in admiration. “I mean, there’s another connection. Him and me have a mutual friend. An old mountain man called Preacher.”

  Ace said, “Sure, I remember hearing him mention Preacher last year. He’s sort of like a me
ntor to Smoke, I guess you could say.”

  “You ever met him?” Eagle-Eye asked.

  Ace shook his head. “Nope, just heard Smoke talk about him. You say he’s a friend of yours?”

  “We did some trappin’ together a heap o’ years ago. And we’ve visited with each other a few times since. Been a long time since I’ve seen him, though.” Eagle-Eye rasped his fingers over his white-stubbled chin. “Wonder if he might be spendin’ the holiday at Jensen’s ranch, since the two of ’em are old friends.”

  “I suppose it’s possible,” Ace said.

  “What say we find out?”

  The brothers looked at the old-timer in surprise.

  Chance said, “You mean go to Smoke’s ranch?”

  “Just show up there?” added Ace.

  “Well, why not?” Eagle-Eye wanted to know. “You boys said you were friends o’ his. I don’t reckon he’d turn you away, especially at this time of year.”

  “Probably not,” Ace admitted. “But there’s no guarantee Preacher will be there.”

  “No guarantee he won’t be.” Eagle-Eye looked like his mind was made up. “Anyway, if Preacher ain’t there, maybe Smoke’ll know where I can find him. I’d sure like to see that old codger again. The way both of us are gettin’ on up in years, this might be our last chance to get together. What do you say, boys? We head for the Jensen ranch?”

  Ace and Chance looked at each other again.

  Chance shrugged.

  We’re headed in that direction anyway, Ace supposed. “All right, Mr. Callahan, we can do that.” He remembered something else from their conversations with Smoke the year before. “The Sugarloaf, that’s what the ranch is called. I’m sure somebody in Big Rock can tell us exactly where to find it.“

  CHAPTER 16

  Aboard the Orphan Train

  Mercy thought that it was a remarkable achievement, the way railroad lines had spanned the entire continent from the Atlantic to the Pacific, making it possible to go from one side of the nation to the other in less than a week, rather than a journey of months like it had been in the days of the wagon trains. She had read about those arduous expeditions and doubted that she could have survived one of them.

  Of course, just because traveling on the railroad was a vast improvement didn’t mean that it was perfect. In fact, the compartment she shared with Grace Gallagher had a cold draft blowing through it, and they hadn’t been able to find the source of the chill.

  She pulled her coat collar tighter around her throat as she stood up. “I think I’ll go check on the children”

  Grace looked even colder as she sat on the compartment’s other bench shivering under a lap robe. “Peter’s keeping an eye on them.” She had been reading from the Bible she held in her gloved hands.

  “I know, but they can get too rambunctious for one man to watch over them.”

  “Peter can handle it,” Grace said with a sullen note in her voice.

  Mercy realized that the other woman didn’t want her to be alone with Peter.

  They wouldn’t actually be alone, of course. The children would be there. The Society had engaged the entire car, and the children had strict orders never to leave it without one of the adults. Not only did Peter, Grace, and Mercy enforce that rule, but they also had help from the two oldest girls, Connie and Roberta, both of whom were twelve. Back in the orphanage, the two girls had been like second mothers to the younger children.

  Having a gaggle of youngsters around all the time was like having a constant chaperone, and if Mercy was being honest with herself, she didn’t really mind. Although she knew Peter Gallagher admired her, she didn’t believe he would ever make any improper advances. She felt just uncomfortable at times when he looked at her that she was grateful for the children’s company.

  “I won’t be gone long,” she said, reaching for the compartment door.

  Grace just sniffed behind her.

  Probably from the cold, Mercy told herself . . . although she knew her attitude might be a little generous.

  She stepped out and was nearly plowed over by one of the boys racing along the corridor between the compartments. Another youngster was giving chase, but he stopped short at the sight of her.

  “Sorry, Miss Halliday,” he muttered as he looked down at the floor of the slightly swaying train car.

  “You know you’re not supposed to be running up and down in here, Trevor,” she told him. She glanced over her shoulder at the other boy, who had also stopped and scuffed his feet guiltily. “You, too, Allan. You must practice proper decorum and behave like gentlemen.”

  “But Miss Halliday, deck . . . deco . . . decorum’s mighty hard to come by when you’re ten years old!” Trevor protested.

  Mercy managed not to laugh, but it wasn’t easy. She struggled to keep her face and voice solemn as she said, “I know it’s difficult, but you must try. You need to get in the habit of presenting the best impression you possibly can.”

