A Colorado Christmas

by William W. Johnstone

  “It’s mighty kind of you to take us in like this.”

  “Couldn’t do otherwise,” the woman said. “Not on a night like this. ’Twouldn’t be the Christian thing to do.”

  “No, ma’am, it wouldn’t be,” agreed Bleeker, thinking how ironic it was that in trying to be Christian about it, these people had invited the Devil right into their house.

  “Bound for Big Rock, you said?” asked Crockett.

  “That’s right. How far did we miss it by?”

  “It’s about twelve miles west of here. You can make it tomorrow, if the snow’s not too deep. If it is, you’re welcome to wait until it melts off some. Plenty of room out in the hayloft for you fellas. We’re a mite cramped here in the house.”

  “The hayloft is just fine with us,” Bleeker said. “Isn’t that right, Ray?”

  “Sure, Jim.” Morley was waiting for Bleeker to make the first move, as usual.

  But they couldn’t afford to wait too long, Bleeker knew. Not with the rest of the men still out in the storm, in danger of being overcome by the cold.

  “I’ve got some roast beef and bread left from supper,” Mrs. Crockett said. “And there’s coffee in the pot.”

  “That sounds mighty good,” Bleeker told her as he hung up his hat and overcoat like the rancher had said.

  Morley did likewise.

  Crockett decided that the visitors didn’t represent any threat. He stepped over to the wall and hung his shotgun on a couple pegs. His boys followed his example, leaning their rifles in a corner. The girls had gone with their mother over to the stove to see about getting the food ready.

  Still smiling, Bleeker turned away from the hook where he had hung up his things, pulled his Colt from its holster, lifted the gun, and shot Ab Crockett in the side of the head. The boom was deafeningly loud in the house. The bullet went all the way through Crockett’s brain and exploded out the other side of his skull in a grisly pink spray of blood and bone. The rancher was dead before he knew what had happened, and certainly dead by the time his corpse thudded to the floor.

  Morley had his gun out a hair’s-breadth after Bleeker’s weapon roared. He shot the oldest boy in the chest, then Bleeker drilled the other lad. The youngsters crumpled as blood began to well from their wounds. Neither of them had had time to even make a move toward their rifles.

  The outlaws swung their guns toward the females, all three of whom had whirled around in shock at the shots and started screaming.

  “Shut up!” bellowed Bleeker. “We’re not going to hurt you!”

  That was a lie, of course, but it would be easier if they cooperated for a while.

  The woman and the girls kept screaming. Bleeker strode toward them, causing them to cringe backwards. They couldn’t go very far. The hot stove was right behind them. He thought about shoving the woman’s face against it to make an example of her and terrify the girls into doing whatever they were told, but from the looks of their shocked faces, they were already scared enough.

  He settled for backhanding the woman and knocking her to her knees. He put the Colt’s muzzle to her head and snapped at the girls, “I said to pipe down!”

  Their mouths hung open, but no more sound came out. The woman had stopped screaming, too, although she sobbed in pain as she held a hand to her cheek.

  “I’m sorry about having to kill your menfolks,” Bleeker went on. That was a lie, too. He didn’t care one way or the other about Crockett and the boys. “Couldn’t take a chance on them causing trouble for us.”

  Mrs. Crockett looked up at him with eyes that were horrified and hate-filled. “We would’ve done anything you wanted. You could’ve taken anything we have.”

  “What we need is this place,” Bleeker told her. “The house, the barn, whatever else we can use. I’ve got some friends waiting out in the storm, and we’re all going to be staying here for a while.”

  “You could have stayed! You didn’t have to kill—”

  “Couldn’t take a chance. Your husband or one of your boys might’ve decided to make a run for Big Rock and tell the sheriff about us before we had a chance to conduct our business there.”

  She stared at him. “What’s so special about Big Rock?”

  “That’s where my revenge is waiting,” Bleeker said, “and when I’m done with that, we’ll all ride away and everything will be fine.”

