A Colorado Christmas

by William W. Johnstone

  The woman with the knife screamed curses as she darted toward Rinehart again. The detective’s hand dipped in his pocket and came up clutching a derringer, which popped as he lifted it and fired. The beautiful dark-haired woman stumbled and dropped the knife. It clattered on the boardwalk at her feet.

  “Seraphine DuMille!” Rinehart exclaimed.

  “I . . . curse you!” the woman gasped as blood trickled down her chin from the corner of her mouth. “I curse you . . . and all your descendants . . .” She collapsed and didn’t move again.

  “Mercy!” Rinehart cried as the young woman began to sag. He pulled loose from Smoke’s grip and caught hold of her, and both of them sank slowly to the boardwalk. Cradling Mercy against him, he tipped her head back and pressed his lips to hers, then said urgently, “Hang on. You’re going to be all right.”

  She held on to Rinehart with one arm, reached out with the other hand, and clasped the hand of Caleb, who stood next to them. “I know,” she said in a whisper. “I know.”

  CHAPTER 42

  Sugarloaf Ranch

  Snow was falling again on Christmas morning, but unlike the near-blizzards that had raced through the area a few days earlier, it was light and gentle, beautiful in its tranquility.

  Standing on the porch, Smoke hoped things were as peaceful in Big Rock, although he knew that for some, Christmas Day was a time of sorrow. Seven citizens had been killed in the fighting, another eighteen injured. It was a miracle that those casualties weren’t worse.

  Ed Rinehart and Mercy Halliday were among the wounded, but Dr. Colton Spalding had assured Smoke that both of them would recover from their injuries. Mercy’s stab wound suffered at the hands of the vengeful woman named Seraphine DuMille was only superficial and looked much worse than it really was. The bullet that struck Rinehart hadn’t broken any bones, so while he would be stiff and sore for a while, in time he would be fine.

  None of the orphans had been injured, even with all the bloody chaos swirling around them. Sally claimed that was a sign God had been watching over them, and Smoke couldn’t disagree with her.

  Grace Gallagher would be returning to New York with her husband’s body as soon as possible. She had offered to take the children with her, but numerous people had already come forward to inquire about adopting them, so Sally had stepped in and offered to take care of them until all the arrangements could be made. Mercy would soon be in good enough shape to help her.

  Frank Morgan was staying in Big Rock with Monte Carson. They were old friends and trail partners and had plenty to catch up on.

  There had been a moment, the night before, when Smoke and Frank had traded an intense look, sizing each other up. Some people said Smoke Jensen was the fastest man with a gun in the entire West, while others claimed Frank Morgan was. Both knew that, and it was only natural for them to wonder which of those was true.

  Neither man had any real interest in finding out, as they had proven when Smoke stuck out his hand and Frank had grinned and clasped it in friendship. Rivals they might be, but not enemies. Never enemies, when one good man shook the hand of another.

  The ranch house was crowded on that Christmas morning, what with twenty orphans on the place, plus Ace and Chance, Preacher and Eagle-Eye, and Luke Jensen. Preacher and Eagle-Eye still planned to go off and visit their Indian friends for the rest of the winter, but Ace and Chance would probably stay around for a while. Chance wanted to make sure Mercy was all right, and Ace had promised to help Sally keep up with the kids.

  The two old mountain men were sitting in the living room, spinning yarns for the youngsters gathered around the Christmas tree.

  Smoke hoped they wouldn’t come up with any stories that were too bloody or outrageous. He was enjoying the snowfall, belly full with a good breakfast and a cup of coffee in his hand when a footstep made him look around.

  His older brother stepped out onto the porch, also with a cup of coffee. Luke took a cigar from his pocket and angled it into his mouth but didn’t light it. “So. Christmas.”

  Smoke nodded. “Yep. That it is.”

  “I don’t recall us having any big Christmas celebrations when we were kids, back on the farm in Missouri.”

  “That’s because we didn’t. There was always too much work to be done on that hardscrabble place. Pa never really was cut out to be a farmer.”

