An Arizona Christmas

by William W. Johnstone

  “Mr. Olmsted, I wonder if I could trouble you for a moment,” she began.

  Instinctively, he took his hat off as he nodded to her. “Sure thing, Miss Bradshaw. What can I do for you?”

  “I forgot and left my small bag in the boot. I’ll need it tonight. Do you think you could fetch it for me?”

  “Why, sure,” Mike answered without hesitation. “I’d be glad to get it. Is there anything else I can do?”

  “No, that’s it. Thank you.” She started to open her handbag. “I’d like to give you something . . .”

  That sort of pained him. He thought she was just asking him to do her a favor. The sort of thing a friend might ask of another friend. But he was just an employee of the stage line to her, he realized. A servant to be tipped.

  He didn’t want that. He reached out and laid his fingers over hers as she fumbled with the bag’s clasp. “You don’t have to do that. I’m glad to lend a hand whenever I can.”

  “Of course.” She actually looked a little flustered, as if she realized what she was doing and felt embarrassed. She summoned up a smile and added, “Thank you.”

  “See, that smile is payment enough for any chore. More than enough.”

  He probably shouldn’t have said that, he thought. It wasn’t proper, her being a passenger and him being just the shotgun guard, and with her being engaged, to boot.

  When her smile widened a little and what he believed was some genuine warmth shone in her eyes for a second, he was glad he’d been so bold. He turned and headed for the station’s front door.

  As he passed a table where some of the others were sitting, he heard Tom Ballard saying to Scratchy, “Will someone be standing guard over the coach tonight, Mr. Stevenson?”

  “Don’t know that there’s really any need to,” Scratchy said. “We’re out way the hell an’ gone in the middle of nowhere. Shouldn’t be anybody around to bother it.”

  “But you never can tell when those Apaches might come sneaking around.”

  “If there’s Apaches sneakin’ around the station, we got bigger worries than anything on that coach, I reckon.”

  Ballard didn’t look like he was convinced of that, Mike thought as he reached the doorway and stepped outside. The newspaperman had been mighty antsy the whole trip, as if he were carrying a king’s ransom in that trunk of his.

  Suddenly, Mike wondered exactly what was in that trunk. It had seemed too heavy to be carrying just the things a man might take with him on a trip to the territorial capital. But it was none of his business what the passengers took with them, he reminded himself.

  The sun had been down for more than an hour, but the air was still heavy with heat. It would have a chill to it by morning, though. In the dry climate, the earth and the rocks gave up their heat fairly quickly once night had fallen.

  The moon had not yet risen, but the millions of stars provided quite a bit of light. Enough for Mike to spot a figure moving around the stagecoach. The sight made him stiffen as he thought back to the scene inside the station he had just left. In his head, he counted the folks he had seen.

  Scratchy and all the passengers were accounted for. Likewise Whitney, the Navajo woman who cooked for him, and the two hostlers. All the horses were in the corral.

  Mike heard a horse stamp and blow somewhere on the other side of the coach. He couldn’t see the animal, but he had no doubt it was there. He was convinced the man who had ridden up was the one standing next to the coach, as well. The hombre was right beside the boot at the rear and reach out toward it.

  Mike had left his shotgun inside the building, but he had a holstered Colt .44 on his hip. He brushed the long duster aside, closed his hand around the revolver’s walnut grips, and pulled it out of leather. “Hold it right there, mister.”

  The stranger froze at Mike’s soft-voiced call. If the man tried to run, Mike intended to fire a shot over his head.

  If the man reached for his own gun, Mike was going to shoot him, or at least try to. It was too dark to make out any details. The stranger could be a hostile or just a drifting thief.

  “Take it easy, mister.” The words that came from the shadowy figure identified him as a white man, not an Apache. “I’m not lookin’ for any trouble.”

  “What are you lookin’ for, then?”

  “Huh?”

  “Seemed to me you were about to start riflin’ through that boot.”

  “What? You’re loco! You mean just because I was gonna lean on the coach for a second before I came on inside? Damn it, man, I’ve been in the saddle all day. I’m tired.”

