“I don’t have a lot of choice,” Ballard said. “I need to get back to Tucson just as soon as I can, not just because of Christmas with my family but—”
He stopped short as if he realized he was about to say too much, Smoke thought. But that was Ballard’s business and none of his. He was interested in the idea of trying to catch up to the stagecoach, though. Smoke looked over at his companion. “What do you think, Preacher? Do you want to try to make it to Tucson on the stage?”
“I never cared much for them jouncin’, bouncin’ contraptions.” Preacher’s bony shoulders rose and fell. “But I’ll go along with whatever you and Sally want, you know that.”
Ballard said, “If you gentlemen would like to come along with me, I’m headed down to the stage line office to find out if it’s even possible.”
“I’ll walk down there with you,” Smoke said. “Preacher, do you mind going back and letting Sally know what’s going on?”
“Sure,” the old mountain man said. “She’s prettier company than you two hombres.”
Smoke and Ballard left the depot, with Ballard setting the course since he knew where the stage line office was located and Smoke didn’t. As they walked along, the man introduced himself by saying, “I’m Tom Ballard, by the way, editor and publisher of the Tucson Courier.”
“Smoke Jensen.”
Ballard didn’t stop, but his stride had a little hitch in it as he looked over at his companion. “Smoke Jensen the famous gunfighter?” Before Smoke could answer, Ballard went on. “No, wait. It’s not very likely there would be another Smoke Jensen, is it?”
Smoke wasn’t surprised that Tom Ballard, being a newspaperman, had heard of him. He smiled. “You’ve got the right Smoke Jensen, Mr. Ballard. Or the wrong one, I guess, depending on how you look at it. Some folks tend to think I’m a mite on the notorious side.”
“Not me. I’ve read quite a bit about you over the years, and nothing I’ve ever read has made me think you’re less than an honorable man.”
“I appreciate that. Not everybody feels that way.”
“I’ll bet they do if they take the time to learn anything about you. I seem to recall that you have one of the finest ranches in Colorado and are friends with some of the most influential men west of the Mississippi.”
Smoke shrugged. It was true that if he’d wanted to, he could have sent a telegram directly to the president of the railroad they had been riding, but Smoke didn’t see where that would accomplish anything. No matter what sort of influence was brought to bear, that collapsed trestle could be repaired only so fast.
They reached the stage line office, a small adobe building next to a pole corral and a barn. A sign hanging from the awning over the door read SAXON STAGE LINE.
“I believe this is the headquarters of the entire line,” Ballard said. “Old John Saxon still runs this office himself.”
They went inside and found a tall, spare, elderly man with a bald dome and a crisp white mustache leaning over a table with a map spread out on it. He looked up and greeted them by saying in a brisk, no-nonsense manner to Ballard, “I know you. You put out one of the newspapers down in Tucson.”
“Yes, sir, that’s right. I’m Tom Ballard of the Courier. This is Mr. Jensen.”
Saxon shook hands with both of them and asked, “What can I do for you?”
“We were hoping you have a coach coming through here in the near future.”
Saxon shook his head. “Afraid not. It left for Gila Bend a few hours ago, so you didn’t miss it by much. Won’t be another for four days.”
“That’s still better than waiting for the train,” Smoke said to Ballard.
“But not good enough,” the newspaperman said with a frown. “Mr. Saxon, I really need to catch up to that coach. If there’s a westbound train today, that would beat it to Gila Bend, wouldn’t it?”
“Should be able to,” the stage line owner said with a puzzled look on his weather-beaten face. “Is it that important?”
“It is to me,” Ballard said.
Once again, Smoke had the feeling that there was more to Ballard’s eagerness to get back to Tucson than it appeared on the surface. He felt an instinctive liking for the man and wondered if Ballard was in some sort of trouble. That was one more reason Smoke leaned toward going along with the plan that was forming . . . not that he’d ever needed any excuse for doing what he wanted to do.