  That was true in a way, he thought—because they would leave the tranquility of death and utter destruction behind them.

  CHAPTER 26

  Aboard the Orphan Train

  Now that he had introduced himself to Miss Mercy Halliday, Ed Rinehart spent as much time as possible around her. Not because he was attracted to her—although he had to admit that her green eyes were beguiling and her thick, curly auburn hair made a man want to bury his hands in it and lift her face to his—but because being around her meant being around the children.

  It annoyed him that Donald’s uncle had kept the agency as much in the dark as he had. William Litchfield could have gone down to that orphanage, demanded to take a look at the children, and picked out his nephew, if Donald truly was there. Only his worry about mysterious killers still being after the boy had prevented him from doing that.

  But he could have at least provided a photograph of Donald so Rinehart would have recognized him. Surely, parents as wealthy as Grant and Claire Litchfield had had pictures of their only child. William Litchfield had given Captain Shaw some feeble excuse about that, too.

  Rinehart was stuck with the job of protecting the boy when he wasn’t certain which of the orphans was Donald Litchfield. The detective had his eye on one of the four little boys the approximate age of the missing child, a little boy Mercy called Caleb. He fit the bill the best—the right age, and according to Mercy, he hadn’t spoken a single word since he had turned up at the orphanage six months earlier. All that fit in with the idea that a child, stunned by witnessing the murder of his own parents, might flee to somewhere familiar and then withdraw into himself, seeking safety in solitude.

  As the train moved across the Great Plains, steadily drawing closer to the Rockies, Rinehart found whatever excuse he could to spend time around the children. He could tell that Peter Gallagher didn’t like that. The man was still angry and embarrassed about the confrontation on the platform.

  If he could carry out his assignment and annoy Gallagher at the same time, then so much the better, thought Rinehart.

  As they left the plains behind and moved into the foothills of the towering mountains, he was in the second car housing the orphans, the one where Caleb was. He wanted to get a chance to talk to the boy.

  At the moment, the detective was talking with Mercy, and he couldn’t complain about that. He had brought her a breakfast roll and a cup of coffee from the dining car.

  As she took the roll, looking surprised and pleased, she said, “What a thoughtful gesture, Mr. Rinehart. You didn’t have to do that. You’ve already been so kind and attentive the past couple days.”

  “Happy to do it. I thought we agreed you’d call me Ed and I’ll call you Mercy.”

  “Of course,” she said, blushing slightly.

  He couldn’t help but notice that it made her even prettier.

  Just doing my job, he told himself. Doesn’t matter one whit how lovely Mercy Halliday is.

  If he kept repeating that thought, he might eventually convince himself that it was true.

  “Why don’t you go ahead and enjoy that,” he suggested. “I’ll keep an eye on the children.” He had noticed that neither of the Gallaghers seemed to be in the car at the moment. They were probably having breakfast together in the other car.

  “That’s not your job.”

  “I’m volunteering for it,” Rinehart told her with a smile.

  “Well . . . all right. But if you need any help, just shout.”

  “I will,” Rinehart assured her.

  Mercy sighed and sat back against the bench seat in her compartment. A few moments of re
lative peace and quiet was well appreciated when a person was responsible for the safety and well-being of ten children under the age of twelve.

  Most of the youngsters were gathered in one of the other compartments, playing some sort of game. It had been a long time since Rinehart had had the opportunity to play kids’ games, so he wasn’t really sure of what they were doing other than having a good time.

  Caleb wasn’t there, though.

  When Rinehart asked about him, one of the other boys said scornfully, “He’s off hidin’ like the baby he is. He never plays with us or even talks to us.”

  “He gets in the closet, or in a wardrobe, and shuts the door after him,” a little girl said. “I don’t like him. He’s odd.”

  So Caleb likes to hide, mused Rinehart. That was one more point in favor of him being Donald Litchfield.

