A Jensen Family Christmas

by William W. Johnstone

  Preacher knew all too well what it felt like to have a shot go right past his head. He had experienced that sensation many, many times over the years. And once somebody did, they never forgot what it was like.

  “It sure sounds like somebody’s out to get you, all right,” he said. “I’m sorry for havin’ to ask this, but is there anybody else who might want to hurt you? Any enemies you or Polecat—I mean, Pierre—made over the years?”

  “I can’t think of who it might be,” she said solemnly. “Once Pierre stopped going to the mountains, we lived a very peaceful life.”

  “George is gonna inherit your money, I reckon?”

  “Of course.”

  “And he knows that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, then, maybe what you oughta do is take him outta your will and make sure he knows about that, too. If he ain’t gonna profit by somethin’ happenin’ to you, then there’s no reason for him to hurt you.”

  “But I couldn’t do that,” Adelaide said. “He’s the only relative I have left. There’s no one else to leave the money to.”

  “Hell, leave it to charity if you have to!” Preacher burst out. Then he went on quickly, “I’m sorry about the language, Adelaide. I’m just a mite worked up, because I don’t like to hear about you bein’ treated in such a no-good fashion.”

  She smiled and said, “I knew you’d feel that way, Arthur. That’s why I came out here to Denver to try to find you. I thought you might be willing to protect me.”

  “Durned right I am!”

  “You see, I believe, I really believe, that in time George will come to his senses. It’s just a matter of making sure that he doesn’t do anything . . . unforgivable. . . until then.”

  Unforgivable—like murdering his own grandma, thought Preacher.

  “You want me to keep you alive,” he said, more of a statement than a question.

  “That’s right. I’m not just worried about George himself. I think he’s capable of hiring someone to try to harm me, like that wagon driver, if it wasn’t him at the reins. And if he’s sunk to the level of trying to have me assassinated by gunfire, by promising part of the profits to whoever performs the foul deed . . .”

  “You need somebody lookin’ after you, all right. Ain’t no doubt about that.” An idea occurred to Preacher. “And I’m right glad you came to me about it.”

  “You are?” For the first time since she’d sat down at the table, Adelaide DuBois looked a little hopeful.

  “That’s right,” Preacher said. “It just so happens, I’m on my way to a place where you’d be safer than just about anywhere else east or west of the Mississippi. Did you have any plans for Christmas?”

  “Christmas?” Adelaide repeated, apparently confused. “No, not at all, since I’m alone. And to be honest, with everything that’s been going on, I . . . I haven’t really felt much like celebrating.”

  “I understand that. But I’m on my way to the Sugarloaf, a ranch not all that far from here, to spend Christmas with some folks who are the closest thing to family I’ve got. You mentioned ’em yourself a few minutes ago. Smoke and Sally Jensen.” Preacher squeezed her hand for a change. “I want you to come along with me.”

  She was shaking her head almost before the words were out of his mouth.

  “Oh, no, I couldn’t. I wouldn’t want to intrude—”

  “Smoke and Sally wouldn’t think of it as intrudin’, I can puredee guarantee that. They’ll tell you their own selves, any friend of mine is a friend of theirs.”

  “It just doesn’t seem like it would be proper.”

  “Well, I don’t know about you, Adelaide, but I’m so goshdarned old, I don’t much give a buffalo’s hind end what folks think is or ain’t proper no more.”

  She laughed and said, “I suppose we are past the age where respectability is the first consideration.”

  “Yep, that’s the way I look at it.”

  A concerned expression came over her face again. She said, “But if George really has sent . . . well, hired killers . . . after me, it could easily be dangerous for me to visit your friends’ home. There’s no telling what trouble might break out.”

  “That’s just what I’m gettin’ at!” Preacher said. “Smoke’s brother Luke is supposed to be comin’ for the holidays, too, and maybe his adopted brother, Matt. So there’s gonna be a whole family of Jensens there, and it don’t matter how many gun-wolves that no-good grandson o’ yours sends after you. With that many Jensens around, they’re gonna be outnumbered!”

  Despite that assurance, Adelaide still hesitated, but only for a moment. Then she smiled, reached over with her other hand so she could clasp both of Preacher’s, and said, “I accept your very kind invitation, Arthur. And I hope that . . . well, that everything I’ve told you is just the maundering imagination of an old woman and there won’t really be any trouble.”

  “Don’t you worry about that,” Preacher told her. “Shoot, I don’t reckon Smoke and the others would feel like it was really Christmas if there wasn’t some kind of Hades breakin’ loose!”

  CHAPTER 13

  Amity, Utah

  Luke Jensen had shot it out with countless outlaws over the years. He had been betrayed, gunned down, and left for dead in the closing days of the Civil War. He had endured torture at the hands of evil men.

  Despite that, he had still felt a shiver go through him when he heard Marshal Ed Rowan’s words.

  Maybe that was because in addition to listing the names of Hank Trafford’s three children, the lawman had also used the phrase “your responsibility now.”

  As a bounty hunter, Luke had spent nearly two decades drifting from place to place, never settling down or feeling any desire to do so. After Smoke had discovered that his older brother, long thought dead, was actually still alive, he had made it plain that Luke was welcome on the Sugarloaf anytime, even if he wanted to make the visit permanent and consider the ranch his home.

