An Arizona Christmas

by William W. Johnstone

  Yeah, dozens of miles from anywhere. No one knew where they were, and even if the Apaches were gone, they might come back at any time. If that was sitting pretty, Smoke thought with a faint, grim smile, he’d hate to see what it was like if they were in a really bad fix.

  * * *

  Someone had to stand guard all night to make sure the Apaches didn’t sneak into the cave, as well as push another branch into the fire every now and then and keep it going. Smoke assumed he and Preacher and Mike would split the duty. Scratchy was too weak from loss of blood and needed his rest.

  Tom Ballard offered to pitch in and take a turn. “I know I’m not a Westerner by birth, but I’ve been out here for a while. I can do what I need to do.”

  Smoke was about to nod in agreement, but changed his mind and leaned his head toward the cave mouth. “Come on over there and talk to me for a minute, Tom.”

  Ballard frowned in puzzlement as he followed Smoke. When they were near the entrance, he asked quietly, “Is there something wrong?”

  “I just got to wondering if you thought you might sneak out there and get that trunk off the stagecoach,” Smoke said, his tone equally soft.

  Ballard caught his breath. “I . . . I don’t know what you mean—”

  “You’ve been mighty antsy about that trunk ever since we started this trip, Tom. From everything I’ve seen of you, you’re a good man, trustworthy and solid. My gut feeling about a fella isn’t wrong very often.”

  “I’d like to think I am a good man,” Ballard said stiffly.

  “Then tell me . . . were you planning to go after that trunk?”

  Ballard hesitated.

  Smoke figured he was deciding whether he wanted to lie.

  The newspaperman sighed. “All right. The thought did cross my mind . . . but then I realized how crazy it was. I couldn’t carry the trunk by myself, and anyway, I’d probably just get my throat cut by some savage if I tried.”

  “More than likely,” Smoke agreed. “Why is it so all-fired important to you?”

  “I think that’s really my business, Smoke.”

  “Maybe it started out that way, but now it could affect all of us. If it’s something that could put us in even more danger—”

  “I don’t see how it could,” Ballard said. “Anyway, how can we be in more danger than we already are? Let’s face it. What are the chances that any of us will make it to Tucson alive? Really?”

  “I figure as long as a man’s still alive, he’s got a fighting chance.” Smoke shrugged. “And if we’re all going to die anyway, what’ll it hurt to indulge my curiosity?”

  Ballard looked at him intently for a long moment, then said, “You’re right. I suppose it doesn’t really matter anymore. That trunk is full of money, Smoke. A lot of money.”

  CHAPTER 33

  Only a few things could make a man as nervous as Tom Ballard had been, and women and money were the main ones.

  Not surprised, Smoke drawled, “I reckon the next question is if it’s stolen.”

  “What? No! Of course not.” Ballard took off his hat and scrubbed a weary hand over his face. “I suppose I should tell you the whole story. I said I’m a newspaperman, and that’s the truth. I went up to the capital to talk to the governor on behalf of myself and a number of other honest businessmen in Tucson. I asked him to use his influence to help us arrange a loan.”

  “That’s where the money came from?”

  “Yes. It’s all legal and aboveboard.”

  “Well . . . you did ask the governor to put in a word with the bankers who loaned you the money.”

  “It’s not like we bribed him to do anything,” Ballard snapped. “I appealed to his sense of fairness and justice. My friends and I are faced with a threat not only to our businesses but the safety of Tucson itself. If Tuttle gets his way and takes over everything—”

  “Tuttle?”

  “Avery Tuttle. A man who came in a few years ago and started building himself his own little empire.”

  “A man’s got a right to succeed in his business,” Smoke pointed out.

  “Through hard work, yes, certainly. By hiring killers like Smiler Coe to intimidate his competition and make the stubborn ones disappear . . .” Ballard shrugged.

  Smoke’s interest had perked up more at the mention of Smiler Coe. He had never crossed trails with the man, but he’d heard of him. Nothing good, either. “Coe works for this Tuttle hombre?”

  “That’s right. You know him?”

