A Colorado Christmas

by William W. Johnstone

  Smoke trusted his hunches as well, so he’d stayed on the move as the afternoon passed, circulating around the settlement. To all appearances, he was just visiting with friends, smiling, laughing, shaking hands, and slapping backs, but in reality he was eyeing every stranger he saw, especially the ones who looked like they might be from back East.

  He paid less attention to those who appeared more at home in the West.

  Preacher and Eagle-Eye Callahan had been tasked with the same mission. Smoke had warned them not to be too obvious about what they were doing, but it wasn’t easy for the two old mountain men to be subtle. It just wasn’t their nature in anything. Preacher tried not to glare at those he found suspicious, though, and Eagle-Eye did likewise.

  Louis Longmont and Monte Carson were also part of the effort. That was nothing new for Monte, who was always on the lookout for trouble where the safety of his town was concerned. The people of Big Rock had given him the opportunity to put his less than savory past behind him, and he would always be grateful to them for that. He wasn’t sure he could ever repay that favor.

  With so many people in town, it was impossible to keep track of all of them.

  As dusk settled down over Big Rock and people began drifting from the church toward the center of town where the celebration would take place, Smoke’s taut nerves told him that trouble was still quite possible. If anything, the danger was worse—several hundred people were going to be crowded into the street in front of the bandstand that had been set up. The local musicians who played patriotic music every Fourth of July were setting up to entertain the throng with a medley of Christmas music. They had been practicing for more than a month.

  He noticed a bunch of kids near the bandstand and recognized Peter Gallagher rounding them up. Gallagher’s wife was there, too, along with Mercy and Rinehart. Mercy had explained that Gallagher was going to get up at some time in the evening, introduce the children, and announce that they were looking for homes. Smoke thought it was a good idea overall and was sure the effort would draw some worthwhile responses . . . but it would also draw attention to the youngsters and expose them to more threats.

  Spotting Ace and Chance in the crowd, he worked his way over to them. Nodding to the Jensen boys, he raised his voice to be heard over the hubbub. “You fellas keep your eyes open and your guns handy, but don’t burn any powder unless you absolutely have to. If guns start going off in a mob of folks like this, it’s liable to cause a riot.”

  “Chance and I were just talking about the same thing,” said Ace. “Don’t worry, Smoke, we’ll be careful.”

  “I know you will.” He moved on and found Preacher and Eagle-Eye in the crowd.

  The old-timers looked uncomfortable. They weren’t used to being around so many people. There was a good reason men such as them preferred the high lonesome. They were happy with their own company, or that of a few good friends, and only occasionally enjoyed being around crowds.

  “I ain’t never seen so much hoopla over a holiday,” said Preacher.

  “It’s not just a holiday,” Smoke pointed out. “For a lot of folks, Christmas is one of the holiest days of the year, along with Easter.”

  “Maybe so, but most of these yay-hoos ain’t got religion on their minds tonight. This here is just an excuse to have a big ol’ party.”

  Smoke shrugged. “You’re probably right. But at some point in the evening, some of them will stop and think about the true reason we celebrate Christmas. That’s not a bad thing.”

  “Reckon not,” Preacher admitted grudgingly.

  “You haven’t seen anybody lurking around who looks like he’s about to start trouble, have you?”

  “No . . . but if you was fixin’ to raise a ruckus, you wouldn’t go and shout it from the rooftops, now would you?”

  The old mountain man had a point there.

  Elsewhere in the crowd, Smoke located Pearlie and Cal. Each was holding one of Sally’s bear sign and taking a bite now and then.

  Smoke walked over to them and grinned. “How many of those have you boys eaten?”

  “I’ve kinda lost track,” Cal said sheepishly. “Enough that I’m starting to feel a mite light-headed, though.”

  Pearlie snorted disgustedly. “That’s the only thing light about you, boy. You keep eatin’ the way you have been since you hit town, you’ll wake up on Christmas mornin’ weighin’ three hunnerd pounds!”

  “You’re a fine one to talk,” said Cal. “You’ve put away a heap of those bear sign yourself, and that was after wolfing down three or four plates of food down at the church!”

