A Jensen Family Christmas

by William W. Johnstone

  Monte was behind his desk, frowning and licking the lead in a pencil he was using to laboriously write a report for the county commissioners. When the door opened and Smoke and Pearlie strode in, a pleased expression appeared on the lawman’s face. He hadn’t been expecting Smoke, but they were old friends, and he was always glad to see him.

  The same was true of Pearlie. Both he and Monte had worked together as hired guns in the past. In fact, they had been drawing wages from the same man when they first met Smoke. That fateful encounter had changed both their lives much for the better.

  When Smoke was in town earlier, he and Monte had had coffee together at Louis Longmont’s. Because of that, Monte said, “I didn’t figure I’d see you again today, Smoke, but come on in and sit down, both of you. There’s coffee on the stove.”

  “I’m too mad to sit, Monte,” Smoke said. The dark, stormy expression on his face confirmed that.

  Monte frowned and asked, “What’s put a burr under your saddle? Is it that business with Aguilar again?”

  As Smoke had suspected, Monte had been out of town on law business the day Aguilar and his entourage had arrived in Big Rock. He’d been called out to one of the smaller spreads in the valley to settle a dispute over a bull. But when he’d gotten back to town, Louis had filled him in on what had happened, and he had discussed the matter with Smoke since then, too.

  “You could say that,” Smoke replied to the sheriff’s question. “Tom Nunnley needs to take his wagon out on the trail to the Sugarloaf. About five miles west of town, in a field just north of the trail, he’ll find the bodies of three of Aguilar’s hired gunmen.”

  Tom Nunnley owned the hardware store in Big Rock and also served as the town’s undertaker. Hearing that his services were required in that capacity made Monte take a deep breath and press both hands down on the desk, hard.

  “What happened?” he asked. “Is anybody else hurt?”

  “Me and Cal are gonna be bruised and sore in the mornin’,” Pearlie said. “We were on our way to town in the buckboard, to pick up a few things Miss Sally wanted, when a bunch of those varmints ambushed us. The buckboard wrecked, and the two of us were pinned down behind some rocks. They would’ve finished us off if Smoke hadn’t come along just then, killed three of ’em, and wounded another. The rest of the bunch decided to light out instead of keepin’ the fight goin’.”

  Monte’s face had settled into grim lines as he listened to Pearlie’s story. When the foreman was finished, Monte stood up and said, “We need to go have a talk with Aguilar. I’m no lawyer and don’t know what sort of legal case he has with his claims, but I know good and well he can’t send gun-wolves out to the Sugarloaf to murder your men, Smoke!”

  “You can talk to him,” Smoke said, “but I don’t expect it to do much good. All Aguilar has to do is deny knowing anything about what happened, and chances are we won’t be able to prove otherwise. But I reckon we ought to at least make the effort.”

  Monte reached for his hat and nodded, saying, “We sure as hell will.”

  The three men headed for the Big Rock Hotel. The overcast had continued to break up as the day went on, and the sky had quite a bit of blue in it now. The air still possessed a chilly bite, though, and was cold enough for their breath to fog in front of their faces as they crossed the street and angled toward the hotel.

  The hotel lobby was warm, maybe a little too much so. Smoke would have asked the clerk if Aguilar was in, but he didn’t have to. The don himself sat in one of the armchairs arranged near the big front window. He had an open newspaper in his lap.

  In a chair next to his sat his wife, Mariana, who was doing some sort of needlework; and a little farther away, in a straight chair, was the heavyset Mexican woman who was usually around anytime Mariana was—although Smoke recalled from his conversation with Sally when he returned to the Sugarloaf with Pearlie and Cal that the servant hadn’t accompanied Mariana on her visit to the ranch that morning.

  Sally had still been irritated that Mariana had come out to the Sugarloaf supposedly on a friendly visit when her real purpose had been to dig for information about Smoke’s efforts to contest her husband’s claim. She had put that annoyance aside immediately when she heard about Pearlie and Cal being ambushed. She had fussed over the two cowboys, treating their minor injuries and promising treats to make them feel better. That had caused Cal to perk right up.

