A Texas Hill Country Christmas

by William W. Johnstone

  “Come on in, folks,” she invited. “Always got beans, stew, and a mess of cornbread ready for travelers. The accommodations ain’t any fancier than the grub, but they’re comfortable enough. Any bad weather up Fort Worth way, Floyd?”

  “Nope,” answered the driver. “Seems like it’s all stayin’ down south of here, Miss Bertha.”

  “Well, it can stay there as far as I’m concerned. We’ve had plenty of rain already this fall.”

  That might be wishful thinking, Smoke mused. The sun had vanished behind the clouds. Gloom was stealing over the hills. Like all Western men who spent most of their lives outdoors, Smoke had an eye for the weather, and to him it looked like those clouds had rain in them.

  They would find out before morning, he reckoned as he took Sally’s arm and led her inside the stagecoach station with the others.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Bertha’s beans, cornbread, and stew were as good as she claimed, and the strong, hot coffee Smoke used to wash down the food was top-notch. He felt revitalized by the time supper was over, but Sally was yawning and Smoke knew she was ready to turn in.

  “Why don’t you go ahead?” he told her. “I’ll be along later.”

  “Do you want me to try to stay awake?”

  “No, that’s all right,” Smoke said.

  Sally smiled and said, “Normally I might argue with you, but I’m really tired tonight. Some sleep is going to feel good.”

  The stagecoach station had a large dining room in the middle, with three small bedrooms for passengers on each side and the kitchen and Bertha’s quarters in the back. Bertha’s son Ronald, who had a friendly smile like his mother but wasn’t quite right in the head, worked as the station’s hostler and had a small room of his own in the barn behind the station.

  Sally, Mrs. Carter, and the Purcells retired for the evening, leaving Smoke, Arley Hicks, and Herman Langston in the main room, along with the driver, Floyd Horton, and the shotgun guard, Tom Burke.

  Langston took a cigar from his vest pocket and set fire to the gasper. Arley rolled a cigarette while Horton packed a pipe and puffed it to life.

  From behind the counter at the back of the room, Bertha asked, “You boys want a bottle?”

  “I could do with a snort,” Arley said.

  “Kid, the sort of tonsil varnish Bertha sells will peel the hide off your innards all the way down to your toes,” Burke warned with a grin.

  “If you’re tryin’ to scare me off, Mr. Burke, it ain’t workin’.”

  Burke waved the heavyset proprietor over, telling her, “All right, bring a bottle and glasses. I’ll buy everybody a drink.”

  Smoke lifted his cup and said, “I’m fine with this coffee. Thanks anyway.”

  Burke frowned.

  “Where I come from, it ain’t hardly polite to turn it down when a man offers you a drink,” he said.

  “Pull in your horns, Tom,” Horton advised him. “You forgotten this here is Smoke Jensen?”

  Burke suddenly looked nervous. He said, “I didn’t mean no insult, Mr. Jensen—”

  “And I didn’t take it that way, Mr. Burke,” Smoke told him. “Don’t worry. I’m not quite as proddy as most of those yellowbacks make me out to be.”

  A relieved smile appeared on Burke’s weather-beaten face as he said, “That’s good, ’cause I wouldn’t want to get on Smoke Jensen’s bad side.”

  “That’s the side where you wind up dead,” Arley put in.

  Bertha brought over four glasses and a bottle with no label on it. The liquid in the bottle was clear. She said, “Fresh corn squeezin’s, boys. It’s so wild and raw you may have to sneak up on it to drink it.”

  She poured, then took a tin cup from her apron pocket and went on, “I’ll just join you in a nip, if you fellas don’t mind.”

  Langston waved her into a chair and said, “You’re perfectly welcome, my dear.”

  “Don’t go sweet-talkin’ me, Herman,” Bertha said. “As many times as you’ve stopped here, you oughta know by now it ain’t gonna work.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Langston said. “I’m perfectly content to bask in your beauty.”

  Bertha grunted and said, “Keep it up and I’ll heave you outta here on your keister.”

