An Arizona Christmas

by William W. Johnstone

  “Watch for movement,” Smoke said. “See that clump of cactus a couple hundred yards out. Look just to the right and a little above it.”

  “I still don’t—wait! I did see something! But it’s gone now.”

  Preacher said, “Most times, the desert ain’t near as flat as you think it is. It rises and falls, but you don’t notice it as much close up. That wagon’s droppin’ down as it comes toward us, and then—”

  “You’re right,” Ballard said excitedly. “I see it again. You say it’s coming this way.”

  “That’s the way it looks to me,” Smoke said, “which means we’ve got to get busy.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “If that’s a wagon, horses are pulling it. Horses that can take us out of here.”

  “But the Apaches . . .” Ballard’s expression fell as bleak despair overcame him again. “They’ll just kill the horses and whoever’s on the wagon. Maybe we should start shooting to warn them to keep away.”

  “If we didn’t have women and a kid with us, I might agree with you,” Smoke said. “But we’ve got to put that man’s life at risk to try to save them.”

  “One man? You can see well enough to know that?”

  Preacher said, “That’s how it looks to me, too.”

  “Come on,” Smoke said as he started to slide down the mound of sand to inside the cave. “We have a lot of work to do.” Reaching the bottom, he gathered everyone around Mike and Scratchy, who were still sitting with their backs propped against the cave wall.

  “There’s a wagon coming with a team of horses hitched to it,” Smoke explained. “I don’t know who the driver is or what he’s doing here, but we have to get enough of that sand cleared away that the horses can get inside. Our lives probably depend on it.”

  “How’s the fella gonna even get here?” Scratchy said. “Those heathens are still waitin’ out there to kill anybody who comes along, ain’t they?”

  Smoke gave a grim nod. “More than likely. I reckon we’ll just have to keep them distracted. Make them keep their heads down while the wagon’s coming in. If we can do that, we’ve got a chance—but only if we can get the horses inside where they’ll be safe.”

  “Prop me up,” Mike said. “I can dig.”

  “So can I,” Scratchy added. “It’ll be one-handed, but I can do a heap with one arm if I put my mind to it.”

  George said, “I like digging.”

  Sally put a hand on his shoulder and smiled down at him. “It looks like you’ll get a chance to do plenty of it.”

  Catherine bent to take hold of Mike’s arm. “Let me help you up.”

  He smiled at her and nodded.

  Within minutes, all nine people trapped in the cave were at the sand drift, digging at it with their hands, slinging the sand behind them into the cave. Dust rose and created a haze in the air. Millions of motes floated in the rays of sunlight slanting into the cave.

  They looked a little like a pack of dogs digging holes, Smoke thought wryly. But if that was what it was going to take, he was all for it.

  The top of the drift lowered as they spread the sand. The driver of the wagon hadn’t seemed to be in a hurry. The man probably had no idea what was going on ahead of him. He was rolling along across what had to look to him like empty desert.

  Smoke found himself listening for shots that would tell him the Apaches had noticed the approaching wagon. He heard only the grunts of effort and the panting breath of his companions as they worked at the sandy barrier in the cave mouth. The Apaches probably had all their attention concentrated on the cave. They might not see the wagon coming up behind them until it was almost there.

  Smoke was hoping that, anyway.

  With all of them working doggedly at the task, it wasn’t long before he could peer over the top of the sand pile. He paused and searched the landscape for the unexpected sight that might be their salvation.

  There had been talk about a Christmas miracle. Maybe one was about to happen.

  “The wagon’s still there, less than a mile away and steadily coming closer.” Smoke thought eight horses were hitched to it, although from his angle it was difficult to be sure. “Let’s go! We’ve got to get this drift down a little more.”

  The level of the sand continued to fall. Mike and Scratchy, weakened by their wounds, were beginning to slow down. So was Mrs. Bates, who lacked the stamina of the younger people. The others kept at it until Smoke saw that the opening was big enough for the horses to be led over the sand and into the cave.

  No sooner did that happen than rifles began to crack outside.

