Catherine crossed her arms and glared. “My fiancé assured me in his letters that it would be perfectly safe for me to come to Arizona Territory, that there was no real threat from the Indians. I’m sorry, sir, but I’m going to accept his word—the word of a lieutenant in the United States Army—where this matter is concerned.”
“I don’t understand,” Mrs. Bates said. “Is the stage going on or not?”
“I say it is,” Ballard told her.
“So do I,” Catherine said. “I don’t want to postpone my marriage for any longer than is absolutely necessary.”
Scratchy said, “You know how Mike and me feel about it. We’re for pushin’ on. Shoot, I ain’t never failed to finish a run, and I’ll be da—I mean, I’ll be doggoned if I want to start now!”
Cordell looked at Smoke, Sally, and Preacher. “You folks haven’t said anything about what you want to do.”
“The day I hunker down and hide just ’cause there might be some trouble up ahead is the day you can put me up in a tree,” Preacher said.
Smoke knew he was talking about the old Indian burial custom, even if the others didn’t.
Sally spoke up. “When the Good Lord made my husband, He didn’t put in much backup.” She smiled. “I’m afraid being around Smoke has sort of rubbed off on me. If we knew for certain that we were going to run into trouble, it might be different. I can’t see sitting around and waiting just because there’s a chance something might happen.”
Smoke squeezed her hand to let her know he was proud of her. “Scratchy and Mike seem like pretty tough hombres, and Preacher and I have sure seen our share of ruckuses. I think there’s a good chance we can get through.”
“I give up, then,” Cordell said. “Scratchy, if you’re bound and determined to start for Tucson in the morning, then more power to you. I’m writin’ that paper you talked about, though, and you’re signin’ it!”
Smoke looked at Mrs. Bates. “That just leaves you and George, ma’am. It’s different for you, since you’ve got the responsibility of taking care of that youngster—”
“Yes, but I want to get back to Tucson as soon as possible, Mr. Jensen. I think the sooner I get George settled into his new home, the better. It’ll be his first Christmas without . . . without his folks, and that’ll be hard enough as it is. I think it’ll be even more difficult if we’re stuck in some hotel, even a nice one like this.”
Ballard nodded. “It’s settled, then. We’re all going on as planned.”
Smoke thought he sounded uncommonly relieved about that and figured once again it had something to do with that trunk and its contents.
“God help you all,” Cordell said, then stomped out of the dining room.
Scratchy looked at the passengers. “I realize you folks are takin’ a mighty big chance. Mike and me will do our best not to let you down.”
“We sure will,” Mike added.
Smoke saw him glance at Catherine Bradshaw. That wasn’t surprising. Catherine was a very attractive young woman. She was also engaged to an army lieutenant. Smoke didn’t know if Mike was aware of that or not.
Such things would be the least of their worries over the next few days, though. The trip to Tucson would have been arduous enough even if everything went perfectly. With the possible threat of Apache raiders hanging over the rest of the journey, things might just get interesting before they reached their destination.
Smoke smiled grimly to himself.
CHAPTER 18
Scratchy Stevenson went along the hallway pounding on doors as he called, “Rise an’ shine, folks! Better start gettin’ ready, or we’ll be burnin’ daylight!”
Smoke was an early riser by habit, so he was up and shaving already when Scratchy roused the others. He looked over at the bed where Sally was still nestled under the covers and smiled as his wife muttered sleepily.
She lifted her head and said, “I don’t suppose I could talk you into coming back to bed.”
Smoke’s smile widened into a grin. “Don’t tempt me, woman. We’ve got a lot of ground to cover today.”
“I know, I know. I’m getting up.” She sat up, swung her legs out of bed, and went over to Smoke. She stretched up to kiss him on the cheek.
He turned, slipped an arm around her waist, and gave her a proper good morning kiss.
A short time later, they walked into the dining room to find Preacher sitting at one of the tables with Scratchy Stevenson and Mike Olmsted. All three men were drinking coffee.
“Preacher was up before we were,” Scratchy said.
