The Christmas Trespassers

by Andrew J. Fenady

  “That’s what I want to talk to you about, Rosalind.” He turned serious.

  “Now, El, I thought we were just going to have a party tonight. Save the talk for another time.”

  “It might be a better party if we talked now.”

  “Or it might be a worse party. Did you think of that?”

  “I did.”

  “And?”

  “I’ll take my chances, if you will.”

  “Open the wine . . . and we’ll talk.”

  He did. And they did.

  “I’ve sold my share of the Appaloosa, El. I’ve got nearly four thousand dollars and the things you see in this room. I’m leaving Gilead.”

  “So am I.”

  “But . . .”

  “No, wait. You summed up your situation. It won’t take long for me to sum up mine.”

  “All right.”

  “It’s Homer Keeler’s turn to be sheriff of Gilead. I’ve had mine, so I’m quitting. After sharing that reward with you and Homer—by the way, you can add another five hundred to that four thousand—plus the reward from the Garden City Bank and what I’ve saved up, I’ve got about half as much as you, and the suit you see on this body. Question number one . . .”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Which direction are you heading?”

  “Not east.”

  “Me, neither.”

  “Certainly not south.”

  “Me, neither.”

  “North?” She shook her head, answering her own question. “Too cold.”

  “I agree. Well, that only leaves one direction. West. So it looks like we’re traveling in the same direction. At the same time.”

  “Anyplace in particular?”

  “Ever hear of a pueblo called Los Angeles?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, that’s just about as far west as you can get on this continent.”

  “But why that particular place?”

  “Because there’s prime ranch land there, and Diego O’Brien.”

  “Diego O’Brien? What kind of a name is that?”

  “His father married a señorita. It happens out there.”

  “What’s Diego O’Brien got to do with you?”

  “He thinks I saved his life in the war.”

  “Did you?”

  “Well, let’s put it this way. I didn’t kill him.”

  “Northerner?”

  “Yep. Took him prisoner instead. When he said good-bye he offered me a piece of prime ranch land in appreciation. I’m going to buy it instead.”

  “How do you know he’s still there?”

  “He keeps in touch. His father’s the mayor of Los Angeles, so if ranching doesn’t work out he’s already offered me the job of sheriff. A nice peaceful little community. So we might just as well get married and go out there.”

  “Suppose we just go out there without getting married?”

  “Nope.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I want to introduce the most beautiful and the best woman in Los Angeles to Diego O’Brien as my wife . . . and to everybody else. That’s why not.”

  “El . . .”

  “What’s the matter? You think I’m marrying you for your money?”

  “El, what if we have children?”

  “It happens.” He nodded.

  “What if . . . ?”

  “They’re yours and mine and ours. There’s nothing more to be said. Diego O’Brien can be godfather to the first one . . . if it’s all right with you. Now, will you do me a favor?”

  “What?”

  “Will you let me know before Christmas?” He took the watch from his vest pocket and looked at it. “You’ve got a little less than a minute to decide.”

  * * *

  “Deek.”

  “What?”

  “Merry Christmas.”

  “What?”

  “I said, merry Christmas.” Bart pointed to the gold watch he held in his palm. “According to my gold watch here, it’s one minute past midnight. That makes it Christmas Day, so . . .”

  “All right, all right.”

  Deek Keeshaw was looking out of their hotel room window across the dark street to the bank. Tom lay on the bed, balancing a half-filled glass of whiskey on his forehead. The hotel room was illuminated only by a kerosene lamp on a stand close to the bed.

  “Tom.” Deek turned from the window.

  “Yo!”

  “How much of that stuff you been drinkin’?”

  “Not hardly any. Been nursin’ it, like you said, big brother.”

  “Good.”

  “That all you want to know?”

  “No, that’s not all. You got the stuff set?”

  “Yep.” Tom took the glass from his forehead, placed it on the bed stand, and lifted three sticks of dynamite bound together, with a fuse, from beside him on the bed.