  “Apaches spotted the wagon! Preacher, grab your rifle and come on!” Smoke snatched up his Winchester leaning against the cave wall and bounded over the much smaller pile of sand.

  Preacher was right behind him.

  “I’m coming with you!” Mike looked around. “Cat, hand me my rifle!”

  Catherine either didn’t notice the nickname he had called her or didn’t care. She grabbed the Winchester and thrust it into his hands, then slid her arm around his waist. “I’ll help you get out there.”

  “Not hardly,” he told her as he shrugged out of her grip. “Stay in here where it’s safe.”

  “I’ll come,” Tom Ballard said as he gripped Mike’s arm to steady him. “I’ve still got my pistol and quite a few rounds for it.”

  They clambered over the sand and out of the cave.

  Sally moved up next to Catherine as the younger woman said, “He should have let me help him!”

  “He just wants to keep you from getting hurt,” Sally said. “I’ve dealt with the same thing from Smoke for years. Men don’t change easily.” She smiled. “It may be hard to believe, but sometimes that’s a good thing.”

  Outside the cave, Smoke saw plumes of powder smoke where the hidden Apaches were firing at the wagon. He and Preacher sprayed shots around those areas as fast as they could to force the raiders to duck and hold their fire. Smoke knew the man on the wagon might turn tail and try to flee. That wouldn’t work. Some of the Apaches would just chase him down and kill him.

  Now that the stranger was only a few hundred yards from the cave, his best chance for survival was to charge ahead and try to reach shelter.

  Smoke wanted to make sure the man realized that. Instinctively, he reached for his hat to signal the driver. “Damn! Preacher! Wave your hat over your head to signal the driver that he should come on. Hurry!”

  The stranger seemed to understand Preacher’s frantic waving. He whipped up his team and sent them galloping toward the cave.

  Smoke went back to shooting at the Apaches. Mike and Ballard added their guns to the covering fire from Smoke and Preacher.

  The stranger was hunched low on the wagon seat, making a smaller target of himself, not an easy task. He was a large man. He was close enough now for Smoke to make out the burly form, the wide-brimmed black hat, and the long white beard that blew back in the wind. As the man drove, he took the reins in his left hand and used his right to pull a long-barreled pistol from a cross-draw rig on his left hip.

  Just in time, too. One of the Apaches suddenly appeared, bounding up to the wagon and leaping onto the side of the driver’s box. He clung to it with one hand while wielding a knife with the other. The white-bearded stranger thrust the revolver toward the raider and pulled the trigger. Flame spouted from the muzzle and touched the Apache’s bare chest for an instant before the heavy slug’s impact sent him flying backwards away from the wagon.

  More Indians sprang from their hiding places in little hollows and tried to get in the wagon’s way. Smoke and Preacher cut down a couple, and their bullets came close enough to make the others fling themselves back into hiding.

  With the wagon less than a hundred yards away, Smoke lowered his rifle. “Tom, Mike, you’ll have to unhitch those horses and get them inside the cave as fast as you can. The driver can help you. Preacher and I will keep the Apaches off of you while you’re doing it.”

  �
��Count on us, Smoke,” Ballard said.

  “We all are.” Smoke’s rifle began to roar as he brought it to his shoulder again.

  With a rumble of wheels and thunder of hoofbeats, the wagon swept past him a moment later. He caught just a glimpse, enough to see it was a long freight wagon with what appeared to be a cargo of some sort heaped underneath a large, tied-down canvas cover. He didn’t know what the teamster was hauling and didn’t care. He was busy keeping the Apaches’ heads down long enough for the other men to complete their task.

  Smoke and Preacher didn’t fire wildly, they just did it quicker than any normal man could do. They picked their shots and aimed at where they knew Apaches were. Only the near-supernatural fighting abilities of those two men kept the savages at bay while the other three unhitched the team and half-led, half-dragged the frightened horses into the cave.

  Ballard came up to Smoke and shouted over the gun-thunder, “The horses are in the cave!”

  Smoke jerked a nod and called, “Preacher! I’m going for the water!” He had already decided to make a try for the barrel lashed to the stagecoach since they were out in the open, anyway.

  The old mountain man’s rifle continued to boom as he yelled, “Go!”

