An Arizona Christmas

by William W. Johnstone

  “So I might see you again, here on the train.”

  “Sure. Come look me up any time you want to.”

  The youngster drew in a deep breath and blew it out. “All right. I’ll go.”

  “And you won’t give your grandmother any more trouble.”

  “I reckon not,” George said, but he wore a dubious frown on his face that testified he wasn’t sure about that.

  Smoke squeezed his shoulder and gave him a little push toward the other car. George stepped across the gap. Mrs. Bates bent over and gave him a brief hug, which he accepted with a pained tolerance. “Thank you for your help, Mr. Jensen.”

  He tugged on his hat brim again. “Any time, ma’am.” He turned and went back into the car.

  As he sat down next to Sally, she looked over at him. “You were gone for quite a while. That must have been a pretty big breath of fresh air you took.”

  “I made a couple new friends out there on the platform and was talking to them,” Smoke explained.

  “And they didn’t try to shoot you?” Preacher asked from across the aisle.

  “I don’t think they were even packing iron.”

  “Things is lookin’ up then,” the old mountain man said. “Just don’t expect it to last.”

  CHAPTER 12

  Avery Tuttle didn’t look like a monster. He was a medium-sized man who tended to dress in plain gray suits. His squarish, clean-shaven face was topped by brown hair starting to go gray. From time to time, depending on what he was doing, he needed to wear spectacles, but he was just vain enough that he tried to avoid doing so in public.

  He was wearing them at the moment to study several telegrams he had received from the territorial capital in Prescott. He had put them in the order he had received them, from the first to the most recent, then read them over again several times as he thought about his options. He was a deliberate man, Avery Tuttle was, and that was the secret to his success. Whenever a problem arose, instead of jumping right in, he considered all the possibilities. And he never took quick, violent action himself.

  He paid men for that.

  Having made up his mind, he set the telegrams down on the desk in his office, took off the wire-rimmed spectacles, folded them, and put them in a drawer. Then he called through the open door, “Mrs. Perkins, come in here, please.”

  A moment later, Amy Perkins appeared in the doorway. Most businessmen who needed a secretary hired a man for the job, but Mrs. Perkins was every bit as efficient and competent as a male would have been. More so than a lot of men, Tuttle sometimes thought. And as a widow, she needed the job and was grateful for it.

  The fact that she was stunningly beautiful was a bonus of sorts, he supposed, but truthfully, her looks didn’t matter all that much to him. As long as she did her job, she could have been as plain as mud and he wouldn’t have cared.

  “Mrs. Perkins, send a boy to find Mr. Coe and tell him to come here as soon as possible.”

  “You want him to come here to the office?”

  “That’s right.” A crisp edge came into Tuttle’s voice as he added, “Did I not make that clear?”

  “Yes, sir, of course,” she said quickly. “I’ll take care of it right away.”

  “Thank you.” Tuttle looked back down at the papers on his desk, a signal that the conversation was over for the moment.

  Mrs. Perkins wasn’t in the habit of questioning his orders. He supposed she had done so because whenever he met with Smiler Coe, it was usually in his suite at the Territorial House. Coe didn’t come to the office very often.

  Maybe she was afraid of Coe. The gunman certainly provoked that reaction in a lot of people.

  Tuttle put those thoughts out of his mind. That was another element of his success. Whenever he could do nothing about a situation, he simply didn’t waste time and energy thinking about it. He concentrated on other matters.

  He wasn’t sure exactly how much time had passed when Coe sauntered into the private office without knocking. Tuttle found that annoying, but tolerated it because the gunman was so good at his job.

  “I hear tell you want to see me, boss,” the tall, lean gunman drawled. The habitual grin that had given him his nickname curved his mouth, revealing a single gold tooth.

  With his build and his sharply angled face, Coe looked a little like an ax. He wore gray-striped trousers tucked into high boots, a dark green vest over a faded red shirt, and a flat-crowned black hat cocked at a rakish angle on his thick dark hair. He was one of those men who seemed to have beard stubble five minutes after shaving.

