An Arizona Christmas

by William W. Johnstone

  “Doesn’t matter. This is Christmas Eve, isn’t it?”

  The stationmaster scratched his head. “Yeah, I think so.”

  “We’re going to spend Christmas Day with our families if we can.”

  “That’s up to you, I reckon.”

  Mike said, “We’d like to lay Scratchy to rest in that little cemetery in the village, Joe.”

  “Sure. I reckon he’d probably like that.”

  There had been a village at this spot along the Santa Cruz River since ancient Indian times. Water was rare and precious in Arizona Territory, but the banks along the Santa Cruz were green with vegetation and the stream had attracted settlers for a long time. Tucson was some fifteen miles north, and as soon as a fresh team had been hitched up, Smoke intended to push on without stopping again.

  First, was the matter of the burial. People from the village of Sahuarita pitched in to help. The local blacksmith also served as the undertaker and had several coffins on hand. The padre at the mission conducted the service and prayed over Scratchy as the old jehu’s body was lowered into a hastily dug grave. The occasion was solemn and a little out of place on the day before the celebration of a famous birth.

  Birth and death had always gone hand in hand, Smoke mused as he stood next to Sally, holding her hand.

  When the prayers had all been said, everyone climbed back onto the stagecoach. Nick Kendall had taken the Gatling gun off the roof, folded up the tripod, and stowed the deadly apparatus in the rear boot. He was going to ride inside for the rest of the trip. George stared at him, still not completely convinced that the jovial, white-bearded giant wasn’t really Santa Claus.

  Smoke took up the reins and sent the coach rolling northward toward Tucson. The journey was almost over.

  * * *

  The river ran fairly straight between Sahuarita Ranch and Tucson, and the stage road followed it closely. The river bed was about twenty feet deep, with steep, rocky bluffs along its sides in places. In other places, the banks were shallow and had clumps of trees growing along them, since the water was close enough for the roots to reach it.

  Five men and their horses waited in one of those clumps of trees, smoking and talking idly as the time dragged by. Nelse Andersen was one of them, but the other four were new men, recruited by Smiler Coe from the steady stream of hardcases and saddle tramps that passed through Tucson. They were good enough for ambushing a stagecoach, Andersen supposed, but he would have felt better about things if Smiler and Sam Brant and Phil Deere had been there.

  It didn’t really matter, Andersen thought as he flicked the butt of the quirley he’d been smoking. It landed in the river. That stagecoach wasn’t ever going to show up. It had been buried in the sandstorm, or the Apaches had massacred everybody on it, or maybe it had fallen into a ravine somewhere. Andersen was convinced that he and the other men were wasting their time.

  Then he heard the swift drumming of hoofbeats from the south.

  He stalked to the edge of the trees and looked in that direction. The sun was low in the western sky, but he spotted the rider galloping along the river trail. He recognized the man as a hardcase named Cardwell, who had been left behind in the village of Sahuarita to watch for the stagecoach.

  At that thought, Andersen’s heart jumped a little in his chest. The only explanation for Cardwell being in such a hurry was that the coach had finally arrived.

  Andersen turned to the other men and snapped, “Get ready. Looks like we may have work to do in a little while.”

  The men who’d been sitting scrambled to their feet. Guns slid out of holsters and cylinders were checked. Andersen stepped out of the trees and raised a hand in greeting as Cardwell reined in.

  “They’re here,” the hardcase said. “I mean, they’re there.” He heaved a breath. “I mean, they’re on their way. They left the way station a while ago.”

  “Did they see you ride out ahead of them?” Andersen asked sharply.

  Cardwell shook his head. “No, I moseyed on out of town when I saw the stagecoach roll in, and then I waited behind a ridge where I could watch the road. As soon as I saw the coach leaving the village and heading this way, I circled around and lit a shuck to warn you, Nelse. I figure they’re about a mile behind me.”

  Andersen turned his head to look at the others. “You heard the man. Get ready! Find some good places to bushwhack that coach and take cover.” He turned back to Cardwell. “Do you know what happened to delay them?”