  Smoke turned and flung his Winchester through the cave mouth, then sprinted toward the stagecoach. He was a little surprised to realize that Tom Ballard was right behind him.

  “You’ll need help!” the newspaperman said.

  It was too late to tell Ballard to go back. Smoke had figured with his massive strength, he might be able to carry the water barrel by himself, but it would be easier—and faster—with two men.

  They reached the coach. Smoke’s knife came out and flashed in the sun as he slashed the ropes holding the water barrel. He stuffed a piece of rope into his pocket along with the knife and threw his arms around the barrel. Ballard helped lift the barrel and awkwardly but still swiftly, they ran toward the cave.

  Smoke heard bullets whipping around them. An arrow flew past his ear. Ballard stumbled but didn’t fall and recovered quickly. Smoke hoped it really had been a stumble and that Ballard wasn’t hit.

  Preacher angled closer to them. His rifle had run dry and he had his Colt out, blazing away with it. They reached the sand drift, which was still a couple feet high, and struggled through and over it, into the cave. Preacher ducked in behind them.

  “The barrel’s leaking!” Sally cried.

  Smoke looked down. Sure enough, a small stream of water was spouting from the barrel’s side, from a bullet hole Smoke hadn’t even realized was there. In the chaos, he hadn’t felt the slug strike the barrel.

  They had to plug that hole somehow, or all the precious liquid might be lost.

  Before Smoke could do anything, George said, “I’ve got it!” and jumped forward to shove his finger into the bullet hole. The water stopped flowing.

  “Can you keep your finger there until we think of something else?” Smoke asked as he and Ballard lowered the barrel to the ground.

  “Sure. And look, Mr. Jensen. It’s Santa Claus!”

  CHAPTER 37

  Their thirst momentarily forgotten, everyone turned to look at the stranger and thought for a second the boy was right.

  The man stood there in the center of the cave next to his horses with his fists propped on his hips and a big grin on his bearded face. In addition to the broad-brimmed black hat, he wore a bright red flannel shirt over black whipcord trousers and high-topped boots. With his round, florid face and long white beard, he bore a distinct resemblance to the figure Smoke had seen in paintings depicting Christmas scenes.

  “I been called a lot of things, sonny,” the stranger said in a booming voice, “but I don’t recollect Santy Claus bein’ one of ’em.” He took off the hat, revealing thick, snowy hair that matched his beard, and bowed slightly to Sally, Catherine, and Mrs. Bates. “Ladies. It’s a pleasure and an honor to make your acquaintance. At least, it would be if the circumstances of our meetin’ hadn’t been marred by gunplay.” A thunderous laugh came from his barrel chest following that declaration.

  “I’m Smoke Jensen,” Smoke introduced himself.

  “Call me Nick Kendall,” the stranger said.

  “Saint Nick,” Tom Ballard murmured.

  “What was that?” Kendall shook his head. “I ain’t exactly what anybody would call a saint, neither!”

  “And I ain’t a preacher, neither,” the old mountain man said, “but that’s the handle I’ve gone by all these years.”

  “You’re Preacher? I’ve heard of you.” Kendall stuck out his hand. “This really is an honor.” He shook hands with all the men as Smoke performed the rest of the introductions.

  George looked up at him. “You’re not really Santa Claus?”

  “Why would you think I was, son?” Kendall stroked his beard. “Because of this?”

  George pointed through the cave’s entrance. “You’ve got a wagon out there. That’s sort of like a sleigh. And there were eight horses hitched to it. Eight. That’s the number of reindeer Santa had pulling his sleigh in the poem my ma used to read to me.”

  “ ‘The Night Before Christmas,’” Ballard said. “I remember it, too. You have to admit, Mr. Kendall, you bear a certain resemblance to the jolly old elf in Clement Clarke Moore’s poem.”

  “Maybe. I seem to recall hearin’ somethin’ about it, although I ain’t the sort to read poetry. If I recollect right, ol’ Saint Nick had toys in his sleigh that he delivered to boys and girls all over the world on Christmas Eve. It ain’t quite Christmas Eve, and what I got on my wagon sure ain’t toys.”