  He was also a two-gun man, which was something of a rarity. A pair of gun belts crossed around his hips and supported twin holstered Colts with black, hard rubber butts.

  Tuttle placed both hands flat on the desk and nodded toward the chair in front of the desk. “Please close the door and have a seat, Mr. Coe.”

  The gunman moved with a casual grace and ease, an indication that he could strike as swiftly and deadly as a snake. He shut the door, sat, cocked his right ankle on his left knee, and draped his left arm over the back of the chair. “What can I do for you?”

  Tuttle tapped a blunt fingertip on the stack of telegrams. “Thomas Ballard is proving to be a considerable thorn in my side.”

  “Some of the boys had a talk with him last week.”

  “And then returned later that night to beat his pressman, Edgar Torrance.”

  Coe’s shoulders rose and fell slightly in a negligent shrug. “I wouldn’t know anything about that.”

  Tuttle nodded. Both men were perfectly aware of what had happened to Torrance and everything else that went on in Tucson, but some things they didn’t talk about. It was a way of keeping a barrier between Tuttle and the things that were done to benefit him.

  “So what’s Ballard done now?” Coe went on. “Seems like I heard a rumor he’d left town.”

  “Only temporarily.”

  “Yeah, I didn’t figure he’d leave that pretty wife of his.”

  “He went up to Prescott to talk to the governor.” Tuttle’s distaste for that official was easy to hear in his voice.

  “What’s Ballard got to do with the governor?” Coe asked.

  “He persuaded him to do a favor.”

  Coe squinted suspiciously. “A favor for who?”

  “Certainly not for us. The governor used his influence to arrange for a large loan, put together from a number of sources. Ballard is on his way back here with the money. He intends to use it to prop up the businesses of several men who oppose me, including his own newspaper and the bank.”

  Coe put his right foot back on the floor and sat up straighter. “You say Ballard’s bringing the money back here to Tucson? In cash?”

  Tuttle nodded solemnly. “That’s right.”

  “Why didn’t he just have it transferred to the bank?”

  “Because in the time he’s been away, he couldn’t be sure that I hadn’t taken over the bank. He didn’t want to take a chance on turning the money over to me.”

  Coe grunted. “Yeah, that would have scotched his plans good an’ proper. But you ain’t taken over the bank yet, and you probably won’t if Ballard gets here with that cash.”

  Tuttle still had his hands flat on the desk, but the fingers of the right one drummed a little tattoo. “We’re thinking along the same lines, I believe.”

  “Yeah.” Coe’s fingertips rasped over dark stubble as he stroked his chin. “Something needs to happen to that money before it gets here . . . and it wouldn’t hurt if Ballard had some permanent bad luck along the way, too.”

  “I wouldn’t even speculate on something like that,” Tuttle said.

  “No need for you to, boss.” Coe stood up. “I’ll do some thinking on it.”

  “Very well.”

  Coe had stopped smiling while they were talking, but he wore his usual grin as he left the office and closed the door behind him.

  Tuttle leaned back in his chair, satisfied, at least for the moment. He was
n’t sure what was going to happen to Tom Ballard . . . but whatever it was, the meddling fool had it coming.

  Coe paused in the outer office, glanced at the door he had just closed, and then turned to Amy Perkins. “I reckon you heard what he said?”

  “Of course I heard,” she replied. “Nobody listens through a door better than I do, Smiler. You know that.”

  He moved closer to her, cupped a hand under her chin, and leaned toward her as he murmured, “You do a lot of things better ’n anybody else, darlin’.” He kissed her.

  As their mouths worked together hungrily, she wrapped her arms around his neck. He reached up with his other hand and pulled them back down. Tuttle had no idea what was going on between his secretary and his chief gun-wolf, and Coe wanted to keep it that way. He could step away from Amy quickly if his keen ears heard the boss approaching on the other side of the door.

  Amy was a little breathless as she broke the kiss and stepped back. Her black hair was pulled into a tight bun at the back of her head. When she took it loose and shook it free around her shoulders . . . when she peeled out of those staid, dark dresses she wore in the office . . . she was enough to make any man’s heart gallop like a racehorse.