  Smoke had left him at the ranch to keep an eye on things while he took Pearlie with him to Big Rock. He didn’t believe Aguilar’s men would try anything else so soon, but he wanted Cal on hand at the Sugarloaf just in case of trouble.

  A cigar smoldered in an ashtray on the small table next to Aguilar’s chair. Not getting in any hurry, he folded the newspaper, dropped it in his lap, picked up the cigar, and took a puff on it before he looked up at Smoke, nodded, and said coolly, “Señor Jensen.”

  He probably suspected that Smoke was here because of the ambush. He might not be aware yet it had failed, though. That would depend on whether or not any of the gunmen who had fled the scene had brought word to town of what had happened. To the best of Smoke’s knowledge, Aguilar had never laid eyes on Pearlie until now, so the foreman’s presence wasn’t enough to tip him off.

  “Don Sebastian,” Smoke said in an equally chilly tone. Calling him that was more respect than the man deserved, in Smoke’s opinion, but he supposed it wouldn’t hurt anything to be civil.

  It was quickly getting past the time for civility, though.

  “I have some news for you,” Smoke went on. “Three of your men are out at the edge of my range, dead.”

  Mariana gasped and dropped the needlework she was doing. Aguilar sat up straighter. His nostrils flared from the sharp breath he took, and his left hand dropped to the folded newspaper and clutched it hard enough to make the paper crackle. If he wasn’t genuinely surprised, he was a good actor.

  His lips tight under the narrow mustache, Aguilar said, “You found the bodies, señor?”

  “No,” Smoke said. “I killed them.”

  Aguilar’s jaw clenched even harder. He looked at Monte and said, “You heard him, Sheriff. He admits to the killings.”

  “You haven’t heard the whole story,” Monte snapped.

  More in control of himself now, Aguilar gestured with the hand holding the cigar and said, “Then, by all means, continue, Señor Jensen.”

  Beside him, Mariana looked pale and shaken. She might have been willing to serve as a spy for her husband, but Smoke had a hunch she hadn’t known anything about the ambush.

  “Two of my men were on their way to town in a buckboard,” Smoke said. “They were ambushed by eight of your men. I happened along just in the nick of time, when they had my foreman here”—he nodded toward Pearlie—“and another of my hands pinned down and were about to wipe them out. I killed three of them with my rifle and wounded another, and then the wounded man and the rest of the bunch lost their nerve and took off for the tall and uncut.”

  Aguilar stared at him for a couple of seconds, then demanded, “How do you know they were my men?”

  “I recognized them,” Smoke replied bluntly. “I saw them with you here in town the day you arrived. They work for you, all right, no doubt about that.”

  “There is every doubt,” Aguilar snapped. “It just so happens that yesterday I discharged three of the men working for me under Señor Hinton’s supervision. I decided that their services were no longer required. Those three must be the ones who invaded your ranch and attacked your men.”

  It was Smoke’s turn to stare, only his look was one of disbelief rather than a stall to think up a lie, which obviously was what had just taken place on Aguilar’s part. He laughed humorlessly and said, “Do you expect us to believe that, Aguilar?”

  Instead of answering the question, Aguilar looked at Monte and said, “Are you going to stand by and allow this persecution, Sheriff?”

  “It seems to me that Smoke has reasonable cause to believe you’re inv
olved in what happened, Señor Aguilar,” Monte said. “After all, the men work for you—”

  “Worked for me,” Aguilar interrupted.

  Monte shrugged and went on, “That story about you firing them yesterday seems mighty convenient.”

  “Then go find Señor Hinton and ask him. He was there when it occurred. I believe you can probably find him at the . . . What is it called? Oh, yes, the Brown Dirt Cowboy Saloon. If he is not there, one of the other men probably will be and can tell you where to locate him.” A calculating look appeared in Aguilar’s eyes. “Better yet, just ask my wife here. Mariana, darling, you remember how I mentioned to you last night that I had dismissed several of the men?”

