A Jensen Family Christmas

by William W. Johnstone

  “Your word doesn’t mean a damn thing to me,” Malkin said. “The only thing that I know will keep my secret safe is you being dead. But before I take care of that, I want to know who else you’ve told about me.”

  “No one. I swear it.”

  “And I’m supposed to just believe that?” Malkin shook his head. “No, Doc, you and I are gonna go someplace quiet and private and have ourselves a nice long talk. There’s only one way you’re going to convince me you’re telling the truth.”

  He meant torture, thought Doc. Malkin meant to torture him until there was no possibility that he was lying—and then kill him once he’d found out what he needed to know.

  And Doc would tell him the truth. Doc knew he wasn’t strong enough, physically or mentally, to withstand such an ordeal. He would spill everything . . . if it came to that.

  But maybe it wouldn’t. Everything depended on Smoke now.

  * * *

  Smoke was riding about three hundred yards to the right of the road. Preacher’s position had him the same distance to the left, and Pearlie and Cal were half a mile back on the road itself. They would come rushing forward if they heard any shots, and they would be ready to stop Malkin if he fled in their direction.

  Smoke’s route took him through thick growths of trees, areas of abundant brush, and stretches of huge, jumbled boulders. That gave him plenty of cover, so that he wasn’t likely to be spotted. At the same time, there were enough gaps for him to keep track of Doc Monday as the gambler rode toward Big Rock. A lot depended on Smoke’s ability to read the situation correctly, but as Preacher had pointed out to Sally, Doc was willing to run the risk.

  Smoke wouldn’t have wanted to live the rest of his life with such a threat hanging over his head. Of course, he had ways of dealing with such threats that Doc Monday didn’t. Doc was no gunfighter, and he was physically frail. He couldn’t fight a man like Malkin head-on and survive.

  The thought of being plagued by the sort of illness that had befallen Doc was frightening to Smoke. He couldn’t imagine having his own body betray him like that and refuse to do what he wanted it to do. Thinking about it made him realize how blessed he had been to have such good health all his life. He had worked to live up to the potential of his strength and abilities, no doubt about that, and he wasn’t going to apologize for things over which he’d had no control. But he was humbly thankful for what he’d been able to accomplish and hoped he always would be.

  Smoke weaved his mount through some boulders and then up a gentle slope onto a small ridge topped by pines. From there he could look down onto the road Doc Monday was following, and so he had a good view when Bill Malkin emerged from some brush and came up behind Doc.

  From where he was, Smoke could have pulled out his Winchester and put a round through Malkin before the outlaw ever knew what hit him. But Doc had told him about Malkin hiding the loot from that railroad holdup, and Smoke knew the authorities would like to recover that money. They never would if Malkin was dead. Because of that, Smoke intended to capture the man, if possible.

  But if he had to kill Malkin to save Doc’s life, he would do it without hesitation.

  Smoke drew the rifle from its saddle sheath and started his horse toward the road, not rushing, because that could make too much racket and warn Malkin. If Preacher had spotted the confrontation, he would be closing in from the other side. Malkin was trapped; he just didn’t know it yet.

  As Smoke approached, he saw Doc and Malkin talking, saw the outlaw brandishing a gun toward the gambler. When he was close enough, Smoke dismounted and slipped forward on foot through the brush, making as little sound as he could.

  Malkin jabbed the gun toward Doc and, in a loud, harsh voice, ordered him to get moving. Doc lifted his reins and started to turn his horse. That took him, just for a second, out of the direct line of fire from Malkin’s gun.

  As Doc did that, Smoke stepped out into the open, fifty yards away now, and called, “Drop that gun, Malkin! You’re covered!”

  Malkin cursed and tried to swing the pistol toward the unexpected threat. Smoke already had the Winchester’s butt socketed against his shoulder. He stroked the trigger. The rifle’s sharp crack filled the air and echoed from the thick clouds that were oppressively low overhead.

  Malkin jerked as the bullet cut through the fleshy part of his upper right arm. Somehow he held on to the gun, although the arm sagged, so he couldn’t aim it.