“The older you get, the less time you got left, and the more you don’t want to waste too much of it sleepin’,” Preacher said. “Besides, time you get to be my age, you got enough aches and pains keepin’ you comp’ny that sleepin’ ain’t always easy.”
Señora Gonzalez brought cups of coffee for Smoke and Sally. As they sat down with the others, Tom Ballard came into the dining room, stopped short, and frowned at Scratchy and Mike. “If you two are over here, who’s keeping an eye on the stagecoach?”
“Jack Cordell and his hostlers are gettin’ a fresh team hitched up right now,” Scratchy replied. “Don’t worry. They’re keepin’ an eye on your things, Mr. Ballard.”
Ballard shook his head. “I wasn’t worried.”
He was trying to achieve a casual tone, Smoke thought, but he didn’t quite make it.
Mrs. Bates and George came into the dining room next.
Señora Gonzalez began serving breakfast, which was bacon, flapjacks, and fried eggs. “You are still missing one passenger,” she commented.
“That’s right. Miss Bradshaw isn’t here,” Sally said. “I’ll go make sure she’s all right.”
Mike scraped his chair back. “That’s all right, ma’am. You go on with your breakfast. Since I work for the stage line, I reckon it’s my job to check on Miss Bradshaw.”
Sally shrugged and smiled. “All right.” She looked over at Smoke with a twinkle in her eyes as Mike’s long-legged strides carried him out of the dining room and across the hotel lobby.
Smoke knew what she was thinking. Mike had been quick to jump at the chance to talk to Miss Catherine Bradshaw. If the young shotgun guard expected anything to come of it, though, Smoke suspected he would be disappointed.
Mike Olmsted was nervous—unusual for him—as he paused in front of the door to Miss Bradshaw’s room. From the time he’d been a kid, he had been bigger, stronger, and faster than most of the fellows his age, and as he got older he’d found that he could rope and ride and shoot better than most of them, too.
Despite those talents, he’d never had much interest in being a cowboy. He would have been willing to stay on the family ranch and help out, but his pa had sensed his restless nature and sent him packing, but in a kindly way.
“Go out there and find out what it is you want to do with your life, boy,” he had told Mike.
Ever since, Mike had been trying to take that advice. He was confident in his own abilities and so far hadn’t run into any trouble that he couldn’t handle. At the moment, his heart was pounding heavily in his chest and a few beads of sweat had broken out on his forehead even though it was actually pretty cool inside the hotel’s thick adobe walls.
He hadn’t expected such a reaction and didn’t like it, so the best thing was to get the job over with, he decided. He rapped his knuckles against the door.
Since he got no response from inside, Mike knocked again, a little louder. He heard a murmur from the other side of the door, but he couldn’t make out the words. He leaned closer. “Miss Bradshaw? Sorry to bother you, but it’s Mike Olmsted. You know, the shotgun guard from the stagecoach? Everybody else is havin’ breakfast in the dining room, and we’ll be pullin’ out soon.”
Again, someone muttered inside the room, but Mike couldn’t make heads or tails of it. He didn’t like doing it, but he knocked again and called, “Miss Bradshaw?”
The door jerked open suddenly. Catherine stood just inside the room with one hand on
the door and the other holding closed a silk robe that gaped a little here and there despite her grip. And where the robe wasn’t open, it was molded distractingly to her body.
“I said I’m awake and getting ready,” she snapped at him. “Are you hard of hearing, Mr. Olmsted?”
“Yes, ma’am. I mean, no, ma’am!” Mike started to back away. “I can hear just fine. I just didn’t understand what you were sayin’.”
“Now are you accusing me of mumbling?”
He shook his head a little more vehemently than necessary. “No, ma’am, I’m sure not. And I’m sorry I disturbed you. You just, uh, go ahead and get ready—”
“That’s exactly what I intend to do.” Her light brown hair was loose around her head, falling in waves around her face and over her shoulders. She was pretty enough to take Mike’s breath away, even though she glared at him. “Is there anything else?”
He reached up, tugged on the brim of his hat, and lowered his gaze as he said, “No, ma’am, that’s all.”