  “Yes’m,” agreed Allan. “So’s folks will like us and we can get new families!”

  “That’s right.” Mercy looked up and down the corridor without seeing Peter and frowned slightly. “Where’s Mr. Gallagher?”

  “He said he was goin’ out on the platform for a breath o’ fresh air.”

  “I think he was goin’ to smoke a see-gar!” added Allan.

  “Oh, I doubt that,” Mercy said, although she thought there was at least a chance the boy was right. Regardless of Peter’s motivation, he was supposed to be keeping an eye on the corridor and the children’s compartments. She wasn’t very happy about him stepping out onto the platform. “The front of the car, or the back?”

  “The back.”

  She would have liked to give Peter a piece of her mind, but technically he was her superior in the Society, so she couldn’t really do that. She could speak to him, though, and find out if he planned to come back in any time soon.

  “The two of you run along,” she told the boys, then held up a hand to stop them in case they took off at top speed. “I don’t mean that literally.”

  “What does lit’rally mean?”

  “It means don’t run.” She started toward the vestibule at the rear of the car, where a door opened onto the platform at that end.

  As soon as she stepped out onto the windswept platform, she immediately caught a pungent whiff of tobacco smoke and knew that the little boy had been right. Peter had left the railroad car so he could indulge in one of the foul-smelling cigars he liked. Grace had forbidden him to smoke around the children, claiming that it might be bad for the youngsters’ health, but Mercy suspected her objections came mainly from the fact that she didn’t care for the way the cigars smelled.

  Peter was standing at the wrought-iron railing puffing on the cylinder of tobacco. He started guiltily as the door swung open, then relaxed a little as he recognized Mercy.

  “Don’t worry,” she told him with a smile. “It’s just me.”

  “Thank goodness for small favors,” he muttered. “Not that you’re—Never mind. If I continue, I’m certain to say the wrong thing.”

  “I’m annoyed with you, you know.”

  Peter arched an eyebrow. “You are? What for?”

  “You left the children alone in there.”

  “Not really. You and Grace were right there in your compartment, and I knew that if there was too much commotion, you’d hear.”

  “Trouble doesn’t have to have a commotion with it. Sometimes it strikes quietly.”

  Peter shrugged. “I suppose. I just felt . . . what is it they say out West? I felt a hankering for a cigar.” He paused, then went on. “Don’t you ever feel a hankering for anything, Mercy?”

  That struck her as a little too personal a question, so she didn’t answer it. She rested her gloved hands on the railing and gazed out at the passing countryside. “It’s not much to look at it, is it?”

  She wasn’t sure where they were. Somewhere west of Chicago, passing through farmland that was flat and
empty under a gray, overcast sky. In the spring, there would be plowing and planting, and in the summer the fields would be a verdant green with their crops, but in December the landscape was rather stark. It had rained recently, leaving puddles of muddy water standing here and there.

  “I don’t know,” Peter said as he leaned on the railing beside her. “From where I’m standing, the view is quite nice. Beautiful, in fact.”

  The air was cold on Mercy’s cheeks, but she felt her face warming anyway. Peter had been looking directly at her when he made that comment. He had never been quite so bold in the past.

  She frowned. “We had better go back inside—”

  He tossed the half-smoked cigar and it was whipped away by the wind of the train’s passage. Reaching out, he lightly touched her arm. “Not just yet.”

  “But it’s really not pleasant weather out here at all, and the children—”

  “Will be fine,” he broke in. “Grace is in there if they need anything. You and I haven’t had a moment alone since we left New York, Mercy.”

  “We’re not supposed to have a moment alone.”

  “Why not? Don’t we all deserve something for all the good work we do?”

  “Helping the children is its own reward.” She knew that sounded a little sanctimonious, but she genuinely felt that way.

  “I’m not sure that’s enough anymore.” His fingers curled around her upper arm, gently at first but then tightening. “A man can’t devote his entire life to good works. He needs a moment of appreciation now and then.”

  “I-I know the children appreciate everything that you do.”

  “I’m not talking about the children.”

  “Well, I appreciate that you’re a good man, Mr. Gallagher, with a fine wife and—”

  “Don’t talk about her,” he snapped, moving closer to Mercy. He was between her and the door and had her trapped against the platform railing. True, he was only crowding her, not pressing her against the railing, and his grip on her arm was just insistent, not so tight as to be painful.

  She was about to pull away from him when a man’s voice said, “Might be a good idea for you to step away from the lady, friend.” A hand with long, strong-looking fingers closed over Peter’s shoulder.