A Rocky Mountain Christmas

by William W. Johnstone

  “I will.”

  “What is your denomination?” the undertaker asked.

  “I am not particular.”

  “And how soon do you want the funeral?”

  “As quickly as it can be arranged.” Jenny opened her reticule and withdrew the roll of money Nate had won in the last city. It was to be his seed money for his next gambling operation. “How much will this cost?”

  The undertaker looked at the wad of money and licked his lips. “I think, uh, one hundred and fifty dollars should cover ever ything.”

  “Yes, I should hope so,” Jenny said, counting out the money.

  “Yes, ma’am. Leave everything to me. I’ll take care of all the details.”

  “How soon can we do this?”

  “Oh, I’m quite sure we can arrange it for you as early as tomorrow.”

  “Today would be better, but if it is to be tomorrow, then that will have to do.”

  “Where are you staying, madam?”

  “I am staying at the Dunn Hotel.”

  “I will get word to you when the arrangements have been made.”

  “Thank you.”

  The only people present for the church service the next morning were Jenny, the preacher, and the mortician. The preacher knew nothing about Nate McCoy, so instead of preaching a funeral service, he merely reread the sermon he had given the previous Sunday.

  An additional person was present for the graveside committal. The gravedigger stood off at a respectful distance, leaning on his spade and smoking a pipe as he waited for the opportunity to close the grave so he could draw his fee, then go have a drink.

  The committal service was short, consisting only of a single prayer, during which the preacher called him Ned, instead of Nate. The moment the preacher said amen, the gravedigger sauntered over and he and the mortician lowered the pine box into the ground.

  As she walked away from the open grave, Jenny could hear the thump, thump as dirt landed on the pine box.

  Leaving the cemetery, Jenny went directly to the railroad depot. “What time is the next train?” she asked the ticket agent.

  “The next train to where, madam?” the ticket agent replied with a long-suffering sigh.

  “I don’t care where it is going as long as it is the next train.”

  “The southbound is due in about half an hour.”

  “I want a ticket on that train.”

  “Where to, madam?”

  “Where is it going?”

  “Pueblo, Salt Creek, Walsenburg . . .”

  “Pueblo,” Jenny said.

  “Yes, ma’am.” The ticket agent made out the ticket, stamped it with a rubber stamp, then handed it to her.

  “That will be eight dollars.”

  “Thank you.” Jenny handed him the money.

  When the train rolled into the depot twenty-six minutes later, Jenny boarded it and found an empty seat, purposely choosing not to sit by the window. She had no wish for a last look at the town where all her fears had culminated. Though she would never admit it, even to herself, it was also where she’d gained freedom from a marriage that never should have been.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Pueblo, Colorado—April 1893

  The thirty-three children of Jenny’s fifth grade class were gathered for a photo in front of the steps leading up to the school. Students in the first row sat on the ground with their hands folded across their laps. Those in the second row sat on a long, low bench, and the third and fourth rows were standing on ascending steps.

  “Now, if the teacher would just sit beside her class.” The photographer had a long mustache that curled up at each end. His camera, a big box affair, was sitting on a tripod in front of the class.

  Jenny sat on a chair alongside the class, her hands folded across her lap just as she had instructed the children.

  “Now, nobody move until I say so.” The photographer put his hand on the shutter latch. “See the honey up in the tree, I wish you would bring some to me,” he said in a monotone voice. “There. Now you can move.”

  “I can move,” one of the boys on the front row exclaimed, and he pulled the hair of the girl beside him.

  “Ouch!”

  “Danny,” Jenny scolded. “All right, children, school is dismissed. Don’t forget your homework.”

  “Yea!” one of the boys shouted and the class, which had been so motionless a moment earlier, scattered like leaves before a wind.

  Jenny picked up her chair and carried it back into her classroom. The principal and the superintendent of schools were waiting for her.

  “Mr. Gray, Mr. Twitty?” she said, obviously surprised to see them.

  “Miss McCoy, or should I say Mrs. McCoy?” The expression on Twitty’s face was grim.

