An Arizona Christmas

by William W. Johnstone

  “Not yet, anyway.” Preacher’s gun slammed out another shot. “Drat! Missed that time!”

  From the floor, Mrs. Bates quavered, “We’re all g-going to d-die!”

  “No, we’re not,” Sally said firmly. “This isn’t the first time Smoke and Preacher have fought off Indians. Remember the story Preacher told about the Pawnees, when he and Smoke first met?”

  “I remember,” George said. “That’s where Smoke got his name!”

  “That’s right, and nothing has changed. They’ll protect us.”

  Bent low on the front seat rather than down on the floor, Tom Ballard slid over to the front window on the same side as Smoke. The newspaperman reached under his coat and pulled out a small pistol. “I can help.” He angled the pistol’s barrel out the window and fired a shot.

  “How many rounds do you have for that?” Smoke thought Ballard’s gun was probably a .32. It wouldn’t pack much punch, especially at that distance.

  “A couple dozen,” the newspaperman replied.

  “Better save ’em in case you need ’em for closer work,” Smoke advised. He paused, then added, “And save four of them, for sure.”

  Ballard looked confused for a second, then understanding etched bleak lines in his face. The four rounds would be for Sally, Catherine, Mrs. Bates, and George, if things got so desperate it was either that or be captured by the Apaches. He nodded solemnly to show he knew what Smoke meant.

  * * *

  Up on the driver’s box, Mike Olmsted kept up a steady fire with the Winchester. None of the Apaches were close enough for him to use the shotgun on them. When the rifle ran dry, he reached in the pocket of the duster where he kept extra rounds and reloaded.

  Bullets continued to whip around the coach. Every now and then, a slug would thud into the vehicle, and once a bullet struck the brass rail running around the roof of the coach and ricocheted off with a vicious whine.

  But the raiders weren’t very good shots from the backs of running ponies, and neither Mike nor Scratchy were hit as the fight continued.

  Mike, on the other hand, was pretty sure he had knocked a couple Apaches off their mounts. Down in the coach, Smoke and Preacher kept up a withering fire of their own that caused more than one raider to fall.

  * * *

  Preacher whooped immediately after triggering another round. “Got another one! And they’re fallin’ back on this side.”

  “Over here, too.” Smoke lowered his gun and started reloading while he had the chance. His fingers moved with swift efficiency as he dumped the empty shells and thumbed in fresh cartridges. Considering the many thousands of bullets he had slid into guns, he didn’t have to look at what he was doing. He could reload strictly by feel, allowing him to keep an eye on what was going on outside the coach.

  And that was a good thing. As he snapped the .45’s cylinder closed, he said, “Got some others coming up fast!”

  Some of the Apaches’ ponies were about played out, but others still had a burst left in them. Since the stagecoach was on the verge of getting away, the raiders had to stop it soon if they were going to.

  Blowing sand continued to whip around the vehicle as it careened across the landscape. The main body of the storm hadn’t caught up yet, but it was close. As he leaned closer to the door and aimed at the riders drawing even with the coach, Smoke narrowed his eyes as far as he could and still see.

  At that moment, the coach hit another rough spot and bounced hard. The unexpected jolt sent him lurching against the door. With a sharp crack, the latch gave way and the door swung out violently. Smoke toppled into empty space.

  Twisting in midair, he flung out his left hand desperately and grabbed the door flapping back and forth.

  Sally saw him fall out of the coach and lunged after him. Her arms closed around his ankles and she hung on for dear life. Smoke hung there, his wife’s grip on his feet and his own tenuous grasp on the door all that kept him from smashing into the ground at high speed.

  As he tightened his fingers around the door where the window opened in it, he heard a peculiar sound. He realized it was a high-pitched war cry coming from one of the raiders swooping in toward him. The sight of a white man hanging out of the stagecoach was just too tempting a target for the Apache to resist.

  Smoke craned his neck around for a better look and raised his right arm. Even falling out of the stagecoach, he had held on to the Colt. It took more than a brush with death to make Smoke Jensen drop his gun. As the barrel came up, flame jetted from the muzzle.

