An Arizona Christmas

by William W. Johnstone

  “Find anything?” Scratchy asked. The question sounded casual, but the tightness of the jehu’s voice made it clear how much strain he was under.

  “There’s a cave back that way,” Smoke said, half-turning to point back along the bluff. “It’s not big enough to drive the stagecoach inside, but all of us and the horses will fit in it.”

  “Thank the Lord,” Scratchy said with obviously heartfelt gratitude. “That’s really all we need.”

  “Unless Mike has found something better. Is he back yet?”

  “Ain’t seen the boy since the two o’ you left,” Preacher replied.

  “Well, I’ll wait here for him. Scratchy, you get the coach on down to that cave, and Mike and I will join you later. I reckon the two of you and Tom can handle unhitching the horses once you get there?”

  “Sure. Don’t worry about that.”

  Preacher cocked his head to the side. “I ain’t sure about leavin’ you here all by your lonesome, Smoke. Some o’ them ’Paches might come along.”

  “Yeah, and that’s all the more reason for you to go with Scratchy and the coach,” Smoke pointed out. “I’d rather have you along to help protect the others in case of an attack.”

  The old mountain man shrugged. “Reckon you got a point there. All right, Scratchy, let’s get her a-rollin’.”

  Both older men climbed onto the box. Preacher sat with the Winchester across his knees, ready for trouble.

  Smoke stepped to the coach’s open door and told the passengers, “In case you didn’t hear me telling Scratchy and Preacher, I found a cave not too far away where we can all take shelter. The coach is heading there now.”

  “Aren’t you coming along, Smoke?” Sally reached out and rested her hand on Smoke’s where it gripped the edge of the door.

  “No, Mike’s not back yet, so I’m going to wait here for him.”

  Catherine asked, “You don’t think anything has happened to him, do you?”

  “Not at all. I came back as soon as I located some shelter for us. I reckon Mike’s still looking. He knew not to go too far, so he’ll turn around before much longer. Fact is, he may already be on his way back here. In this storm, we’d never know until he got here.”

  Sally squeezed Smoke’s hand. “Don’t be too long.”

  “I’ll try not to,” Smoke promised.

  From the box, Scratchy called to his short-handed team. “Get along there!”

  Smoke stepped back from the stagecoach as it lurched into motion.

  Scratchy turned the team and drove slowly along the base of the bluff. Smoke watched the coach go until it was out of sight. That didn’t take long as the wind lifted a curtain of sand into the air and still howled like a banshee.

  * * *

  Mike knew he had only seconds to save his life. He flailed around him with both arms, pawing through the sand with desperate fingers. The touch of cool, smooth metal sent a shock through him. He closed his hand around it and knew he had just grasped the barrel of his fallen gun.

  Through the red haze that had fallen over his eyes as the Apache choked him, he saw a blurred image of the raider’s face hovering over him. The Apache’s lips were drawn back from his teeth in a grimace as he bore down on Mike’s throat.

  Mike would be damned if the bastard’s ugly face was the last thing he ever saw on this earth!

  * * *

  Smoke moved over and leaned his back against the bluff. A bone-deep weariness gripped him. He hadn’t given in to it until that moment because he knew the others needed him . . . and anyway, they were probably more tired than he was. But he had to admit, at least to himself, that it felt good to stop and rest for a minute.

  * * *

  With a spasm of effort, Mike brought the gun up and slammed the butt into the side of the Apache’s head. The terrible pressure on Mike’s throat disappeared, and he dragged a huge gulp of blessed air through his tortured windpipe. The Apache had fallen to the side, and even as Mike tried to fill his lungs, he rolled after his enemy and struck again, the gun rising and then falling with a thud.

  Mike hit him again and again, until the Apache’s head was battered into a grotesque shape that barely looked human anymore. The skull was cracked open in places, with brains showing through. Mike finally stopped and rolled away from the dead man. He sprawled on his back with his chest rising and falling raggedly.

  A voice in the back of his brain shouted a warning that he couldn’t stay there, no matter how bad a shape he was in. Where there was one Apache, there could easily be another . . . or more. It was possible the man he had encountered was a lone scout, but Mike knew he couldn’t count on that.