“I’d like to go ahead and buy a ticket, Mr. Saxon,” Ballard continued. “That way there’ll be no question about it when I get to Gila Bend.”
“I reckon you can do that,” Saxon said, nodding. “What about you, Mr. Jensen?”
“I’ll need three tickets,” Smoke said, going along with his instincts.
“Do you know if any other passengers will be in the coach?” Ballard asked.
“The only folks on board when the coach left here were bound for Gila Bend, so they’ll be getting off there,” Saxon said. “I couldn’t tell you who might get on there. It’s not likely you’ll be too crowded, though. About half the time there aren’t any passengers at all, but seeing as I’ve got the mail contract for Ajo and Sahuarita Ranch and those other little settlements down there, that’s enough to keep me in business.” He wrote up their tickets and gave to them. “Appreciate the business.”
They paid him and he added, “Have a safe and pleasant trip.” The old man chuckled. “Although that part about pleasant might be asking too much. We are talking about southern Arizona Territory, after all. It’s not what you’d call the most scenic place on Earth.”
“The only scenery I really care about seeing before Christmas is my home in Tucson,” Ballard said.
CHAPTER 14
By the time Smoke and Ballard got back to the train station, Sally and Preacher were waiting on the platform with their bags.
“When Preacher told me where you had gone and what you were doing, I went and talked to the station manager right away,” Sally said. “There’s a westbound train leaving for Gila Bend in less than an hour. I’ve already arranged for us to use our Tucson tickets on it.”
Smoke laughed. “You don’t waste any time, do you?”
She smiled sweetly at him. “Being married to you, darling, I’ve learned that when it’s time to take action, it’s best to do so quickly.”
“Well, I can’t argue with that,” Smoke said.
Three more people were waiting nearby on the platform, also with their bags, and he recognized all of them. Mrs. Violet Bates smiled and nodded at him, while her grandson George sat next to her on a bench, still looking a little sullen. A few feet away on the same bench was the well-dressed young woman who had been arguing with the conductor earlier. Miss Bradshaw, he had called her, Smoke remembered.
He inclined his head slightly toward the trio and asked Sally, “What about these folks?”
“They’ve decided they’re coming along on the stagecoach, too.”
“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” Smoke said quietly. “A long stagecoach trip can be pretty rough.”
“And yet you don’t hesitate to take your wife on one.”
“That’s because I know living with me has toughened you up,” he said with a smile.
“And I can’t argue with that.”
“I’ll have a talk with them.”
“It’s their decision to make, Smoke.”
“I know that. I just want to make sure they know what they’ll be getting into.”
He walked over to the bench, took off his hat, and nodded politely to Mrs. Bates and Miss Bradshaw. “My wife tells me you folks have decided to take the stagecoach to Tucson instead of waiting for the train to be able to get through.”
“That’s right, Mr. Jensen,” Mrs. Bates said. “The conductor said we might be stuck here for days or even a week or more, waiting for that repair work to be done. I think it would be best to get George back to my home in Tucson as soon as possible.”
The boy muttered, “It don’t matter. I’ll sti
ll be an orphan, wherever we are.”
“Have you ever ridden on a stagecoach, ma’am?” Smoke asked Mrs. Bates.
“I most certainly have,” she replied. “My late husband and I came to Arizona Territory on the old Butterfield Stage Line, many years ago.”
“Then you know it’ll be a long, rough, dusty ride from Gila Bend on around to Tucson. We’ll be on the trail for several days, going that way.”
“But at least we’ll be making progress toward home, rather than just sitting and waiting.”
Smoke sensed that there might be a core of steel underneath Mrs. Bates’s placid exterior. She had made up her mind, and she wasn’t the sort to be budged from a decision easily.
He turned to the young woman and said, “Miss, this is something you need to consider, too.”
“I certainly have considered it,” she told him with a little sniff in her voice. “And we haven’t been properly introduced, sir.”
Sally linked her right arm with Smoke’s left and said, “I’m Sally Jensen, and this is my husband Smoke. And you are . . . ?”