  Smoke leaned back in his chair and smiled as he sipped his coffee and enjoyed listening to the banter. He liked frontier folks, for the most part, and had ever since he and his pa had started west from Missouri right after the war.

  After a while, though, he felt the need to stretch his legs. He finished the coffee, stood up, and said, “I think I’ll take a look around outside.”

  “Morgan Mill’s a mighty peaceful place, Mr. Jensen,” Bertha said. “No Indians hereabouts since all the Lipan Apaches moved on years ago, and there’s nothin’ here to attract outlaws.”

  “I know. I’m just in the habit of checking on things before I turn in for the night.”

  “Well, that’s not a bad habit, I suppose.”

  None of the other men offered to come with him. They were still drinking, smoking, and talking. That was all right with Smoke. In younger years, he had spent a lot of time alone in the high country, and he was perfectly content with his own company.

  At least, he was as long as he knew that Sally was safe and somewhere close by.

  He got his hat from the nail where it hung and put it on as he stepped outside. A cold drizzle had started to fall softly. As long as it didn’t rain any harder than this, the roads ought to be all right for traveling the next day, he thought as he walked around the station building.

  The barn doors were open about a foot. Lantern light spilled through the gap. Smoke started in that direction, figuring that he would check on the horses and say hello to Roland, whom he had met earlier while the young man was unhitching the team.

  He was about halfway there when he realized that something was wrong.

  Rainwater dripped from the floppy brim of Tioga’s battered old hat as the outlaw made his way stealthily through the shadows toward the barn. His heart pounded so hard in his chest it felt like it was about to burst through his skin. All he could think about was the ten thousand dollars in greenbacks that was supposed to be in a valise in the stagecoach boot.

  Since the coach was just staying in Morgan Mill overnight, it wasn’t likely that the bags would be unloaded. Even if some of the passengers wanted their things, the valise with the money didn’t belong to any of them and would have been left aboard the coach. The driver and the guard didn’t know about the money, according to Harlan Gunderson, and so they wouldn’t think twice about the bag being left in the boot.

  That bank president and old Ferguson, the manager of the stage line, had outsmarted themselves by being so secretive, Tioga thought with a sly smile as he approached the barn from the rear.

  He was supposed to be back up in the hills a mile from here, where the rest of the gang was camped. He and Karl Gunderson were sharing a turn on guard duty, and Tioga had known good and well it wouldn’t take Karl long to doze off.

  Sure enough, within half an hour, Tioga had heard snores coming from the spot where Karl had settled down with his back against a rock. The other four men were sound asleep in their bedrolls as well, with slickers spread over them to keep out some of the rain.

  As quietly as possible, Tioga had saddled his horse and led the animal away from the camp. Karl’s snores were so loud the young outlaw figured they would drown out any little noises he made.

  Everything was working out perfectly, he thought now. The night was pitch black because of the clouds and the drizzle. Those pilgrims from the stage would be snug inside the station. And the rain would help obscure his trail, so it would be difficult, if not impossible, for anybody to track him after he snagged that valise full of cash and took off for the tall and uncut. He figured to be a rich man and thirty miles away from here come morning.

  He had to hope Harlan Gunderson wouldn’t be able to follow him, because if Harlan eve
r caught up to him, Tioga knew what would happen. Harlan would take that Bowie knife of his and peel Tioga’s hide off a strip at a time. He was so mean he should’ve been a redskin instead of a Scandahoovian, thought Tioga.

  But danged if ten thousand dollars wasn’t worth the risk.

  This would be the biggest payoff by far that Tioga had gotten his hands on since running away from his pa’s farm up in northern Texas. He would make his way to Mexico and spend the rest of his days there, enjoying the warm weather and the warmer señoritas. Harlan and the others could go on robbing and killing and wind up at the end of a hangrope. Tioga was going to put all that behind him.

  His horse was tied in the edge of the trees, where the creek looped around behind the stage station. Tioga hurried across the open ground between him and the barn, toward the rear door. He could see faint lines of light from inside through the cracks around the door.

  That probably meant somebody was inside. Maybe the hostler who worked here. Whoever it was, the hombre better not get in his way, or he’d be sorry.

