A Colorado Christmas

by William W. Johnstone

  Bleeker inclined his head toward the table, which held a tray with a bottle and a clean glass. “Want a drink?”

  “That’d be pretty good right now,” Clark admitted.

  Bleeker picked up the clean glass, splashed whiskey in it, and held it out to Clark. Then he refilled his own glass. “So you know I’m putting together some men to hit Big Rock,” he mused.

  Clark shrugged.

  “Do you know why?”

  “Don’t figure that’s any of my business. I’m only interested in the payoff.”

  “That’s a pretty smart way to be. How many men do you having riding with you?”

  “Four. Jed Darby, Curly Weaver, Hector Gomez, and Blind Jimmy Pugh.”

  Morley put in, “I’ve heard of Pugh. He’s not really blind, just nearsighted. Supposed to be pretty good with a gun anyway.”

  “We all are,” Clark said. “You won’t be disappointed if you take us on, Mr. Bleeker.”

  “So it’s Mister again now, is it?” Bleeker drawled.

  Clark drank some of his whiskey. “I’m more polite without a gun in my back.”

  Bleeker laughed again. “I think I like you . . . Mitch, was it? But I don’t really know you or your friends, and you’ve got to admit, you don’t have a big reputation.”

  “We’re getting there,” Clark said tightly.

  “How about this? I need some men to handle a job for me. Not the Big Rock job. This other deal comes first, but it’s related to it. Think you and your bunch can take care of it for me?”

  “If it means you’ll let us throw in with you for the big payoff, then damn right we can take care of it,” Clark replied with easy confidence. “What’s the job?”

  Bleeker looked at him over the whiskey glass and said, “I want you to kill a man named Frank Morgan.”

  * * *

  A maid brought the pot of coffee from downstairs and poured cups of it for Frank and Arabella. The brew was as good as Arabella claimed it would be.

  As they sipped from the fine china cups, they sat on a well-upholstered divan with sturdy wooden claw feet. The sitting room had a thick woven rug on the floor and dark blue curtains over the windows. It reminded Frank of Milady deWinter in Dumas’s novel about those Musketeers over in France, a book he had read a while back. Milady was a beautiful, ruthless, evil schemer.

  Lady Arabella was every bit as lovely as that character was supposed to be, and honestly, he didn’t know if she really had any noble blood or just pretended to the title of lady. He figured she could be ruthless across a poker table, but she wasn’t evil. He could sense that and trusted his instincts.

  Even though he hated for ugly reality to intrude on the pleasant moment, worry nagged at him. “How well acquainted are you with Jim Bleeker?”

  The question didn’t appear to bother Arabella. “I never met the man or even heard of him until tonight. A man who works for him—Morley is his name, I believe—came to the house earlier today and asked if it would be possible to arrange for Mr. Bleeker to have a private room at his disposal this evening. For his meeting with you, as we know now.”

  “He’s an outlaw,” Frank said bluntly.

  Arabella’s shoulders rose and fell slightly. “I can’t say that I’m surprised. In my business, you learn how to be a good judge of character. I knew right away that Bleeker and Morley were bad men.”

  “But you did business with them.”

  Her words were crisp as she said, “Don’t judge me, Frank. I run clean games and I don’t allow any trouble in my house. What goes on outside of the house is none of my concern.” She paused, then added, “Some people would no doubt disapprove of me bringing a notorious gunfighter up here to my sitting room for a cup of coffee.”

  “So you know who I am.”

  “The Drifter is known far and wide on the frontier.”

  Frank couldn’t argue with that, although plenty of times he wished it wasn’t so. He sipped his coffee and said, “We’re getting off on the wrong foot here. I didn’t mean to imply that you’re in any sort of cahoots with Bleeker. I just wanted to know if you were aware of what he’s planning.”

  “I have no idea,” Arabella said. “And I don’t want to know, so I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell me.”

  “All right. Let’s just say that he’s up to something that’ll hurt an old friend of mine.”

  “Then you’re going to stop him, of course,” Arabella said without hesitation.

