A Texas Hill Country Christmas

by William W. Johnstone

  A smile appeared on the man’s face as he said, “Your weapons cannot harm me. All those who rode with me from the reservation are dead, but Black Moon still lives because the spirits watch over him.”

  “That’s your name? Black Moon?”

  “That is what the white-eyes call me,” the man said with a sneer. “I bear the brand of their hatred.”

  Smoke guessed he was talking about the half-moon-shaped mark on his face. It was a scar of some sort, maybe embedded powder grains from a close range gunshot. It seemed to him that Black Moon might have adopted the name because he regarded the mark as a badge of pride, or a reminder of the hatred he bore for the whites.

  “Well, listen, Black Moon, you may think you have some sort of medicine magic that protects you, but it won’t stand up to a .44-40 round or a load of buckshot. That’s what you’ll be facing if you walk out of here without surrendering. And there’s no other way for you to get out.”

  “I come and I go like the wind and the rain,” Black Moon countered. “Your bullets and your buckshot cannot hurt me if they cannot find me.”

  “How’d you get in here, anyway?” Smoke asked. As long as he could keep Black Moon talking, the man wasn’t hurting anybody.

  Black Moon didn’t answer. Sally did. She said, “He was hiding on the roof, I think. He waited until all of you left, then dropped down and came in.”

  Black Moon scowled and snapped, “Stop talking, woman.”

  Smoke thought he understood why Black Moon was annoyed. Sally’s hardheaded, practical answer didn’t go along with the Indian’s mystical ranting. It reduced Black Moon’s “medicine” to what it really was, a figment of his fevered imagination.

  Arley groaned. The young cowboy was still alive, thought Smoke. But he definitely needed medical attention if he was going to stay that way.

  “What is it you want?” Smoke asked.

  “To kill as many whites as I can,” Black Moon answered without hesitation. “To make them feel the same pain I feel.”

  “Nobody tortured you, like you did with Jonas McClaren.”

  “The man in the barn?” Black Moon smiled again, but it was more of a wolfish sneer. “His death was sweet to me, like food and drink. Spilling his blood was like cold water on a hot day.”

  “The man never did anything to you.”

  “He was white. Your kind drove my people from our home, put us on reservations, gave us food that sickened us. Many of my people died—” For the first time, Black Moon’s voice caught a little. “Like my woman. She sickened from the spoiled beef and died.”

  “Listen,” Smoke said. “A lot of the mistreatment of your people can be laid at the feet of certain men in Washington and elsewhere. They did it for profit, pure and simple. Some of us have tried to stop them.”

  That was true, not a ruse. Several times in the past, Smoke, his brother Matt, and the old mountain man known as Preacher had battled the so-called Indian Ring, a group of politicians and financiers who would stop at nothing to enrich themselves. Those schemers were stubborn, though, and not easily defeated. Every time it looked like their plans had been put down, they popped up again somewhere else.

  “Your words are empty and mean nothing to me,” Black Moon said. “Tell all the other men to leave their guns outside and come in.”

  “Why? So you can butcher us one by one? You really think we’re going to stand still for that?”

  “Do as I say and the women will die quickly, with as little pain as possible.”

  Slowly, Smoke shook his head. Black Moon was loco, no doubt about that. No matter what the reasons behind it, he had sunk so far into his madness that he just couldn’t think straight anymore. All he could do was hate and lash out, like a rabid dog.

  “Let Mrs. Purcell go,” Smoke said quietly. “Then you and I, we can settle this, man to man.”

  “Smoke . . .” Sally said.

  “It’s the only way,” Smoke went on. “Think about it, Black Moon. You’re smart enough to know the rest of the men aren’t going to cooperate with you. They’ll just gun you down. But you fight me . . . you kill me . . . I give you my word you can ride away from here.”

  Black Moon sneered again.

  “Why would I believe you?”

  “Because it’s the only chance you have to live through this.” Smoke looked at his wife. “Sally, you heard what I said. You tell the others. You make them stick to it.”

  He could tell she wanted to argue with him, but she knew it wouldn’t do any good. Once Smoke Jensen made up his mind, nothing could sway him.