  “I don’t care how much you eat,” Smoke told them. “Just don’t let it keep you from being alert.”

  “Don’t worry about that,” Pearlie assured him. “Our eyes is wide open.”

  “Speak for yourself,” muttered Cal. “I’m thinking I could use a nap right about now.”

  Smoke laughed and moved on. Despite what Cal had said, he knew he could count on the young puncher.

  A few minutes later, he was standing near the edge of the crowd when someone came up beside him and linked an arm with his left arm. He looked over to see Sally smiling up at him.

  “Are you through feeding the multitude?” he asked.

  She laughed. “It was Jesus who did that, not me. Anyway, there are enough ladies still working down at the church that I won’t be missed, and I want to hear the music.”

  “You’re just in time, then,” Smoke told her. “I think they’re just about to strike up the band.”

  CHAPTER 39

  Jim Bleeker stood in the shadows of an alley, watching Monte Carson on the boardwalk across the street. The sheriff wore a sheepskin jacket against the chill in the air, but his hat was thumbed back on his thinning hair. Bleeker could see his face clearly. It was the first good look he’d had at the man in more than eight years, and he was glad to find that the hatred he felt hadn’t subsided in the slightest.

  It would have been a damn shame to go all that way, kill all the people he had killed, and make all the plans he’d made, only to discover that he no longer cared enough to go through with his revenge.

  Well, that wasn’t going to happen, thought Bleeker as a cruel smile tugged at his lips. He wanted to see Monte Carson suffer just as much as he had during those long days and nights behind the walls of the penitentiary.

  The lawman had found himself a good home. He had put his hired gun and outlaw past behind him and was a respectable citizen, a defender of law and order. If anything, seeing the way the people of Big Rock smiled at him and shook his hand stoked the fires of Bleeker’s loathing.

  Bleeker was really going to enjoy making the town suffer—and making Monte Carson watch.

  A footstep made Bleeker turn his head.

  Ray Morley said quietly, “It’s just me, Jim.”

  “Everybody in position?” Bleeker asked.

  “Yeah. There are men all around that crowd gathering in the street. Just about everybody in town is going down there to listen to the music. You want us to open fire on them when the musicians start to play?”

  Bleeker considered, then said, “No, not then. They’ve got a bunch of orphans they’re going to parade up there after a while, don’t they?”

  “That’s the talk around town,” said Morley. “They’re looking for homes for the brats. Around twenty of them, I think.”

  Bleeker nodded slowly in the shadows. “When the orphans get up there and whoever’s in charge of them starts to talk, you, me, and half a dozen other men are going to join them. If we’ve got them covered, Carson and everybody else in town will have to do what we tell them.” The boss outlaw chuckled. “Nobody wants to be responsible for a bunch of orphans getting slaughtered. They’ve already had enough bad luck in their lives.”

  “Yeah,” Morley agreed. “Just like the bunch out at that ranch.”

  All the members of the Crockett family were dead when Bleeker and his men rode away from there earlier. Bleeker had wanted to bu
rn the place down, as he had Doolittle’s farm outside Huntsville, but he’d decided not to risk it. Somebody was bound to see the column of smoke and investigate. Folks would know there were two-legged predators on the loose.

  They would know that before Christmas Eve was over, anyway, but not until Jim Bleeker was good and ready.

  “When we throw down on those orphans, the rest of the men need to fan out and cover the crowd. Kill anybody who looks like he’s going to put up a fight. I don’t expect there’ll be many of them. We ought to be able to buffalo them pretty quickly. Then it’ll just be a matter of having them throw their guns in a pile, if they don’t want the blood of those brats on their hands. Then”—his breath came out of him in a long, satisfied sigh—“we can start stripping Big Rock clean and making Monte Carson suffer the whole time.”

  * * *

  The Brown Dirt Cowboy Saloon was practically deserted. Most of the hombres normally soaking up Emmett Brown’s liquor and cavorting with the saloon girls were on their best behavior for one night of the year, acting like decent fellows for a change.

  Laird Kingsley stood at the bar with Big Steve Corrigan. He had a glass of Brown’s best whiskey in his hand. The rest of his men were waiting out on the boardwalk, but Kingsley had lingered for one final drink before setting out to complete the job that had brought him there.

