A Colorado Christmas

by William W. Johnstone

  A couple of cowboys decided to razz the tenderfoot that first night. Tom had been given a chest for his belongings, and while Tom and the rest of the cowboys were having supper, Dalton and one of the cowboys slipped back into the bunkhouse and nailed the lid shut on his chest.

  When Tom and the others returned, Tom tried to open the lid to his footlocker, but he was unable to get it open.

  “What’s the matter there, Tom? Can’t get your chest open?” Dalton asked.

  By now Dalton had told the others what he did, and all gathered around to see how Tom was going to react. Would he get angry, and start cursing everyone? Or would he be meek about it?

  Tom looked more closely at the lid then, and saw that it had been nailed shut by six nails, two in front and two on either side.

  “That’s odd,” he said. “It seems to have been nailed shut.”

  The others laughed out loud.

  “Nailed shut, is it? Well, I wonder who did that?” Dalton asked.

  “Oh, I expect it was a mistake of some sort,” Tom said. “I don’t really think that anyone would nail the lid shut on my chest as a matter of intent.”

  “Whoo, do you think that?” Dalton asked, and again, everyone laughed at the joke they were playing on the tenderfoot.

  “All right, fellas, you’ve had your fun,” Mo said. “Wait a minute, Tom, I’ll get a claw hammer and pull the nails for you so you can get the lid open.”

  “Thank you, Mo,” Tom said. “I don’t need the claw hammer to get the lid open.”

  “What are you talking about? Of course you do. How else are you going to open the lid if you don’t pull the nails out first?”

  “Oh, it won’t be difficult. I’ll just open it like this,” Tom said. Reaching down with both hands, he used one hand to steady the bottom of the chest and the other to grab the front of the lid. He pulled up on the lid then and, with a terrible screeching noise as the nails lost their purchase, the lid came up. Reaching into the footlocker, Tom removed a pair of socks.

  “Ahh,” he said. “That’s what I was looking for.”

  “Good God in heaven,” someone said, reverently. “Did you see that?”

  “Dalton, I don’t think you ought to be messin’ any more with this one. He’s as strong as an ox.”

  Sugarloaf Ranch, Big Rock, Colorado, May 1

  “Did you get a count?” Smoke asked Pearlie.

  Pearlie held up the string and counted the knots. There were fourteen knots.

  “I make it fourteen hundred in the south pasture,” he said.

  “I’ve got another eleven hundred,” Cal added.

  “And I’ve got just over fifteen hundred,” Smoke said.

  “Wow, that’s better than four thousand head,” Pearlie said. “We’ve got almost as many back as we had before the big freeze and die-out.”

  The big die-out Pearlie was talking about happened three years earlier when there had been a huge 72-hour blizzard. After the blizzard, the sun melted the top few inches of snow into slush, which the following day was frozen into solid ice by minus thirty-degree temperatures. Throughout the West, tens of thousands of cattle were found huddled against fences, many frozen to death, partly through and hanging on the wires. The legs of many of the cows that survived were so badly frozen that, when they moved, the skin cracked open and their hoofs dropped off. Hundreds of young steers were wandering aimlessly around on bloody stumps, while their tails froze as if they were icicles to be easily broken off.

  Humans died that year too, men who froze to death while searching for cattle, women and children in houses where there was no wood to burn and not enough blankets to hold back the sub-zero temperatures. The only creatures to survive, and not only survive but thrive that winter, were the wolves who feasted upon the carcasses of tens of thousands of dead cattle.

  Sugarloaf Ranch had survived, but nearly all the cattle on the ranch had died. Then Smoke heard from his friend, Falcon MacCallister. Falcon’s cousin, Duff MacCallister, recently arrived from Scotland, was running a new breed of cattle.

  Duff MacCallister had been spared the great die-out disaster because his ranch was located in the Chugwater Valley of Wyoming, shielded against the worst of winter’s blast by mesas and mountain ranges. Also his ranch, Sky Meadow, had no fences to prevent the cattle from moving to the shelter of these natural barriers, and the breed of cattle Duff MacCallister was raising, Black Angus, were better equipped to withstand the cold weather than were the Longhorns.

  Smoke went to Sky Meadow to meet with Duff, and after his visit, agreed to buy one thousand head of Black Angus cattle. That one thousand head had grown into a herd of nearly four thousand in the last four years, and it had been a very good move for Smoke. Whereas the market price for Longhorn had fallen so low that Smoke’s neighbors, who were still raising that breed, were doing well to break even on their investment, the market price for Black Angus, which produced a most superior grade of beef, was very high.

  “You men take care of things here,” Smoke said. “Sally is coming back today, and I’m going to meet her at the train station.”

  “I’ll go get her,” Cal volunteered.

  Pearlie chuckled. “I’m sure you would, Cal. We’ve got calves to brand and you’ll do anything to get out of a little work.”

  “It’s not that,” Cal said. “I was just volunteering, is all.”

  “Thanks anyway,” Smoke said. “But she’s been back East for almost a month and I’m sort of anxious to see her again.”