  “You have no weapon,” Black Moon said.

  “Don’t need one,” Smoke said.

  The warrior couldn’t resist that challenge. His face twisted with rage as he suddenly shoved Mildred toward her husband. With a hoarse cry, Black Moon leaped toward Smoke with the knife upraised, ready to deliver a killing stroke.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  As the blade flashed down at Smoke, his left hand shot up and caught Black Moon’s wrist, halting the thrust in midair. The Indian had already built up too much momentum for Smoke to stop him completely, though. Black Moon barreled into him. Smoke went over backward, still holding off the knife.

  They hit the floor and rolled toward the doorway. Smoke’s right hand shot up and closed around Black Moon’s throat. An instant later, Black Moon got hold of Smoke’s throat with his left hand in a similar grip. Both men surged to their feet and swayed back and forth as they struggled.

  Mildred Purcell screamed hysterically as she was finally able to give in to her terror. She clutched and clawed at her husband, who still stood as if frozen by shock and fear. Mrs. Olmsted and Betty rushed toward them, while Sally moved with swift efficiency to scoop up Arley’s gun from the floor. She turned toward Smoke and Black Moon with the weapon.

  Sally hesitated with her finger on the trigger. The two men were so close together she couldn’t risk a shot. There was too great a chance she might hit Smoke.

  But if she had an opening, she would be ready to take it.

  Smoke was vaguely aware of what else was going on in the room because his peripheral vision was so good he saw it happening. He didn’t pay much attention to it, though, because he was too busy fighting for his life. Black Moon was lean but possessed a wiry strength, and the madness that gripped him gave him even more. Smoke had to struggle to keep the renegade from plunging the knife into his body, and red spots were starting to dance in front of his eyes from lack of air. His blood roared in his veins like a raging river.

  Black Moon had to be going through the same thing. Smoke had immense power in his grip, and as he closed it tighter and tighter around Black Moon’s throat, he wondered how much more the man’s windpipe could stand without collapsing.

  Of course, the same thing could be said about his windpipe. . . .

  Suddenly, Black Moon took him by surprise by letting off on the arm holding the knife and lunging against him. The impact drove Smoke backward again. This time they staggered across the porch and off the steps, toppling into the muddy yard in front of the station.

  Puddled water flew up around them, drenching Smoke’s face and momentarily blinding him. With slick mud now coating them, it was impossible for either man to maintain his grip. They writhed and twisted apart. Smoke came up and threw himself backward as the Bowie knife streaked past his face, missing him by no more than an inch.

  He kicked Black Moon in the belly. The blow made the Indian double over. Smoke clubbed his hands together and swung them in a powerful punch that caught Black Moon on the jaw and straightened him up. In that instant, Smoke saw that Plumlee and the Olmsteds had formed a circle around them. The men leveled rifles and shotguns at the fighters.

  “Hold your fire!” Sally shouted from the porch. “Smoke promised him a fair fight!”

  After what had been done to Jonas McClaren, the men probably didn’t care about fairness. Smoke couldn’t blame them if they riddled Black Moon with lead. But he would have
to get out of the way for them to do that, and that would mean retreating.

  When the Good Lord made Smoke Jensen, he didn’t put in any back-up.

  One way or another, this would be a fight to the finish.

  As Black Moon staggered back from the powerful two-handed punch, Smoke bored in after him and kept him off-balance by peppering him with short, sharp blows to the face and body. Unable to get himself set, all Black Moon could do was flail desperately back and forth in front of him with the knife. That forced Smoke to break off his attack.

  Even though the respite lasted only a second, that was enough for Black Moon to get his feet under him and go on the offensive again. Smoke darted out of the way as the blade came at him. He raised his left arm, and the knife passed under it. Smoke clamped his arm down on the Indian’s forearm, pinning it. He pivoted and at the same time used his right hand to catch hold of Black Moon’s right arm, just below the shoulder. Black Moon had no choice but to go with him as Smoke continued turning. Smoke threw his hip into it. Black Moon left his feet and sailed through the air, then smashed down in the mud on his back.