  He pushed himself up into a sitting position and looked at the gun he still held by the barrel. The butt was smeared with blood and gray matter. A few hairs and bits of bone were stuck to it. He shuddered and began wiping the gun butt in the sand to clean it off.

  It was amazing how quickly a civilized man reverted to savagery when his life was threatened, he thought. He figured the layer of civilization was pretty thin, and pure barbarian lurked underneath.

  He reeled to his feet and stood swaying for a moment as he looked around, disoriented by the brutal fight and the sandstorm. His hat was gone, knocked off in the battle even though he’d had it tied on. Once it was loose, the wind had blown it away in the blink of an eye.

  He spotted the bluff, and that made him feel better. He’d had it on his left before, so he holstered his gun and turned, keeping the sandstone wall on his right. That would take him back toward the stagecoach. He had been gone long enough. He needed to get back and find out if Smoke had had any better luck.

  Mike stumbled along, his pulse still hammering inside his head. Earlier, he had touched the face of the bluff to help him keep his bearings. Now, he stopped to lean on it every few yards because he was so worn out. He hoped Smoke had found some shelter. If not, they might well be doomed. Guilt gnawed at him because his mission had been a failure.

  * * *

  Smoke’s rest stretched out, became several minutes and then a quarter of an hour. He looked down at his feet and saw that he’d been standing there long enough for a little sand to drift up around his boots.

  The thought that Mike should have been back already brought a frown to Smoke’s face. He had expected Mike to show up within a few minutes of his own return. He’d waited, thinking maybe Mike was moving slower or had gone farther than a half-mile before turning back.

  Enough time had passed that Smoke began to wonder if something had happened to the young shotgun guard.

  With only one way to find out, Smoke started along the bluff. The way the wind was whipping around, it still blew in his face part of the time, but at least going in that direction it was behind him for the most part.

  He hadn’t gone very far, maybe a hundred yards, when a figure suddenly loomed up out of the gloom in front of him. Smoke’s hand flashed to his gun.

  * * *

  Mike’s head was down, so he didn’t realize anyone was in front of him until a voice barked, “Hold it!”

  Mike looked up and peered through the murk at the broad-shouldered figure. “Smoke?”

  “Is that you, Mike?” Smoke asked as he stepped closer. He lowered the gun in his hand. “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah, I reckon. Tangled with another of those . . . damned Apaches. He’s dead.”

  “I didn’t hear any shots.”

  “I didn’t shoot him,” Mike said. He didn’t offer any explanations for the bleak pronouncement, and Smoke didn’t ask for any. They could hash that out later, if necessary.

  Mike went on. “Where’s the stagecoach? Did you find any cover?”

  “There’s a cave back that way.” Smoke pointed over his shoulder. “I sent Scratchy and Preacher on with the coach and waited for you. When you didn’t show up, I came to look for you.” He paused. “Sounds like you were a mite busy.”

  “Yeah, you could say that. What about . . . the other passengers?” Mik
e wanted to ask about Catherine in particular, but he didn’t figure he had any right to do that.

  “They’re all fine . . . including Miss Bradshaw.”

  “Thank God! I mean—”

  “I know what you mean, son. Let’s go.” Smoke put a hand on Mike’s shoulder and they turned in the direction the stagecoach had gone.

  CHAPTER 30

  Preacher could see the exhaustion in the horses as they plodded along the base of the bluff with their heads drooping. Next to him on the seat, Scratchy was pretty much the same way, worn out by the day’s dangers and exertions.

  The old mountain man felt the strain as well, although he was blessed with an almost supernatural vitality that kept him young far beyond his years. He attributed that to all the time he had spent outdoors as a young man, first on the family farm back in the Midwest but mostly from the years he had spent as a fur trapper in the Rockies.

  He shrugged, thinking that sort of life toughened an hombre up, that was for damn sure.