  * * *

  When Smoke reached the train depot in Big Rock, he checked the arrival and departure blackboard to see if the train was on time. There was no arrival time listed, so he went inside to talk to the ticket agent. The ticket agent was huddled in a nervous conversation with Sheriff Monte Carson.

  “Hello, Monte, good evening, Hodge,” Smoke said, greeting the two men. “How are you doing?”

  “Smoke, I’m glad you are here,” Sheriff Carson said. “We’ve got a problem with the train.”

  “What kind of problem?” Smoke asked. “Sally is on that train.”

  “Yes, I know she is. We think the train is being robbed.”

  “Being robbed, or has been robbed?” Smoke replied, confused by the remark.

  “Being robbed,” Sheriff Carson said. “At least, we think that is what it is. The train is stopped about five miles west of here. There is an obstruction on the track so that it can’t go forward, and another on the track to keep it from going back.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “Ollie Cook is the switch operator just this side where the train is. When the train didn’t come through his switch on time, he walked down the track to find out why, and that’s when he saw the train barricaded like that. He hurried back to his switch shack and called the depot.”

  “And I called Sheriff Carson,” Hodge said.

  “I’m about to get a posse together to ride out there and see what it’s all about,” Sheriff Carson said.

  “No need for a posse. Deputize me,” Smoke suggested. “Like I said, Sally is on that train.”

  “You are already a deputy, Smoke, you know that,” Sheriff Carson said.

  “Yes, I know,” Smoke said. “But I don’t want people thinking I’ve gone off on my own just because Sally is on the train. I need you to authorize this, in front of a witness.”

  “All right,” Sheriff Carson said. “Hodge you are witness to this. Smoke, you are deputized to find out what is happening with that train, and to deal with it as you see best.”

  “Thanks,” Smoke said.

  Hurrying back outside, Smoke jumped into the buckboard he had come to town in, and slapping the reins against the back of the team, took the road that ran parallel with the railroad. He left town doing a brisk trot, but once he was out of town, he urged the team into a gallop. Less than fifteen minutes later, he saw the train standing on the railroad. Not wanting to get any closer with the team and buckboard, he stopped, tied the team off to a
juniper tree, then, bending to keep a low profile, ran alongside the berm until he reached the front of the train. Hiding in some bushes he looked into the engine cab and saw three men, the fireman and engineer, who he could identify by the pin-stripe coveralls they were wearing, and a third man. The third man had a gun in his hand, and he waved it around every now and then, as if demonstrating his authority over the train crew.

  Smoke moved up onto the track, but since he was in the very front of the locomotive, he knew that he couldn’t be seen. He climbed up the cow catcher, then up onto the boiler itself, still unseen. He walked along the top of the boiler, then onto the roof of the cab. Lying down on his stomach, he peeked in from the window on the left side of the locomotive.

  The man holding the gun had his back to that window so he couldn’t see Smoke, but the engineer and the fireman could, and Smoke saw their eyes widen in surprise. He hoped that the gunman didn’t notice it.

  “You two fellas are doin’ just fine,” the gunman said. “As soon as we collect our money from all your passengers, why we’ll move the stuff off the track and let you go on.”

  Smoke leaned down far enough to make certain that the cab crew could see him, then he put his finger across his lips as a signal to be quiet.

  “You got no right to be collecting money from our passengers,” one of the two cab crew said.

  “Well, the Denver and Rio Grande collects its fees, and we collect ours,” the man said with a cackling laugh.

  In mid-cackle, Smoke reached down into the engine cab, grabbed the man by his shirt, pulled him through the window, then let him fall, headfirst, to the ground.

  “Hey, what . . .” was as far as the man got, before contact with the ground interrupted his protest. Looking down at him, Smoke could tell by the way the man’s head was twisted that his neck was broken, and he was dead.

  Smoke swung himself into the engine cab.

  “Who are you?” one of the men asked.

  “Smoke Jensen, I’m a deputy sheriff,” Smoke said. “How many more are there?”

  “Four more,” one of the men said.

  “Five,” the other corrected. “I saw five.”

  “Where are they now?”

  “Well, sir, after they found out we wasn’t carryin’ any money in the express car, they decided to see what they could get from the passengers, and that’s what they are doing now.”

  “How about the two of you going down to move the body of the one who was in here with you? I don’t want any of the others to happen to look up this way and see him lying there.”

  “Yeah, good idea. Come on, Cephus, let’s get him moved.”

  As the two train crewmen climbed down to take care of their job, Smoke crawled across the coal pile on the tender, then up onto the top of the express car. He ran the length of that car, then leaped across to the baggage car and ran its length as well. Climbing down from the back of the baggage car, he let himself into the first passenger car.

  “One of your men has already been here,” an irate passenger said. “We gave you everything we have.”

  “Shhh,” Smoke said. “I’m on your side. I’m a deputy sheriff. Where are they?”

  “There was only one in here, and he went into the next car.”

  “Thanks,” Smoke said. Holding his pistol down by his side, he hurried through the first car and into the second one. He saw a gunman at the other end of the car, holding a pistol in his right hand and an open sack in the other. The passengers were dropping their valuables into the open sack.

  “What are you doing in here? You get back in the other car and stay there like you were told!” the gunman said belligerently.