  Malkin snatched the pistol with his other hand, though, and started to lift it again, this time toward Doc. A shot came from the other side of the road, jolting Malkin. That would be Preacher opening fire, Smoke knew. Preacher was aware they were trying to take Malkin alive, but he might have figured the threat to Doc’s life was too pressing to worry about that.

  Malkin managed to jerk the trigger, but the shot went wide. He spurred his horse ahead, nearly ramming Doc’s mount. Smoke fired again, but Malkin didn’t stop. Bending low in the saddle, he galloped hard toward Big Rock.

  Smoke ran toward the road and called, “Doc! Are you all right?”

  Doc nodded shakily and said, “I’m fine. Go after Malkin!”

  Smoke whistled for his horse, and as the animal pounded up to him, he swung into the saddle with such lithe agility that the horse never came to a full stop. Smoke raced after Malkin, who had disappeared around a bend in the trail up ahead.

  * * *

  Ace and Chance heard the rifle shots somewhere up ahead and looked at each other as Chance exclaimed, “What the hell!”

  “Somebody doing some hunting, maybe,” Ace said. “There were only a few shots.”

  “Only a few so far. Let’s go see!”

  Chance urged his horse into a run. That was just like him, charging blindly into trouble, without waiting to see what was going on, thought Ace.

  But Ace galloped right behind him, anyway.

  They thundered around the curves in the road, past rocks and ridges and trees, and then, as they entered a stretch that ran straight for a couple of hundred yards, they saw a man on horseback pounding toward them. He was bent forward in the saddle, maybe hurt, maybe just trying to get his mount to go faster.

  Ace and Chance hauled back on their reins.

  “Do we try to stop him?” Chance asked.

  “We don’t know who he is or why he’s riding so hard,” Ace answered.

  “Yeah, but anybody riding like a bat out of hell away from the scene of a shooting has to be up to no good!”

  “Either that or an innocent man with trouble after him,” Ace said.

  Chance nodded in acknowledgment of that point. They would need to make up their minds quickly, because the gap between them and the other man was closing in a hurry.

  But then the man turned his horse so sharply that the animal almost lost its footing and went down. The horse recovered just in time and surged ahead, moving now away from the road, across some open ground, toward a heavily wooded area. Ace and Chance had been in these parts before but didn’t know the region all that well. Neither had any idea what was over there beyond the trees.

  “He must have seen us and didn’t want us stopping him,” Chance said. “Do we go after him? I know it’s none of our business, but—”

  Ace held up a hand to stop him and said, “Somebody else is coming.”

  It was true. Drumming hoofbeats sounded from the west. Another hard-charging rider came into view, obviously giving chase to the first man the brothers had seen. Ace looked closely, and a shock of recognition went through him.

  “That’s Smoke!” he said.

  * * *

  Bill Malkin wasn’t sure what hurt worse: the wounds in his arm and side, the fury that filled his soul, or the terrible pounding pain in his chest.

  He should have killed Doc Monday as soon as he had the son of a bitch in his sights. He knew that now, but he’d been trying to make sure he didn’t face any other threats because of the gambler. Instead, his hesitation might have cost him everything. He didn’t know
who those bastards were who’d interfered and gunned him, but even though their bullets might not kill him, the shock of being shot just might.

  Malkin fought to stay in the saddle. He rode through the trees and came out in a rugged area of gullies and ridges. The terrain was rough enough that he should be able to use it to give the slip to any pursuers . . . provided that he could stay mounted and conscious.

  He turned his horse into one of the gullies, following a barely visible game trail through the thick brush. Branches clawed and pulled at him. The horse shied away, but Malkin forced it on. He came to a slope, climbed it, dropped down into more brush on the other side.

  His chest tightened and hurt even more. His jaw clenched hard against the pain. He told himself that he was going to get away. It would take an expert tracker to follow his trail through this thicket. Doc Monday would never be able to do that . . . but he didn’t know who Doc’s friends were, Malkin reminded himself.

  He came to a small clearing ringed by trees. The horse started across it but had taken only a couple of steps when the worst pain so far struck Malkin in the chest like a sledgehammer. And like the impact of a sledgehammer, it drove him out of the saddle. He swayed far to the left, lost his grip, and thudded to the ground.