  “No idea, really,” Cardwell replied with a shake of his head. “But I saw some of ’em takin’ what looked like a body out of the stage. It was wrapped up in a blanket, so I can’t be sure. Looked like a carcass to me, though. Might’ve been the driver. Some cowboy I never saw before was handling the reins, and he had an old man on the seat beside him.”

  Andersen frowned. “They must’ve run into some Apaches. They’re probably pretty lucky to have made it as far as they have.” An ugly grin stretched his hatchetlike face. “Too bad their luck’s about to run out.”

  CHAPTER 41

  The final leg of the journey from Sahuarita Ranch to Tucson would take them a couple of hours, Smoke estimated. They wouldn’t arrive until after dark, but he didn’t think he would have any trouble following the river trail, even at night. “It’s been quite a trip,” he said to Preacher as the coach rocked along, approaching a grove of trees beside the Santa Cruz. “There was a time or two I didn’t know if we’d make it this far.”

  “Fiddlesticks. I don’t believe that for a second. You always knew we’d make it if we kept fightin’ and didn’t give up.”

  “Well . . . I figured we’d have a lot better chance that way. But one of these days, Preacher, we’re liable to come up against odds that are too much even for us.”

  The old mountain man snorted dismissively. “I’ll believe that when I see it,” he declared.

  The words were barely out of his mouth when a muzzle flash spurted orange fire in the shadows under the trees. Smoke felt the wind-rip of the bullet’s passage as it whipped past his left ear. More tongues of flame licked from hidden guns and slugs slashed the air around the coach. One of the horses screamed and reared up in its harness.

  “Ambush!” Smoke shouted as he hauled back on the reins.

  Preacher flung the Winchester to his shoulder and opened fire, peppering the grove with bullets. Smoke drew his Colt and joined the battle. Inside the coach, shots blasted from the guns belonging to Tom Ballard and Nick Kendall.

  Kendall exclaimed, “Blast it! I knew I shoulda kept that Gatlin’ gun out! I’d ’ve made short work of those bushwhacking varmints!”

  Next to Catherine, Mike turned and put his good arm around her, drawing her against him so he could shield her with his own body. Mrs. Bates had already pushed George to the floor and was hovering over him, protecting him the same way Mike was doing with Catherine. Sally stayed low, too. She didn’t have a gun at the moment, or else she would have gotten in the fight, too.

  Bullets stormed back and forth for a few seconds that seemed longer. Another horse screamed as it was hit. The men in the trees had better cover, but the speed and deadly accuracy of Smoke and Preacher helped even the odds. The ambushers were getting a lot stiffer fight than they had expected, more than likely. Trying to bushwhack Smoke Jensen and the old mountain man called Preacher was one of the dumbest things a man could do.

  One by one, the muzzle flashes in the trees died away. Smoke set the stagecoach’s brake and dropped behind it. Preacher was already on the ground.

  “I’ll circle around,” Preacher said as the guns fell silent. “Could be we got all the durn bushwhackin’ buzzards.”

  “I’ll cover you,” Smoke said.

  Preacher disappeared into the dusk, seeming to fade away with uncanny stealth.

  Smoke pouched his iron and picked up the other Winchester from the floorboards of the driver’s box, leveled the repeater at the trees, and waited. “Everybody all right in there?” he asked quietly.
/>   “We’re fine,” Sally replied. “Nobody caught a bullet. . . although quite a few were flying around.”

  Smoke couldn’t be certain why they had been attacked, but he had a pretty good idea it had to do with that trunk of Tom Ballard’s—the one back in the boot. The one full of money intended to save Tucson from being swallowed up by Avery Tuttle’s greed and ambition. Ballard didn’t think Tuttle knew about the money, but Smoke had a hunch he did.

  After a few minutes that seemed longer, Preacher strolled out of the trees and called, “Four dead hombres over here, shot to pieces. Look like typical range trash. Their horses are still tied up.”

  “That’s good,” Smoke said as he came around the front of the team. Two of the horses hitched to the stagecoach were down, killed by the hail of bullets. “We can use a couple of them. They may not be used to pulling in harness, but they can learn.”

  “Another thing, Smoke,” Preacher said when he had walked back over to the stagecoach. “Looked to me like there were five horses here before the shootin’ started.”