  Smoke shook his head. “No, but I’ve heard enough to know he’s bad medicine.”

  “I’m convinced he’s killed several men who stood up to Tuttle. They’re supposed to have left town, but no one actually saw them go. They just . . . disappeared.”

  Smoke nodded slowly. He had no reason not to believe Ballard, and given Smiler Coe’s reputation, it was entirely possible the newspaperman was right about him murdering Avery Tuttle’s enemies.

  “Tuttle either owns outright or controls through notes about half the businesses in town,” Ballard went on. “He’s got his sights set on all the others. He had some of his hired guns beat up my assistant at the newspaper. I wasn’t able to prove it, but I know Tuttle was responsible for what happened.”

  “Are you sure you’re not just suspicious of him because he’s a business rival?”

  “That’s insulting, Mr. Jensen.”

  “No, it’s plain talk.”

  “It’s my honest belief that Avery Tuttle is a criminal and a murderer. He may not have pulled the trigger, but he gave the orders.”

  “All right, then. I’ll take your word for it, Tom. I just wanted to be sure. And this money you’re taking back to Tucson . . . it’s intended to shore up the other businesses so Tuttle can’t gobble them up, too?”

  “Exactly. It’s really the only thing we can do.”

  Smoke rubbed his chin. “You could hire some gun-wolves of your own and fight Tuttle on his own terms.”

  “Are you volunteering for the job?”

  “My gun’s not for hire,” Smoke said with an edge of steel in his voice. “But there are plenty of others out there that are.”

  Ballard shook his head. “No. My friends and I are honest men. We won’t descend to Tuttle’s level. Even if we won, that would be just trading one evil for another.”

  Smoke thought that attitude was idealistic but a mite naïve. Some threats in the world were dangerous enough and evil enough that they could only be met with violence. Talking was fine, but sometimes hot lead was the only answer that truly worked.

  Ballard shook his head. “This whole discussion is meaningless, isn’t it? We’re not going to make it out of here alive. After they’ve killed us, the Apaches will loot the stagecoach and find the money. They’re smart enough to know what it is and how to use it. They’ll probably take it into Mexico and use it to buy more guns and ammunition.”

  “Maybe,” Smoke said. “But I’m not counting on them getting their hands on it. I still plan on making it to Tucson. Have you thought about what’ll happen if we do?”

  Ballard frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “If Tuttle’s willing to have people killed to satisfy his ambitions, you reckon he’s going to let you just waltz into town with enough money to ruin his plans?”

  “He doesn’t know about it. Only a handful of people do. I was very careful to keep my plans a secret.”

  “The governor knows about it, and so do the bankers you borrowed the money from. So do fellas who work for them. It’s hard to keep a secret when there’s a lot of money involved.”

  Ballard shook his head stubbornly. “No, it’s not possible.” He hesitated. “But if Tuttle did find out somehow . . .”

  “He’d try to stop you, wouldn’t he?”

  “By any means necessary. Good Lord,” Ballard muttered. “You’ve given me something else to worry about now. Even if we get away from the Apaches, plenty of danger could still be waiting for us. But that’s insane. We have no horses, we’r
e too far out in the middle of nowhere to walk to civilization, and those Indians show no sign of giving up and going away. Tuttle won’t have to kill me.” Ballard laughed, and there was a note of hysteria in the sound. “I’ll be dead long before I can ever reach Tucson.”

  “Like I said, I don’t believe in giving up as long as I’m alive. You shouldn’t, either.”

  “But how are we going to get out of here?”

  “Now, that, I haven’t figured out yet.”

  * * *

  “Looked like you and Ballard were havin’ yourselves quite a palaver a while ago,” Preacher said to Smoke later when they were both standing near the cave mouth. “He happen to mention what’s got him actin’ like a long-tailed cat on a porch full o’ rockin’ chairs?”

  “As a matter of fact, he did.” Smoke’s eyes swept over the shadowy cave lit only by the flickering, reddish glow from the tiny fire.

  Everyone else appeared to be asleep, although Catherine and Mrs. Bates were restless, no doubt due to the uncomfortableness of stretching out on the ground. With Preacher to stand the first watch, Smoke would be turning in soon.