  He solemnly regarded the amber liquid in the glass, then tossed back the drink. As he set the empty glass on the bar, he said to Corrigan, “The talk is, they’re going to have those orphans up on the bandstand in a little while. I’ll be able to take a good look at them then, just to make sure which one is the Litchfield kid. We’ll make our move after that.”

  “Aye,” Corrigan said, nodding ponderously. “’Tis a good plan. That way, we’ll get to listen to the music as well. ’Twill bring back memories of me childhood, it will.”

  Kingsley smiled. “Are you getting sentimental, Steve?”

  “’Tis an Irishman I am, lad. I was born sentimental!”

  “Just don’t let it make you hesitate when the time comes.”

  Corrigan shook his head. “Not a chance in hell of that.”

  * * *

  The local musicians in Big Rock weren’t the most talented in the world, but what they lacked in skill they tried to make up with enthusiasm. They played sprightly Christmas carols and solemn hymns with the same fervor. The big crowd gathered in the street in front of the bandstand and sang along with many of the tunes. Smoke wasn’t much of a singer, but as he stood there with his left arm around Sally’s shoulder, even he felt moved to join in.

  As the concert continued, the crowd grew. Night had fallen, and the people who had been left at the church drifted down to join the others. Everyone was full of good food and pleasantly warm, despite the December chill in the air.

  At the eastern edge of Big Rock, a lone rider walked his horse slowly up to the livery stable. The big double doors were closed, but a light was on inside, visible through the narrow gap between the doors. A crudely lettered sign was tacked to one of the doors. The newcomer moved close enough to read it. GONE TO CRISMUSS PARTY—PUT HOSSES IN CORRAL.

  The rider followed those instructions, opening one of the barn doors, leading his mount inside, unsaddling it, and then opening the gate into the attached corral where a number of horses milled around, their breath fogging in the cold air. When he was confident that his horse would be all right for a while, he left the livery stable and started walking slowly and carefully toward the center of town, where there was a big crowd and a lot of light, noise, and music.

  As he passed a window, light from inside the building fell across his face for a second. The glow revealed features drawn tight with pain and determination. It was obvious he had gone through a lot to get there—and he wasn’t going to let anything stop him from reaching his goal.

  * * *

  The band concluded its concert by playing “Silent Night.” Again, the crowd sang along, but quietly, as befitted the beautiful, poignant carol. Sally rested her head on Smoke’s shoulder, and he enjoyed the moment of tranquility even as a small voice in his brain warned him to remain alert.

  The twenty orphans had climbed onto the back of the bandstand during the song. As the musicians lowered their instruments and stepped back, the youngsters moved forward. Peter and Grace Gallagher were with them, along with Mercy Halliday. Smoke spotted Ed Rinehart at the rear of the stage, keeping an eye on them.

  Gallagher stepped to the front of the stage, raised his hands, and called, “If I might have your attention, please? Your attention?”

  The crowd had gotten noisier when the music concluded, but folks settled down again to listen to him.

  He smiled as he looked around and said in a loud voice, “I’d like to introduce myself. My name is Peter Gallagher. I’m from the Children’s Aid Society of New York, and many of you already know why I’m here.”

  He didn’t mention his wife or Mercy, which didn’t surprise Smoke. Right from the start, he had pegged Gallagher as the sort who would do as little of the actual work and take as much of the credit as he possibly could.

  Gallagher swept a hand toward the children and continued. “You see here twenty poor orphans from the slums of the city, lost and abandoned, tossed by the storms of fate, in desperate need of families who will take them in and give them loving homes. The Society has cared for these children, fed them, clothed them, made sure that they’re healthy. They’re fine workers. It is my fervent hope that some of you will find it in your hearts to welcome them into the bosom of your families.”

  Smoke wondered how long the speech was going to last. He had a feeling the man was just getting wound up, even though Gallagher had already said everything that really needed to be said.

  Just about everyone in the crowd was standing still, with heads tipped back as they looked up to the bandstand, watching and listening to Gallagher. Smoke caught movement from the corner of his eye and turned his head. Monte Carson was standing on the boardwalk to the left of the bandstand, watching Gallagher like everybody else.

