A Colorado Christmas

by William W. Johnstone

  “Mr. Jensen, this is Mr. Rinehart,” the young woman said. “He’s from New York as well.”

  “Ed Rinehart,” the man said as he stuck out his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Jensen.”

  Smoke shook hands with him and nodded. “You’re a friend of Miss Halliday?”

  “Well, I hope so,” Rinehart answered with a smile. “We got acquainted on the train on the way out here.”

  “Mr. Rinehart has been very helpful with the children,” Mercy said.

  “Mighty kind of you” Smoke nodded, wondering what it had to do with him.

  She put an end to his wondering. “I was hoping you might be able to find room for him, too.”

  “You’re not staying here in town, Mr. Rinehart?” Smoke asked.

  The man shrugged. “I might be able to double up with someone at the hotel, but I was hoping to avoid that.”

  “I’m not sure a crowded bunkhouse would be any better.”

  “It would be as far as I’m concerned.” Rinehart smiled. “Besides, I have to admit I’m curious about what a real Western ranch is like. I’ve heard about them and read about them, but this is my first trip out here.”

  “I have to warn you,” Smoke said, “it’s not like what you’ve read in the dime novels, and those wild west shows like the one Bill Cody took back East aren’t very realistic, either. Mostly ranch life is just a lot of hard work.”

  “I’d be glad to pitch in and do whatever I could to help earn my keep while I’m there,” Rinehart said.

  Smoke waved a hand and told him, “I don’t reckon that’s necessary, although we never turn down any help. If Miss Halliday vouches for you, we’d be glad to have you.”

  Mercy said, “You’re putting a lot of stock in my opinion, Mr. Jensen, considering that you’ve only known me for a couple hours.”

  From the wagon, Sally said, “Smoke is a good judge of character, and I like to think I am, too. As long as you’re a friend of Mercy’s, you’re welcome on the Sugarloaf, Mr. Rinehart.”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” Rinehart said as he took off his fedora and nodded to her. “Very kind of you.”

  Smoke noticed that Sally and Mercy were on a first-name basis already. That was another mark in the young woman’s favor.

  “Do you have a horse, Mr. Rinehart?” Smoke asked.

  “No, I thought I’d rent one at the livery stable, if I can.”

  Smoke shook his head. “No need for that. You can ride mine.” He gestured toward the big gray stallion tied to the back of the wagon.

  Rinehart looked a little leery of that idea. “I’m, uh, not really an experienced horseman.”

  “You’ll do fine,” Smoke assured him. In truth, the stallion did have a salty nature at times and required a firm hand on the reins, but Rinehart had an athletic look about him and Smoke figured the Easterner could handle the horse. It would be a good test of Rinehart’s mettle, too.

  “I’ll get my bag from the depot and be right back,” Rinehart said.

  While he was gone, Mercy told Smoke, “Thank you, Mr. Jensen. I know when you left home this morning, you never dreamed you’d be coming back with so many guests!”

  Sally laughed. “It’s the time of year for guests.”

  Rinehart was back in a minute with his carpetbag and added it to the pile of bags in the second wagon.

  Smoke noticed how Chance was frowning at the man from New York and thought, A little jealousy at work there. Chance liked Mercy, too, and he had seen how she smiled at Ed Rinehart. Smoke chuckled a little as he climbed to the wagon seat next to Sally.

  She asked, “What’s funny?”

  “I’m just glad I’m not quite as young as I once was,” he told her.

  “You have a long way to go until you’re old, Smoke Jensen.”

  “If I live that long.” He slapped the reins against the horses’ backs and got the team moving. The wagon rolled along the street with the other vehicle following. Ace had taken the reins of Sally’s buggy, since Chance had taken his place on the second wagon. Preacher, Eagle-Eye, and Ed Rinehart followed on horseback.

  The gray stallion was a little skittish at first, but Rinehart soon had it under control, Smoke noted as he glanced over his shoulder. As they passed Monte Carson on the boardwalk, Smoke grinned and nodded to the lawman, who returned a friendly wave.

  Within minutes, the group had left Big Rock behind.