  As much as Luke enjoyed spending time with Smoke and Sally, he had never even considered taking them up on that offer. He just wasn’t cut out for putting down roots.

  Because of that, he hadn’t had any real responsibility for years, other than keeping himself alive. That was the way he liked it.

  “Wait just a minute, Marshal,” he said. “You can’t pawn that off on me. I didn’t even know Trafford had any kids.”

  “Don’t matter whether you knew or not,” Rowan snapped. “You’re the one who just made them orphans. That means you’ve got to step up and do the right thing.”

  “No, I . . . Wait. You said orphans?”

  “Yup,” the lawman said, nodding solemnly. “Their mother’s dead, too?”

  “Died six months ago. Her name was Alice.” Rowan’s lips pursed in disapproval. “From the way she looked and talked sometimes, most folks around here figured she must’ve been a soiled dove that Hank took out of a house somewhere. She wasn’t any saint, that’s for sure.”

  It took Luke a second to realize what the marshal meant. When he did, he said, “She wasn’t a Mormon?”

  “No, she wasn’t, and Hank never should’ve brought her here. But they had those kids . . .” Rowan shrugged. “And I reckon she didn’t have anyplace else to go. Probably didn’t feel like she could ever go back to her own home, havin’ lived such a shameful life.”

  By now, a number of Amity’s citizens were clustered around Hank Trafford’s body, and some hostile glances were being sent in Luke’s direction. Rowan must have noticed that, because he said, “Go across the street there and wait in my office. I’ll clear off the crowd and get our undertaker up here to deal with Hank’s body. Best you’re not just standing around out in the open while that’s goin’ on.”

  Luke understood what he meant. Rowan didn’t want the resentment that the townspeople felt toward Luke to boil up into more trouble.

  “All right,” he said. “I’ll wait there.”

  Luke crossed the street, while Rowan moved toward the crowd an
d started waving his arms and telling the townspeople to move on.

  Inside, the marshal’s office looked like scores of others Luke had seen over the years. The furnishings included a scarred wooden desk with a straight-backed chair behind it, a potbellied stove in one corner, a dusty sofa, a hat tree, a gun cabinet with rifles and shotguns racked in it, and a wooden cabinet with doors on it that was used for some sort of storage, more than likely. A door in the back wall led to a cellblock, Luke supposed, but he didn’t open it to make sure of that.

  One thing was different: No pot of coffee simmered on the stove, as it had in practically every other lawman’s office Luke had ever set foot in. He didn’t see how these folks survived without it, but that was their own business, he supposed. He craved a cup now but knew he would have to wait until he was on the trail again to brew some for himself.

  Through the front window, Luke watched what was going on in the street. Rowan had succeeded in dispersing part of the crowd, anyway, although a few people were still standing around, watching to see what was going to happen.

  A fat man with a jolly grin on his face pulled up in a wagon, and he and a couple of the remaining bystanders loaded Hank Trafford’s body in the back of the wagon. Once the wagon had turned around and gone back down the street, the remainder of the crowd finally drifted away.

  Luke expected the marshal to join him in the office, but instead, Rowan turned, headed along the street, and was soon out of sight. Luke didn’t like that much. He wasn’t sure what Rowan was doing, but he was suspicious enough that he considered getting on his horse and riding out of Amity right now.

  But if he did that, it would mean giving up the reward for Trafford. He didn’t have either the outlaw’s body or the affidavit Marshal Rowan had promised to give him. Without one of those things, he couldn’t collect.

  He waited, with a frown on his face, still wishing he had a cup of coffee.

  A quarter of an hour dragged by. Then he spotted Rowan coming back along the street toward the office, herding three small children in front of him like they were sheep.

  Luke cursed through gritted teeth. If he stalked out of here, went to his horse, and rode out of town, it would look like he was running away, and that would stick in his craw.

  Actually, it would more than look like he was running away, he told himself. He would be . . . and he couldn’t bring himself to do that.

  So he was still there when the marshal opened the door and ushered the youngsters inside the office. He closed the door behind him, looked at Luke, and grunted.

  “Halfway figured you’d have lit a shuck outta here before now,” he said. “You must really want that reward money.”

  “We don’t have to talk about that now,” Luke said with a tiny nod toward the three children.

  “Oh, they already know you killed their pa.”

  Luke grimaced at Rowan’s casual tone of voice.

  The lawman went on, “It ain’t like they ever saw that much of him. Hank was always gone, off robbing banks and such, and left their ma to raise ’em. He never stayed put any longer than he had to.”

  Luke looked down at the children. All three of them regarded him solemnly, their expressions so serious, it seemed unlikely that they ever smiled. If that was true, thought Luke, it was mighty sad.

  They all had curly blond hair, a few light, widely scattered freckles, and snub noses. The oldest boy—Bodie, Luke recalled Marshal Rowan calling him—was about eight years old. The girl, Hannah, was maybe six, and then the littlest one, Teddy, was four or five.