  Preacher looked back but could no longer see Smoke. He didn’t worry, though. Smoke was the best and toughest man Preacher had ever known, including himself. Thing of it was, Smoke’s natural modesty sometimes prevented him from realizing just how much of a legend he really was. To Smoke’s way of thinking, he was just a fella trying to get by and do the right things in life.

  Lord help anybody who threatened Smoke Jensen or his loved ones, though. Especially his loved ones.

  “How far do you reckon it is to that cave?” Scratchy asked.

  “Smoke didn’t say, but considerin’ how long he was gone, it shouldn’t take us too long to get there. Fifteen or twenty minutes, maybe.”

  “I’m sure ready to get outta all this blowin’ sand. I been around Arizona Territory, man and boy, near on to forty years, and I ain’t sure I’ve ever seen a storm as bad as this one. Usually the weather’s pretty quiet around Christmastime, and it ain’t blisterin’ hot then, either.”

  “It ain’t all that hot now,” Preacher pointed out.

  “Warmer than usual . . . and drier, too. That’s how come we got all this sand blowin’ around.”

  Preacher snorted. “Hot and dry in Arizona Territory. Imagine that.”

  “Don’t go talkin’ bad about Arizona. There’s times when it’s plumb heaven on earth.”

  “And times when it’s hell . . . sort of like now.”

  Scratchy’s eloquent shrug said that he couldn’t argue with that.

  Preacher kept an eye out for the cave, but they hadn’t reached it yet when he spotted something else that made him stiffen on the seat and tighten his grip on the Winchester. “I thought I just seen somethin’ out there,” he said quietly to Scratchy. “Somethin’ movin’.”

  “Out in the sand, you mean?”

  “Yeah. Off to the left, maybe fifty yards.”

  “You can’t see fifty yards in this mess, Preacher. Sometimes you can’t even see fifty feet.”

  “There are little breaks in it, now and then. That’s when I saw it, whatever it was.”

  “Man or animal?”

  “Too big for an animal, I reckon. Ain’t nothin’ around here but lizards and rats, is there?”

  “Not to speak of,” Scratchy admitted. “What do you reckon we should do?”

  “Nothin’ we can do except push on. We got to get out of this storm to have any chance of makin’ it.”

  “That’s true. I’ll see if I can’t get a little more speed outta these horses—Ahhh,” Scratchy called out as he rocked sharply to the side, banging his shoulder against Preacher’s and bellowing in pain.

  Preacher looked over and saw the shaft of an arrow protruding from Scratchy’s upper left arm.

  Not exactly sure where the arrow had come from, Preacher knew the Apache who had fired it had to be somewhere to their left. He twisted on the seat, put one knee on it to raise himself higher, and smoothly brought the rifle to his shoulder as Scratchy bent forward to get out of the line of fire. Preacher cranked off five rounds as fast as he could, swinging the Winchester from left to right to spray the bullets through the clouds of dust.

  As the deafening roar of the shots faded a little, Preacher asked, “How bad are you hit?”

  “Not bad enough to keep me from drivin’ this stagecoach!” Scratchy replied. His wounded left arm wasn’t much use to him, but with his right hand he lashed the reins against the rumps of the horses closest to the coach as he yelled at them. The animals surged forward in their traces as rifle shots blasted from the sandstorm.

  * * *

  As they headed toward the stagecoach and the cave, Smoke and Mike heard something that made them stiffen in alarm. The wind tried to snatch away any sound, but several distant pops made it through to their ears.

  Gunfire.

  * * *

  Preacher heard the rifle shots from within the sandstorm and caught sight of the little winks of muzzle flame. He fired back at them but had no way of knowing if any of his shots hit their targets.

  “Up ahead!” Scratchy shouted. “I think I see the cave!”

  Preacher darted a glance in that direction and spotted the dark, irregular patch in the sandstone wall to their right. That could be the mouth of a cave, all right, he thought.

  The question was whether or not they could reach it before the Apaches stopped them.

  The way the coach was jolting along, Preacher almost didn’t notice when it bounced suddenly, but it was just enough of a warning to make him whirl around at the same moment an Apache warrior clambered over the rear boot and scrambled onto the roof. He had a six-gun, no doubt taken off the body of some white man he had murdered, stuck behind the sash around his waist.