  The Apache’s head jerked back as the slug tore into his throat just under his chin. He flung his arms out to the side and went backwards off the pony as if a giant hand had swatted him away from the animal.

  More exposed to the wind and sand outside, Smoke’s hat flew off. He had given his bandanna to Mrs. Bates, leaving him with no protection as the storm clawed at his face. His mouth and nose clogged with grit. Although his eyes were almost closed, he could see well enough to take aim and loose another shot at one of the galloping Apaches. The raider jerked but didn’t fall off his mount. He did begin to veer away from the pursuit, however, so Smoke figured he was wounded.

  The rest of the raiders had fallen back on that side of the coach. Smoke jammed his Colt back into its holster and reached for the doorjamb with his right hand. When he grasped it, Catherine Bradshaw caught hold of his arm and heaved. With his feet planted firmly at the edge of the door, Sally let go of his ankles, grabbed his belt, and pulled, too. Smoke fell into the coach much like he had fallen out of it.

  Tom Ballard reached across and closed the door, but the latch was broken and it wouldn’t stay shut. He gave up and said, “That was close!”

  “Too close,” Smoke agreed. “Preacher, what’s going on over there?”

  Preacher fired another shot, then lowered his revolver and leaned back away from the window. “Looks like they’re lightin’ a shuck,” he reported. “I reckon between us and Mike, we done for more ’n half the skunks. That storm’s pretty much on top of us, though, so I don’t know how much longer we can go on. That might have somethin’ to do with those ’Paches pullin’ out, too. They don’t want to be caught in this any more than we do.”

  “Smoke, are you all right?” Sally asked. “You weren’t wounded?”

  “No. Wrenched my arm a little when I caught hold of the door and my weight hit it, but it’s nothing to worry about. I probably would have fallen if you hadn’t grabbed me like you did.”

  She managed to smile a little. “I’m not letting you get away from me that easily, mister.”

  “I’m mighty glad about that.” A frown suddenly creased Smoke’s forehead. “Wait a minute. Are we slowing down?”

  He was right. The stagecoach was coming to a stop.

  In those conditions, with the giant sandstorm about to sweep over them, that couldn’t be anything good.

  CHAPTER 26

  Seeing the Apaches begin to peel away and fall back, Mike sent a couple more shots after them, then lowered the Winchester and called to Scratchy, “Looks like they’re giving up!”

  “Ain’t a moment too soon!” the old jehu replied. “I think at least one of the horses was hit!”

  That news made a chill go down Mike’s backbone. Out in the middle of nowhere, horses meant life, especially with the dual threat of the Apaches and the massive sandstorm. He turned to look and saw that the leader on the right and the horse right behind it were faltering. The animals’ gallant hearts kept them moving, but something was wrong, no doubt about that.

  “I got to stop and check on ’em,” Scratchy said. “Are those heathens still back there?”

  Mike twisted around to study the landscape behind them, then reported, “I don’t see them! Of course, I can’t see very far with all this blowing sand.”

  “We’ll have to risk it,” Scratchy said as he pulled back on the reins. “Keep your eyes open, son!” Gradually, he brought the stagecoach to a halt.

  As soon as the veh
icle stopped, Smoke opened the door and got out. “What’s wrong?” he asked as he looked up at the box.

  “Got some wounded horses in the team, I’m afraid.” Scratchy set the brake lever, wrapped the reins around it, and climbed down.

  Smoke had already moved forward, his experienced eyes finding the splashes of blood on the two horses. The leader was hit the worst. He was breathing hard, and blood bubbled from his nostrils with each labored breath. That, along with the blood on the horse’s side, told Smoke the bullet must have passed through the animal’s lungs.

  “I’m sorry, old-timer,” he murmured as he rested a hand on the horse’s shoulder. He looked over at Scratchy and added, “I’m afraid he’s a goner.”

  “Yeah, I can see that,” Scratchy said, grim-faced with anger. “How about the other one?”

  “Shot through the neck. He’s bleeding pretty bad. Doesn’t have long, either.”