  Tioga wasn’t going to let anybody or anything stop him from getting that cash.

  He stopped just outside the door and leaned forward to put his right eye to the crack at the side. Somebody was moving around in there, but that was all he could tell. He took hold of the latch string and slowly pulled it down. The door swung open a little more as the latch unfastened.

  Through the larger gap, Tioga saw a man a few years older than him step out of one of the stalls and close the gate behind him. The fella wore a homespun shirt and canvas trousers. He had tousled brown hair. Tioga heard an odd sound and realized after a moment that the man was singing to himself. What sort of loco fool did that?

  Then the man turned toward him. Tioga saw the rather vacant smile on his face. He was some sort of dummy, Tioga decided. Probably just smart enough to take care of horses and not much else. Not smart like him. Not smart enough to steal a march on his partners and wind up a rich man.

  The hostler went in one of the other stalls. Tioga opened the door wider and stepped inside. Wind and rain swirled in with him. He pulled the door closed and then drew his gun.

  The hostler came out of the stall and stopped short at the sight of the slicker-clad figure in front of him. His mouth hung open in surprise. Tioga pointed the gun at him and said, “Don’t you make a sound, mister, or I’ll blow your brains out.”

  Maybe that wasn’t the best threat to make, Tioga thought a second later. The dummy might not understand he had any brains to lose. His mouth opened even wider, and Tioga knew he was working himself up to a yell.

  The outlaw cursed bitterly as he realized he couldn’t pull the trigger. The people inside the station would hear a shot and charge out here to see what was going on. The stagecoach driver and the guard would be armed, and some of the male passengers probably were, too. Tioga wouldn’t stand much chance of winning a gun battle against five or six men.

  So he jammed the gun back in its holster and leaped forward, reaching under the slicker to pluck a knife from a sheath at his waist as he did so. The dummy couldn’t yell with his throat cut.

  Tioga tried to clap his left hand over the hostler’s mouth while his right swiped the blade at the man’s throat. The hostler jumped back. He was obviously terrified, and instead of being paralyzed by fear, it made him move faster than usual. The slashing knife missed, and that threw Tioga off-balance. He stumbled forward. His foot hit a bucket that was sitting next to a stall door and sent it clattering across the aisle in the middle of the barn.

  He caught himself as the hostler turned to run. Tioga leaped after him, caught him from behind, and drove him to the ground with a hard tackle. He planted his left knee in the small of the man’s back, grabbed his hair, and jerked his head back. That drew his throat taut for the blade that Tioga swept toward it, ready to spill the man’s blood.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Smoke heard the racket in the barn. It sounded like somebody had thrown a bucket across the floor. That wasn’t enough by itself to be alarming, but instincts honed by years of danger sent him moving forward swiftly.

  A second later he heard grunts and a thud. Some sort of fight was going on in there, and nobody was supposed to be in the barn except Roland. Smoke’s Colt was already in his right hand as his left gripped one of the doors and hauled it open.

  Lantern light reflected from an upraised knife blade. Smoke’s keen eyes took in the scene instantly: Roland lying belly down on the ground with a man in a slicker and high-crowned hat on top of him, holding his head back as he got ready to slash the hostler’s throat.

  Smoke fired as the blade streaked down on its deadly thrust.

  The would-be killer’s head was tipped forward as he looked at his prey. The hat brim obscured his face. Smoke’s bullet clipped through the brim, blew the hombre’s chin off, and bored on into the hollow of his throat to smash his spinal column. All the muscles and nerves below that went dead. The knife flew out of his hand since his fingers could no longer grip it. He fell forward over Roland as blood gouted from the wound and splashed on the back of the young man’s head.

  Naturally enough, Roland howled like a banshee.

  Smoke rushed forward, grabbed the dying man’s slicker, and slung him to the side. He rolled over, all his muscles limp, and came to rest on his back. His hat had fallen off, revealing a young, beard-stubbled face and wide, staring eyes. He made gurgling sounds, but that was all he could manage through his ruined throat.

  Then those fell silent as the bulging eyes began to turn glassy in death.

