Look for These Exciting Series from
WILLIAM W. JOHNSTONE
with J. A. Johnstone
The Mountain Man
Preacher: The First Mountain Man
Matt Jensen, the Last Mountain Man
Luke Jensen, Bounty Hunter
Those Jensen Boys!
The Family Jensen
MacCallister
Flintlock
The Brothers O’Brien
The Kerrigans: A Texas Dynasty
Sixkiller, U.S. Marshal
Hell’s Half Acre
Texas John Slaughter
Will Tanner, U.S. Deputy Marshal
Eagles
The Frontiersman
AVAILABLE FROM PINNACLE BOOKS
WILLIAM W. JOHNSTONE
with J. A. Johnstone
A COLORADO CHRISTMAS
PINNACLE BOOKS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
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Copyright © 2016 J. A. Johnstone
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ISBN: 978-0-7860-3591-5
First Pinnacle electronic edition: November 2016
ISBN-13: 978-0-7860-3592-2
ISBN-10: 0-7860-3592-7
VD1_1
Table of Contents
Also by
Title Page
Copyright Page
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
EPILOGUE
A Lone Star Christmas Teaser
THE LAW’S GOT NOTHING ON JUSTICE
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
PROLOGUE
Colorado
December 1926
Even though Christmas wasn’t far away and people were still shopping for presents, not many of them were out and about. During the day, a storm had dumped quite a bit of snow on the town, and although the main streets had been plowed, the air was so cold most folks were content to stay inside, enjoying the warmth of home and hearth.
Not everybody, though. A heavy black roadster crawled along the still-snowy street toward an oasis of light in the mostly darkened downtown area. Many of the businesses were already closed for the evening, but not Al’s Diner. The warm yellow glow of lights spilled through the plate glass of the big front window.
A man with something tucked under his arm walked toward the diner. He moved briskly, like a young man, but when he opened the door and stepped inside, the light revealed silver hair and weathered features of an older man, probably in his seventies. He wore no hat, but he had on a sheepskin jacket that he opened to reveal a flannel shirt, as well as thick denim trousers and high-topped boots.
“Evening, Al,” he greeted the proprietor, who was the only one working. The diner wouldn’t do enough business on a snowy evening to justify having anyone else on duty.
Al was a burly, barrel-chested man who wore a white apron to protect his clothes from grease splatters while he was working at the grill. He took a china cup from a shelf, filled it from a coffee pot, and set it on the counter. The newcomer moved toward the metal stools topped with red leather in front of the counter, giving a friendly nod to the diner’s only other customer, an older man who sat in one of the booths reading a newspaper. He returned the nod, then went back to his paper.
“Figured you’d be in,” Al said to the man who slid onto a stool and reached for the cup. “Rain or shine, snow or sleet, you always stop by for coffee.”
“Well, you know us old-timers. We’re creatures of habit.” The man took a sip of the coffee and then nodded. “Excellent, as always.”
“Thanks. My dad taught me how to make it. He was a cowboy for a long time, then when he got too stove up to stay in the saddle all day, he became a ranch cook. He said the hands always wanted their coffee strong enough it could get up and walk away by itself if you didn’t keep an eye on it.”
The customer chuckled. “You’ve mentioned that before.”
“Well, a good story never really gets old, does it?”
“No,” the man agreed, “it doesn’t.”
While Al picked up the pot again and went over to top off the cup in front of the man sitting in the booth, the man at the counter opened the magazine he had carried in under his arm.
Printed on rough wood pulp paper, it had a colorful cover showing a Mexican bandito, sombrero laying on the ground at his feet, blazing away with a couple six-guns. Big letters announced the title of the magazine, WESTERN STORY, and emblazoned across the top of the cover in red letters were the words Big Clean Stories of Outdoor Life.
“That the new issue?” Al asked as he came back behind the counter.
“Yes, I just picked it up at the cigar store. It has a Max Brand yarn in it.”
“You sure like them Western stories.”
“They remind me of the old days around here,” the customer said with a grin. “Before everything got so civilized. There are times I wonder if that’s such a good thing.”
The bell over the door dinged and cold air swirled into the diner as three more men came in. They all wore dark, Eastern-style derby hats and long black overcoats. Visible through the front window, the big roadster that had brought them was parked at the curb.
One man was slightly ahead of the other two, taking the lead as if he were accustomed to doing so. His face was flushed from the cold, or maybe it was just beefy to start with. He rubbed gloved hands together, smiled, and said in a voice that confirmed he wasn’t from those parts, “Boy, it’s cold as a witch’s titty out there, ain’t it?”