  CHAPTER 32

  On the way to Sugarloaf Ranch

  The trip was loud. The children, most of whom had never been out of New York before, exclaimed in excitement as they saw the towering mountains on both sides of the valley and the tall, snow-mantled pines along the trail. They were full of questions, and they laughed happily at being in a new place despite the cold weather.

  A cleaner, better place, as far as Smoke was concerned. He had seen some of the big eastern cities for himself, and he knew he never would have been able to be happy there. He was thankful, not for the first time, that Sally had adjusted so well to life in the West.

  Other than all the talk and laughter, the journey to the ranch was uneventful.

  Sugarloaf Ranch

  Pearlie and Cal came out of the barn as the wagons rolled up in front of the ranch house.

  The foreman exclaimed, “What in the he—” then caught himself at the sight of all the children.

  Cal had a big grin on his face as he said, “Looks like you’re already taking on new hands for the spring round-up, Smoke.”

  “Got to, since so many of the layabouts already riding for me don’t know how to do a good day’s work,” Smoke replied with a grin of his own. “Boys, that’s Miss Halliday back there on the other wagon next to Chance. She’s from the Children’s Aid Society in New York.”

  Pearlie and Cal nodded to Mercy and pinched the brims of their hats.

  Cal, who had an eye for a pretty girl, said, “Mighty pleased to meet you, ma’am.”

  Smoke could have told him that if he had any thoughts about wooing Mercy, he would find himself already in competition with Chance and Rinehart. Cal would have to find that out on his own, however. Smoke wasn’t going to get in the middle of that.

  “These children are orphans looking for new homes here in the valley,” Sally explained. “Smoke and I have agreed to let them stay here while all the arrangements are made.”

  “And it’s very kind of you,” Mercy said from the second wagon.

  Smoke climbed down and turned back to help Sally. Chance was already on the ground and moved to give Mercy a hand, but Ed Rinehart was there ahead of him, reaching up to her. Chance glared but backed off, since there wasn’t much of anything else he could do.

  The children were already jumping down from the wagons.

  Preacher and Eagle-Eye tried to keep them under control, leading Preacher to exclaim, “Dadgum it. They’re runnin’ around like a bunch o’ chickens with their heads cut off!”

  It took the two old-timers, Ace, Chance, Mercy, Rinehart, and Pearlie and Cal to keep the youngsters herded up reasonably close together.

  Smoke said to Pearlie, “Some of the older boys are going to be staying in the bunkhouse with you fellas.”

  “Sounds like a good idea,” said Pearlie. “I’ll try to keep Cal from bein’ too bad an influence on ’em while they’re here.”

  “Me?” Cal said. “You’re the one who was fixing to cuss in front of them!”

  “You hush!” Pearlie said.

  The next couple hours were hectic ones as Sally and Mercy figured out where each of the children was going to stay. As usual, the youngsters were excited. Because of their backgrounds, they were used to a lot of change in their lives, and all seemed to be looking forward to spending time on the Sugarloaf.

  All except for one little boy, who stood watching intently and never said anything, even when someone spoke to him.

  * * *

  Everyone seemed fine at supper, which was an extremely crowded affair in the Jensens’ dining room. The long
table was full, and Smoke and others had brought in tables and chairs from other rooms so that everyone had a place to sit and eat. The meal was controlled bedlam. It had taken a near-miraculous effort for Sally to throw together enough food for the entire group.

  Before everyone finished eating, some of the younger children were getting drowsy. A few of them were practically asleep by the time Mercy started to carry them upstairs to put them down in their temporary rooms. Chance Jensen volunteered to help her, of course, so Rinehart had to pitch in, as well.

  Caleb’s eyelids were drooping, so Rinehart took hold of him under the arms and lifted him. “Are you tired, pal?”

  Caleb didn’t answer. That wasn’t surprising, but the way his head drooped on Rinehart’s shoulder and he snuggled against the detective’s chest was a little unexpected.

  The kid is warming up to me, thought Rinehart.

  That was good . . . if he really was Donald Litchfield. And even if he wasn’t, somehow it felt pretty good anyway.