  And coming up behind him with a grim, resolute look on his face was a tall stranger with a gun on his hip.

  * * *

  “Monte.”

  Big Rock’s sheriff heard the voice rasp his name behind him. Something was vaguely familiar about it. He felt like he had heard it before, but maybe not for years.

  He had made enough enemies in his life that natural caution made him rest his hand on the butt of his revolver as he turned to see who had spoken to him. Shock went through him as he recognized the man’s rugged features. Time had changed them some, and the face had a certain gauntness to it, as if the man had been ill, but Monte knew him, all right. There was no doubt about that.

  “Frank Morgan!” said Monte. “By God, it really is you!”

  “Yeah, it is,” the gunfighter known as The Drifter said as he moved closer to Monte.

  “I didn’t know if you were still alive.”

  “It was a pretty close thing,” Frank said, “but that doesn’t matter now. Monte, there’s trouble coming to your town, bad trouble. In fact, I’m surprised it’s not already—”

  At that moment, someone up on the bandstand screamed.

  CHAPTER 40

  Smoke saw rapid movement on the four steps leading up to the back of the bandstand and his instincts immediately told him something was wrong. He had his gun out by the time a lean, dark-faced man charged across the platform, looped an arm around Peter Gallagher’s neck, and pressed the barrel of a revolver to his head. Gallagher’s wife clapped her hands to her cheeks and screamed as she saw her husband threatened.

  “Nobody move!” the gunman shouted. Behind him, other men had leaped onto the bandstand and leveled guns at the children, as well as Mercy, Grace, and Ed Rinehart.

  Shots blasted at the edge of the crowd. More shouts and screams filled the air.

  Sally clutched Smoke’s left arm and exclaimed, “Smoke, what—”

/>   He lowered the Colt in his right hand. If a full-scale gun battle broke out in the street, a lot of innocent people would die from the bullets flying around wildly.

  A big man dressed in black from head to foot strode to the front of the bandstand and fired a gun into the air. Shocked silence fell over the crowd.

  It was broken by an angry exclamation from Sheriff Monte Carson. “Jim Bleeker!”

  The man in black swung toward the lawman. His lip curled in a sneer as he said, “That’s right, Carson. The man you betrayed all those years ago.”

  “You’re loco!” Monte said. “I never betrayed you. I just rode away. I figured out you were a mad dog and I didn’t want to have anything to do with you!”

  “You’re a damn liar,” Bleeker grated as he thrust his gun toward the sheriff. Then he frowned. “Wait a minute. Who the hell’s that with you? Frank Morgan? You’re supposed to be dead!”

  “Not hardly,” said the tall man standing next to Monte. “That’s just the story a friend of mine put out so you’d think you’d gotten rid of me, Bleeker.”

  An ugly grin stretched across Bleeker’s face. “But you didn’t get here in time to warn Carson, did you? You’re too late, Morgan! It’s too late for all of you!”

  Smoke had heard of Frank Morgan, but he had never crossed trails with the famous gunfighter. At the moment, he didn’t look particularly dangerous. In fact, he looked like he was recovering from a bad illness. Either that, or a bullet wound, which was actually more likely, Smoke realized.

  He wasn’t sure what was going on, but it was obvious the man called Bleeker had some sort of grudge against Monte Carson that he wanted to settle. The shooting a few moments earlier told Smoke that Bleeker had men posted all around the crowd to keep the townspeople under control. That threat, along with the men who were menacing the orphans with their guns, insured that nobody would do anything foolish.

  It couldn’t be allowed to continue. Smoke knew that sooner or later he would have to make a move.

  He glanced around, spotted Ace and Chance a few yards away in the crowd, and knew from their tense attitude that the young Jensens were anxious to spring into action, too. Smoke looked the other way, saw Preacher and Eagle-Eye, and could tell that the old mountain men felt the same way. Louis Longmont was on the boardwalk opposite from Monte and Frank Morgan. The gambler was a deadly shot, but for the moment, he was holding himself on a tight rein.