  Had the man really been about to rest his hand on the coach for momentary support? It was possible, Mike supposed, but he wasn’t going to accept that story on face value. He had the .44 pointed in the stranger’s general direction. He gestured with the gun. “Come closer so I can get a look at you.”

  “Who in hell are you to be givin’ orders?”

  “I work for the Saxon Stage Line,” Mike snapped. “And that’s a Saxon stage you’re lurkin’ around.”

  “You’re too blasted suspicious,” the man muttered as he moved toward Mike.

  “Keep those hands where I can see ’em.”

  “Damn it, don’t get an itchy trigger finger! I tell you, I’m not up to anything fishy. I just saw the lights and came on in to water my horse and maybe spend the night. Gets mighty lonely out there on the desert for a man on the drift.”

  The man was close enough for Mike to make him out in the light that came from the station. He was lean, dark-faced, wearing dust-covered range clothes. The trail dust backed up his story that he had been in the saddle all day. He wore a holstered gun, but that was nothing unusual.

  “Everything all right out here, Mike?” Smoke asked from the doorway.

  “Yeah,” Mike answered. “Just a fella pokin’ around the coach, Mr. Jensen. Claims to be a drifter.”

  “No claims to be about it,” the man said. “Look, if this place is going to be so unfriendly, I’ll just water my horse and move on. I don’t want people givin’ me the skunk eye all night.”

  “Where are you headed?” Smoke asked.

  “Southwest toward the mines along the border. Thought I might get a job at one of them. If not, I reckon I’ll drift on across into Mexico for a spell.”

  That sounded reasonable enough, Mike supposed, but he still wasn’t completely convinced. “All right. I guess you can come on inside. We’ll be keepin’ an eye on you, though.”

  The man didn’t say anything for a moment. Then, “Hell, no. Like I said, I don’t want to sit around with everybody bein’ suspicious of me. I’d rather rattle my hocks outta here.”

  “That’s up to you, mister,” Smoke said as he ambled up alongside Mike.

  “I’m just gonna get my horse, give him some water, and move on.”

  “Go ahead,” Smoke said. “You won’t mind if we stand here and watch you.” His tone made it clear he didn’t really care if the stranger minded or not.

  The man just grunted and went back around the coach. He reappeared a moment later, leading a saddled horse to the well, where he pulled the bucket up, poured water in his hat, and let the horse drink. He used the dipper to get some water himself, then lowered the bucket and swung up into the saddle. Without a word, he rode off toward the southwest.

  As the hoofbeats faded, Mike said to Smoke, “You believe any of what he had to say?”

  “Not particularly, other than the part about him being a saddle tramp. I figure he was looking around out here to see if there was anything loose he could steal.”

  “You think he’ll be back?”

  “Doubtful. But it wouldn’t hurt to post a guard anyway, if for no other reason than because there might be Apache raiders in the area. If there are, you can bet they know the station is here. They might even have eyes on it right now.”

  That thought made an icy finger drag its nail down Mike’s spine. “We’ll have to take turns on guard duty.”

  “I’ll
take a shift. I reckon Preacher will, too. If Whitney and his hostlers pitch in, you and Scratchy ought to be able to get a full night’s sleep.” Smoke paused. “You’ll need it, since you’ll be up on that box all day tomorrow.”

  “Yeah. I appreciate it, Mr. Jensen.”

  “Did you come out here for a reason, other than checking on the coach?”

  “Yeah. Miss Bradshaw asked me to get her small bag from the boot.”

  “And you were happy to do that for her.”

  “Well, yeah.” Mike bristled a little. “I’d do that for any of the passengers.”

  Smoke chuckled. “Yeah, you probably would, but it doesn’t hurt when the lady asking the favor is as pretty as Miss Bradshaw, does it?”

  “She’s betrothed,” Mike said.

  “Yep, she is. Doesn’t make her any less pretty.”

  Mike didn’t know what to say to that, so he just went to the boot, untied the canvas cover, and reached inside to find the bag Catherine wanted.