  “Looks good enough.” Deek nodded.

  “More’n enough.” Tom smiled.

  “Well, we don’t want to blow the whole building apart, just the safe. Don’t want to be accused of destroying real estate.” Deek also smiled.

  “Just the safe . . . and maybe a few odds and ends.”

  “Should we get going?” Bart put the watch back in his pocket.

  “Give it another half hour.” Deek turned to the window.

  Tom set the dynamite beside him on the bed, lifted the whiskey glass, and balanced it on his forehead again.

  “Want to make sure nothing’s moving out there,” Deek said.

  * * *

  The window moved upward without a sound. When it was raised sufficiently, Austin crawled out of the bedroom window of Reverend Groves’s house. He helped Davy, who was carrying the small carved Christmas tree, come out after him. Then Peg came through.

  After listening to Reverend Groves recite the supper prayer, the children ate the best meal that the three of them could ever remember. Reverend and Martha Groves were astonished at the capacities of their three young visitors. But the hosts kept offering more and the guests never once refused, right down through the dessert.

  The children were in bed by nine. They spoke the nightly words from Psalm 91. Mrs. Groves retired by ten. Austin heard the reverend tell her that he was going to work on his sermon for a while. “I’m going to revise it so as to include the plight of the orphans,” he said.

  The reverend went to bed before eleven. Both Peg and Davy had fallen asleep. But not Austin. Austin had a plan and he was determined to carry it out. When he was sure that the Groveses were asleep he woke up Peg and Davy and whispered for them to get dressed. They did, grudgingly.

  “I’m sleepy,” Davy said as his feet touched the ground outside the Groveses’ house.

  “Ssshhh,” Austin admonished.

  “Austin,” Peg whispered, “where we going?”

  “Where they’ll never look if they miss us.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “The cave.”

  “Austin.” She stopped as they walked through the darkness. “Are you crazy?”

  “See! That’s just the way they’d think. That’s why they’d never look for us to be there. We’ll leave in the morning when we can see where we’re going. Now, come on.”

  “I liked it here,” Davy said, not whispering.

  “Ssshhh, be quiet.”

  * * *

  It was quiet outside of Shad Parker’s cabin. And inside. It was so quiet that he could hear, as well as feel, the beating of his own heart as he sat in the chair with the whiskey bottle in front of him.

  And then he no longer heard his heart beat. Shad Parker had fallen into a deep, senseless sleep.

  Chapter 33

  Tom Keeshaw, with the bundle of dynamite, knelt at the safe. Deek and Bart stood next to him, black shadows outlined against the glistening windows.

  “Goin’ good, so far, huh, Deek?” Bart grinned.

  “Gettin’ inside the bank’s no hard knot,” Deek replied. “That safe’s somethin’ else again.”


  “Not for long.” Tom went confidently about his preparation.

  Getting into the bank was the second illegal entry of the operation. The first had been to secure and saddle their horses from the livery. The animals were off the street, tied to a post in the alley behind the bank.

  “Hey, Deek,” Bart tapped his brother on the shoulder, “we forgot to pay the hotel bill.”

  “Got nothing left to pay it with.”

  “We’ll have plenty in a minute,” Tom said.

  “Bart,” Deek whispered.

  “Yeah?”

  “Get out there and hold them horses so’s they don’t spook when she blasts.”

  “You bet!” He nodded and left.

  “Get behind that desk,” Tom said as he struck the match.

  Deek ducked behind and as close to the desk as he could. Tom lit the fuse and dove next to him.

  Outside, it was still silent. Until the dynamite went off. The big window of the bank shattered, spraying the street with glass, wood, and sundry debris.

  Bart came from the alley behind the bank, holding on to the reins of three fractious horses. He stood out in the street waiting for what seemed a long time, too long. Long enough for lamps to be lit in the hotel rooms and other places. Along with the lighted lamps came sounds and voices:

  “What the hell’s going on!”

  “What happened?”

  “Jesus Christ!”