  “What is it?” Smoke asked.

  “Guns.”

  They all stared at him for a couple seconds before Preacher drawled, “What sort o’ guns?”

  “Winchester repeaters, Colt and Remington and Smith & Wesson revolvers, and boxes of ammunition for all of ’em. And one other thing . . . a Gatling gun.”

  Mike let out an impressed whistle. “Sounds like you’ve got a whole arsenal out there, Mr. Kendall.”

  “Close to it,” Kendall admitted. “I’m a travelin’ gun salesman. That load is bound for Tucson.”

  “Who’s buying that many guns in Tucson?” Ballard asked with a sudden frown.

  “Fella name of Peabody. Has a store there.”

  Ballard shook his head. “Avery Tuttle really owns that store. Luther Peabody is just a figurehead.”

  “I wouldn’t know nothin’ about that. I just sell my goods, deliver ’em, and move on.”

  Ballard looked like he wanted to say more in response to that, but he controlled the impulse.

  Kendall went on. “I reckon I can look around outside and see how you folks come to be trapped here. I heard Apaches were hellin’ around these parts, but I figured I could dodge ’em. Wouldn’t be the first time I did.”

  “We would have tried to warn you off,” Smoke said, “but as you can see, we have women and a youngster here. We need your horses if we’re going to have any chance of getting away.”

  “My horses and my wagon, you mean? You figure on pilin’ on top of my cargo?”

  Smoke shook his head. “No, we’re going to hitch your team to the stagecoach. They can pull it a lot faster than they can that heavily loaded wagon, especially if all of us were on it, too.”

  Kendall’s cheerful expression hardened slightly. “I reckon it’d be up to me what’s done or not done with my horses.”

  “No offense, Mr. Kendall, but getting these folks to safety matters more to me right now than anything else.”

  For a moment, Smoke and Kendall locked stares.

  Then Kendall shrugged. “I reckon you’re right about that. I got a heap of money tied up in those weapons, though, and you’re askin’ me to abandon them out here in the middle of nowhere. What you figure the chances are they’ll still be here when I come back for ’em?”

  “I don’t know, but I’ll make good your losses, whatever they are.”

  Kendall coc
ked his head a little to the side. “You can do that?”

  The Sugarloaf was one of the most successful and lucrative ranches in Colorado. In addition, Smoke had a gold claim he had located as a young man that he still worked from time to time. Although he didn’t believe in living in any sort of fancy, ostentatious manner, Smoke was one of the richest men in that part of the country.

  “I can do that.” The utter conviction in his voice was enough to make Kendall nod.

  “All right, then. Let’s start thinkin’ about how we’re all gonna get out of here. First, hadn’t you better do somethin’ about that water barrel so the youngster can take his finger out of it?”

  Preacher grabbed one of the branches they had gathered to feed the fire, cut a piece off, and quickly whittled it into a plug for the hole in the water barrel. They each had a drink of the life-sustaining water, then the men stepped away and held a council of war to figure out their plans.

  Smoke said, “The Apaches aren’t going to just let us hitch up those horses without trying to stop us. We were able to unhitch them and lead them into the cave while Preacher and I kept the Apaches busy, but I doubt if that’s going to work again.”

  “What you need is somethin’ that’ll really force ’em to keep their heads down.” Kendall laughed. “It so happens I got just the thing.”

  “The Gatling gun,” Smoke said.

  “Yep. If we can get it set up on top o’ that stagecoach, I can cover all the ground hereabouts. Once that devil gun starts spewin’ out a couple hundred rounds a minute, those heathens’ll be huggin’ the dirt and prayin’ to whatever god they pray to. I guarantee it!”

  Smoke nodded. “While you’re doing that, the rest of us can get the team hitched, load everybody in the coach, and throw in as many guns and as much ammunition as we can. Then we’ll be ready to light a shuck out of here.”

  “Sounds like it might work,” Preacher said, “if we can get that Gatlin’ gun set up.”

  “How about if we move it from the wagon to the stagecoach in the dark?” Mike suggested. “After the moon sets tonight, it’ll be pretty dark.”