  Quietly, he told the old mountain man what Tom Ballard had explained to him. Preacher listened in silence, nodding every now and then.

  “I’ve heard o’ that hombre Coe. Supposed to be snake-quick with a gun, and mean as a snake, too, even with that grin he wears all the time.”

  “That matches what I know about him,” Smoke agreed.

  “You reckon Tuttle knows about the money Tom’s bringin’ back to Tucson with him?”

  “No way of being sure. He could, though. I don’t doubt that for a second. Men like that usually have eyes and ears everywhere, especially where power and influence are.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I was thinkin’.”

  “Tom doesn’t believe he has to worry about it, though. He’s convinced we won’t make it out of here alive.”

  Preacher chuckled. “That’s the way the smart money would be bettin’, I reckon.”

  “I’ve never minded playing long odds,” Smoke said with a smile.

  “Hell, I know that! You was just a younker when you went up against . . . how many was it? Twenty or thirty or forty gunmen, all at once?”

  “Not quite that many,” Smoke said, still smiling.

  “Still, it was a whole heap, and you charged right into that mess. You ain’t changed much over the years, neither.” Preacher shook his head. “I don’t figure you ever will.”

  “Right now let’s just concentrate on getting through the night. You’re still up to standing the first watch?”

  “Damn straight. Get some rest. Mike can take the next shift and you’ll finish up. Early in the mornin’, when dawn ain’t far off, that’s the time them ’Paches are most likely to come skulkin’ around.”

  Smoke nodded in agreement and left Preacher near the cave’s entrance. He went over to where Sally was sleeping with her head pillowed on her arms and lay down beside her. The light was dim enough he could barely make out her features, but that didn’t matter. He knew every inch of her beautiful face.

  He went to sleep with that image in his mind.

  * * *

  Smoke woke up for his turn on guard duty without Tom Ballard having to rouse him. As he sat up, he could tell that although the wind was still blowing, it wasn’t howling madly as it had been earlier.

  Maybe that meant the storm was finally coming to an end.

  The fire was flickering more than ever and in danger of going out. Smoke stood up and moved over to the fire, hunkering on his heels beside it to feed a few more twigs into the flames. They caught and the glow strengthened.

  Smoke was a little annoyed as he went to the cave mouth. Ballard was supposed to have been watching the fire as part of his duties, and he had almost let it go out. That wouldn’t have been a catastrophe—they had more matches—but it showed that Ballard had fallen down on the job.

  That wasn’t surprising, Smoke realized. Ballard wasn’t really a frontiersman, he reminded himself.

  At least the newspaperman wasn’t asleep. As Smoke came up, Ballard turned to look at him and said, “Oh, you’re up already. I thought it was about time.” He had Mike Olmsted’s Winchester in his hands.

  “Any sign of trouble?”

  “No, and there’s a good reason why.” Ballard nodded toward the entrance. “Take a look.”

  The light from the tiny fire barely reached that far, but Smoke could tell something was different. He took a step closer to the cave mouth and realized what it was. The opening was almost completely closed off by a wall of sand that protruded a couple feet into the cave. “It’s drifted up like snow. I’ve seen that up in the mountains during the winter, but I never thought I’d see sand do the same thing.”

  “That’s how sand dunes are formed,” Ballard said. “The wind constantly shifts them around. That’s why they’re sometimes called walking hills. Usually it just takes a lot longer because the wind isn’t blowing as hard as it did last night.” A look of worry came over his face. “We can dig out, can’t we?”

  “We should be able to. There’s a more important question, though.”

  “What’s that?”

  “When we dig out, what are we going to find waiting for us on the other side?”

  CHAPTER 34

  Ballard went to get a little more sleep while Smoke waited at the sand-blocked entrance for dawn. The wind outside diminished more and more, and as a gray light appeared in the narrow slice of sky visible above the wall of sand, it stopped blowing entirely, leaving an eerie silence in its wake.