  Coe wasn’t sure he completely trusted her, but he sure was glad they had discovered how much they liked dallying with each other.

  “What are you going to do?” Amy asked, keeping her voice low enough Tuttle wouldn’t hear. “Ballard will be coming back to Tucson on the train. Are you going to stop it and kill him and take that money?”

  “I don’t see any need to go into detail—”

  “I do.” Her tone was sharp. “We’re partners, Smiler. I need to know what you’ve got in mind, so I can be prepared if there’s any trouble.”

  “There won’t be any trouble.”

  She was a persistent minx, always wanting to know his plans, acting like they were on equal footing. Sure, if the day ever came when he double-crossed Avery Tuttle, Amy’s help would come in mighty handy. But Coe was confident he could handle things without her if he needed to. Still, he supposed it wouldn’t hurt anything to humor her. Most men had been humoring her ever since she was twelve or so, he suspected.

  “Holding up a train ain’t as easy as it used to be,” he went on. “All the railroad lines have gotten leery of bein’ robbed and have put on extra guards, either men they’ve hired or some of those damn Pinkertons. It’s a big job for half a dozen men.”

  “You can’t wait until Ballard’s back here with the money.”

  “I don’t intend to,” Coe said, suppressing his annoyance. “I’m gonna get Ballard—and that money—off the train.”

  Amy frowned and shook her head. “How do you intend to do that?”

  “Ballard can’t ride the train if the train ain’t comin’ through, now can he?”

  “I thought you said you weren’t going to stop the train.”

  “Not while he’s on it. I’m going to make sure the train can’t get here, and then Ballard will have to come back to Tucson some other way. I don’t see a dude like him getting a saddle horse and a pack mule and setting out across country alone. That only leaves one way.”

  “The stagecoach,” Amy said as understanding dawned in her brown eyes.

  “The stagecoach,” Coe repeated. His smile grew larger.

  In those days when the railroads ran almost everywhere, the stagecoach lines that still existed were having a tougher and tougher time of it. The Saxon Stage Line was hanging on, though, running a circle route that included Tucson, as well as Casa Grande, Maricopa, Gila Bend, Ajo, and Sahuarita Ranch. If Coe could stop the railroad from getting through, then the stage would be Ballard’s only way home.

  With Christmas coming up soon, Coe was willing to bet that Ballard would risk making the journey that way. It would take longer and be a lot less comfortable, but he would put up with that in order to spend the holiday with his wife and kids.

  And it would be a hell of a lot easier for six men to stop a stagecoach, kill a meddlesome newspaper editor, and steal a small fortune than it would be to hold up a train.

  “It’s a good idea,” Amy said. “Can you keep the train from coming through?”

  “If the trestle at Boneyard Wash is down, that’ll do the trick. The train can’t cross a wash without a bridge.”

  “You’d better move fast. According to those telegrams Tuttle got from Prescott, Ballard has already left the capital.”

  “I’ll round up the boys and ride out right now.”

  She put a hand on his sleeve. “Be careful.”

  “Don’t worry,” Coe assured her. “There’s no danger in this part of the job. All we’ve got to do is blow up a trestle.” He stroked his chin again. “There was a flash flood in that wash a while back. If we do it right, maybe we can make it look like the flood damaged the trestle, and it just now collapsed. That won’t be as likely to make anybody on that train suspicious when it can’t get through.”

  “Dynamite can be tricky stuff.”

  “Sam Brant’s worked with it before. For that matter, so have I. We’ll get it down without blowin’ ourselves to kingdom come.”

  “You’d better. Did Tuttle say anything about what you’re supposed to do with the money Ballard’s bringing back with him?”

  “Not a word,” Coe said.

  “Then I expect most of it will wind up in our pockets.” Amy began breathing a little harder at the thought.

  His grin got a little bigger. “I wouldn’t be a bit surprised.”

  CHAPTER 13

  The sound of loud, angry voices made Smoke pause and look around. He was on the platform of the train station in Casa Grande, where he and Preacher had stepped out to stretch their legs while the train was stopped.