  After the little ones had been put to bed, the older children were still in the dining room along with all the adults when one of the girls asked Smoke, “Don’t you have a Christmas tree, Mr. Jensen?”

  “No, honey, we haven’t gotten around to harvesting one this year,” Smoke replied with a smile.

  “But sometimes you have them, don’t you? We had one in the orphanage one year.”

  “Just once?”

  “Yes.” The girl looked and sounded sad. “Someone donated that one. The orphanage couldn’t afford to buy one, and nobody else ever did it again.”

  Smoke exchanged a glance with Sally, then said, “You know what? I’ll bet we could go out tomorrow and cut one down. There are plenty of places on the Sugarloaf where we could find a good tree.”

  Sally said, “I think that’s a wonderful idea. We’ll decorate it and make it look like the most festive Christmas tree ever.”

  “I think that’s a wonderful idea,” Mercy said. “We can make the trip an outing for the children, if that’s all right.”

  “Don’t see why not,” Smoke said.

  “I’d be glad to come along and help,” Chance volunteered.

  Rinehart didn’t hesitate. “I’ll come, too. Sounds like a lot of fun.” Actually, tramping around in the snow, wielding an ax and cutting down a tree, then dragging it back to the ranch house and carrying it inside didn’t sound like fun at all, but if Caleb and the other little boys he was supposed to be protecting were out there, then he needed to be, too.

  And if that slick Chance Jensen was going to be doing his best to impress Mercy, Rinehart wasn’t going to let that pass unchallenged, either.

  “It’s settled, then,” Smoke said with a nod. “We’ll hitch up the wagons in the morning and go find us a Christmas tree. So all you youngsters better turn in and get yourselves a good night’s rest.”

  That brought the usual complaints from some of the children, which Mercy promptly shushed. She and Sally ushered the ones who were staying in the house upstairs, while Pearlie, Cal, and Rinehart headed for the bunkhouse with the older boys.

  His job had gotten him into a lot of odd circumstances, Rinehart mused as he walked through the cold air toward the bunkhouse, but that was maybe the strangest of them all. Living like a cowboy in the middle of nowhere, protecting some kids from a threat that might or might not exist, and trying to sort through his unexpectedly complicated feelings for Mercy Halliday.

  It made chasing goons, yeggs, and hooligans through the back alleys of New York seem nice and simple.

  * * *

  “So you’re goin’ out to cut a Christmas tree in the mornin’,” Preacher said from behind Smoke.

  Smoke was standing on the porch, bundled in his sheepskin jacket, getting a last breath of fresh air before turning in. He turned his head to look at his oldest friend in the world and nodded. “That’s right. You want to come along with us?”

  “I reckon not. I’ve cut down trees to use for firewood, but I ain’t never cut one down just to hang glittery gee-gaws from it.”

  “The kids like it.”

  “Well, I guess it won’t do no harm. But you and the other fellas can handle the chore just fine without me and Eagle-Eye.”

  “He’s going to be a curmudgeon, too?”

  “I ain’t sure what you mean by that,” snapped Preacher, “but I’ll bet a hat it ain’t nothin’ good. Fact of the matter is, we was thinkin’ about leavin’ tomorrow.”

  That took Smoke by surprise. “Not before Christmas?”

  “We thought we might head on up into the high country, maybe visit some of our old stompin’ grounds.”

  “Not at this time of the year,” Smoke protested. “That sounds more like something you’d do in the spring or summer.”

  “Eagle-Eye says he knows where there’s a friendly band o’ Crow who still live up in the mountains instead o’ goin’ in to the agency durin’ the winter. There ain’t many like that left, Smoke. Just like there ain’t many like me and ol’ Eagle-Eye.”

  “You were one of the first mountain men, and you’re just about the last, I reckon,” Smoke admitted.

  “No, not the last,” said Preacher. “In your heart, you’re the last o’ the breed that got started so long ago. I knowed it not long after I first run into you and your pa. Oh, you’ve settled down some. You got this ranch and the best wife any man could ever want, but inside, the high lonesome is still alive in you. I’m bettin’ it always will be.”