  The Apache made a grab for the gun, but he never had a chance. Flame spouted from the muzzle of Preacher’s Winchester as the old mountain man fired the rifle. The slug blew a hole all the way through the Apache’s chest and flung him backwards off the coach.

  No sooner had Preacher disposed of that threat than another raider raced out of the storm and leaped onto the rear boot. He clung to it with one hand while he used the other to thrust a revolver over the roof and start jerking the trigger. He got off a couple shots before Preacher calmly blew his brains out.

  “You hit?” Preacher asked Scratchy.

  “No, just this arrow in my arm. I think those bullets went between us. It was pretty damn close, though.”

  “Too close.” Preacher kept moving the rifle from side to side, ready to fire at the first sign of a target.

  About twenty yards from the cave, Preacher could see the mouth of it fairly well. He was starting to think they were going to make it when another shot blasted. One of the leaders squealed in agony. The horse’s legs buckled. As it went down, the other members of the team stopped short, and the coach slewed to a halt.

  An instant later, the other leader threw its head up and screamed, then collapsed next to the fallen horse. An arrow was buried in its throat. The Apaches had given up on trying to kill Preacher and Scratchy and had gone after the horses in a last-ditch attempt to stop the stagecoach before it reached the shelter of the cave.

  They had succeeded, too. The coach wasn’t going to roll anywhere without a new team.

  * * *

  The gunfire continued in the distance as Smoke and Mike ran through the sand, moving as fast as they could in the stuff. Smoke’s heart hammered just as loud as those shots, or at least it seemed that way to him. He had known Sally might wind up in danger when the stagecoach rolled away into the storm, but he also knew she was tough as nails and could take care of herself.

  Knowing all that didn’t make his heart stop slugging so hard it seemed like it was about to burst out of his chest.

  He could tell the shooting came from the direction of the cave and figured the Apaches had either ambushed the stagecoach on its way to that shelter or they had come across the cave after he had and were waiting there for the coach to show up. Either way, the passengers would be in deadly danger.
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  * * *

  “We gotta get those folks to the cave!” Preacher told Scratchy as he spotted several shadowy figures flitting through the sandstorm. He leaped down from the box and jerked the coach door open. “Run!” he told the passengers. “Run for the cave!”

  Sally scrambled out first. “Give me a gun!”

  Knowing she could use a Colt, Preacher pulled his from its holster and held it out to her, butt first.

  She took it and said, “Catherine! Mrs. Bates! George! Come on, I’ll cover you!”

  Catherine jumped down from the coach, followed by George, but Mrs. Bates stayed inside, shaking her head. “I can’t, I just can’t.”

  “Grandma!” George yelled at her. “Come on! You got to!” He held out his hand to her. “Come on! I won’t let anything happen to you!”

  The older woman still hesitated, and just when Preacher thought he would have to reach in and drag her out, she swallowed hard, grasped her grandson’s hand, and slid out of the coach.

  Ballard was right behind her, the little pistol clutched in his hand. “I’ll take the other side, Mrs. Jensen. Let’s go!”

  Scratchy’s pistol boomed from the other side of the coach. The jehu shouted, “Here they come!”

  Stumbling because of the sand, the little group of passengers ran toward the cave. Preacher brought up the rear. Scratchy came around the front of the coach to join him. They kept up a steady fire toward the darting shapes trying to close in. More shots came from the Apaches. Over the howl of the wind, Preacher heard slugs whining close past his head.

  The borrowed Colt in Sally’s hand roared. Preacher glanced in that direction and saw an Apache who had managed to get close on her side spin off his feet from the slug’s impact.

  Ballard’s pistol cracked, too, as one of the raiders tried to angle in and cut them off from the cave. That man faded back. Preacher didn’t think the hombre was hit, but Ballard’s shot had come close enough to make him duck away.

  Preacher wondered fleetingly if they would find some of the Apaches waiting for them inside the cave. If they were, then it was all over. Preacher and the others had put up a good fight, although that would be scant comfort as they were massacred.