  The detective’s orders were to accompany the children to California and determine where all the boys around six years old wound up. Then, once the operatives back in New York had cracked the case and arrested the murderer, or murderers, of the Litchfields, Donald’s uncle could show up, claim him, and take him home. The people who had adopted Donald might be heartbroken, especially if he had been with them long enough for them to grow attached to him, but that was a shame. William Litchfield would have a right to the boy.

  In the meantime, Rinehart didn’t see anything wrong with trying to determine, at least for his own peace of mind, which of the youngsters was really Donald Litchfield.

  Keeping an eye on the door of the compartment where the children had gathered, Rinehart moved along the aisle in the middle of the car, checking the other compartments. He stopped in front of one of them and looked through the open door at a small boy sitting on the seat with his legs drawn up and his head tucked onto his knees.

  “Hello, Caleb,” Rinehart said.

  The youngster didn’t respond. His head was down, so Rinehart couldn’t see if there had been a flicker of recognition in his eyes or not.

  “You know me. I’m Ed Rinehart, Miss Mercy’s friend.” Hearing the words he spoke, Rinehart was a little surprised to discover that he hoped they were really true. “Is it all right if I sit with you for a while?”

  Caleb didn’t look up or say anything.

  However, Rinehart sensed that the boy was paying attention. His instincts had been honed by years of investigative work. He sat down on the bench, being careful not to crowd Caleb. He didn’t want to spook the lad.

  “Some of the other children tell me you like to find good places to hide. Is that because it’s a good game or are you scared of something, Caleb? You don’t have to be scared, you know. Miss Mercy will always look out for you, and since I’m her friend, so will I.” He didn’t expect the boy to suddenly start talking, words spilling out of his mouth as he admitted that he was really Donald Litchfield and told exactly who had murdered his parents and why. A break like that would be nice, of course, but Rinehart knew how rare they were.

  He wasn’t disappointed when Caleb just sat there silently, chin on knees, not looking at him or at anything else.

  Once Rinehart had set his sights on the boy, he had asked enough subtle questions of Mercy to know that Caleb had a good appetite and never turned down food, and he caused no trouble with the other children. To cause trouble, he would have had to have something to do with them, and for the most part he didn’t. A few times they had drawn him into a game of chase, but after playing for only a few moments, he seemed to become frightened and withdrew.

  Because he remembered running for his life on the night killers had invaded his home? Rinehart wondered.

  “If anybody bothers you, don’t be scared. Just get Miss Mercy. She’ll take care of you. Or better yet, come and find me. I’ll protect you. No one will ever hurt you while I’m around, Donald.” He watched the boy closely as he spoke the name. He thought Caleb started a bit, but if he actually did, the reaction was so small that most eyes would have missed it. It took the keen gaze of a trained investigator to see.

  Rinehart was more convinced than ever the silent and mysterious Caleb was really Donald Litchfield.

  He might have tried to worm something else out of the youngster, but at that moment Mercy appeared in the open doorway. She laughed and said, “The two of you look so solemn. Are you having a serious conversation?”

  “Well, I’m talking and Caleb’s listening,” said Rinehart. “I’m not sure how serious it is.”

  Mercy moved a step into the compartment. “Caleb, would you like to join the other children? They’re playing a game—”

  Before she could finish, the conductor came into the car and started along the aisle, calling in his deep voice, “Big Rock! Comin’ in to Big Rock, Colorado!”

  “I didn’t know we were in Colorado yet,” Mercy said to Rinehart. “We must have crossed over from Kansas during the night.”

  “I had a pretty good idea once I saw those mountains.” He pointed out a window at some picturesque, snow-capped peaks rising not far away. “Nothing like that in Kansas, that’s for sure. That’s the flattest place I think I’ve ever seen.”

  The mountains weren’t the only things covered with snow. The train passed fields a brilliant white. The snow was at least six inches deep, maybe more. Certainly more in places where it had drifted. There were giant waves of it pushed up by the wind. The landscape had a cold, eerie beauty about it.