“Pretty chilly night,” Al agreed with the affability he would use to greet any potential customer. “Come on in and warm up for a spell, gents.”
The three men walked over to the counter but didn’t sit down. The leader said, “They really roll up the sidewalks around here after dark, don’t they? I was starting to think the whole town was closed down for the night until I saw your lights.”
“Yeah, I stay open later than most places. I got some cus
tomers who like to come by in the evenings.” Al nodded to the two older men.
The one at the counter had started reading his magazine. He had the pages curled back as he read and sipped his coffee.
“Back where we come from, the joints haven’t even started jumpin’ good by this time of night. And the real action comes later, in the speakeasies.”
Al said, “I wouldn’t know anything about that. You fellas want some coffee? I’ve got some mighty good apple pie, too, or I could grill you up a sandwich.”
The red-faced man shook his head. “Nah, we’re not hungry.” Apparently he didn’t mind speaking for his two companions. “The coffee sounds good. Might take some of the chill off. What we’re really looking for, though, is information.”
“Oh? What sort of information?”
The red-faced man was tugging off his gloves, revealing hands with thick, strong-looking fingers. He dropped the gloves on the counter and waved a hand to indicate their surroundings. “This town used to be called Big Rock, didn’t it?”
“That’s what I’ve heard. I think they changed the name right around the turn of the century.”
The man on the red leather stool looked up from the pages of WESTERN STORY. “Couldn’t help overhearing, fellas. Yes, this used to be Big Rock. That was the name of the place when I came here. Of course, it’s changed an awful lot since then, not just the name. It’s a regular city now.”
“Is that right?” said the red-faced man. “So you’ve been around here for a long time?”
“I have. What’s your interest in Big Rock?”
“We’re working on a, uh, family history, I guess you could call it.” The red-faced man looked at the other two. “Ain’t that right, boys?”
“A family history,” repeated a thin man with a dour expression. “Yeah.”
“Oh, you’ve got relatives here.”
“Not exactly,” the red-faced man said. “But I did. My grandfather spent some time here.”
“What’s the name? Maybe I knew him.”
“I doubt that. He wasn’t here for very long, and he wasn’t really the friendly sort, if I do say so myself. But I’d still be interested in learning more about the town and the time he spent here.”
“When was that? Chances are, I can tell you anything you want to know about Big Rock.”
“Forty years ago,” the red-faced man said. “Almost exactly forty years, since it was Christmas time when Granddad came through here.”
The old man’s silvery eyebrows rose. “Forty years ago, you say? I remember it well. I’ve got good reason to.”
“Yeah? How come?”
The old man slid the magazine aside. “Well, that particular Christmas was a pretty eventful one in Big Rock. Yes, sir, a lot of things happened that year, some good, some bad.”
“I’d love to hear about it,” the red-faced stranger said.
“Why don’t we go sit down at one of the tables and I’ll tell you,” the old-timer suggested. “Al, pour some of that java for my friends here. On me.”
“That’s kind of you,” the stranger said.
“Oh, that’s just Western hospitality. We like for folks to feel welcome out here.”
Al filled three more cups.
The silver-haired man left his magazine on the counter and went over to a round table with a red-checked cloth to sit down with the three men from back East. “Where do you want me to start?”
“I want to hear everything about that time,” the red-faced man replied. “As much as you know.”
The old-timer smiled and clasped his hands together in front of him on the table. “Well, I wasn’t around for all of it, you understand, but I heard a lot about it later from the people who were involved, so I reckon I can give you a pretty good idea of what went on.”
The man with the dour expression said, “Jeeze, this is gonna take all night. I never heard anybody who talks as slow as you cowboys.”
“Take it easy, Freddy,” scolded the man with the red face. “Our new pal is helping us out here.” He went on to the old-timer. “You go right ahead, friend, and take your time. Tell us about that Christmas in Big Rock.”
“Well, all the trouble actually started before Christmas, you know, and not all of it started right here in Big Rock, as it was known then.” The old-timer took a sip of coffee. “In fact, you might say it started on a ranch about seven miles west of town, a week or so before Christmas. . . .”
CHAPTER 1
Sugarloaf Ranch, Colorado
December 1886
“What do you think, Smoke?” Sally Jensen turned slowly in front of the fireplace, holding out her arms to give her husband a good view of the new dress she wore.
“I think you’re asking the wrong fella,” Smoke Jensen replied with a grin as he sat back in the armchair, stretched his legs out in front of him, and crossed them at the ankles. “You’re so beautiful you look good in everything you wear, Sally. I even think you look good when you’re not wearing anything at all.”
