A Texas Hill Country Christmas

by William W. Johnstone

  “I don’t see why not,” Delta said.

  “All right, I’ll get the ax—”

  She stopped him by reaching over and resting her hand on his arm. She said, “Seth . . . I’ll think about it. I promise.”

  The grin came back to him as he said, “That’s all I ask.” He swung down from the seat, reached into the back of the wagon, and picked up the ax. “You’d better stay here. It’s too muddy for you to go clambering up that hill.”

  “Can the two of you manage the tree by yourselves?”

  “I reckon we can,” Seth said.

  Soon the countryside rang with the sound of the ax blade biting into the juniper’s trunk. Seth and Charlie traded off on the chopping, although Seth made sure he did most of the actual work. It took about half an hour to fell the tree. Once it was down, Seth handed the ax to Charlie and got hold of the trunk where they had cut it. He dragged the tree to the wagon, trying to avoid the worst of the mud as he did so.

  Charlie climbed up into the back of the wagon to help as Seth lifted the tree into the bed. He arranged it so that the end of the trunk was braced against the back of the seat. The tree’s conical shape angled back and rested on the tailgate. Seth didn’t think it was going anywhere, but he tied it down anyway, just in case.

  “You can sit on the outside this time,” Delta told the boy as she slid over to the middle of the seat. “I don’t want you stomping on my feet with those muddy boots.”

  “All right,” Charlie said, “as long as you don’t think the preacher’ll mind sittin’ next to you.”

  Delta glanced over at Seth as he settled himself on the seat beside her and smiled.

  “I don’t think he’ll mind.”

  No, he sure didn’t, Seth thought as he picked up the reins and got the mules moving. He didn’t mind one bit.

  In fact, as he swung the team around and got the wagon started back toward Delta’s house, he thought there was a good chance this right now, being with Delta and Charlie, smelling the scent of that fresh-cut juniper, feeling the warm pressure of her hip against his, was the happiest moment in his life so far.

  He didn’t see how anything could ruin it.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  The stagecoach rolled into Mason on Sunday, two days before Christmas. Once the south fork of Cougar Creek had gone down enough for the bridge to be passable, nothing else happened to slow down the coach’s journey.

  Smoke, Sally, and Matt said farewell to the other travelers while the teams were being switched at the stagecoach station. Smoke shook hands with Arley Hicks and told the young cowboy, “If you ever drift up Colorado way, Arley, stop in at the Sugarloaf. There’ll be a riding job waiting for you.”

  “I appreciate that, Mr. Jensen, I truly do,” Arley replied, “but I reckon I’m a Texan, born, bred, and forever. Don’t really have much interest in leavin’ the good ol’ Lone Star State. But I’ll sure remember your kind offer.”

  The Purcells weren’t nearly as effusive in their farewells. Smoke didn’t expect that to be a very happy marriage from here on out, if it ever had been to start with. He didn’t figure Mildred would ever get over the grudge she held against her husband for what had happened at the Cougar Creek Station.

  Mrs. Carter gave Sally a hug and Smoke a peck on the cheek.

  “It’s been exciting traveling with you two young people,” she said. “It’ll be quite a memory to hang on to. But I think I’ve had just about enough excitement for my age!”

  Once the stagecoach had rolled on south, Smoke checked into renting a buggy for the trip the rest of the way to Chester Fielding’s ranch. He asked the liveryman about it.

  “Don’t have a buggy, but I got a buckboard you can use, Mr. Jensen,” the man said after Smoke introduced himself. “It’s in good shape, and it’ll get you there if there ain’t too much high water betwixt here and Chet’s spread.”

  “You know Fielding?”

  “Sure,” the liveryman said. “He was one of the first ranchers in these parts, just like I was one of the first businessmen. Pioneers, I reckon you could call us.”

  “Then you can tell me how to find his place. I’ve got directions in the letter he sent me, but I’ve found it’s always good to talk to somebody who knows the ground.”

  “Yes, sir, it is. Take the main road, the one that goes to Kerrville, and about ten miles south of here, after you cross the Llano River, you’ll veer off to the left on another trail that’ll take you to the CF Ranch. That’s Chet’s spread. Runs for miles along the river. Prettiest place you’ll ever see.”