Turned out looking down was a mistake, he realized as his eyes lingered on her bosom under the clinging silk. Looking down even more didn’t help matters. Then he was all too aware of the enticing curve of her hips. He swallowed hard and turned away as he felt heat rising in his face. “I’ll be goin’ now.”
She stopped him by saying, “Mr. Olmsted.”
“Yes, ma’am?” he asked without looking around again.
“You won’t leave without me, will you?”
“No, ma’am,” Mike answered instantly. “You can bet that fancy hat you wear on that.”
“All right.” Her tone was less hostile now. “Thank you.”
“Yes’m,” Mike muttered, then he hurried up the hallway toward the hotel lobby. He wasn’t sure what he’d been thinking when he’d volunteered to make sure she was awake. It hadn’t been a proper thing to do at all. She was probably convinced now that he was a rude, lecherous buffoon.
Maybe he was. The way she’d looked in that silk robe was going to haunt his thoughts for a long time.
* * *
Tom Ballard left the hotel with Scratchy and Mike when they went to check on the stagecoach and see if it was ready to roll. The sun still wasn’t up, but the eastern sky was awash with crimson and gold, heralding dawn’s approach.
It had been damned hard for Ballard to leave the trunk in the coach’s boot the night before, but dragging it into the hotel would have looked suspicious. He’d been fighting a constant struggle not to draw attention to himself or the trunk that contained the money Tucson needed to survive Avery Tuttle’s avaricious grasp.
Ballard wasn’t sure he’d been successful in that effort, especially where Smoke Jensen and the old mountain man called Preacher were concerned. Those two were so keen-eyed, it was hard to put anything past them. They had a reputation for getting involved in gunplay, too, which was worrisome.
But as far as Ballard knew, Smoke had always been on the side of law and order. He had been a wanted outlaw at one time, but the way Ballard understood it, those were bogus charges cooked up by some of Smoke’s enemies. Not only was Smoke Jensen not an owlhoot, he had even carried a deputy U.S. marshal’s badge when he was younger, before settling down as a successful rancher.
Ballard wasn’t as familiar with Preacher, but he figured if the old mountain man was Smoke’s friend, he had to be all right. Actually, having a pair of obvious fighting men like them along on the journey was a comfort.
The newspaperman had even considered telling Smoke just what was in the trunk but ultimately decided against it. Secrecy was his best weapon. If Tuttle got wind of what he was doing, the man would move heaven and earth to stop that money from reaching Tucson . . . although, considering Tuttle’s villainy, it might be more appropriate to say that he would summon all the forces of Hell.
In front of the barn next to the stage line, Jack Cordell stood beside the stagecoach with a fresh team in its trace. “I hope you stubborn hombres have changed your minds about this foolhardy venture,” he greeted them.
“No such luck, Jack,” Scratchy told him with a grin. “We’re goin’ on through, just like we planned.”
“Even though you’ve had a night to sleep on it?”
“Nothing’s changed since last night, has it? No new reports of Apaches raidin’ on this side of the border?”
“Well, no, I reckon not,” Cordell admitted grudgingly.
“So there’s really no proof any Apaches are within a hundred miles of here.”
“You and I both know damned well there are,” Cordell snapped. “It’s just a matter of whether or not they’re lookin’ for trouble—and I never saw an Apache who wasn’t, if he thought he could get away with it.”
Scratchy shrugged. “Those are good horses, and I’ll have Mike ridin’ beside me. We’ve got some passengers who can put up a fight, too, if need be, like Mr. Ballard here. We’ll take our chances, I reckon.”
Ballard had drifted over to the boot at the back of the coach while the other men were talking. He tugged at the canvas cover, making it seem like an idle gesture, but really he was making sure the trunk had been loaded. He felt relief go through him when he saw the corner of it.
What he really felt the urge to do was open it up so he could lay his eyes on the bundles of cash it held. But he didn’t want to reveal what he planned to do with it unless it became absolutely necessary.
“Here come the others,” Mike said.
Ballard turned to look toward the hotel and saw the other passengers approaching. Mrs. Bates didn’t look eager to resume the journey, and neither did Catherine Bradshaw. But the little fellow, George, didn’t seem quite as sullen, and Smoke, Sally, and Preacher looked ready to meet any challenges that might arise.