  “I don’t think so,” Smoke said. He raised his pistol. “Drop your gun.”

  “The hell I will!”

  Instead of dropping his gun, the train robber swung the pistol around and fired at Smoke. His shot went wide and the bullet smashed through the window of the door behind him. Smoke returned fire, and the gunman dropped his pistol and staggered back, his hands to his throat. Blood spilled through his fingers as he hit the front wall of the car, then slid down to the floor in a seated position. His head fell to one side as he died.

  During the gunfire women screamed and men shouted. As the car filled with the gun smoke of two discharges, Smoke ran through the car, across the vestibule, and into the next car.

  The gunman in the next car, having heard the shot, was looking toward the door as Smoke ran in.

  “Red! McDill! Slim, get in here quick!” the gunman called.

  Smoke and this gunman exchanged fire as well, with the same result. The gunman went down and Smoke was still standing. When he ran into the next car, he saw the robber dashing out through the back door. He chased him down as well, but he didn’t have to shoot him. When the gunman went into the next car, he was brought down by a club wielded by the porter. “Good job,” Smoke said.

  “The other two has done jumped off the train,” the porter said.

  Smoke jumped down from the train as well, then he moved away from it to try and get a bead on the two who were running. Smoke snapped off a long shot, but missed. He didn’t get a second shot because the outlaws were on horseback and galloping away.

  Smoke stood there for a moment, still holding his smoking pistol as he watched the two robbers flee.

  “You need to develop a better sense of timing,” someone said, and turning, Smoke saw Sally standing there on the ground behind him. He embraced and kissed her, then he pulled his head back.

  “What do you mean, a better sense of timing?” he asked.

  “If you had been five minutes earlier, the robbers wouldn’t have gotten my reticule.”

  “Sorry. How much did they get?” Smoke asked.

  “Just my purse,” Sally said with a little laugh. “I had already taken everything out of it.”

  By now, several others had come down from the train and they were all thanking Smoke for coming to their rescue.

  “Look here!” someone shouted. “The two that got away dropped their sacks!”

  “The ones inside never even made it off the train with their sacks,” another said. “Ha! Ever’thing they took is still here!”

  “Cephus, how long will it take you to get the steam back up?” the conductor asked.

  “Fifteen minutes,” Cephus said. “Maybe half an hour.”

  “Do you want to wait until they get the steam back up? Or do you want to come with me now?” Smoke asked. “I left a buckboard just up the track a short distance.”

  “My luggage is on the train,” Sally said.

  “Miss, after what your man just did, if you want your luggage, I’ll personally open the baggage car and get it,” the conductor said.

  * * *

  Mitchell “Red” Coleman and Deekus McDill were the two robbers who got away. They got away from Smoke’s avenging guns, but they did not get away with any money.

  “Nothin’!” McDill said. “We didn’t get a damn thing!”

  “Maybe the day ain’t goin’ to be a total loss,” Red said.

  “What do you mean, it ain’t a total loss?”

  “Look over there,” Red said.

  “What, a store? What good is a store goin’ to do us? We ain’t got no money to buy nothin’.”

  “Who said we were goin’ to buy anything?” Red said.

  McDill understood what he was talking about then, and he smiled and nodded.

  * * *

  Fifteen minutes later Red and McDill rode away from Doogan’s store. Jake Doogan and his wife both lay dead on the floor in the store behind them. Their total take for the robbery was seventy-eight dollars and thirty-five cents.

  Did you enjoy this teaser? Click here to get your copy.

  THE LAW’S GOT NOTHING ON JUSTICE

  To save his best friend’s newphew, Smoke Jensen

  will have to face more than two dozen bloodhungry

  killers. Drunk with power, and afraid of no man,

  their
leader Silas Atwood believes Smoke Jensen can

  be stopped with brute force alone.

  Problem is, Silas Atwood doesn’t

  know Smoke Jensen . . .

  Look for Brutal Night of the Mountain Man, this

  December, from Pinnacle Books.

  Click here to get your copy.

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  WILLIAM W. JOHNSTONE is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of over 300 books, including the series The First Mountain Man, MacCallister, Luke Jensen, Bounty Hunter, Flintlock, Those Jensen Boys!, Savage Texas, Matt Jensen, the Last Mountain Man, and The Family Jensen. His thrillers include Tyranny, Stand Your Ground, Suicide Mission, and the upcoming Black Friday.

  Visit his website at www.williamjohnstone.net.

  Being the all-around assistant, typist, researcher, and fact-checker to one of the most popular western authors of all time, J. A. JOHNSTONE learned from the master, Uncle William W. Johnstone.

  The elder Johnstone began tutoring J.A. at an early age. After-school hours were often spent retyping manuscripts or researching his massive American Western History library as well as the more modern wars and conflicts. J.A. worked hard—and learned.

  “Every day with Bill was an adventure story in itself. Bill taught me all he could about the art of storytelling. ‘Keep the historical facts accurate,’ he would say. ‘Remember the readers—and as your grandfather once told me, I am telling you now: Be the best J. A. Johnstone you can be.’ ”

  Click here to get all the latest news from William W. Johnstone!