  “Maybe so”—Smoke rested a hand on his old friend’s buckskin-clad shoulder—“but I still think it would be best if you and Eagle-Eye stayed here until after Christmas. Sally would be disappointed if you left now.”

  Preacher scratched his grizzled jaw. “Well, I sure would hate to disappoint that little gal o’ yours.”

  “Besides, if you leave before Christmas Eve, you’ll miss out on all the good food at the party. It’s only a couple more days.”

  “You’re right about that, too, I reckon.” Preacher nodded decisively. “All right, I done made up my mind. We’ll wait until after Christmas. But when it’s come and gone, me and Eagle-Eye are headin’ for the tall and uncut.”

  “It’s a deal.” Smoke looked out at the night and added, “Look. It’s starting to snow again.”

  CHAPTER 33

  Big Rock

  It was a bitter cold, half-frozen, dispirited bunch that rode slowly into town late that night. The nine men were hunched forward in their saddles, gloved hands clasped around the horns to keep them from falling off as they moved along the deserted street.

  He was so cold, Laird Kingsley thought that if he toppled off his mount, he would shatter like a chunk of ice when he hit the ground.

  It had started snowing an hour earlier, and he had worried that if the drifts got too deep along the railroad tracks they were following, the horses wouldn’t be able to get through. He’d briefly considered options. Spending the night out in the open would mean freezing to death, and leaving the tracks to find another way to Big Rock would likely result in becoming lost in the trackless wilderness.

  Either way, an icy fate would await them.

  Luck had been with them, however. The snow was falling harder all the time, but they had been able to stay with the railroad and make it through. They’d reached the settlement that was their destination. Yellow light spilling through window glass drew the men with its promise of warmth.

  “Lord have mercy, I th-think I’ll never b-be warm again,” Big Steve Corrigan said through chattering teeth. “Saints preserve us, are we really here at last?”

  “We are,” Kingsley said. Enough light came through the windows of the building in front of which they reined in for him to read the sign on the awning above the boardwalk—BROWN DIRT COWBOY SALOON. “A fire and some whiskey will warm us up soon enough. First, though, somebody has to take care of these horses.”

  He looked around and spotted what appeared to be a livery barn on the other side of the street in the
next block. He pointed at the place and went on. “Paulson, Davis, take them down there to that place and make arrangements for them.”

  “Hell, Laird, why us?” objected one of the men he had named. “We’re as cold and tired as anybody else.”

  “That’s right, you’re as cold and tired as the rest of us, but you’re also the ones I gave the job to,” Kingsley said, his voice hard. “Do you feel like arguing?”

  “No, no, that’s not what I meant,” the man replied hastily. He turned to the other man Kingsley had picked. “Come on. Let’s get this done. Sooner we’re finished, the sooner we can get inside.”

  The men all dismounted, and the two charged with taking care of the horses took the reins and led the animals along the street. The other men, with Kingsley in the lead, went into the saloon.

  Kingsley didn’t know if the Brown Dirt Cowboy ever closed, but it was doing a good business on that snowy evening. A number of roughly dressed men he took to be cowboys were standing at the bar, and most of the tables were full. Several poker games were going on. Three saloon girls, all wearing skimpy dresses revealing pale flesh covered with goose bumps, moved among the customers delivering drinks and trying to summon up the enthusiasm to flirt a little.

  The clothes might be different, but a saloon was a saloon was a saloon. Kingsley felt almost as much at ease as he would have in a similar establishment in Hell’s Kitchen or the Bowery.

  The bartender was certainly a familiar type, a plug-ugly in a dirty apron. The man’s sleeves were rolled up to reveal brawny forearms. He smiled at Kingsley, revealing a missing tooth. “What can I do for you gents?”

  “We’re frozen,” said Kingsley. “We need something to warm us up.”

  “I got just the tonic for you, mister.” The bartender set empty glasses on the bar and reached for a bottle on the back shelf.

  Kingsley shook his head. “Not that. The good stuff.” He took a ten dollar gold piece from his pocket and slid it across the hardwood.