  “I’m not married.” Jenny paused for a moment. “I’m a widow.”

  “You were married to Nate McCoy, were you not?” Twitty asked.

  “Yes, I was.”

  “It has come to our attention that Nate McCoy was a gambler of, let us say, questionable ethics. And, while you were married, you followed him from gambling den to gambling den. Is that correct?”

  Jenny looked down. “Yes,” she said quietly.

  “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, Mrs. McCoy. The school board has asked for your dismissal.”

  “On what grounds?” Jenny asked.

  “Moral turpitude.”

  “What? But I . . .”

  “Please take your things and leave,” Mr. Gray said.

  “My class?”

  “They are no longer your class. We have already hired a replacement teacher,” Mr. Twitty informed her.

  “Can’t I at least finish the year? We’ve only one month to go. For the children’s sake, don’t you think it would be better for them to keep the same teacher until the end of the year?”

  “Good-bye, Mrs. McCoy,” Gray said coldly.

  Jenny fought hard to keep the tears from welling up in her eyes. She stood and turned away from them, determined not to let them see her cry. She walked into the cloakroom, removed her coat, and left the schoolroom. There was nothing else she wanted to take from there.

  Red Cliff, Colorado—July 8

  The sign out front of the store read RAFFERTY’S GROCERY. One of three, it stood at the very edge of town. Michael Santelli stepped into the little store, and a bell attached to the top of the door announced his entry.

  “Yes, sir, what can I do for you?” Mr. Rafferty asked. Mrs. Rafferty looked up from sweeping the floor and smiled.

  Santelli took a quick glance around. Seeing nobody else in the store, he pulled his gun and pointed it at the shopkeeper. “You can give me all your money. That’s what you can do for me.”

  “Yes, sir,” Rafferty said nervously. “Just don’t be getting trigger happy there.” He opened his cash drawer, took out thirty dollars, and handed it across the counter.

  Santelli counted it quickly, then looked up at Rafferty, his face twisted in anger. “What is this?” he demanded.

  “You said give you all my money. That’s what I did. This is all the money I have.”

  “Thirty dollars? Do you expect me to believe that all you have is thirty dollars?”

  “That is all I have,” Rafferty said. “We deposited yesterday’s receipts in the bank last night. I always start the morning with just enough money to make change.”

  “You’re lyin’!” Santelli pointed his pistol at Mrs. Rafferty. “You better come up with more money fast, or I’ll shoot the woman.”

  “Please, I don’t have any more money!” Rafferty shouted desperately.

  “I warned you.” Santelli grabbed Mrs. Rafferty, pulled the hammer back on his pistol, and held it to her head.

  With a shout of anger, Rafferty climbed over the counter toward him.

  Santelli shot him, then turned his pistol back toward Mrs. Rafferty and shot her. Quickly, he went behind the counter and looked through the cash box, but found no more money. With a shout of rage, he picked u
p the cash box and threw it into a glass display case, smashing the case into pieces.

  That done, and with no more money than the thirty dollars Rafferty had given him in the first place, Santelli left the store, mounted his horse, and rode away.

  Sixty-seven-year-old Burt Rowe witnessed the entire thing from the back of the store. Santelli hadn’t seen him when he looked around. But Rowe recognized the gunman, Santelli, having seen him before.

  As soon as he was certain Santelli was gone, Rowe stepped out in front of the store and began shouting at the top of his lungs. “Help! Help! Murder! The Raffertys have been robbed and murdered!”

  Within moments the store was filled with townspeople, including the sheriff and deputy sheriff.

  “You are sure it was Santelli?” the sheriff asked Rowe.

  “I’m absolutely positive,” Rowe said. “I’ve seen him before.”

  “When he left here, which way did he go?”

  “I seen him heading south, but that don’t mean he kept going that way. By the way, he only got thirty dollars.”

  “Thirty dollars?” the sheriff asked incredulously. “You mean he murdered Mr. and Mrs. Rafferty for no more than thirty dollars?”