  “I’m obliged to you,” Smoke said. “If we could get a team hitched up to that buckboard . . .”

  “I’ll take care of that,” the liveryman promised. “You can fetch your wife and your bags over here from the stage station, and I’ll have you all fixed up by the time you get back.”

  The man was true to his word. Less than half an hour later, the buckboard rolled out of Mason with Smoke at the reins and Sally beside him on the seat. Their bags were sitting on the back of the vehicle, covered with canvas in case it started to rain again . . . which, judging by the slate-gray sky overhead, seemed to be a distinct possibility.

  Matt rode alongside the buckboard on his own horse. He said, “I hope that bull’s as good as you think it is, Smoke, after you’ve gone to this much trouble to get him.”

  “Well, we didn’t know the weather was going to be this bad,” Smoke said. “This is Texas. I thought they were supposed to have mild winters down here.”

  “I reckon it’s mild compared to some places. We’re not in the middle of a blizzard.”

  Smoke couldn’t argue with that.

  Since the stage road from Mason to Kerrville was well-traveled, it had the advantage of having a bridge spanning the Llano River. That was good, Smoke thought when they came to the stream, because otherwise they couldn’t have crossed the rain-swollen river. The Llano ran between sheer sandstone bluffs, and after all the downpours of the past few weeks it was a swiftly flowing torrent of muddy brown water full of driftwood and debris. The crest was still below the top of the bluffs by several feet, but Smoke eyed the river warily as he drove the buckboard across the bridge.

  Matt had ridden ahead. He reined in and waited for them on the south side of the bridge, and as the buckboard came up to him, he said, “If that river ever busts out, a lot of this country’s gonna be under water.”

  “I’m afraid you’re right,” Smoke said. “But at least with all these hills, there’s plenty of high ground.”

  Sally asked, “Didn’t the liveryman back in Mason say that Mr. Fielding’s ranch is on the river?”

  “He did,” Smoke said. “But the ranch house is probably set back far enough that it wouldn’t be in any danger. That’s the way I’d do it, anyway.”

  “Not everybody is as well prepared for trouble as you are, Smoke.”

  Matt chuckled and said, “He’s had to be, as much as he gets into it.”

  Smoke just smiled, flicked the reins, and kept the horses moving.

  A short time later, they came to the road that branched off to the east, just like the liveryman had said. There was even a sign nailed to a tree with the legend CF RANCH written on it, along with an arrow pointing east.

  As Smoke turned the buckboard onto the smaller road, thunder rumbled in the west.

  “Tater wagon rolling over,” Matt said. “Sounds like more rain coming.”

  “Maybe it’ll hold off until we get where we’re going,” Smoke said.

  That was what happened. They passed quite a few cattle standing forlornly in soggy fields, then half an hour later came in sight of a large, two-story house set in some trees atop a knoll to the right of the road. Surrounding the knoll were barns, corrals, and half a dozen outbuildings. The road curved and climbed the slope toward the ranch house.

  Someone must have noticed their approach, because three men on horseback rode out to meet them when they were still a couple of hundred yards from
the house. Several big, shaggy dogs trailed the riders, barking at the visitors.

  Smoke pulled back on the reins and brought the team of horses to a halt. When you were a stranger riding up to somebody’s place, the polite thing to do was to stop and introduce yourself.

  The three horsebackers halted about twenty feet from the buckboard. They wore range clothes and looked like typical cowhands, but they also carried Winchesters across their saddles and eyed the visitors warily. Smoke saw them relax a little and attributed that to Sally’s presence. She didn’t look like the sort of lady who would be consorting with troublemakers.

  “Good afternoon to you,” Smoke called. “If you fellas ride for Chester Fielding, your boss is expecting us. My name’s Smoke Jensen. This is my wife Sally and my brother Matt.” He inclined his head toward each of them in turn.

  That information made the attitude of the three cowboys ease even more, but they still looked worried about something. One of them told the dogs to hush, then edged his horse a little in front of the others and thumbed his hat back.