“Miss Catherine Bradshaw,” the young woman replied. “Soon to be Mrs. Harrison Preston.”
“Congratulations,” Sally said, smiling. “Is your fiancé with you?”
“He’s meeting me in Tucson. He’s a lieutenant in the army, and I’ll be living at the fort where he’s posted. That’s why I simply must get to Tucson as soon as possible. Army regulations give Harrison only so much time to handle personal matters, you know.”
Smoke thought about how the evidently spoiled, stuffy young woman from back east was going to take to living at a hot, dusty frontier fort while the threat of Apache raids still existed, although they weren’t as common as in the past. He hoped Miss Catherine Bradshaw really loved Lieutenant Preston or they might be in for some difficulties.
Sally said, “I think my husband is just trying to make sure you understand—”
“I understand the situation quite well, Mrs. Jensen. Thank you.”
Sally’s expression didn’t change much, but Smoke knew her well enough to recognize the signs of anger.
However, she was too much of a lady to give in to that emotion, so she smiled and said, “Very well, then. I’m sure you know best what you should do.”
Ballard returned from talking to the conductor. He was followed by a porter wheeling a cart that held a medium-sized trunk with a carpetbag sitting on top. Since Ballard was traveling alone, Smoke wondered what he had in the trunk.
But again, it was none of his business.
As Ballard came up to the group, he frowned in the direction of Mrs. Bates, George, and Catherine Bradshaw. “What’s this?” he asked Smoke.
“These folks heard you talking earlier and figured you’d come up with a good idea,” Smoke explained. “They’re going to take the stagecoach, too.”
Ballard didn’t look too happy about that, but he didn’t try to convince the others they should wait for the train either in Casa Grande or in Phoenix. Smoke supposed Ballard might have thought that would be hypocritical, since he was obviously in such a hurry to get to Tucson himself.
All the arrangements were made for changing trains, so all the travelers had to do was wait for the call to board the westbound. That came soon enough. Their bags and Ballard’s trunk were loaded.
As they started to climb onto one of the passenger cars, Mrs. Bates said, “Since we’re all going to be together until we get to Tucson, perhaps we should start by sitting together now.”
“That’s a fine idea,” Sally said. “It’ll give us a chance to get to know each other better.”
Hanging back a little with Smoke, Preacher said in a voice quiet enough that only Smoke could hear, “By the time we get to Tucson, I reckon these pilgrims may know each other a mite better than any of ’em expected.”
As he thought about the cramped quarters inside a bouncing, jolting stagecoach, Smoke could only agree.
* * *
The whole scheme hinged on making it to Gila Bend before the stagecoach did. If the travelers failed to do that, they would have to turn around, return to Casa Grande, and wait for the train to be able to make it through.
So as soon as the westbound pulled into the station at Gila Bend, Smoke and Ballard hurried to find the local office of the Saxon Stage Line.
Preacher went with them, saying, “You ain’t leavin’ me back there in that hen party. That Bates woman can talk a mile a minute when she gets wound up.”
“I’m sure Mrs. Bates is disappointed that you’re not hanging around, Preacher,” Smoke said with a grin. “She seemed to be eyeing you pretty thoroughly during the trip from Casa Grande, and I don’t think she was disappointed in what she saw.”
Preacher let out an explosive grunt of scorn and derision. “That’ll be the day!” he exclaimed.
One of the citizens of Gila Bend was able to direct them right to the stage line office. They found a short, plump, mostly bald man with the face of a cherub working there.
The man introduced himself. “Emile Collier, gentlemen. What can I do for you?”
“Has the stage from Casa Grande been through here yet?” Smoke asked.
“Why, no,” Collier replied. “I’m not expecting it for another couple hours.”
Ballard let out a relieved sigh. “That’s good. We’ll be traveling on it.”
“Just you three fellows?”
Smoke said, “No, there are three ladies and a boy with us. Two of the ladies and the youngster will need tickets.” When Collier pursed his lips, Smoke went on. “That’s not going to be a problem, is it?”