  “No, he wasn’t,” Luke agreed. “I can’t say I ever really missed that stretch of rocks and dirt.” He paused. “I just missed the people I left on it.”

  Smoke nodded slowly. “We missed you, too.”

  “Life works out the way it does,” said Luke with a shrug. “Sometimes you can wrestle it around the way you want it for a little while, but such victories are small and rare.”

  “You’re mighty gloomy for a holiday.”

  “Sorry. I was just thinking about how I would have liked to spend more Christmases with my family . . . and with Lettie.”

  Smoke frowned. “Lettie Margrabe? The schoolteacher back home?”

  “That’s right.” Luke chuckled. “You didn’t know about Lettie and me? Just before the war started?”

  Smoke let out a surprised grunt. “I never heard anything about it until now.”

  “Well, now you know. Whatever happened to her, anyway? She marry some storekeeper and wind up with a bunch of kids?”

  “I don’t have any idea,” Smoke said. “She left town not long after you went off to the war.”

  “How about that?” Luke shook his head. “Maybe she was broken-hearted over losing me.”

  “I doubt that.” Smoke added with a grin, “You weren’t much of a catch, even back in those days, and you’re sure not now, just a broken-down old bounty hunter!”

  “That’s me,” Luke agreed.

  * * *

  Later that day, Ace found his brother in the barn where Chance was tending to their horses. “I heard something funny this morning.”

  “Oh?” Chance seemed only idly curious. “What’s that?”

  “I heard Smoke and Luke talking out on the porch after breakfast.”

  “You mean you were eavesdropping on them.”

  Ace shook his head. “No, not really. It was just an accident, but I heard Luke mention a woman he used to know before the war, back where they came from in Missouri. A woman named Lettie.”

  Chance looked baffled. “I expect Luke’s known a lot of women in his life. What’s special about this one?”

  “That name. Is there something about it that’s familiar to you?”

  “Lettie?” Chance frowned in thought, then shook his head. “Can’t say as there is. It’s not that common a name, I suppose, but there are bound to be a lot of women called Lettie.”

  “I think I remember Doc saying it once, when he’d been drinking.”

  Chance stared at his brother for a moment, then demanded, “What the hell are you getting at, Ace? Luke knew a woman named Lettie, and maybe Doc did, too. I hate to break it to you, but Doc knew a lot of women.”

  “Yeah, I know. It just seems odd to me, that’s all.”

  “You know what, brother?” Chance clapped a hand on Ace’s shoulder. “You think too much. Sally’s gonna have lunch ready soon, and I know good and well there’s some leftover pie, if we can beat that cowboy Cal to it. That’s what I’m thinking about, and you should be, too.”

  “Yeah, you’re probably right,” Ace agreed. “Anyway, the past is . . . the past, isn’t it?”

  “It sure is,” said Chance. “And I’m looking to the future. And pie.”

  The Jensen boys headed for the ranch house and didn’t look back.

  EPILOGUE

  Colorado, December 1926

  “That’s a crazy story!” the sour-faced man exclaimed as the older gent who had been spinning the yarn sat back and sipped his coffee. “You couldn’t know all that stuff that happened . . . if it really did.”

  “Oh, it all happened,” the old-timer said. “Like I told you, I was there for some of it, and some
of it I heard about later, after I became good friends with everyone else who was involved.” He shrugged. “A little of it is guesswork, I reckon, but not much.”

  The red-faced man who was the leader of the trio of strangers leaned forward. “You’re one of the guys you’ve been telling us about, is that it?”

  “That’s right.” The older man extended his hand. “Edward Rinehart. Glad to meet you.”

  The red-faced man didn’t take his hand. “Rinehart was from back East. You look and sound like a cowboy.”

  “Well, I’ve been here for forty years,” Rinehart said with a slight shrug. “You pick up some of the habits of the place where you live.”

  “You never went back to New York?”