  “I wonder how long we’ll be stopped in this Big Rock place.” Mercy answered her own question. “Not long, I imagine. In most of these frontier settlements, there’s no need for a long layover. A few passengers get on, a few passengers get off . . . some freight might be loaded or unloaded. Then we’ll be moving on.”

  “That’s right. You’ve seen places like this before, haven’t you? On other trips west that you made.”

  “That’s right. In fact, I’m fairly certain I’ve been through Big Rock, but I don’t believe the train ever stopped before. Or maybe it did, but it was during the middle of the night and I wasn’t aware of it.”

  Rinehart knew from previous stops that Mercy and the Gallaghers would keep the children in the train cars. That made sense. No telling what a kid might do, and they didn’t want to have to search some squalid little frontier hamlet for a runaway or one who had simply wandered off.

  Big Rock didn’t appear to fit the description that had just gone through his mind as the train rolled up next to a large, red-brick depot building. In fact, while it wouldn’t really qualify as a city, it looked like a fairly large and successful town with a good number of businesses and a lot of houses, all of which had snowy roofs. The trees were covered with snow, as well. The place looked like something out of a painting, wholesome and innocent and very appealing.

  Certainly nothing like the filthy back alleys of the big city where his job usually took him.

  The train shuddered to a halt. He stood up and extended his hand to Caleb. “Why don’t we go out on the rear platform and look around?” he suggested. Glancing quickly at Mercy, he added in a half-whisper, “I hope that’s all right.”

  “He won’t do it,” she said, shaking her head sadly.

  “I’ll bet he will, so he can look at the mountains. Come on, Caleb. I don’t think you’ve ever seen anything quite like those peaks.”

  For a moment, Caleb didn’t budge. Then, to Mercy’s obvious surprise, he put his legs down and reached over to take Rinehart’s hand.

  “For Heaven’s sake!” she whispered. “How on earth did you get through to him?”

  “Kids like me,” Rinehart said with a cocky grin—although there had never been any evidence of that in his life until that very moment.

  He held Caleb’s hand and led the boy out of the compartment and into the aisle. They turned toward the rear of the car as Mercy watched them with amazement in her beautiful eyes.

  Before they could go out onto the rear platform, the door of the vestibule at the front of the car burst open and Peter Gallagher hurried in. He caught s
ight of the three of them and called, “Miss Halliday! Miss Halliday!” as he came toward them. “This is a disaster!”

  “What’s wrong?” Mercy asked.

  Gallagher flicked a venomous glare toward Rinehart, then turned his attention back to the auburn-haired young woman. “I’ve just been talking to the conductor. He told me the bad news. Evidently there was an enormous snowstorm up in the mountains west of here last night, and the snow is so deep in the passes that the train can’t get through. We’re stuck here in Big Rock!”

  CHAPTER 27

  Far east of Big Rock

  Out on the Great Plains, another train chugged westward. Laird Kingsley sat on one of the bench seats in a passenger car, puffing on a cigar and looking out the window at the flat, snow-covered landscape. He wasn’t really seeing the view, however. His mind‘s eye was filled with the image of his wife Alice standing in the doorway of their Brooklyn brownstone with their child Harry in her arms, both of them smiling and waving good-bye as Kingsley left to set out on the job he had been hired to do.

  That job was to murder a young boy only a few years older than his own son.

  Of course, Alice didn’t know that, and Harry was too young to understand much of anything other than that his papa was leaving.

  Alice—young, beautiful Alice—was aware that her husband’s job was something he never talked about at home, and she was intelligent enough she had to suspect that most, if not all, of it was illegal. She was also smart enough never to press him for details.

  It was enough that they had a comfortable home and an adored child. That represented an island of peace and sanity in the sea of blood and violence through which Kingsley swam every day and many nights. Without his family, he would go mad.

  They kept away the memories of all the people he had killed, the torture he had carried out, the misery he had delivered to countless others. That was a separate part of his life, the part that made all the good things possible.