  “Son of a bitch!”

  “Son of a bitch!” Bart, himself, said out loud. “Come on! Come on! Get outta there!” he hollered while trying to hang on to the reins.

  Deek, with gun drawn, ran out of the bank, then Tom. Tom carried a heavy canvas bag. A man in underwear appeared from around the corner of a building.

  “They’re robbing the bank!” he yelled, then repeated even louder. “They’re robbing the bank!”

  Deek fired twice, missing the man with both shots, but coming closer with the second. The target dove back around the corner. Deek and Bart managed to saddle up, but the gunshots had skittered the third horse and Tom, with the heavy money bag, couldn’t get the horse to hold still so he could mount.

  Sheriff Elwood Hinge, still dressed in his Sunday suit, but carrying a shotgun, appeared out of the darkness. He leveled the shotgun toward the man with the money bag and squeezed, then swung the weapon and fired again at the two mounted men, who spurred their horses.

  Tom had taken the full impact of the shotgun blast in the back and collapsed, still gripping the money bag.

  “They got Tom!” Bart screamed.

  “To hell with him. Let’s go!”

  “He’s got the money!” Bart hollered, but galloped off beside his brother. They disappeared into the black night.

  Sheriff Elwood Hinge walked to the crumpled form lying atop the shards of glass and debris and picked up the money bag. By then dozens of townspeople had realized that the shooting was over and materialized from every direction.

  Amos Bush pushed his way through the crowd, followed by Deputy Keeler.

  “Who was it, Sheriff?” Bush asked. “Did they get away?”

  “One of ’em didn’t.” Hinge, still holding the bag and shotgun, rolled the dead man faceup with his boot.

  “That’s Mr. Keeshaw!” Bush pointed to the body.

  “The late Mr. Keeshaw,” Hinge corrected.

  “The money!” Amos Bush exclaimed. “What about the money?”

  “Here’s part of it.” The sheriff handed Bush the bag.

  Amos Bush grabbed at it with both hands and started to examine the contents. Rosalind DuPree in her evening gown stood at the edge of the gathering looking at Elwood Hinge.

  “Why, that’s all of it!” Bush announced. “It’s all here!! Eighteen th . . .” Amos Bush decided not to continue.

  “You sure, Amos?”

  “I ought to know, Sheriff. That’s all that was in the safe. It’s all here!”

  “Sheriff.” Deputy Keeler took a step forward.

  “Hello, Homer. You enjoy your dinner?”

  “Yuh,” the deputy nodded, “but . . .”

  “But what?”

  “Well, ain’t we goin’ after ’em?”

  “Homer, you want to get shot in the dark?”

  “No, sir,” Keeler answered directly.

  “Then we’ll wait till morning.”

  “Huh?”

  “We got the money, didn’t we?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then go get the undertaker.”

  “I’m here.” A solemn voice responded out of the night.

  Elwood Hinge walked to where Rosalind DuPree was standing and smiled.

  “Are you all right, Sheriff?” she asked.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he answered, then lowered his voice. “We never did finish that bottle of wine.”

  Chapter 34

  Deek and Bart rode west through the cold, dark night, Deek a considerable distance ahead.

  “Deek!” Bart hollered out in pain. “Deek, hold up a minute!”

  Deek reined his horse to a stop and waited as his remaining brother came alongside.

  “That second blast tore into me.”

  “Bad?”

  “Bad enough,” Bart groaned. “Damn! Everything went wrong. They got Tom and we didn’t get the money.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I got to get patched up. I got to. I’m bleedin’.”

  “All right. I know where we can do that and get some money besides.”

  “You do?”

  “Yeah, a lot of money.”

  * * *

  Shad Parker still slept in the chair, with the tin box and the letters on the table next to the whiskey bottle.

  * * *

  The cave was lit only by a single candle and provided no warmth. Austin, Peg, and Davy harbored close to one another. Davy shivered and still held on to the small, carved Christmas tree.

  “Austin,” Davy said, “I’m cold. Can’t we build a fire?”