  “It’s an honor to meet you, Mr. Jensen,” the man said. “That’s right, the boss told us you were comin’ down here to see about buyin’ that Diablo Rojo bull from him, but we didn’t know for sure when you’d show up.” More thunder boomed in the distance. “Seems like you beat the latest bout of rain. We’ll take you up to the house so you can introduce yourselves to Miz Fielding.”

  Something about the man’s voice made Smoke frown slightly. He asked, “What about Mr. Fielding?”

  “The boss ain’t here,” the puncher replied, and the look on the man’s face told Smoke that was what had them a little spooked.

  “Where is he?”

  “Best you talk to Miz Fielding about that, I reckon,” the man said as he turned his horse. The others followed suit.

  Quietly, Sally said, “Smoke, something odd is going on here.”

  “Yeah, I got the same feeling,” Smoke agreed as he flicked the reins against the team and got the horses moving again.

  “Trouble, more than likely,” Matt put in.

  Smoke had a hunch his brother was right.

  As they pulled up in front of the house, the cowboy who had done the talking said, “We’ll take care of your horses and the buckboard, Mr. Jensen.”

  “Much obliged to you,” Smoke said.

  He was helping Sally down from the buckboard when a woman came out of the house onto the verandah that ran along the front of the whitewashed dwelling. She was middle-aged but still attractive with only a touch of gray in her brown hair. The worried frown she wore matched those on the faces of the punchers.

  “Hello,” she said. “I’m Louise Fielding.”

  “Smoke Jensen, ma’am,” Smoke said as he pinched the brim of his Stetson. “My wife Sally and my brother Matt.”

  The woman surprised him a little by exclaiming, “Oh, I’m so glad you’re here, Mr. Jensen! I knew you were supposed to be on your way, but we weren’t sure when you’d get here.”

  Smoke took Sally’s arm and helped her up the steps to the verandah. Matt followed. Both men took off their hats as Smoke said, “I get the feeling that something’s wrong here, Mrs. Fielding.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Would it have to do with your husband?”

  “Yes, it . . . Oh, forgive me. I’m so flustered I’ve forgotten my manners. Please come in out of this cold weather.”

  It was pretty raw outside, and Smoke didn’t want Sally catching a chill, even though he was curious about Chester Fielding’s whereabouts. He smiled and nodded, and the three of them followed Louise Fielding into the house.

  A Mexican servant was waiting inside. Mrs. Fielding told her, “Bring coffee to the parlor, Mariquita.” She looked at the visitors. “You haven’t had dinner?”

  “No, ma’am,” Smoke said.

  “Set three more places for dinner, too,” Mrs. Fielding told the woman. “Our guests will be staying with us for a while.”

  The servant withdrew, and Mrs. Fielding ushered them into a comfortably furnished parlor. There was nothing fancy about the place, but it struck Smoke as a good place to live.

  When they were all sitting down, Smoke and Sally on a sofa, Matt in an armchair, and Mrs. Fielding in a rocking chair near the stone fireplace, Sally said, “You have a lovely home here, Mrs. Fielding.”

  “Thank you. You should call me Louise.”

  “I don’t want to rush you, Mrs. Fielding . . . Louise,” Smoke said. “But something’s wrong, and Matt and I would sure like to help you if we can.”

  “That’s right,” Matt said.

  “Is this about your husband not being here?” Smoke asked.

  Louise Fielding took a deep breath. Smoke could tell that she was struggling to keep her emotions in check, but suddenly that control slipped.

  “I don’t know where Chester is,” she said in a ragged voice. “He’s vanished.”

  Then she put her hands over her face and started to sob.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  The servant came in just then, carrying a tray with four coffee cups on it. Quickly, she set the tray on a sideboard and hurried to Mrs. Fielding’s side. Sally was already there, patting Louise on the shoulder and trying to comfort her.

  “It is all right, señora,” Mariquita said as she put her hand on Louise’s other shoulder. “Nothing has happened to Señor Fielding. I am sure of it.”

  “I . . . I wish I could be sure,” Louise said as she lowered her hands from her tear-streaked face.