  Spooked by that, the horse danced away skittishly, so Malkin couldn’t even reach up and grab hold of the stirrup to help him back to his feet. He crawled and scooted instead until he made it to one of the trees and fought his way into a sitting position with his back braced against the rough-barked trunk. He stayed there, breathing hard, head and shoulders hunched forward because of the ball of agony in his chest.

  He couldn’t hear the footsteps approaching, because of the thundering pulse inside his head, and his eyesight was blurry, so he didn’t recognize the boots standing in front of him at first. Then he realized somebody was there, and struggled to lift his head and see who had found him.

  The man helped by hunkering down on his heels, so his head was roughly on the same level as Malkin’s. Malkin blinked at the rugged face. He knew it, but he couldn’t come up with the name right away. Then, in a raspy whisper, he said, “Th-Thackery?”

  “That’s right, Bill,” the man said. “It’s your old partner, Lane Thackery. I’ve been on your trail for a long time, and I’ve finally caught up to you. And not a minute too soon, by the looks of you.” Thackery’s lips pulled back from his teeth in a hate-filled grimace as he grabbed Malkin’s wounded arm and squeezed. “Where’d you hide the money, Bill? Where’s that damn loot?”

  Under normal circumstances, the pain in Malkin’s arm might have made him scream. But it was nothing compared to what he was already experiencing. He heard a grotesque sound and realized that he was laughing.

  “By God, you’d better tell me,” Thackery said. “You’re not wounded that bad, but both of those bullet holes are leaking quite a bit. I’ll leave you right here to bleed to death if you don’t talk. Is that what you want?”

  “You’re not gonna . . . let me live.” Malkin forced the words out. “Not after I . . . double-crossed you . . . the way I did. If I tell you . . . where the loot is . . . you’ll put a bullet . . . in my brain.”

  Thackery didn’t realize what was really going on here, thought Malkin. He had no idea that the man he had sought for so long was going to be dead in a matter of minutes, if not sooner. Malkin knew nobody could hurt the way he did right now and survive. All he wanted to do now was to go ahead and die, so that Thackery would be frustrated and would never find that money.

  “Damn you—” Thackery began.

  “W-wait,” Malkin gasped out as another thought occurred to him. Again, the ugly laugh bubbled from his throat. “I . . . I told . . . a friend of mine . . . He knows where . . . the loot is . . . His name . . . is Doc Monday.”

  Thackery leaned back in surprise. He said, “Monday? The man you ran away from that sanitarium with?”

  “Y-yeah. Doc and I . . . were gonna . . . get that fifty grand . . .”

  That’ll teach you, Doc, Malkin thought. The world was bobbing crazily around him now. That’s what you get . . . for ruining all my plans....

  “Malkin! What the hell! You’re not hurt that bad. Listen to me, damn it. Tell me where to find . . .”

  Thackery’s voice faded away. Maybe he was still talking—Malkin didn’t know—but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered now. The pain was gone suddenly, and Malkin laughed.

  He kept laughing, all the way to hell.

  CHAPTER 36

  Smoke wasn’t surprised to see Ace and Chance. He had known that they might be showing up any day now to help celebrate Christmas on the Sugarloaf.

  Running into them here on the road to Big Rock while he was pursuing Bill Malkin was a little unexpected, though.

  “Smoke!” Ace called as he lifted a hand in greeting. “What—”

  “A man on horseback!” Smoke said as he reined his mount to a temporary halt. “Did you see him?”

  Chance leveled a finger toward some trees and said, “He headed that way, riding hell-for-leather!”

  Smoke knew the Jensen boys would join him in the pursuit if he asked them to, but it might be better if they didn’t. He waved back up the road in the direction he’d come from and said, “Doc Monday is that way. You’d best go see about him.”

  “Doc!” Ace and Chance exclaimed together.

  Preacher was with Doc, Smoke knew, and Pearlie and Cal would have joined them by now, so Doc was perfectly safe and had said that he wasn’t hurt. But Smoke didn’t want to delay the reunion between the brothers and the man who had raised them.