  Smoke wished for some coffee, but that wasn’t going to happen any time soon. He let the others sleep as long as they could. Exhaustion had drained them, so they needed their rest. Not surprising, it was Preacher, with his iron constitution, who woke first.

  The old mountain man climbed to his feet, stretched, and then ambled over to Smoke. He squinted at the sand drift and muttered, “What in blazes?”

  “It kept the Apaches from trying to sneak up on us, I guess.”

  “Yeah, but what’re we gonna do now? Burrow out like rats?”

  “We can clear away enough at the top to be able to climb out.”

  “I reckon. Sounds like the derned ol’ wind quit blowin’, anyway.”

  George Bates woke up next. He went over and peered up at the mound. “Lordy!”

  “Best not let your grandma hear you talkin’ like that, youngun,” Preacher advised.

  George pointed to the top of the mound. “I’ll bet I could climb up there and wiggle through that opening, Mr. Jensen.”

  “You probably could, but you won’t be doing that, George. It’s too dangerous.”

  “Oh, yeah. There could be Apaches waiting out there, I guess.” George brightened. “But you could gimme a gun—”

  “We’ll handle the fightin’,” Preacher said.

  “You can help us dig out, though,” Smoke added.

  “Sure! That’ll be a change—not gettin’ in trouble for digging in dirt and getting it all over me!”

  One by one, the others woke up and greeted the new day with varying degrees of enthusiasm. Since there was no food except the jerky that Mrs. Bates had—and since they were all thirsty already—they skipped breakfast and got to work clearing away the sand that blocked the cave mouth.

  With his wounded arm, Scratchy did what he could. “Smoke, I been thinkin’ about what we ought to do if those Apaches are gone.”

  “That’s a mighty big if .”

  “Yeah, but there’s a chance some of us can walk outta here and make it back to the stage road. It’s got to be somewhere south of us. If you could get there, somebody would come along, I’ll bet.”

  “Some of us, you said.”

  “I ain’t goin’,” Scratchy declared. “I lost too much blood, and I’d have to drink up too much of the water from the stagecoach if I was along. I’ll stay here and protect the coach. That’s part o’ my job, anyway. You
could send some help back to me, once you got to the next way station.”

  “You’d be long since dead by the time anybody could get back here,” Smoke said.

  Scratchy’s burly shoulders rose and fell. “Shoot, I never really expected to live as long as I have. Drivin’ a stagecoach back and forth across this part of Arizona Territory is a pretty good way to live, as far as I’m concerned, but it ain’t exactly what you’d call safe.”

  Smoke shook his head. “Abandoning my friends doesn’t sit well with me.”

  “Then don’t think of it as abandonin’ anybody. Think of it as savin’ them that you can.”

  The old jehu might have a point there, Smoke thought, but he wasn’t ready to accept such a drastic solution. Besides, trying to walk out of the arid wilderness would hold plenty of dangers of its own.

  “I’ve got something else in mind. It’ll be Christmas in just a few days. My brothers are supposed to meet us in Tucson. When Sally and I don’t show up, they’re liable to come looking for us. They’ll retrace the stagecoach’s route.”

  Scratchy shook his head. “That storm won’t have left any tracks for them to follow.”

  “Don’t underestimate Matt and Luke. They’re pretty good at tracking people down.”

  That was Luke’s job as a bounty hunter, after all, and Matt had ridden as a member of numerous posses on the trail of outlaws, as well as working as a civilian scout for the army.

  “So you’re sayin’ we just squat here and wait for help?”

  “I don’t like it,” Smoke admitted, “but I’m not sure there’s a better option.”

  “None of it matters if we can’t get that water off the coach.”

  “That’s right. We have to have it to save our lives.”

  “So it’s sorta up to the Apaches, and we won’t know if they’re still waitin’ for us until we go outside and see.”

  Preacher, who was working nearby, turned his head toward Smoke and Scratchy. “Hell of a gamble, ain’t it?”

  * * *

  Because of hunger and thirst, the members of the group didn’t have as much strength as they would have had under normal conditions, but they worked steadily that morning without complaining too much. The mountain of sand that blocked the cave mouth gradually shrank.