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because that’s the sort of man you are.” She smiled at him over the rim of her cup. “I told you, I’m a good judge of character.”

  Frank nodded slowly. “I’m going to stop him, all right. Tomorrow morning, I’m heading for the town where my friend lives. I’m going to warn him and then back his play, whatever it is.”

  “You’re not worried that I’ll tell Bleeker what you’re planning to do?”

  “Nope. I can tell a little about a person, too. Not only that, you said that whatever happens outside this house is none of your concern, and I believe you.”

  “You and I have some things in common, don’t we? We keep to ourselves for the most part, and we have a code that governs our actions.”

  “I don’t put it in fancy terms like that,” Frank said. “I just do what seems right.”

  “So do I.” She set her coffee cup on the table in front of the divan, moved closer to Frank—she didn’t have to go far—and slid her arms around his neck.

  He had already set his cup aside, too, so it was no problem for him to put his arms around her.

  “And right now, this definitely seems right,” Arabella murmured as she tilted her face up, ready for the kiss he brought down on her lips.

  * * *

  It was late when Frank left Lady Arabella’s suite and went downstairs. Despite the hour, some of the games were still going on, of course. He wasn’t sure if the place ever shut down completely, as long as there were gamblers eager to lose their money.

  The big, rawboned, redheaded man called Dorgan was still on duty at the front door.

  Frank smiled slightly and asked, “Do you ever sleep, amigo?”

  “Every now and then. Will we be seein’ you again, Mr. Morgan?”

  “¿Quién sabe? But not for a while, I reckon. There are some things I have to do.”

  “I’ll be biddin’ you good night, then,” said Dorgan as he held the door open.

  Frank nodded and stepped out. A few buggies were still parked in the circular drive in front of the house, and several horses were tied at a hitch rack, Frank’s big gray stallion among them. As he started toward the horses, his eyes scanned the shadows under the trees. Only one lamp burned on the columned gallery, and even though the branches were bare, they grew thickly enough to create large areas of impenetrable gloom.

  Caution was ingrained in him, and his mind and body were always ready for action. He reacted instantly when he heard a very faint clicking sound from the shadows and recognized it as the sound of a gun’s hammer being eared back. He dived to the ground as a shot suddenly roared and Colt flame bloomed in the darkness.

  CHAPTER 20

  Frank’s Colt was in his hand by the time he hit the paved drive. The big revolver roared and bucked against his palm as he snapped a shot at the muzzle flash he had seen.

  A bullet coming from a different direction plowed into the ground just inches from his head, and he rolled quickly to his left, toward the horses. The gunfire made the other animals spook, although Frank’s stallion was used to that sound. As they danced around skittishly, he came up on hands and knees and scrambled among them, using them for cover.

  More guns were blasting. From the sound of them, he knew several bushwhackers were lurking in the shadows, trying to kill him.

  From the direction of the house, someone bellowed, “Hey, you!”

  Frank glanced in that direction and saw Dorgan galloping toward the gunfight with a sawed-off shotgun in his hands.

  T
he big man stumbled suddenly. He extended the shotgun toward the trees with one hand and fired both barrels. Foot-long tongues of flame erupted from the weapon, and for a split-second the garish orange flare lit up the night. Frank caught a glimpse of another man flying backwards with his face and chest shredded by the double load of buckshot.

  Then it was dark again, except for the light from the gallery. Dorgan doubled over and collapsed, obviously wounded.

  Frank worked his way through the horses. The gun thunder faded for a second, and he heard distant shouts. The sounds of battle in the quiet neighborhood was drawing a lot of attention. The blue-uniformed Denver police would show up fairly quickly. The would-be killers couldn’t afford to linger, so if they wanted to ventilate Frank, they had to do it in a hurry.

  As he reached the edge of the drive, a foot scraped behind him. Frank whirled and crouched at the same time, just as a gun went off so close the flame from its muzzle almost singed his eyebrows. He triggered his Colt twice, and in the glare of the shots, he saw a squat Mexican drop his gun and reel backwards with his hands pressed to his belly. Blood welled blackly between his splayed fingers.