  Smoke leaned on the coach. “You take that on back inside to Miss Bradshaw. I’ll stay out here and keep an eye on things for a while. You might tell Preacher we’re going to be standing guard.”

  “All right. Thanks, Mr. Jensen.”

  “De nada.”

  Catherine stood up from the table where she was sitting and talking with Sally and came toward Mike as he entered the station. “I was beginning to think you were having trouble finding it.”

  “Nope, not at all.” He handed her the bag. “Just got sidetracked a little.”

  “No trouble, I hope.”

  “Nope,” he said again. “Nothing I couldn’t handle.” He wondered what might have happened if Smoke hadn’t shown up. Would the drifter have gone for his gun and decided not to only when the odds against him had abruptly doubled?

  No way of knowing, Mike told himself, and anyway, the incident was over. The stranger was gone, and Catherine was standing right in front of him, smiling at him. “How about if I get you a cup of coffee?”

  “That would be very nice. Thank you again. You seem determined to take very good care of me, Mr. Olmsted.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He started to add, It’s my job, then decided not to. Better to leave things just like they were.

  Hard to say what the future might bring.

  * * *

  Southwest of the station, the rider brought his horse to a stop and looked back. The lights of the Hondo Wells station were no longer visible, which meant he was well out of earshot. He listened for a moment to make sure no one was trailing him, then turned the horse and headed east.

  It would be a long, hard, and possibly perilous ride to Tucson, but once he made it and delivered the news to Smiler Coe, there might be a nice bonus in it for him.

  Unless Caddo, who had been bound for Flat Rock Crossing, made it back to Tucson first. That was probably what would happen.

  That bastard Caddo had all the luck.

  CHAPTER 23

  Smoke, Preacher, Tom Ballard, and the station keeper Whitney took turns standing guard during the night, but the hours of darkness passed peacefully, with no sign of the lurking stranger returning. No Apaches came skulking around the Hondo Wells station, either.

  At least, not that any of the men were aware of. With Apaches, it was hard to be sure.

  Everyone was up early the next morning, before dawn. When Scratchy and Mike went to check on the coach, Smoke walked outside with them. Scratchy stopped abruptly and lifted his head to sniff the air.

  “Something wrong?” Smoke asked.

  “Dunno,” the old jehu said. “Smells a little like rain . . . but not like rain, if you know what I mean. I think what we got is some sand blowin’ around.”

  “You’d expect that in country as dry as this, wouldn’t you?”

  “Yeah, any time there’s a little breeze it blows the dust around. We’ll just have to hope it ain’t nothin’ more than that.”

  Mike said, “Do you think we need to lay over here for a day, Scratchy?”

  “I wouldn’t go that far,” Scratchy replied with a frown. “Shouldn’t be any reason we can’t roll right on through to Tucson.”

  Satisfied that the coach was undisturbed and in good shape, Scratchy told Whitney to roust out the hostlers so they could get a fresh team hitched up. While that chore was being taken care of, the men went inside the station to enjoy the breakfast the Navajo woman had prepared.

  Except for Preacher, the other passengers were looking a little tousled and sleepy. He was bright-eyed as ever and filled with vigor that seemed almost unnatural in a man his age. Any time anyone asked him about his surprising youthfulness, he always attributed it to whiskey and decades of adventurous living. “The whiskey keeps my blood flowin’ good, and the rest done worn all the paddin’ off of me,” he would say. “Ain’t nothin’ left but the hard center.”

  Smoke poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down on one of the benches next to Sally, who was eating some strips of dried beef and chilies with a tortilla wrapped around them.

  “Everything all right out there?” she asked him.

  Smoke took a sip of the coffee, relishing the bite of the strong, black brew, and nodded. “Yeah, nobody else came sneaking around during the night, and it won’t be long before the coach is ready to roll.” He didn’t say anything to her about Scratchy’s mild concern over the weather. Since it would probably come to nothing, there was no reason to worry her or any of the other passengers.

  “Will we reach Tucson today?”

  “We might. If we’re close, Scratchy will probably want to push on until we get there, even if it means traveling at night.”

  “I don’t mind traveling at night. At least it’s cooler.”