  “Maybe you’d better tell us what’s happened,” Smoke suggested. Sally frowned slightly at him, as if she thought he shouldn’t be bothering the upset woman right now, but he and Matt couldn’t do anything to help until they knew what the situation was. Smoke sympathized with Mrs. Fielding, but at the same time he was practical.

  “Chet . . . Chet’s been worried about the stock,” Louise said. “With all this rain, he was afraid that some of them might have bogged down in the low places. He and the men have been going out every day to check on them. But then yesterday . . . he couldn’t find Diablo Rojo.”

  Smoke exchanged another glance with Sally. That was the bull he had come to see about buying from Chet Fielding.

  “He loves that bull,” Louise went on with a weak smile. “I’m surprised he ever agreed to even think about selling him. But we’ve had a run of not so good luck and have been a little cash-poor . . . you know how it is to be a rancher, Mr. Jensen.”

  “I sure do,” Smoke agreed. “And call me Smoke.”

  Louise looked up at him and went on, “He said he’d heard enough about you to know what a fine man you are and that he was sure you’d do right by Diablo Rojo. That was the only reason he’d consider selling. But then, like I said, Chet couldn’t find the bull, and it really upset him. It wasn’t just what Diablo Rojo’s worth.”

  “I understand,” Smoke assured her. “He was afraid something had happened to the bull. I reckon he went looking?”

  Louise nodded and said, “That’s right. He came back in, got a fresh horse and some supplies, and set off by himself. He said there was plenty of work around the place for the hands to do, so he didn’t take anyone with him. He didn’t figure he needed to, since he knows every foot of this range better than anybody else.”

  “I understand about that, too,” Smoke said. “I feel the same way about my spread.”

  “I told him not to stay out overnight, and he promised he wouldn’t unless he had to. He said he’d be back this morning, one way or another. But we haven’t seen any sign of him.”

  Matt said, “No offense, ma’am, but it’s only the middle of the day. Your husband might’ve gotten delayed by any number of things. Seems a mite early to be this worried.”

  “I know. I’m being silly.”

  “Now, that’s not what I meant at all,” Matt said quickly as Sally glared at him for a second.

  “It’s just that Chet and I have been together for a long time,�
�� Louise continued. “We’ve got a . . . connection, I guess you’d call it. I can tell when something’s wrong, when he’s in trouble. And I’ve been feeling it all day.”

  Smoke said, “It sounds to me like somebody needs to go and look for him.”

  “Chet left orders for all the hands to stay close to home . . . in case the river and the creeks start to rise and threaten to get out of their banks . . .”

  “Matt and I can go.”

  Matt nodded to show that he agreed with Smoke’s suggestion.

  “We don’t know the range, but we’re pretty good at finding our way around,” Smoke went on. “Which way was your husband headed when he left yesterday?”

  “South,” Louise said. “That was the last place anybody saw Diablo Rojo, down close to the southern edge of the ranch, not far from Enchanted Rock.”

  Matt frowned and said, “Seems I’ve heard of Enchanted Rock.”

  “You can see it for miles around. It’s not actually on our land, but our southern border is close to it.”

  “Sounds like we’ll be able to tell if we’re headed in the right direction, then,” Smoke told her with another reassuring smile.

  “Yes, you can’t miss it.”

  “I don’t have a saddle horse with me, and Matt will need a fresh mount . . .”

  “Take any of our horses you want. The men can tell you which ones are the best.”

  Smoke figured he and Matt would be able to tell that just by looking at the animals, but he didn’t say that. Instead he said, “Maybe you could have Mariquita put together some supplies for us . . . ?”

  “Of course.”

  Smoke looked at his wife and said, “You don’t mind staying here and keeping Louise company, do you, Sally?”

  “Certainly not,” Sally replied, although Smoke saw a hint of worry in her eyes, too. She might not like the idea of him and Matt setting out into bad weather and what might be even more trouble, but she wasn’t going to argue about it. For one thing, she knew how futile that would be.

  “I really don’t see how you’re going to find him,” Louise said as she took a linen handkerchief from her pocket and dabbed at her eyes. “It’s such a big country out there.”