  Scratchy looked up at the box, where Mike was standing and peering around, alert for any sign of danger . . . although the sandstorm would mask any such signs until they were perilously close.

  “You see them Injuns anywhere?” Scratchy asked.

  “Nope.”

  “Well, keep watch.” Scratchy turned back to Smoke. “We got to get these poor animals unhitched while they’re still standin’. It’ll be easier and faster that way. Then I can put ’em outta their misery.”

  Smoke knew Scratchy was right. He could handle hitching and unhitching as well as any hostler, so he and the jehu set to work, knowing they were racing the clock.

  “We’re going to push on with a four-horse hitch?” Smoke asked as they handled the grim chore.

  “It’ll be mighty slow, but there ain’t much else we can do unless you want to unhitch them, too, and use ’em to ride. I don’t figure Mrs. Bates and Miss Bradshaw would be very good at ridin’ bareback, and we sure can’t ask ’em to walk in these hellish conditions.”

  “No, we’d probably make better time like you said, using the four horses to pull the coach. We need to look them over and make sure none of them are hurt.”

  “I don’t reckon they are, but we’ll make sure.”

  When the two wounded horses were freed from the team, Smoke and Scratchy led them forward a few yards, the animals taking slow, faltering steps as blood continued to drip from their injuries.

  Smoke glanced back and saw Sally leaning out to see what was going on. He told her, “Keep everybody inside the coach.”

  She nodded in understanding. She had seen more than her share of danger and tragedy over the years. That seemed to go hand in hand with being married to Smoke Jensen.

  Smoke and Scratchy drew their pistols. A moment later, two shots rang out so close together they sounded almost like one. Both horses slumped to the ground, beyond pain and suffering.

  “We got to move the other leader over and back to even things up,” Scratchy said. “Best get at it, too. If those ’Paches are still close enough to have heard those shots, they’re liable to figure out what they mean and come lookin’ for us again. With a four-horse team, we can’t make a run for it the way we did before.”

  He and Smoke turned toward the coach to get that chore done, and as they did, the full force of the storm struck with all its fury.

  The wind was so strong they stumbled back a step. The sand lashed at them. Both lowered their heads and raised their arms to protect their eyes. Smoke looked up at the driver’s box. He could barely see Mike hunkered there, using the coach itself to blunt some of the storm’s power.

  Staggering, Smoke grasped Scratchy’s arm to steady him and leaned close to shout in the jehu’s ear, “Do we still try to push on?”

  “We got to!” Scratchy replied. “If we sit still, the sand’ll bury us!”

  Smoke nodded. He had figured that was what Scratchy would say. They were still in deadly danger and would be until they found some sort of shelter.

  Of course, in the blinding hell storm, finding shelter would be purely a matter of luck . . . or divine providence.

  Less than a week before Christmas, they could sure use a miracle.

  By the time Smoke and Scratchy got the uninjured leader moved back to replace the dead horse that had been in second place on the right, Smoke felt like he had breathed in a pound of sand and swallowed a gallon of the stuff. Every inch of exposed skin was covered by a thick layer of grit. He wanted to know how Sally, Preacher, and the others inside the coach were doing, but there was no time to check on them.

  At least the Apaches hadn’t doubled back and shown up again.

  They had too much sense to be out in this, Smoke thought wryly.

  At last the remaining horses were hitched so they could pull the stagecoach. As soon as Scratchy had climbed onto the box, Smoke made his way through the yellow, howling gloom to the broken door, which still flapped wildly and banged against the side of the coach.

  He grabbed the door and used it to brace himself as he climbed in. All the passengers were huddled on the floor except for Preacher, who was keeping an eagle eye out through the window on the opposite side.

  “I told ever’body to stay down, just in case them varmints come back,” the old mountain man said. “Figured since we were stopped, there weren’t no immediate danger, but you never can tell with Injuns.”

  “You sure can’t,” Smoke agreed, his voice hoarse from all the irritation in his throat. “I think they’ve gone to ground, though, and we’re going to try to do the same. The Apaches killed two of the horses, so we’re a little crippled. Scratchy and I agree that we can’t just sit here and try to wait out the storm.”