  “Just as dusty, though.”

  She laughed and nodded. “Unfortunately true.”

  George’s jaw stretched in an enormous yawn.

  His grandmother told him, “Stop that or you’ll have me doing it, too.”

  “Sorry, Grandma. That bunk wasn’t very comfortable. I didn’t sleep good.”

  “Neither did I. But soon we’ll be home, and things will be much better.”

  A sullen expression came over George’s face again. “Tucson ain’t never gonna be my home.”

  “You shouldn’t say ain’t. And you’re wrong. It will be your home.”

  “It ain’t where I grew up,” George said stubbornly.

  Sally said, “George, do you know where I grew up?”

  “No. How in the world would I know that?”

  “George, don’t be rude,” Mrs. Bates said. “You should respect your elders. Now apologize to Mrs. Jensen.”

  “Sorry,” George muttered without sounding the least bit sincere.

  “I grew up in New Hampshire,” Sally went on. “I never had any idea that I would wind up living in the West and loving it out here. Now my home is in Colorado, and I wouldn’t want to live anywhere else. It truly is my home and always will be.”

  “Yeah, but that’s because you’ve got Mr. Jensen.”

  “That’s some of it, of course. But I truly feel I was meant to be out here. I just didn’t realize it when I was younger. You have your grandmother, and you’ll make friends in Tucson, and someday there’ll probably be a girl that you really like—”

  “No ma’am!” George shook his head vehemently and declared, “Not hardly.”

  “Well, you just wait and see,” Sally told him with a smile. “Good things will happen. I’m sure of that.”

  George turned to look at the other young woman at the table. “How about you, Miss Bradshaw? You’re goin’ to a new place.”

  “I’m not sure I’m going to like it, either, George,” Catherine said. “I have to admit, a large part of me wishes I was back in Philadelphia. But if I’m to marry an army officer, I suppose I’ll have to get used to moving around and living in places I don’t like very much. And to be fair, there are a few things I’ve discovered that I like about the West.” Her eyes darted towar
d Mike sitting at the other table with Scratchy, putting away a cup of coffee and a plate of food.

  Smoke noted it and Sally did, too. He could tell by her smile. From time to time she gave in to a matchmaking urge, but he doubted if she would do that in this case, since Catherine was engaged to the lieutenant who was supposed to be waiting for her in Tucson. Even so, the thought might have crossed Sally’s mind.

  Whitney came into the station and announced, “The team’s hitched up, Scratchy. You can pull out whenever you want.”

  Scratchy nodded and told the passengers, “Eat up, folks. We need to be hittin’ the trail as soon as we can.”

  A short time later, everyone trooped out of the station, carrying whatever belongings they had taken inside with them the previous night.

  As soon as those things were placed back in the boot and the canvas cover was secure, Mike went to the coach door on the side nearest the building and opened it. “Let me give you a hand, Miss Bradshaw,” he said as Catherine was the first passenger to board.

  “I can—” She stopped midsentence and smiled. “Why, thank you, Mr. Olmsted.”

  She had been about to refuse Mike’s assistance, Smoke thought, just out of the habits her haughty nature had given her, but then she’d changed her mind. She continued smiling as Mike put his hand on her arm to steady her while she stepped up into the coach.

  Yeah, definitely a little flirtation going on there. Smoke was glad that, even though he noticed it, it was none of his blasted business.

  The sun wasn’t up yet, although the eastern sky was red and gold with its approach. A breeze was whipping around this way and that, never blowing in the same direction for more than a second or two, it seemed. That would account for the dusty quality of the air Scratchy had noticed earlier.

  The coach rocked on its leather thoroughbraces as the passengers climbed in one by one. Mike closed the door behind Preacher, who was the last one in, then swung up to the driver’s box beside Scratchy.

  The old jehu spat over the side and in his rumbling voice told Whitney, “Keep your head down till all the trouble settles.” Then he pushed the brake lever forward to disengage it, gathered up the reins, and popped his blacksnake whip over the heads of the leaders. The horses surged forward as Scratchy yelled at them.