  Smoke’s mouth tightened into a grim line. “So one man got away.”

  “Could be. And if he did, you know what he’s gonna do next.”

  “Head straight back to the man who hired him and warn him that this ambush didn’t stop us. And that means we may find more trouble waiting for us in Tucson.”

  * * *

  Smiler Coe, Sam Brant, and Phil Deere were sitting in the saloon they frequented, nursing beers and playing a desultory game of three-handed, penny-ante poker, when the batwings swung open and Nelse Andersen came in. Coe sat up straighter when he saw the tense look on Andersen’s face and noticed that the pale gunman was holding himself rather stiffly.

  Andersen stalked toward the table. As he came closer, Coe saw how he had his left arm pressed tightly against his side. A small bloodstain was visible on Andersen’s shirt.

  “Oh, hell,” Coe said quietly.

  Brant and Deere hadn’t noticed Andersen’s arrival, but they looked up at hearing Coe’s curse. Brant cursed, too.

  Deere said, “Looks like something’s wrong, Smiler.”

  Coe ignored that stupidly obvious comment and signaled the bartender for a bottle of whiskey. Andersen pulled back one of the empty chairs and slumped into it. “That damn stagecoach got past us,” he said, getting right down to it.

  “Was Ballard on it?”

  “Yeah, along with a couple gunslinging sons of bitches up on the box. Don’t know who they were, but they weren’t the usual driver and guard, that’s for sure.” Andersen paused, then added grimly, “They shot the hell out of us. I’m the only one who made it, and I got nicked.”

  Coe frowned, wondering if Andersen had abandoned the other bushwhackers and got out of there in a hurry once he was wounded. It didn’t really matter, he supposed. Either way, the stagecoach had gotten through and was on its way to Tucson. “How bad are you hit?”

  “I’ll be all right,” Andersen said. “Hurts like blazes, though.”

  Coe grunted. One of the girls who worked there placed a bottle on the table. He nodded toward it and told Andersen, “There’s some medicine for you.” He scraped his chair back. “I’ve got things to do.”

  “Going to see the boss?” Brant asked.

  “You just let me worry about that,” Coe snapped. He didn’t like letting his men in on his plans too much. He told them what they needed to know, and that was enough.

  Andersen said, “We need to get more men together. We can give those bastards a welcome they’re not expecting when the stage rolls in.”

  “I told you, let me worry about that.” Jaw clenched to restrain his temper, and his usual grin nowhere in sight, Coe strode out of the saloon.

  * * *

  Avery Tuttle could often be found in his office even at a late hour. Coe checked there first and saw a light burning in the window. Tuttle was there, all right. He went to the front door, found it locked, and banged a fist on it.

  A few moments later, Tuttle opened the door and glared out at him. The businessman wasn’t wearing his coat, but his collar and tie were still in place. “What is it? This had better be important.”

  “It is. You might want to hear it inside, though.”

  Tuttle squinted angrily at him for a second, then stepped back.

  Coe went inside and heeled the door closed behind him. He glanced around the outer office. No sign of Amy Perkins. She had gone home for the day. Well, it was Christmas Eve, after all. Anyway, Tuttle had no interest in any after-hours shenanigans with his pretty secretary. Amy had told Coe she’d tried to flirt with Tuttle, only to have him steadfastly ignore her efforts.

  “That stagecoach got through,” Coe said bluntly. “Ballard and the money are on the way here. Probably won’t be long until the coach shows up.”

  Tuttle drew in a deep breath and his clean-shaven face tightened. “You told me your men could stop it.”

  “I figured they could. Nelse Andersen was the only one who got away, and he said a couple men on the coach are good with their guns. They shot up my bunch.” Coe shrugged. “Maybe Ballard hired himself some guards.”

  “I don’t care what he did. You were told to stop that money from getting here. You failed. Failed miserably.”

  The words lashed at Coe.

  Fury welled up inside him at being talked to like that. In an instant, he could put a bullet in Tuttle. It would be even more satisfying to beat the life out of the man. Coe knew that wouldn’t really accomplish anything, though.

  “What do you want us to do now? We can jump the coach as soon as it rolls in.”