Sally Jensen reminded Ballard a little of Louise. She would be at her husband’s side, ready to support him or join the fight herself, come what may. He and Smoke were both lucky men, Ballard mused.
A few minutes later, everyone had climbed into the coach and Scratchy and Mike were perched up on the driver’s box. Scratchy’s shouted command to the team echoed back from the buildings along the street as the coach rolled toward the sun, which was just beginning to peek above the horizon.
CHAPTER 19
According to Scratchy, there were ten way stations between Ajo and Sahuarita Ranch, a settlement directly south of Tucson that served as the final way station on the southernmost leg of the stagecoach route. If the coach could have traveled straight through with fresh drivers as well as fresh teams, the journey would have taken only a couple days. Since Scratchy couldn’t drive nonstop, it would be three and a half to four days before the coach rolled into Tucson.
And that was assuming they wouldn’t run into any trouble along the way.
“We’ll be cutting it close when it comes to getting there before Christmas,” Ballard said as the passengers discussed what the next few days would bring. “If there are any delays we probably won’t make it.”
“My brothers are supposed to meet us there,” Smoke said. “It’d be a shame if they decided we weren’t coming and rode on before we got there.”
Preacher said, “You know what you need to do. Talk to that there jehu about givin’ you a turn at the reins. Him and the shotgun guard can climb in here and get some sleep, and you and me can get up there on the box, Smoke. We’ll drive all night.”
“But that would mean any sleep the rest of us got would have to be in here,” Catherine said, looking appalled at the idea. “At least when we stop at a way station, we can sleep in a real bed.”
“Or a cot or a bunk,” Ballard told her. “You won’t find any luxurious accommodations at these way stations, Miss Bradshaw. The conditions will be pretty primitive, in fact.”
“It would still be better than trying to sleep in here while breathing dust and being jerked around.”
“Well, I can’t argue with that,” Ballard said with a shrug.
“I’ll talk to Scratchy about it the next time
we’re stopped,” Smoke said. “It could be that he won’t go along with the idea. Mr. Saxon probably has some sort of rule about passengers not handling the reins.” He chuckled. “Although Scratchy strikes me as the sort who might bend a rule a little now and then.”
Mrs. Bates said, “Can you really drive a stagecoach, Mr. Jensen?”
Preacher let out a bray of laughter. “Ma’am, there ain’t many things ol’ Smoke here ain’t done since him and his pa came west all them years ago. You know his real name ain’t Smoke, don’t you?”
“Well, I figured as much,” Mrs. Bates said with a smile.
George said, “Did you get your name because you smoke a lot, Mr. Jensen, like Preacher got his for preachin’?”
“I never noticed him to smoke hardly any,” Preacher answered before Smoke could say anything. “I’m the one who hung that moniker on him, a long time ago. Not long after we met, it was, back over yonder in Kansas. I run up on a couple pilgrims name o’ Jensen. There was Emmett, and there was his boy Kirby. Kirby had him one o’ them Colt Navy revolvers, a .36 caliber. A bunch o’ Pawnee bucks jumped the three of us—”
“I’m not sure you need to tell this story, Preacher,” Smoke said.
Sally patted him on the knee and smiled. She knew he was uncomfortable with people fussing over him and making out like he was some sort of legend . . . although he was probably the only one west of the Mississippi who didn’t think that was the case.
“I want to hear the story!” George said. “Go on, Preacher, tell the rest of it.”
Preacher glanced at Smoke, who sighed and gestured for him to go ahead.
The old mountain man continued. “Like I was sayin’, them Pawnee jumped us, and it was a mighty hot fight there for a little while. Kirby had a .52 caliber Spencer repeatin’ rifle and used it to down one of ’em, but then two bucks went after Emmett, Kirby’s pa, and was a-fightin’ hand to hand with him. It was too close to be usin’ a rifle, so Kirby, he skinned out that Colt from its holster, faster and slicker than anything you ever saw in all your borned days, and he plunked a .36 slug right in the noggin o’ one buck while his pappy got t’other ’un with a Arkansas toothpick!”
An Arizona Christmas Page 13