  The throw, taught to Smoke by Preacher—who had, ironically enough, learned it from Indians in his youth—had wrenched Black Moon’s arm so violently that he had lost his grip on the knife. It lay in the mud near Smoke’s left foot. He kicked the Bowie to the side, well out of reach of either of them.

  Now the fight really was man to man, hand to hand—mano a mano, as they said south of the border.

  Black Moon rolled and came up on his hands and knees, then without climbing the rest of the way to his feet launched himself in a diving tackle at Smoke’s knees. Smoke couldn’t get out of the way in time. He went down as Black Moon wrenched his legs out from under him.

  The renegade hammered a punch into Smoke’s face, stunning him for a second. Black Moon grabbed his shoulders, rolled him over, and planted a hand on the back of Smoke’s head, forcing his face down into the mud where there was no air to breathe.

  A man could drown in this soupy mud, just the same as he could in water.

  Smoke wasn’t going to let that happen. He got his hands and knees underneath him and tried to buck upward, but he slipped in the slick mud and went down again. The next time he dug deeper with his hands, ignored the mud that tried to clog his mouth and nose, and heaved himself up and back. Black Moon lost his hold and toppled off.

  Still on his knees, Smoke twisted around and dived after the Indian. He rammed his left elbow into Black Moon’s belly, got his right hand under the man’s chin and thrust up as hard as he could. Black Moon’s head went back so far it seemed impossible that his neck didn’t snap. He writhed away, though, before Smoke could finish him off.

  Slowly, both men climbed to their feet and faced each other with six feet separating them. Their chests heaved from the exertion and strain of this epic combat. Then with an inarticulate cry of hatred, Black Moon leaped at Smoke again.

  Black Moon went high so Smoke went low, ducking under the attack and catching hold of the renegade around his knees. Smoke straightened and dumped Black Moon over his head. He whirled around, summoning his last reserves of strength and speed to do so and dropped to his knees to catch hold of Black Moon from behind. His right arm went around Black Moon’s neck. His left hand caught the right wrist, clamped the arm in place. Black Moon squirmed and flailed but couldn’t get free.

  The muscles under Smoke’s coat bunched like giant cables as he heaved upward. Over the pounding of the rain sounded a sharp crack, like a branch breaking. A final shudder went through Black Moon, then he hung there limply in Smoke’s grip as the rain washed down over both of them.

  Smoke let go. Black Moon toppled forward to land facedown in the mud. He didn’t move again.

  Smoke looked up and was surprised to see that a horseman now sat in the yard in front of the stagecoach station. In the heat of battle, Smoke hadn’t noticed the man’s arrival.

  He was even more surprised to realize that he knew the man.

  His brother Matt leaned forward in the saddle. Water dripped from the brim of his black Stetson as he said, “Never expected to run into you down here, Smoke. It looks like you’ve done my job for me.”

  Smoke sat close to the fireplace, wrapped in a blanket as he warmed up. He had scrubbed off as much of the mud as he could from his hands, face, and head. Mrs. Olmsted had his clothes soaking in a pot of hot water in the kitchen.

  One of the Olmsted boys helped Arley Hicks over to another rocking chair near the fire. Arley was wearing a borrowed shirt over some bandages wrapped around his midsection, since his shirt had been soaked with blood from the wound in his side. Sally had cleaned and dressed the injury, which she had said looked worse than it really was.

  “I’m startin’ to wonder if there’s gonna be anything left of me by the time I get to Bandera,” Arley said with a rueful grin. “Done been shot and stabbed already. I’m afraid to ask what’s gonna happen next.”

  “You probably don’t want to know,” Smoke said.

  That brought a laugh from Arley, whose spirits seemed undaunted by the bad luck dogging his trail. Or maybe it was good luck, Smoke reflected, because as the young cowboy had pointed out, somebody had tried twice now to kill him, and he was still breathing.

  Sally and Mrs. Carter sat at the table, drinking coffee. The Purcells were on the other side of the room, not saying anything to each other or anyone else. Donald Purcell wouldn’t meet his wife’s eyes, but she seemed to have no trouble glaring at him. Smoke guessed Mildred wasn’t too happy about the way her husband had frozen in fear.