  “And do what? Steal the money and murder Tom Ballard? Everyone in town knows you work for me. I’d be arrested, even if you got away.”

  “I don’t see any other way to keep Ballard from putting that money in the bank.”

  For a moment, Tuttle just stood there with the wheels of his brain obviously spinning in his head. Then he said, “We’ll let him put it in the bank. Tomorrow’s Christmas. He can’t put any plans into action until after that, so the money will stay there for a few days. That will give you and your men time to steal it.”

  “Rob the bank, you mean?” Coe said.

  “That’s exactly what I mean.”

  Coe frowned. “We’ll have to go on the run.”

  “The border’s not far, and there’ll be enough money in the safe to let you and your friends live like kings in Mexico for a long time. Maybe from now on.”

  Coe rubbed his beard-stubbled chin as he thought. He pointed out, “That won’t solve your problem with Ballard.”

  “I’ll handle Tom Ballard. Anyway, without that loan, his business won’t stay afloat for much longer, and neither will the others I’ve set my sights on. I wouldn’t have mourned Ballard’s death, but in the long run he’s no threat to me. That money is.”

  “I don’t much cotton to the idea of spending the rest of my life as a wanted bank robber.”

  “You’ll be well paid for it.”

  Coe shrugged. “I reckon you’re right about that. So we don’t do anything when the stagecoach gets here?”

  “That’s right. Let Ballard believe that he’s won.” Tuttle’s smile was cold and vicious. “He’ll soon find out just how wrong he is.”

  CHAPTER 42

  Smoke steered toward the lights of Tucson—a welcome sight in the darkness. Two of the bushwhackers’ horses were in harness, and the other two saddle mounts were tied behind the stagecoach.

  “You reckon they’ll hit us again when we get to town?” Preacher said.

  “Wouldn’t be surprised.”

  The old mountain man patted the stock of the Winchester he held. “We’ll be ready for ’em if they do.”

  However, as the coach rolled into the settlement and Smoke headed for the stage line’s local office and barn, the street appeared peaceful. Only a few people were in sight, most of them around the brightly lit saloons. It was Christmas Eve, and he supposed most folks were
at home with their families—if they had homes and families.

  The stage line office was dark.

  Preacher said, “By now they’ve probably given up on us ever gettin’ here.”

  “We can unhitch the team ourselves,” Smoke said as he drove past the office. “For now, let’s go up to the hotel. I don’t know where Tom and Mrs. Bates live, or where Catherine’s lieutenant might be, if he’s still here.”

  “I ain’t sure Miss Bradshaw’s real anxious to see that lieutenant anymore,” Preacher said with a chuckle. “She seems a mite more interested in ol’ Mike.”

  “Well, that’s none of our business . . . thank goodness.”

  Smoke brought the stagecoach to a halt in front of the hotel. Before he and Preacher could climb down, the double doors of the hotel’s front entrance swung open and several figures appeared on the porch.

  “Smoke!” a familiar voice called.

  Smoke grinned as he recognized Matt and Luke. A couple men followed them, and to Smoke’s surprise, he knew them, too. He hadn’t sent letters to Ace and Chance, but the Jensen boys were there and Smoke was glad. He had grown fond of the two young drifters and adventurers who shared the family name.

  “You fellas don’t know how good it is to see you,” Smoke said as he set the brake and wrapped the reins around the lever.

  “Had some trouble getting here, did you?” Luke asked.

  “A mite. We’ll tell you all about it, but right now, we need to get this coach unloaded.”

  Ace had already stepped down off the porch and pulled on the coach’s door. “Let me give you folks a hand.”

  Catherine tugged on the rope latch and emerged first. The sight of a pretty girl made Chance perk up. He hurried forward, too, evidently bent on shouldering his brother aside so he could be the one to help Catherine.

  She ignored both of them, however, and turned back to assist a burly young man with a bandaged arm and thigh. “You two, help me with Mr. Olmsted.” It was the only attention she gave them.

  As Mike was climbing awkwardly out of the coach, another figure emerged from the hotel. Lieutenant Preston said, “The stagecoach is here? My God, why didn’t someone tell me? Miss Bradshaw? Catherine Bradshaw?”