  Bodie and Teddy wore canvas trousers and homespun shirts. Hannah’s dress looked like it had been made out of a feed sack. The clothes were well worn and sported patches here and there, but the garments appeared to be clean. The children had decent shoes on their feet.

  “You said it’s been six months since . . . ,” Luke began, but then his voice trailed off.

  “Since their ma died?” Clearly, it didn’t bother Rowan to talk about it. Why should it? She had been a Gentile, after all. “That’s right. Some of the women here in town have been lookin’ after them since then, sort of passin’ ’em around. We’re not monsters here, you know, Jensen. We’re not gonna stand by and let kids go hungry or do without clothes and a roof over their heads. But there’s a limit to how much we’ll do for them, and now that you’re here, we’ve reached it.”

  “Well, I’m not going to adopt them!”

  The harsh words came out of Luke’s mouth without him really thinking about what he was saying. As the expressions on the youngsters’ face grew even more dour, he regretted that emphatic statement. He had only told the truth, though. He didn’t need or want a ready-made family.

  “That’s all right, mister,” Bodie said. “We don’t want anybody to take care of us who don’t really want to.”

  “Now, hold on,” Luke told the boy. “I never said I wouldn’t . . . Well, I don’t really know what I can do . . .”

  He had to bite back another curse of frustration.

  “I don’t really care what you do with ’em, as long as you get them out of Amity,” Rowan said. “They don’t belong here.”

  The little girl, Hannah, turned her head to look up at the marshal and asked, “Where do we belong?”

  Rowan had the decency to look a little uncomfortable, at least, as he said, “I don’t know. I reckon that’ll be up to Mr. Jensen here.”

  Luke closed his eyes for a second and sighed. He didn’t see any way out of this. He couldn’t ride off and leave these three youngsters here, where they weren’t wanted. He wouldn’t abandon any kid to that fate.

  Maybe he could find some place that knew how to deal with orphans....

  That thought was going through his mind when he suddenly caught his breath. He did know of a place like that, he realized, and as luck would have it, he had planned to head in that direction as soon as he finished with the chore of tracking down Hank Trafford and dealing with the outlaw.

  A while back he had gotten a letter from his sister-in-law Sally, asking him to come to the Sugarloaf and spend Christmas with her and Smoke. She was sending similar invitations to other members of the family, she had said in the letter, but she didn’t know who else was going to be there.

  And it didn’t really matter, Luke told himself. What was important at the moment was that in the town of Big Rock, not far from Smoke’s Sugarloaf Ranch, an orphanage had been established. The Holy Spirit Orphanage, that was what it was called, he remembered. And Sally had a lot of pull with the folks who ran it.

  If anybody could find a good home for these three sad-faced youngsters staring up at him, it was Sally Jensen. She had done just that sort of thing before.

  “All right,” Luke said. “I’ll take them with me. What about their belongings?”

  Marshal Rowan looked relieved. He said, “The lady who’s been takin’ care of them lately said she’d pack it all up. You can go by there and get it on your way out of town.”

  “Speaking of that, I’m going to need a wagon and a team. I can’t have all three of them hanging on me while we’re riding horseback.”

  “Levi Anderson will give you a good deal,” Rowan said. “You’ll need some supplies, too.”

  “Yeah, I know.” Luke sighed. “I don’t suppose there’s a bank here in town?”

  Rowan shook his head and said, “Nope. Closest one is up in Fillmore, a day’s ride north of here. You’ll be able to collect that bounty there, I reckon. You got cash to pay for what you’ll need here?”

  Luke nodded. He had the money, all right, but paying for a wagon, a team, and supplies would leave him pretty low on funds. Still, he thought as he looked at the three children, it had to be done.

  “Get that affidavit written out, Marshal,” he said. “I don’t suppose the townspeople would like it if I stayed here overnight and the kids and I got a fresh start in the morning?”

  “Be best if you didn’t,” Rowan said.

  That was the answer Luke was
expecting. He said, “All right, kids, we’ll pick up what we need, get your gear, and then we’ll be on our way to the Sugarloaf.” He glanced at Rowan. “It’s a better place than this, anyway. You’ll like it there.”

  “I don’t know,” eight-year-old Bodie said. “Ain’t that what they say when you die? That you’re goin’ to a better place?”

  “Nobody’s dying where we’re going,” Luke said.

  Then, as he remembered some of the violent Christmases he had shared with his family in the past, he fervently hoped that was true this time.

  “Wait a minute,” Denny said as she finished buttoning up her shirt, which had dried quickly in the thin air and hot sun. Her cousins Ace and Chance, along with her brother Louis, still sat on the log, with their backs to her. “This was supposed to be the story of how the two of you found out that Uncle Luke is really your father, and the only time either of you even mentioned yourselves, it was just in passing.”

  Ace and Chance had been trading back and forth as they told the story, although as usual, Chance was actually doing most of the talking and the more taciturn Ace just spoke up now and then to clarify some point or rein in Chance’s exaggerations.

  “All these other people are important to what happened later,” Ace said. “You have to understand what brought them all together.”

  “We know what brought them together,” Denny insisted. “They came to the Sugarloaf to celebrate Christmas.”