The dark-haired young woman blushed, which if anything just made her more lovely. “I was asking for your honest opinion, not flattery. Somebody might come in. Besides, you shouldn’t be talking like that at this time of year. It’ll be Christmas soon.”
“Seems to me there’s nothing wrong with a man loving his wife no matter what time of year it is.”
“Well, no, there’s not,” Sally agreed.
Smoke leaned forward as if to stand up. “So, maybe you could take that dress off—”
“And put my apron on and get back to baking,” Sally interrupted him. “That’s a really good idea. Since we’re spending Christmas at home for a change, and since we’ll be going to the big Christmas Eve celebration in Big Rock, we’ll need lots of cakes and pies—”
“And bear sign,” Smoke put in. “Don’t forget the bear sign.”
“I wouldn’t dare,” Sally said with a laugh. “Pearlie and Cal would never forgive me if I did.”
“I’m not sure I would, either.”
“Seriously, though, Smoke”—she ran her hands down over her belly and onto her thighs, smoothing the blue fabric of the dress—“you think this will be all right for the Christmas Eve party?”
“I think it’ll be fine,” Smoke assured her. He stood up, moved over to her, put his arms around her waist, and kissed her on the forehead.
Folks said they made a handsome couple, and that was certainly the truth. Smoke was tall and muscular, with extremely broad shoulders, and his face was ruggedly attractive under close-cropped ash blond hair. Like Sally, he had the vigor of youth about him.
Only his eyes seemed older than his years. They had seen so much death, starting two decades earlier with his mother on the hardscrabble farm in the Ozarks and the death of his father after the war, when the two of them had gone west because there was nothing to hold them in Missouri anymore. The battle with Indians had prompted the old mountain man called Preacher to dub young Kirby Jensen “Smoke” because of his speed with a gun, and countless evil men had fallen to Smoke’s guns since then, including those responsible for the murders of his first wife and their child.
Yes, Smoke Jensen had seen enough death for a dozen men his age, but he had never let it destroy his soul like it did some men. He could be hard, with a heart like iron when he needed to be, but decency and humor and love lived within him, as well. He figured that was because he had met Sally at just the right time in his life. She’d been there to help him find the right path after he had avenged the brutal deaths of his first wife Nicole and son little Arthur.
Smoke stood in the parlor of the comfortable home he and Sally shared on their ranch, the Sugarloaf, and thought about what a truly lucky man he was.
Boots clomped loudly on the porch and Sally smiled up at him for a second. “It sounds like we’re about to have company.”
“I’ll bet I know who, too. I think I can hear them squabbling already.”
A knock sounded on the door. Smoke let go of Sa
lly, turned toward it, and told the visitors to come in. Two cowboys stepped into the room, the older one in a sheepskin coat, the younger—little more than a boy, really—wearing a short denim jacket.
“See, I told you he’d be here.” A former hired gun and outlaw, Pearlie had reformed thanks to Smoke’s influence and had been the foreman on the Sugarloaf for several years.
“I never said he wouldn’t be.” Calvin Woods was a top hand in spite of his youth and also Pearlie’s best friend. If there was any trouble around, the two of them could be counted on to find it, but they also watched each other’s backs and had helped pull Smoke out of more than one dangerous scrape. “I just thought he might be busy.”
“In the middle of the day like this? Busy doin’ what?”
Cal looked a little uncomfortable as he said, “Well . . .”
Sally cleared her throat. “I think I should beat a hasty retreat right about now.”
“Aw, dadgum it!” Pearlie exclaimed. “I’m sorry, Miss Sally. I never meant to embarrass you none—”
“It’s all right, Pearlie,” Smoke told him. “Actually, we were just talking about bear sign, weren’t we, honey?”
“As a matter of fact, we were.”
Pearlie’s face lit up at the mere mention of the delicacy. “Were you fixin’ to cook up a batch up of ’em, ma’am?”
“Well, not right now. But I’m going to make some to take to Big Rock for the Christmas Eve party, along with some pies and cakes.”
Pearlie licked his lips. “I can’t hardly wait. It’s a-gonna be the best Christmas ever, I reckon.”
“Well, we’ll have to wait and see about that,” Smoke cautioned. “Why were you boys looking for me?”
“Oh, yeah.” The expression on Pearlie’s craggy face grew more solemn as he forced thoughts of baked goods out of his mind. “That panther’s back, Smoke. One of the hands found what was left of a cow it drug off last night, over by Melville Peak.”
A Colorado Christmas Page 1