  Rinehart shook his head. “Not permanently. I went back and saw to it that William Litchfield got what was coming to him for having his brother and sister-in-law murdered. He went to prison. One of the other convicts wound up killing him. His wife . . . well, that’s a sad thing. After she lost everything, she took poison and killed herself. Terrible tragedy.

  “Something good came out of it, though. My wife and I adopted the little boy. Changed his name legally to Caleb.” Rinehart sipped his coffee. “He’s a vice-president of the railroad now. There’s talk about him running for senator.”

  “So you married that girl Mercy.”

  Rinehart nodded solemnly. “Best thing I ever did.”

  “So you came out of the whole thing smelling like a rose,” the red-faced man said. “All you had to do was kill a guy named Laird Kingsley.”

  Rinehart’s voice hardened a little as he said, “He gave me no choice. Anyway, the man was a murderer, a hired killer. He was willing to kill all those innocent children.” Rinehart shook his head. “No, sir, I never lost any sleep over shooting him.”

  “Maybe you should have.”

  Rinehart’s gaze sharpened. “Why? What’s he to you, mister?”

  “My grandfather,” the red-faced man snapped, “and you might say I’ve gone into the family business.” He bolted up out of his seat, and so did the two men who’d come into the diner with him. All of them reached under their coats and brought out heavy automatic pistols.

  “Now I’m finally gonna settle the score—”

  Before the red-faced man could go on, the older man who had been sitting nearby in one of the booths made his move, striking like a whirlwind. He flew out of the booth, wrapped his left arm around the neck of the closest man, who happened to be the sour-faced gangster, and reached around to pluck the Colt 1911-A1 from his hand.

  The gun was a far cry from an old-fashioned revolver, but he handled it like it was an extension of his arm. He thrust it toward the other two killers as he barked, “Get down, Ed!”

  Rinehart hit the floor. Behind the counter, Al had already dived out of sight.

  The leader of the trio and the other man opened fire, but their slugs thudded into the body of the sour-faced gangster. The gun in the old-timer’s hand roared and bucked as the slide moved smoothly back and forth. Those killers from back East knew how to take care of their weapons, anyway.

  But they didn’t know who they faced, and they died without knowing as bullets ripped through them, picked them up, and threw them backwards to land in crumpled heaps on the floor. The tang of burned powder filled the air in the diner, mixing with the scent of coffee.

  The old-timer let go of the sour-faced man, who collapsed like his late companions. The gun battle had taken only a handful of heartbeats. The old man laid the gun on the table and extended a hand to Rinehart. “Let me help you up, Ed.”

  “Thanks,” Rinehart said as he climbed to his feet. “And thanks for taking care of those fellows.”

  Smoke Jensen grinned. “Shooting a few varmints is the least I can do for an old friend. By the way, Merry Christmas.”

  Come, All Ye Faithful, for an Exciting Preview

  SMOKE JENSEN. MATT JENSEN. FALCON AND

  DUFF MACCALLISTER—TOGETHER

  FOR THE FIRST TIME!

  They just wanted to get home for Christmas . . . but fate had other plans.

  The year is 1890. A Texas rancher named Big Jim

  Conyers has a deal with the Scottish-born Wyoming

  cattleman named Duff MacCallister. Along with

  Smoke and Matt Jensen, the party bears down on

  Dodge, Kansas, to make a cattle drive back to

  Fort Worth. But before they can get out of Dodge,

  guns go off and a rich man’s son is killed.

  Soon the drive turns into a deadly pursuit, then a

  staggering series of clashes with bloodthirsty Indians

  and trigger-happy rustlers. And the worst is yet to

  come—the party rides into a devastating blizzard, a

  storm so fierce that their very survival is at stake.

  From America’s greatest western author, here is an

  epic tale of the unforgiving American frontier and

  how, amid fierce storms of man and nature, miracles

  can still happen.

  NATIONAL BESTSELLING AUTHORS

  WILLIAM W. JOHNSTONE

  with J. A. Johnstone

  A LONE STAR CHRISTMAS

  Available December 2016, wherever

  Pinnacle Books are sold.