  Frank knew the gut shot man shouldn’t pose any more problems. He wheeled and ran along the edge of the drive, away from the house. He didn’t know how badly Dorgan was hurt, but he didn’t want to draw any more fire toward the man.

  Several more shots slammed through the darkness. A pair of slugs whistled past Frank’s head, close enough that he felt the wind-rip of their passage. He plunged into some shrubs. Their branches crackled around him, giving away his position and making him bite back a curse.

  He dropped to one knee and stopped moving. Again, during a lull, he heard confused, frightened shouts from nearby houses. Time was running out for the killers.

  While he knelt among the bushes, he took advantage of the opportunity to replace the shells he had fired. Working by feel—he didn’t need to see in order to carry out a task he had performed thousands of times—he thumbed fresh cartridges into the Colt’s cylinder.

  When the ambushers attacked again, they came at him from three directions at once. They had a pretty good idea of where he was hiding, and they were almost right. A storm of bullets tore into the shrubs, sending broken branches flying into the air.

  Unfortunately for the bushwhackers, their fire was concentrated on a spot about five feet in front of him.

  He rose to his full height, thrust the gun out, and aimed just above one of the muzzle flashes. His first shot was rewarded by a strangled scream.

  Hearing that, he was already pivoting toward muzzle flashes that were moving as the killer charged forward, firing. Frank bracketed them and squeezed off two shots. Again he heard a pained yelp.

  That left just one man—although Frank couldn’t be sure the other two were actually out of the fight—but as he swung in that direction a hammer blow against his side knocked him back a step. He felt a hot gush of blood as he caught his balance.

  The fifth man was almost on top of him. He fired again at the same time Frank fired, and the guns were so close the spouting flames seemed to reach out and cross each other. Frank didn’t feel the impact of another slug, so he knew the man’s shot had missed.

  A second later, a stumbling form ran into him, carried forward by its momentum with enough force that the collision knocked Frank off his feet.

  They sprawled to the ground together. Frank’s head spun crazily, and he knew he was on the verge of passing out from losing the blood that pumped from the hole in his side. The light from the gallery reflected off something metallic, causing him to realize that his enemy was still trying to bring a gun to bear on him. He lashed out with his own revolver and cracked its barrel across the man’s wrist. The man let out a shrill cry of pain as he dropped the gun.

  Then he stopped fighting. He lay there struggling to breathe, the high-pitched wheeze evidence that he was shot through the lungs. He gasped, “You . . . you can’t have killed . . . all five of us!”

  “I didn’t,” Frank said, feeling pretty much on his last legs himself. “That fella who works for . . . Lady Arabella . . . did one of you.” He could see the man’s face.

  Thoroughly undistinguished and topped by thinning brown hair, the man looked like a storekeeper or a traveling salesman. He gasped out, “I know you’re . . . a famous gunfighter . . . but it seemed like five of us . . . would be enough. . . .” Another sharp wheeze was followed by a grotesque rattle. The man was dead.

  Frank had no doubt that Jim Bleeker had set those assassins on him. Bleeker didn’t want to take a chance on him warning Monte Carson or otherwise interfering with his plan.

  And even though all the bushwhackers seemed to be dead or badly wounded—none of them were shooting at him anymore, at least—Frank knew that they might have accomplished what Bleeker wanted. Badly wounded, Frank had already lost a lot of blood, and there was no telling if he would survive the attack or not.

  But he had to, otherwise Monte Carson might not know about the trouble coming his way until it was too late.

  With that thought burning in his mind, Frank took his bloody left hand away from his side where it had been pressed to the bullet hole. He braced himself with it and pushed his body upward until he was able to struggle to his feet. Still holding the Colt in his right hand, he staggered a few steps toward the house, then had to stop and steady himself.

  He heard the rapid patter of footsteps coming toward him and raised the Colt, ready to fire. His finger relaxed on the trigger at the last second as light from a bull’s-eye lantern spilled over him and Arabella’s voice cried, “Frank!”