  Aguilar was quick on his feet mentally, Smoke realized, and evidently, so was Mariana, because she summoned up a weak smile and said, “Sí, of course, Sebastian.” She looked at Smoke, Monte, and Pearlie and went on, “Es verdad. It is the truth. My husband said something to me about this very matter yesterday evening.”

  Smoke’s jaw tightened. Mariana was lying, too, just like Aguilar. He was too much of a gentleman to accuse a lady of something like that, though, at least without proof.

  However, Pearlie took exception. He blurted out, “Why, if that ain’t the biggest pack of—”

  Smoke stopped him with an upraised hand. He said, “I understand you paid a visit to the Sugarloaf this morning, Doña Mariana.”

  “Sí, I did. It was a very pleasant visit with your lovely wife.”

  “Sally’s mighty fond of Pearlie and Cal. She would’ve been mighty upset if they’d been killed.”

  “And she would have every right to be.” Her mouth was a thin line now. “But that does not change the truth of what Sebastian has told you.”

  For whatever reason—avarice, fear, or something else—she was a faithful wife and was going to support her husband’s story, thought Smoke. He supposed he shouldn’t have expected any other response from her. Aguilar had been certain she would back his play.

  Monte asked, “What about the other men who were with the hombres Smoke killed?”

  Aguilar shrugged and said, “What about them? I have no idea who they were. They have nothing to do with me. I am certain what happened is that the three I discharged persuaded some other lowlifes to help them ambush Señor Jensen’s men. They probably had the misguided idea that if they harmed Señor Jensen in some way, I would take them back into my employ.”

  “You have an answer for just about everything, don’t you, mister?” Smoke said.

  “It is easy to answer questions when one tells the truth.”

  Smoke doubted whether Aguilar had more than a nodding acquaintance with the truth. But the man’s smug, smoothly constructed wall of lies seemed to be impenetrable . . . except for maybe one small chink.

  “I’m going to talk to Hinton.”

  “Go right ahead. I am certain he will tell you the same thing I have.”

  Aguilar’s confidence seemed genuine. Either they had worked out their story earlier, in case of the ambush’s failure—although it had seemed to Smoke that Aguilar was taken by surprise and was coming up with things on the spur of the moment—or else Aguilar knew exactly where Hinton was and intended to get word to him before Smoke and Monte could find him.

  Either way, the gunman from Texas would be another dead end, more than likely.

  “I try to let my lawyers handle legal matters,” Smoke said, “but when friends of mine get bushwhacked and nearly killed, that takes it to a whole different level.”

  “So what are you saying?” Aguilar shot back. “That you intend to take the law into your own hands?” Again, he looked at Monte. “You heard him threaten me, Sheriff.”

  “That didn’t sound like a threat to me,” Monte said.

  “Then clearly your friendship with Señor Jensen is blinding you to your duty as a lawman.”

  That was the wrong thing to say to Monte Carson, whose own shady past as a gunman had made him determined to uphold the law once he pinned on a badge. He stiffened and said, “You’d better rein that in, Señor Aguilar. Nothing blinds me to enforcing the law, and I’m not scared of your money—or your hired guns.”

  Smoke touched his friend lightly on the arm and said, “We might as well go, Monte. We’re not doing any good here.”

  “No, I reckon not,” Monte said heavily.

  The three of them left the hotel, with Pearlie casting a couple of angry glances over his shoulder as they did so. Outside, as they paused on the boardwalk, Monte sighed and went on, “I’ll hunt up Hinton and talk to him, anyway, but I’ve got a hunch I’ll be wasting my time, Smoke.”

  “I agree with you. Aguilar’s slick, and Hinton will be, too.”

  “It’s just that without any proof, and with them denying everything, there’s not much I can do other than sending Tom Nunnley out to bring in those bodies.”

  “Well, there’s that much, anyway. I’d just as soon not have their carcasses polluting my range any longer than necessary.”

  “If Aguilar sent them after you—and I don’t doubt that for a second—they failed. You think he’ll make another move against you?”

  “I don’t doubt that for a second,” Smoke said.