  “No.”

  “I’m cold,” he repeated.

  “I told you he’d see the fire and come up here. You want him to do that?”

  “I don’t care. I’m freezing.”

  “Here, Davy.” Peg tried to comfort him. “I’ll put my arm around you.”

  “I’d ruther have a fire.”

  “Go to sleep,” Austin said.

  * * *

  Deek and Bart dismounted about twenty yards from the cabin.

  “There’s a lamp lit.” Bart reached back and rubbed at his ruptured coat.

  “Yeah, hand me those reins.” Deek tied the reins from both horses to the limb of a tree. “Come on.”

  Both men lifted their guns from their holsters and walked toward the shack.

  A couple of minutes later the latch to the door inside the room lifted slowly without any sound. The door opened an inch at a time and the barrel of a six-gun appeared.

  Suddenly, the door burst open, slamming against the wall. Shad Parker’s head snapped in the direction of the sound as Deek and Bart stepped into the room, aiming guns at the man in the chair.

  “Sit still, friend,” Deek said. They both walked farther into the room and looked around. “Anybody else here?”

  Shad shook his head no.

  “Good. Well, it looks like we’re not gonna be neighbors after all.” Deek grinned. “Me and Bart’ll be moving on directly. Just the two of us.”

  “Where’s the other one?”

  “He’s dead. And we’re what you call ‘desperate.’ So be careful what you do, friend.”

  While his brother talked, Bart spotted the whiskey bottle on the table. He walked over, picked it up, and took a long pull.

  “Go easy, Bart.”

  “Easy, hell. Take a look at this.” Bart turned his back toward his brother. A part of his jacket and shirt were ripped by scatter shot, and blood oozed through.

  “We’ll get around to that.” Deek raised the gun toward Shad’s head. “All right, friend . . . up
! Slow and easy!”

  Shad Parker rose slowly from the chair, trying to clear his brain of sleep and whiskey, and to formulate a plan.

  “Just right,” Deek nodded. “Now, we’ll have your money.”

  Shad studied the position of the two intruders, but they were too far apart from each other for him to take any action. He wanted to maneuver them closer together so he would have a chance to take them both at once.

  “The money,” Deek repeated.

  “My pocket.”

  “Lift it out.”

  Shad reached into his pocket, removed a wad of bills. He held the money straight out ahead of him.

  “We ain’t gettin’ that close, brother.” Deek smiled and pointed the gun for just an instant. “On the table.”

  Shad let the money drop onto the table.

  Deek continued to point the gun. He walked to the table, took up the money, and put it in his pocket. Bart swallowed another mouthful from the bottle.

  “That’s a start,” Deek said to Shad. “Now we’ll have the rest.”

  “What rest?”

  “The rest of the money. Nobody carries it all on him.”

  “I do.”

  “It don’t float.” Deek shook his head. “Now, where’s the rest of it? We got no time for games.”

  “Maybe it’s in there.” Bart pointed to the metal box and took a step.

  “Keep away from there.” Shad moved forward.

  “Aha.” Bart laughed. “You see, it is there!”

  “Back off,” Deek warned. “Do it!”

  Shad Parker retreated a few inches. Bart thrust his hand into the metal container, lifted out the contents, searching for money. Parker stared at the man digging at the letters as if he were desecrating something sacred. Bart threw most of the letters onto the floor, shook his head negatively toward his brother, then looked at the letter he still held in his hand.

  “Jesus Christ!” Bart said.

  “What?”

  “A bunch of damned love letters.” He laughed and haltingly started to read aloud. “‘My . . . dearest . . . dar . . . ling.’” Bart looked up toward Shad. “Him?!”

  “Put that down.” Shad was shaking. He started to lunge.

  Deek fired. Shad Parker staggered.

  “Hold it!” Deek growled.

  The slug had shattered Shad’s left thigh.

  “Now I ain’t Bill Hickok, but I hit pretty much where I aim, mister.”