  The man wasn’t more than twenty years old, Smoke thought disgustedly. What a waste. But it had been his choice to try to murder Roland, so Smoke wasn’t going to lose any sleep over shooting him. There hadn’t been time to try to wound him, either, not if he wanted to save Roland’s life.

  Roland was still screaming. Smoke holstered his gun and bent to take hold of the young man and lift him to his feet.

  “It’s all right,” Smoke assured him. “You’re all right, Roland.”

  More people burst into the barn behind him. Bertha cried out, “Roland! Oh, dear God!”

  “Mama!” he said pitifully.

  Smoke got out of the way. Bertha swooped down on Roland and grabbed him like a mama bear with a cub. Smoke said, “I don’t think he’s hurt, ma’am. I believe all that blood came from the other fella.”

  Sobbing with relief, Bertha began using her apron to wipe away some of the blood splattered on her son’s head and shoulders.

  “Who in blazes is this?” Tom Burke asked as he pointed his shotgun at the dead man lying on the ground a few feet away. Floyd Horton was beside him, pistol in hand.

  “Neither of you know him?” Smoke asked.

  “Never saw him before,” Horton said, and Burke shook his head.

  Smoke took out his revolver again and reloaded the chamber he had fired. As he slid the gun into leather, he said, “I came in and found him about to cut Roland’s throat. Wasn’t time to tell him to stop or do anything except kill him.”

  “Looks like you done a good job of that,” Horton said.

  Grimly, Burke added, “We’d better take a look around the place and make sure there ain’t any more skunks lurkin’ in the dark.”

  “That’s a good idea,” Smoke agreed.

  He and the two stage line employees left Bertha and Roland in the barn and went out to scout the area around the stagecoach station. When they came back a short time later, they all reported that there was no sign of anybody else in the vicinity.

  Horton studied the dead man in the lantern light and said, “If you ask me, that fella looks like an owlhoot. And I’ve seen enough road agents in my time to know one when I see him.”

  Smoke nodded and said, “I thought the same thing. But what was he after?”

  “The mail pouch, maybe,” Burke suggested. “There’s usually some money in it.”

  “You’re not carrying anything else valuable on
this trip?” Smoke asked.

  “Just whatever the passengers have on ’em,” Horton said. “The mail pouch is the only thing in the strongbox.”

  Burke said, “If a fella’s desperate enough to commit murder, he might be willin’ to take anything he can get, no matter how much it is.”

  That was true enough, Smoke supposed. But something still didn’t feel right to him about this. His gut told him there was more to it than a simple attempted robbery, and he had long since learned to trust those hunches.

  But the man was dead and nobody else was around, so it was unlikely there would be any explanation tonight. Maybe not ever.

  “Roland’s in no shape to stay out here by himself, ma’am,” he told Bertha. “You need to take him inside, clean him up, and calm him down. I’ll stay here in the barn to keep an eye on the coach and the horses, just in case anybody else comes around looking for trouble.”

  She nodded. Her face was flushed and tear-streaked as she said, “Thank you, Mr. Jensen. And thank you for savin’ my boy’s life. He . . . he’s all I got left.”

  Smoke smiled and said, “I’m glad I came in when I did. If you’d tell Mrs. Jensen where I am and what I’m doing . . . ?”

  “I sure will. You folks can have anything I got. You just ask for it, and it’s yours.”

  “A good night’s sleep for my wife and a good breakfast in the morning will do just fine.”

  “Don’t you worry. I’ll see to it.”

  Still fussing over Roland, whose sobs had subsided to whimpers, she led him out of the barn.

  Burke canted the coach gun over his shoulder and said, “I’ll stay out here and help you stand guard, Mr. Jensen.”

  “So will I,” Horton said. “That way we can have two men watchin’ and one gettin’ a little shut-eye. What about this dead varmint?”

  “We’ll drag him into an empty stall for the night, I guess,” Smoke said.

  “The nearest law is in Stephenville,” Burke said. “That’ll be our first stop in the morning anyway. We can send the sheriff and the undertaker back up here to deal with the carcass. The weather’s cool enough he ought to keep for that long without spoilin’ too bad.”