  CHAPTER 27

  The MacMurphy Sanitarium

  The man who walked into the sanitarium’s front entrance was a little above medium height, broad shouldered, and had a darkly tanned face, with a hawk nose above a brown mustache. He stepped into the opening between the foyer and the sitting room and looked around, his deep-set eyes darting back and forth as he studied the patients who were there. Evidently not finding who he was looking for, he approached one of the nurses and took off his hat.

  “Excuse me, miss. I’d like to see one of your patients here. Bill Williams is his name.”

  The young woman’s eyebrows rose in surprise under her starched white cap. She repeated, “Bill Williams?”

  “That’s right,” the visitor said with a nod. “Good-sized fella, dark hair—”

  “I know who Mr. Williams is,” the nurse said. “If you’ll come with me, sir, I’ll take you to Dr. MacMurphy’s office.”

  The man shook his head. “I don’t need to see the doctor. I just want a word with old Bill—”

  “Please, sir, follow me.”

  Frowning in confusion and irritation, the visitor trailed the nurse from the sitting room, along a hallway, to a door with a fancy gilt nameplate on it that read DR. WALTER MACMURPHY. She knocked on the door. A man’s voice called brusquely from inside, “What is it?”

  “There’s a gentleman here I think you should speak with, Doctor,” the nurse replied.

  The visitor heard some muttered complaining inside the office, then heavy footsteps approaching the door. It opened to reveal a bald, overweight man in a dark suit. His black beard was shot through with gray. He glowered at the nurse for a second; then his gaze switched to the visitor, who stood there with his brown Stetson in his hand.

  “He was asking about Mr. Williams, Doctor,” the nurse went on.

  That made MacMurphy’s expression change from annoyance to interest. He said, “Is that right? Well, come in, sir. Come in, please.”

  When the visitor was inside the office, where the darkly paneled walls were lined with bookshelves containing hundreds of thick leather-bound volumes on medicine, MacMurphy extended a pudgy hand to him.

  “I’m Walter MacMurphy, the owner and chief physician of this sanitarium,” he introduced himself.

  The visitor took MacMurphy’s hand in a hard grip and said, “My name is Thackery.”

  “You have an interest in our patient Bill Williams?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You’re . . . a relative? A friend?”

  “A friend,” Thackery said.

  MacMurphy gestured toward a red leather chair in front of the large desk and suggested, “Please, sit down.”

  Thackery looked a little reluctant to do so. He had an air of impatience about him, which
he seemed to be keeping in check. But after a moment, he settled in the chair and rested his hat on his knee. MacMurphy went behind the desk and lowered his considerable bulk into a thickly cushioned swivel chair.

  “I’m not sure why you folks are getting so worked up about this,” Thackery said. “Aren’t people allowed to visit your patients?” His frown suddenly deepened. “Wait a minute. Is Bill dead?”

  “I wish I could tell you what his current state of health is, Mr. Thackery,” MacMurphy said. “Even more so, perhaps, I wish you could tell me.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  MacMurphy spread his sausage-like fingers, shook his head, and said, “Mr. Williams disappeared several nights ago.”

  Thackery leaned back against the red leather, almost as if he had been struck. “Disappeared?” he repeated. “You mean . . .”

  “I mean that sometime during the night, Mr. Williams left this establishment without telling anyone where he was going or leaving any clue as to his plans.”

  “What did he do? Climb out a window and run off?”

  “That appears to be exactly what he did,” MacMurphy said with a sigh.

  “And nobody stopped him?”

  “This is not a prison, Mr. Thackery.” A harder edge came into MacMurphy’s voice. “Our patients are here because they want to be, because they need our help.” He shrugged. “True, a few have been admitted at the request of family members or guardians, and we keep a closer eye on those individuals. But Mr. Williams came to us of his own free will and sought medical treatment. We had no reason to suspect that he might take his leave in the middle of the night.”

  “No, I reckon not,” Thackery said. “What sort of medical problems did he have?”

  “You’re his friend, and you don’t know that?”

  “He was hale and hearty the last time I saw him,” snapped Thackery. “That’s why I was surprised when I heard that he was here.”

  “I’m not sure Mr. Williams would appreciate me sharing his medical condition. I don’t usually disclose such information except to close family members.”