  “What’s all the commotion about?” Preacher asked.

  Smoke shook his head as he looked at the knot of passengers gathering around the blue-uniformed figure of the train’s conductor. “I don’t know, but maybe we ought to go find out.”

  “Now, I know you folks are all upset and I don’t blame you, but there’s not a thing you or I can do about it,” the conductor was saying as Smoke and Preacher walked up. “Until that trestle is repaired, this train’s not going anywhere.”

  “What trestle?” Smoke asked.

  The harried conductor looked over at him. “The one over Boneyard Wash. Blasted thing fell down. The fella who reported it said it looked like it gave out because of some flood damage a while back.”

  Preacher said, “The flood was a while back, but the bridge is just now fallin’ down?”

  “I’ve known it to happen,” the conductor said with a nod. “Sometimes those timbers will crack so you can’t hardly see it. They hold up fine for a while, but eventually the weight of the trains passing over them makes the damage worse, and finally the whole thing just gives out.”

  A man in a dark suit and a gray felt hat said, “But I have to get back to Tucson! It could be after Christmas before that bridge is repaired.”

  “I expect it will be,” the conductor admitted. “We ought to be rolling again before the new year comes around, though, Mr. Ballard. In the meantime, you can stay at the hotel here in Casa Grande, or we’ll take you back up to Phoenix, no charge, and you can stay there—”

  “You don’t understand,” Ballard said. “I have to get home now. As soon as possible.”

  The conductor shook his head. “Well, I’m afraid that’s not going to be any time soon.”

  Angry muttering came from several of the passengers, but even though they were complaining, most seemed resigned to the unexpected delay. The man called Ballard was more upset than anyone else, Smoke thought.

  A young woman stepped up to the conductor. “There has to be some other way. My fiancé will be waiting for me in Tucson, and when I don’t arrive, he’ll be very upset.”

  “I’m sure he’ll understand, Miss Bradshaw.”

  “He might, but the army won’t. He’s a lieutenant, you see, an
d he can be away from his post for only so long.” Her hands tightened on the small bag she held. “I’d hate for him to get in trouble if he waits too long for me.”

  “He won’t get in trouble. We’ve already sent a wire to Tucson explaining what’s happened. Your lieutenant will know not to expect you, so he can return to his duty and then come back to meet you later.”

  Miss Bradshaw sniffed. She wasn’t happy with the arrangement, and she didn’t care who knew it, Smoke thought.

  “Reckon we’d best go tell Sally we’re stuck here?” Preacher asked.

  “Hold on a minute.” Smoke didn’t like the idea of Matt and Luke showing up in Tucson for Christmas, only to find that he, Sally, and Preacher weren’t there after all. He wasn’t going to disappoint his brothers if he could help it. “Is there any way around that collapsed trestle? An old spur line, maybe?” he asked the conductor as the crowd of annoyed passengers was starting to break up.

  “No, sir, I’m afraid not. We’ve got a southbound line and a westbound line from here, but that’s all.” The conductor suddenly frowned. “But come to think of it, there is another way to get to Tucson.”

  “The stagecoach!” Ballard exclaimed.

  “Yep,” the conductor said, nodding. “I didn’t think of it until just now. I reckon because it’s our competition, sort of.”

  Smoke said, “The railroad has put most of the stage lines out of business, hasn’t it?”

  “That’s right,” Ballard said, “but a fellow named John Saxon started one of the first lines in Arizona Territory, back before the Civil War, and he’s kept it going all this time. He runs his coaches to settlements where the railroad doesn’t go, like Ajo and Sahuarita Ranch.”

  “The stage road parallels the railroad for part of the way,” the conductor put in. “Don’t know what the schedule is, but if the coach is somewhere between here and Gila Bend, you could take a westbound train and catch up to it there, then make the circle back around to Tucson.” The blue-uniformed man shook his head. “That’s a mighty long, dusty trip. Might be bearable this time of year, though I wouldn’t want to try it during the summer. That’d be like catching the last stagecoach to Hell.”