  Besides, if they went after Malkin with him, there was a chance they might get hurt, and he didn’t want that. Malkin was wounded, and a wounded animal was the most dangerous creature of all.

  “Doc can explain the whole thing,” Smoke went on. “I’ll go after that varmint!”

  Ace and Chance looked reluctant to leave Smoke to the chase, but at the same time, Smoke knew they were anxious to see Doc and make sure he was all right. After a second, Ace nodded.

  Smoke turned his horse and started toward the trees. Malkin could be holed up in there, waiting to ambush anybody who came after him, so Smoke guided his mount with his knees and held the Winchester ready for instant use. Behind him, hooves clattered on the road as Ace and Chance rode off toward the Sugarloaf.

  No shots rang out as Smoke approached the trees. He threaded his way through the growth, then spotted the tracks of Malkin’s horse on the other side. The trail led into an area of rugged wilderness that sprawled on the edge of the Sugarloaf’s range.

  Smoke had learned how to read sign from Preacher, one of the best trackers who ever lived. He was able to stay on Malkin’s trail through dense thickets and across stretches of rock. Malkin had used an almost invisible game trail to get through the worst of the obstacles.

  Smoke paused and lifted his head. He thought he heard a horse moving somewhere ahead of him. Malkin’s mount or . . . someone else’s? There was no way of knowing, so Smoke forged ahead.

  He stiffened in the saddle as he entered a clearing and spotted the man sitting with his back against a tree trunk on the other side. Even though he hadn’t gotten a close look at Bill Malkin, he recognized the outlaw from his clothes and from the bloodstains on the man’s arm and side, where he had been wounded.

  Malkin wasn’t moving. As Smoke edged his horse closer and kept the rifle trained on the motionless figure, he saw why. Malkin’s face was twisted in lines of agony, frozen permanently that way. His open eyes stared sightlessly. Smoke had no doubt that Malkin was dead, but he held the rifle ready, anyway, as he swung a leg over the saddle and slid down to the ground.

  In a way, Malkin’s death was a blasted shame, thought Smoke. There was a very good chance he was the only person who knew where the loot from the train robbery was stashed. Now it would never be recovered, unless someone happened upon it purely by chance.

  Smoke started to approach the outlaw’s body
but stopped short. A frown creased his forehead as he looked closely at the ground in front of Malkin. He saw two indentions there. Those marks, he realized, had been left by bootheels.

  Someone else had been here.

  But who? Not Ace or Chance, or Preacher, Pearlie, or Cal. They were all back on the road. Smoke thought about the hoofbeats he had heard. Malkin’s horse was here, standing at the edge of the trees, looking spooked. Smoke looked around, but there were too many hoofprints on the ground for him to determine if another horse had been here. That seemed highly likely, though

  Somebody riding along who had happened to find Malkin’s body? That was possible, Smoke supposed, but he couldn’t think of a good reason for anyone to be traveling through this rugged area. Legally, it fell within the bounds of the Sugarloaf, but it wasn’t good range, and he hadn’t ever used it for anything except some occasional hunting.

  Smoke didn’t have any answers, but he was curious about something else. He could tell that his bullet had passed through the fleshy part of Malkin’s upper arm. It wasn’t, or shouldn’t have been, a fatal wound. He knelt in front of the outlaw, pushed Malkin’s coat back, pulled up his shirt, and looked at the wound in Malkin’s side from Preacher’s shot. The injury was a deep graze, messy but not serious, and again, it shouldn’t have been fatal.

  Yet judging by Malkin’s expression, he had died in great pain. What had caused that? Smoke thought back to Doc Monday’s story. Malkin had been a patient at that sanitarium, too, and Doc believed he’d had a genuine heart condition. Could the shock of being shot, along with everything else that had happened today, have caused Malkin’s ticker to stop working?

  Smoke had a hunch that was the case, but he sighed as he rose to his feet. It didn’t really matter. Malkin was dead, and that fifty thousand dollars was lost. But Doc Monday was safe and had been reunited with Ace and Chance by now, and Smoke was going to accept that victory with satisfaction.