  “Yes, sir,” Rowe said. “I know that’s all he got, ’cause I heard ’em talkin’ about it.”

  “What are you going to do about it, Sheriff?” one of the townspeople asked. “Mr. and Mrs. Rafferty were two of the finest people in the world. We can’t let that animal get away with this.”

  “He won’t get away,” the sheriff promised. “I’ll get the word out to other sheriffs and city marshals. We’ll get him, and when we do, we’ll bring him right back here to hang. I promise you that.”

  One week later Michael Santelli rode into the town of Kiowa, Colorado, sizing it up as he went along the main street. The little town was made up of whipsawed lumber shacks with unpainted, splitting wood turning gray in the sun. A sign over the door of one rather substantial-looking brick building identified it as the BANK OF KIOWA. Still angered by the slim pickings from Rafferty’s Grocery, Santelli figured the bank might offer some promise for a bigger payoff.

  So far, he had over five thousand dollars he’d stolen from a bank in Greeley and hidden in the bottom of an old abandoned well near Gunnison. His plan was to put together enough money to buy a saloon in Texas. The idea of owning a saloon appealed to him—unlimited access to whiskey and beer. And the whores working for him would be available to him anytime he wanted them. But he figured he would need at least ten thousand dollars . . . to set himself up for the rest of his life.

  Santelli was a wanted man. There was so much money on his head every bounty hunter in the state was looking for him. The sooner he was able to put together enough money to get out of Colorado, the better it would be. Once he got to Texas, he would be a model citizen. He smiled. He might even run for mayor.

  Santelli rode up to the hitching rail in front of the Silver Nugget Saloon, dismounted, and patted his tan duster a few times, sending up puffs of gray-white dust before he walked inside. The saloon was busy, but he found a quiet place by the end of the bar. When the bartender moved over to him, Santelli ordered a beer, then stood there nursing it as he began to formulate a plan for robbing the bank.

  Matt Jensen stood at the opposite end of the bar with both hands wrapped around a mug of beer. Something seemed familiar about the man who had just come in, but he couldn’t place him. Studying the man’s reflection in the mirror behind the bar, he took in his average height and weight and unkempt black hair. He had dark, obsidian eyes and a purple scar starting just below his left eye and disappearing in a scraggly beard.

  The scar helped Matt make the identification. He had seen drawings and read descriptions of the outlaw Michael Santelli and just that morning had heard that Santelli had killed a grocer and his wife for no more reason than that they didn’t have as much money in their cash box as he thought they should have.

  Matt was neither a lawman nor a bounty hunter, but he didn’t plan to let Santelli walk away. Before he could make any move, Deputy Sheriff Ben Mason came into the saloon, and Matt decided to wait and see how things played out.

  He had met the deputy earlier, when he first rode into town, learning about Santelli’s latest atrocity at the same time. Matt and Deputy Mason were about the same age, and Matt respected the lawman’s dedication to duty.

  When Mason saw Santelli standing at the bar, he stopped and stared for a long moment until he was sure it was the wanted outlaw.

  “Santelli,” Mason called out. “Michael Santelli.”

  Matt saw the way Santelli reacted, stiffening at the bar, but not turning around. The reaction gave him away, and Matt knew his first impulse had been right. The man was Santelli.

  “You are Santelli, aren’t you? Michael Santelli?” Mason asked. The lawman’s voice was loud and authoritative.

  Everyone in the saloon recognized the challenge implied in its timbre. All conversations ceased, and drinkers at the bar backed away so there was nothing but clear space between the lawman and Santelli. Even the bartender left his position behind the bar.

  Matt stood in place at the opposite end of the bar, watching Santelli with intense interest as the drama began to unfold.

  Santelli looked up, studying the lawman’s reflection in the mirror, but he didn’t turn around. “Lawman, I’m afraid you’ve got me mixed up with somebody else.”

  “No, I don’t think so,” Mason said confidently. “I know who you are. You are a bank robber and a murderer, and you are under arrest.”