  “It’d be liable to kill the other horses if we did,” Preacher said. “Then we’d really be in a fine fix.”

  “So what are we going to do?” Tom Ballard asked.

  As if in answer to the question, the coach lurched into motion. It rolled forward slowly as the remaining horses strained against their harness.

  “We’re going to keep looking for shelter,” Smoke said.

  Catherine Bradshaw asked, “What if we can’t find any?”

  “We will,” Smoke said confidently. But he knew the real answer to Catherine’s question, and so did everyone else in the stagecoach.

  If they didn’t find shelter, chances were very good they would all die.

  Up on the box, Scratchy no longer used the whip. He wouldn’t be getting any more speed out of the team than he already was. The big draft horses were strong and had all the stamina in the world, but he had already asked a lot out of them.

  Not only that. The sandstorm was rough on them, too. The horses could pull the stagecoach and its passengers, but only at a slower pace and for a limited amount of time.

  Mike and Scratchy sat with heads drawn down between hunched shoulders. They had tied their hats on so they wouldn’t blow away. The bandanna over Mike’s nose and mouth helped a little, but the sand was still choking and gagging him. He turned his head from side to side and kept the Winchester ready, but he could see barely twenty feet in the terrible murk.

  He was a little surprised it wasn’t pitch black. It didn’t seem possible any sunlight could penetrate the clouds of sand. Yet there was still a feeble glow in the air to tell them that somewhere the sun was shining.

  The horses trudged along. The slow pace and the gentle rocking of the coach might have been enough to cause Mike to doze off if he hadn’t been so miserable. His eyelids were drooping anyway over gritty orbs when a flash of movement caught his attention. His head jerked up.

  A bronzed figure leaped out of the gloom and landed on the side of the driver’s box, clinging to it with one hand as the other drove a knife at Mike’s throat.

  CHAPTER 27

  Mike jerked the rifle up and around, swinging the barrel toward the swiftly descending blade. It was purely an instinctive move, but they came together with a clang of metal against metal as the Winchester knocked the knife aside.

  Since Mike already had the rifle raised, he thrust out
with the stock and slammed the brass butt plate into the middle of the Apache’s face. He felt bone crunch under the impact. The Apache lost his grip on the coach and fell backwards.

  “Over here!” Scratchy yelled.

  Mike swung around and spotted a raider with a rifle charging toward them from the left. Mike knew he couldn’t bring his Winchester to bear in time to stop the Apache from firing.

  He didn’t have to. The passengers inside the coach were alert. A shot blasted from in there and the charging raider dropped his rifle and fell to his knees. Another slug from a Colt drove him over onto his back.

  Visibility was too bad for the Apaches to attack from long range. They had to get close to strike, which meant Mike could use the scattergun. He set the repeater on the floorboards and snatched up the coach gun.

  He spotted another figure in the swirling sand, hesitated just long enough to make sure it was an Indian, and then slammed a load of buckshot into the raider. A rifle cracked and a bullet chewed splinters from the seat only inches away from Mike. He twisted more, saw another spurt of muzzle flame, and heard the slug rip past his ear. He triggered the coach gun’s other barrel and saw the vague figure fly backwards from the buckshot’s impact.

  Yipping and howling, more Apaches closed in around the coach. Several guns were going off inside the vehicle. The gun-handling skill of Smoke and Preacher was legendary, and they proved why as an Apache fell with each blast. It was as deadly a display of shooting as Mike had ever seen.

  He added to it, stuffing fresh shells into the shotgun and then blowing huge holes in the sandstorm and anything else that got in the stagecoach’s way.

  “You all right, Scratchy?” Mike asked as he reloaded again.

  “Durned near deaf from all the shootin’, but I reckon I’ll live!” Scratchy answered. “How many more o’ them devils are there?”

  Mike didn’t know the answer to that. He peered around through narrowed eyes, searching for another target as he held the shotgun ready to fire. The shooting had stopped, though, and he didn’t see anything but sand. “Looks like they pulled out again!”