  Of course, if Mr. Purcell had tried to put up a fight against Black Moon, the renegade probably would have killed him in less time than it took to talk about it.

  Smoke heard boots stomping on the porch. A minute later, the door opened and Matt and Ike Plumlee came inside after hanging up their slickers and hats. Matt said, “Good news. It’s stopped raining, and I think the creek has gone down a little already. If it keeps dropping, the stage might be able to make it on into Mason by late this afternoon.”

  “Yeah, if it don’t start rainin’ again,” Plumlee added.

  The two of them had ridden down to the south fork bridge to check on the level of the creek. Smoke was glad to hear what they had to report. The sooner they got Jonas McClaren’s body to the undertaker, the better.

  “You boys need some coffee,” Mrs. Olmsted said. She picked up the pot from the stove and began filling cups.

  Matt carried his coffee over to stand between the rocking chairs occupied by Smoke and Arley. He said, “Now that I think about it, Smoke, I recall you saying in one of your letters that you planned to come down here to Texas to see about buying a bull. I didn’t expect you to do it at Christmastime, though.”

  “Chester Fielding wrote me that he had other folks interested in that bull,” Smoke explained, “so I’d better come on down if I wanted first crack at it. We’ve agreed on a price, and if I like the looks of the animal, we have a deal. If he’s as fine as Fielding claims, he’ll improve my herd.”

  Matt had already told Smoke about how he had been on Black Moon’s trail for several days, having followed the renegade south from the Palo Pinto Mountains.

  “I guess he saw the stagecoach and figured it was stuck here by the high water,” Matt had said. “He just couldn’t pass up the chance to kill that many white folks.”

  He had also told Smoke about tracking down the war party of Comanche renegades with Major Macmillan and the cavalry patrol. Matt hadn’t gone into detail about the atrocities Black Moon and his companions had carried out.

  He didn’t need to. Smoke had seen the renegade’s work for himself, and it was going to be a while before those grisly images faded from his mind.

  Sally walked over to join them and asked, “What are you going to do now, Matt?”

  “Well, I figured I’d ride shotgun on the stagecoach the rest of the way into Mason,” Matt said. “I’ve done that job befor
e.” He shrugged. “After that, I don’t have any plans. You know how fiddle-footed I’ve always been.”

  “I have an idea,” Smoke said. “Come with us to Chester Fielding’s ranch. We’ll all spend Christmas there.”

  Matt grinned and said, “Christmas and trouble seem to go together for us, don’t they, Smoke? This won’t be the first one we’ve spent with varmints trying to kill us.”

  “Bite your tongue,” Sally scolded him. “All the trouble’s over now. And I agree with Smoke’s suggestion. You should come with us, and we’ll all enjoy the holiday together.”

  Matt nodded and sipped his coffee. He said, “I reckon that’s a good idea. And I’m sure that’s the way things will turn out.”

  The adventuresome twinkle in his eyes as he looked at Smoke, though, made it clear he wasn’t convinced that what he said was true.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  After overflowing its banks, the creek next to Enchanted Rock Baptist Church went down quite a bit overnight. As the water receded, it left large puddles in the fields that had been flooded the night before.

  The members of the congregation left the wall of sandbags in place, blocking the low spot that would threaten the church if the creek rose again. That possibility seemed all too real. Dark gray clouds still hung over the Hill Country landscape. Old-timers afflicted with the rheumatism said their bones told them there was more rain in those clouds, and no one disputed that prediction.

  As people began to gather at the church for the Sunday morning service, though, no rain was falling. Everyone seemed happy and relieved to see each other, Seth Barrett thought as he stood just inside the door and greeted them as they filed in. They all drew comfort from their shared faith.

  Besides, it was only two days until Christmas, one of the most joyous days of the year, a day to celebrate the birth of the Lord.

  Seth shook hands, smiled, and nodded to everyone, old and young alike. The lady who played the piano sat down on her bench and began quietly playing “Shall We Gather at the River.”