“No, no, not at all. There’ll be room for all of you. As of right now, there are no other passengers bound for Ajo. But I can’t guarantee that situation will remain the same.”
“Reckon you’ll crowd us all in like sardines if you have to,” Preacher said.
“Well, we’d certainly prefer not to have the coach be too crowded . . . but at the same time, the line can’t really afford to turn down paying customers.”
Ballard said, “As long as there’s room in the boot for my bags, I don’t care how crowded I am inside the coach.”
“There should be plenty of room,” Collier assured him. “Where are your things now?”
“At the train station. We can get porters to bring them down here.”
“I suggest you do that, then. Scratchy Stevenson is at the reins on this run, and he doesn’t like to waste any more time during the stops than he has to.”
“Scratchy, eh?” Smoke said. “Sounds like some jehus I’ve known. They’re pretty rough-edged sorts.”
“He’s a bit of a character, all right,” Collier agreed. “I think you can safely say that Scratchy has his share of rough edges.”
The three men went back to the depot to see to having the baggage transported to the stagecoach station. The women were going to a nearby café for a meal before the next leg of the journey began.
Smoke saw that George still wore his usual sullen expression and said to Mrs. Bates, “How about letting George help out me and the other fellas for a while?”
“Oh, I don’t know if that would be a good idea, Mr. Jensen.” Mrs. Bates lowered her voice to a conspiratorial tone, but Smoke had a hunch George could still hear her. “He can be a real handful when he wants to be, you know.”
“He’ll do fine,” Smoke said. “If you’re worried about him running off, I don’t reckon you have to. I’ll keep an eye on him. I’ve got a hunch he won’t give me any trouble.”
Mrs. Bates still didn’t look convinced, but she turned to her grandson. “George, would you like to go along with Mr. Jensen and Mr. Ballard and Mr. Preacher? They’re going to see to it that our bags are taken to the stagecoach station.”
The old mountain man grimaced at being called “Mr. Preacher,” Smoke noticed, but he held his tongue.
George seemed to perk up a little. “What would I have to do?” he asked Smoke.
“Maybe carry a
bag. The porters will take most of it, but we can tote some of the smaller stuff.”
Clearly not wanting to appear too eager, George put on a show of indifference. “I guess I can do that.”
“Come on, then,” Smoke said with a wave of his hand.
“Time’s a-wastin’,” Preacher added.
Smoke picked out a small bag of his to let George carry, while he took a larger valise. Preacher just had his old war bag, which he toted himself. Sally had brought along enough that a porter and a cart were required to transport those bags.
The same was true for Catherine Bradshaw. Mrs. Bates and George had little enough that it could be added to the cart with Catherine’s things. Ballard supervised as a porter loaded his trunk and carpetbag onto a cart.
Preacher narrowed his eyes and said quietly to Smoke, “He’s mighty particular about how that trunk’s handled. He’s watchin’ it like there’s somethin’ mighty important to him inside it.”
“I noticed the same thing,” Smoke said.
Preacher scratched his grizzled jaw. “You reckon it’s anything that might attract some trouble?”
“I don’t know, but if it is, there’ll be plenty of chances for it between here and Tucson.”
CHAPTER 15
Once all the bags were at the stage station, Smoke and Preacher figured they would go over to the café and join the ladies.
When Smoke said as much, Tom Ballard told them, “You fellows go ahead. I’ll stay here, just to make sure the stage doesn’t arrive without us being aware of it.”
Smoke thought that was pretty unlikely, considering the café was just in the next block and a stagecoach made quite a bit of racket when it rolled into town. He figured a more plausible explanation was that Ballard was getting nervous about leaving that trunk unattended and didn’t want to do so anymore.
Emile Collier, the manager of the local station, piped up. “I can send a boy to fetch you when the stage gets here if you want, Mr. Ballard—”
“No, that’s all right.” Ballard sat down in a ladder-back chair on the station’s porch, not far from the stack of bags and trunks, including his. “I’ll be fine right here.”
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