  He let his arm sag again. His strength had deserted him, and he couldn’t stop the revolver from slipping out of his fingers and thudding to the ground at his feet. The world tilted and then began to turn in the wrong direction around him.

  He heard Arabella call his name again, but that was the last thing he was aware of as he plummeted into black oblivion.

  * * *

  Frank floated on a dark sea for what felt like an eternity, but after so long a time, light began to seep into the blackness. It grew brighter and brighter until it seemed to fill his entire consciousness. He recoiled against it.

  In actuality, he barely moved, but it was enough to set off a clamoring pain in his side. A voice said hollowly as if from a great distance, “Frank, you’re awake.”

  Slowly, he became aware of more than just the pain. He realized he was lying in a soft, warm bed with covers draped over him. When he tried to take a deep breath he couldn’t do it, and after a moment he understood why. Bandages were wrapped tightly around the middle of his torso.

  Clearly, he wasn’t dead after all.

  But he might be dying. It was too soon to tell.

  Something cool touched his face, soothing it with deft strokes, and he forced his eyes open. The bright light that had almost blinded him was, in reality, a small lamp on a bedside table with its flame turned down low so that much of the room was in shadow. However, it gave off enough illumination for him to make out Lady Arabella Winthrop’s smiling but worried face as she leaned over him, wiping his face with a wet cloth.

  “You’re going to be all right,” she told him. “Can you understand me, Frank?”

  “Yeah,” he husked. “I . . . understand.”

  “You lost quite a bit of blood and you have some bruised ribs, but Dr. Fletcher said that no bones were broken. You were lucky in one respect that the bullet glanced off your ribs without fracturing any of them, but it tore an even uglier wound coming out. Still, the doctor says you’re going to be fine in a few weeks.”

  Something about that bothered Frank, but his brain was so addled at the moment he couldn’t figure out what it was. The fogginess came from more than just pain and blood loss. He thought the doctor must have given him some laudanum.

  Something else occurred to him, and he asked in a ragged voice, “What about . . . Dorgan?”

  “He’s alive, although his
injuries are worse than yours. Dr. Fletcher believes he’ll pull through. He’ll receive the best possible care. I’ll see to that.” Arabella smiled again. “Angus Fletcher is one of the best doctors in Denver. He also loves playing blackjack, so he’s here quite often and was more than happy to tend to the wounded in exchange for me tearing up some of his markers.”

  “Cost you . . . some money,” Frank said.

  “Worth every penny.”

  He was so weak he had to muster up his strength to ask another question. “Those men . . . who jumped me . . .”

  “Five of them.” Arabella’s tone was brisk and more than a little angry. “All dead. According to the authorities, they were all wanted outlaws. I suppose they must have thought you had a pocketful of winnings and intended to rob you.”

  “No . . . Bleeker . . . sent them after me.”

  “Bleeker! Are you sure?”

  “Pretty . . . sure. He’s not . . . still here?”

  Arabella shook her head. “No, he left a long time ago, shortly after you talked to him, according to several of my employees. While we were . . . up here having coffee.”

  Talking about Bleeker had made some other things come into focus in Frank’s brain. Instinctively, he tried to raise himself into a sitting position as he said, “I’ve got to . . . go. . . .”

  Arabella set the wet cloth aside and pressed both hands to his shoulders to hold him down. “You can’t go anywhere. The doctor said you shouldn’t even be up and around for a week.”

  “Can’t . . . wait. Got to warn . . .”A wave of dizziness washed over him. The little bit of strength that had returned deserted him again, leaving him too weak to do anything except sag back against the mattress and pillows. He heard Arabella cry out in alarm.

  “You’re bleeding again! Oh, my God . . . Frank!”

  The flickering light in the room was fading. Blackness closed in from the corners. He couldn’t see Arabella anymore, but he heard her say, “I think the doctor is still here—”

  Then a door banged and someone was shouting and feet rushed here and there, but all that went away and took Frank’s consciousness with it.