  Not until that moment did Santelli turn to face the lawman, and he did so with a slow and assured nonchalance. “It looks like I can’t fool you, can I?” he said as a frightening smile curled across his lips. “What are you, anyway? A city marshal? A sheriff?”

  “I’m a deputy sheriff. Mason is the name.”

  “Well, now, Deputy Mason, you think you’ve got yourself a big prize, don’t you? You’re right. I am Michael Santelli, but there’s not a thing you are going to be able to do about it. Because the truth is, mister, you have just bitten off more than you can chew. If you make a move toward your gun, I’ll kill you right where you stand.”

  “And then I’ll kill you.” Matt added his voice to the conversation for the first time.

  Santelli was startled to hear a new challenge from his left, and he turned his head quickly to see Matt standing away from the bar, facing him. Like Mason and Santelli, Matt had not drawn his pistol.

  “Who asked you to butt into this?” Santelli asked.

  “Nobody asked me. But I met Deputy Mason earlier today, and I found him to be a fine, upstanding gentleman. I don’t plan to stand here and watch you shoot him.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Jensen,” Mason said. “I appreciate your help.”

  Santelli’s face, which had been coldly impassive, suddenly grew animated. His skin whitened and a line of perspiration beaded on his upper lip. “Jensen?” he said nervously. “Is that your name?”

  “Matt Jensen, yes.”

  “You fellas seem to have me at a disadvantage, two of you to my one.”

  “I would say that is a smart observation, Santelli,” Matt said.

  “Take your gun out of your holster, using only your thumb and finger,” Mason ordered.

  Santelli reached for his pistol, then suddenly wrapped his entire hand around the pistol butt.

  Seeing that, Matt made a lightning draw of his pistol, pulling the hammer back as he brought his gun to bear. The sound of the sear engaging the cylinder made a loud clicking noise.

  Hearing it, Santelli jerked his hand away from his gun and held it, empty, out in front of him, imploring Matt not to shoot. “No, no! I ain’t goin’ to draw! I ain’t goin’ to draw!’ he shouted. Holding his left hand up in the air as a signal of surrender, Santelli’s right hand removed his pistol from the holster, using his thumb and forefinger as the deputy had directed.

  “Now, lay your pistol on the floor a
nd kick it over here,” Mason ordered.

  Santelli did as he was directed.

  “I’ll help you march him down to jail,” Matt said.

  “Thanks.”

  “Did you see that draw?” someone asked, the quiet voice reflecting his awe. “I ain’t never seen nothin’ like that.”

  “Didn’t you hear who that is?” another asked. “That’s Matt Jensen.

  Deputy Mason put Santelli in handcuffs, then he and Matt walked the prisoner down to the jailhouse. Three minutes later, the cell door clanked loudly as it closed on him.

  “Jensen,” Santelli called out as Matt started to leave.

  Matt turned to him.

  “I have a feeling me ’n you are going to meet again, someday.”

  Matt nodded, but said nothing.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Pueblo—August 4

  Jenny was getting desperate. She had not been able to find a job, and she was nearly out of money. She’d paid her rent for August, but if she didn’t find employment soon, she would have to give up her room. Sitting at her desk, she was writing a letter to her uncle, begging his forgiveness and pleading to be allowed to come back to work for him.

  She was agonizing over the letter she didn’t want to write when there was a knock at the door. Answering it, she saw a very pretty, elegant woman in her early fifties.

  Jenny recognized her. Adele Summers was the proprietor of the Colorado Social Club, a house of prostitution.

  “Miss Summers,” Jenny said, surprised to see her. “What can I do for you?”

  “I hope it is something I can do for you,” Adele replied. “I’ve heard of your problem, and how the school board, a bunch of ninnies, fired you. I would like for you to come work for me, and I will pay you three times more money than you were making teaching school.”

  “Oh, Miss Summers, uh, I thank you, I really do. But I don’t think I could do something like—”

  “Hear me out before you reply. It isn’t what you think.”

  “Oh?”