  Click here to get your copy.

  CHAPTER 1

  Marshall, Texas, March 12, 1890

  It was cold outside, but in the depot waiting room, a wood-burning, pot-bellied stove roared and popped and glowed red as it pumped out enough heat to make the waiting room comfortable, if one chose the right place to sit. Too close and it was too hot, too far away and it was too cold.

  There were about nine people in the waiting room at the moment, though Rebecca knew that only four of them, including herself, were passengers. Two weeks earlier, Benjamin Conyers, better known as Big Ben, had taken his 21-year-old daughter into Fort Worth to catch the train. Now, after a two-week visit with Big Ben’s sister in Marshall, Texas, it was time for Rebecca to return home. Her Aunt Mildred had come to the depot with her to see her off on the evening train.

  Everyone agreed that Rebecca Conyers was a beautiful young woman. She had delicate facial bones and a full mouth; she was slender, with long, rich, glowing auburn hair, green eyes, and a slim waist. She was sitting on a bench, the wood polished smooth by the many passengers who had sat in this same place over the last several years. Just outside the depot window, she could see the green glowing lamp of the electric railroad signal.

  “Rebecca, I have so enjoyed your visit,” Mildred said. “You simply must come again sometime soon.”

  “I would love to,” Rebecca replied. “I enjoyed the visit as well.”

  “I wish Ben would come with you sometime. But I know he is busy.”

  “Yes,” Rebecca said. “Pa always seems to be busy.”

  “Well, he is an important man,” Mildred said. “And important men always seem to be busy.” She laughed. “I don’t know if he is busy because he is important, or he is important because he is busy. I imagine it is a little of both.”

  “Yes, I would think so as well,” Rebecca said. “Aunt Mildred, did you know my mother?”

  “Julia? Of course I knew her, dear. Why would you ask such a thing?”

  “I don’t mean Julia,” Rebecca said. “I mean my real mother. I think her name is Janie.”

  Mildred was quiet for a long moment. “Heavens, child, why would you ask such a thing now? The only mother you have ever known is Julia.”

  “I know, and she is my mother in every way,” Rebecca said. “But I know too, that she wasn’t my birth mother, and I would like to know something more about her.”

  Mildred sighed. “Well, I guess that is understandable,” she said.

  “Did you know her? Do you remember her?”

  “I do remember her, yes,” Rebecca’s Aunt Mildred said. “I know that when Ben learned that she was pregnant, he brought her out to the house. You were born ri
ght there, on the ranch.”

  “Pa is my real father though, isn’t he? I mean he is the one who got my real mother pregnant.”

  “Oh yes, there was never any question about that,” Mildred replied.

  “And yet he never married my mother,” Rebecca said.

  “Honey, don’t blame Ben for that. He planned to marry her, but shortly after you were born Janie ran off.”

  “Janie was my birth mother?”

  “Yes.”

  “What was her last name?”

  “Garner, I believe it was. Yes, her name was Janie Garner. But, like I said, she ran off and left you behind. That’s when Ben wrote me and asked me to come take care of you until he could find someone else to do it.”

  “That’s when Mama, that is Julia, the woman I call Mama, came to live with us?”

  “She did. You were only two months old when Julia came. She and Ben had known each other before, and everyone was sure they were going to get married. But after the war, Ben seemed—I don’t know, restless, I guess you would say. Anyway, it took him a while to settle down, and by that time he had already met your real mother. I’ll tell you true, she broke his heart when she left.”

  “Why did my real mother leave? Did she run away with another man?”

  “Nobody knows for sure. All we know is that she left a note saying she wasn’t good enough for you,” Mildred said. “For heaven’s sake, child, why are you asking so many questions about her now? Hasn’t Julia been a good mother to you?”

  “She has been a wonderful mother to me,” Rebecca said. “I couldn’t ask for anyone better, and I love her dearly. I’ve just been a little curious, that’s all.”