That stagecoach hadn’t shown up when it was supposed to, and no one seemed to have any idea what had happened to it.
Except . . . rumors had been floating around of Apache raiders from across the border helling in southern Arizona Territory. If the coach had come across some of those renegades . . . no one seemed to think the passengers had any chance of surviving.
That might well have been true sometimes, Matt knew, but Smoke and Preacher had been on that stagecoach. If anybody could survive, in any sort of dangerous situation, it was those two.
So Matt kept checking at the stage line office, hoping to hear something, but his patience was running out. If the wait lasted much longer, he was going to saddle his horse, pack some supplies, and set out to find his brother.
The door opened behind him. Matt looked over his shoulder and saw a young, fair-haired man in the uniform of an army lieutenant.
He strode up to the counter and slapped a hand on it. “I’ve tolerated your impertinence long enough, sir! I demand to know where that stagecoach is!”
Matt lazily lifted an eyebrow and leaned his left elbow on the counter. “You’re waiting for the stagecoach to get here, too?”
The lieutenant cast an annoyed glance in his direction. “I don’t think that’s any business of yours.”
“I reckon it is,” Matt drawled. “My brother and sister-in-law and an old friend are on it. I was just thinking about going out to look for it. If you’ve got a detail with you, Lieutenant, we could organize a search party.”
“I don’t have a detail,” the officer snapped. “I’m here on temporary leave to meet my fiancée and escort her back to the fort, where we’ll be married.” He scowled. “By the time I get back, the entire company will be out pursuing those damned renegades. I’ll have missed my chance to be part of it.”
“Anxious to chase Apaches, are you?”
“A victorious engagement with the hostiles would look very good on my record . . . not that it’s any of your affair, mister.”
Matt suppressed an instinctive dislike for the lieutenant. During some of his stints working as a scout for the Army, he had run into officers like that one—men who cared only about advancing their careers, men who were willing to endanger the soldiers under their command if that would “look good on the record.” As far as Matt was concerned, men like that weren’t worthy of wearing the uniform, but a depressingly large number of them could be found.
However, it wouldn’t do any good to express his feelings to the arrogant young lieutenant—although handing him a whipping held a lot of appeal—so Matt turned back to the clerk. “I’ll be around town. Let me know if you hear anything, all right?”
“Of course, Mr. Jensen.”
Matt gave the lieutenant a curt nod and walked out of the office into the December sunshine. It was warm and didn’t feel much like winter. A terrible sandstorm had blown through the day before, leaving the air hazy, but the wind had died down completely and that haze was starting to settle.
As he crossed the street to the hotel where he was staying, he was startled to hear his name called. He looked to see who had hailed him, and a grin broke out on his face as he recognized the man riding toward him.
Luke wasn’t alone. Two younger men rode with him—a dark-haired hombre in a buckskin shirt and jeans, with a flat-crowned brown hat pushed back on his head; and a gent with sandy hair, dressed fancier in a Western-cut brown suit and a cream-colored Stetson with a tightly curled brim.
Matt recognized the two younger men as well, having met them in Texas a couple years earlier. Ace and Chance Jensen—no relation as far as anybody knew—but they shared gun speed, quick fists, and a knack for getting in trouble with the more notorious Jensens.
Seeing the three of them lined up like that—Luke, Ace, and Chance—made the smile disappear from Matt’s face, replaced by a puzzled frown. Even though at first glance they were very dissimilar, there was something about them . . . a resemblance that might go unnoticed unless a person happened to see them that way.
They might have to reconsider the idea that Ace and Chance weren’t related to the rest of them, Matt thought. Distant cousins, maybe.
“Hello, Luke,” he said as his oldest brother reined in. “Smoke’s letter said you might show up, too, but I didn’t know if you would.”
“Yeah, and I ran into these two hellions on the way,” Luke said with a chuckle as he pointed his thumb at Ace and Chance.
“Was there gunplay involved?” Matt asked, smiling again.
Ace said, “No, for a change things were nice and peaceful.”
“Then Luke walked in,” Chance added.
Matt said, “I reckon all hell broke loose after that?”
Luke snorted. “I think I resent that. You’re implying that violence occurs wherever I happen to be.”
“Isn’t that usually the case?”
“Well . . . usually,” Luke admitted with feigned reluctance. “But not always.”
The three newcomers swung down from their saddles and tied the horses at one of the hitch rails in front of the hotel.
Ace said, “Luke told us you were getting together with Smoke and Sally and Preacher for Christmas here in Tucson. I’m afraid we sort of invited ourselves along for the ride, but we won’t interfere in your family get-together if you want—”
“If it’s up to me, I sure don’t care. Jensens are bound together by more than blood and a last name. I’d say hot lead and powder smoke play a part in it, too, and you fellas have shared in that right with us. As far as I’m concerned, you’re part of the family already.”
Matt paused, thinking about what he had noticed a few moments earlier. He was wondering if he ought to bring it up when he noticed that Luke had stiffened and moved his right hand closer to the butt of one of the Remington revolvers he carried.
“What’s wrong?” Matt asked quietly.
“Fella over there moseying along the boardwalk,” Luke replied. “That’s Smiler Coe.”
Matt looked across the street and saw a lean, dark-featured man sauntering along in front of the stores. He looked like a hardcase, which wasn’t surprising considering Luke’s reaction to him.
“Don’t reckon I know him . . . but you obviously do. Is he wanted?”
“Not that I know of, but only because he’s always worked for powerful, important men who managed to keep his face off the reward dodgers. He’s a cold-blooded killer, though, no doubt about that.”
“But you can’t collect a bounty on him,” Chance said.
Luke shook his head.
“I wouldn’t risk my life trying to arrest him, then,” Chance said.
“I’m not going to, but I’m sure going to keep my eyes open. Coe may know me by reputation just like I know him. He might decide I was after him and figure he’d be better off gunning for me first.”
“I’m sure it won’t come to that,” Ace said.
“But if it does, we’ll back your play,” Matt said. “You know that, Luke.”
Luke nodded slowly, then, as Smiler Coe disappeared into one of the buildings across the street, he turned to Matt. “Where are Smoke and Sally and Preacher?”
“That’s something I’d sure like to know,” Matt said as a grim, worried expression settled over his face.
Luke looked surprised. “It’s Christmas Eve. They’re not here yet?”
“Come on in the hotel,” Matt said. “We can get some coffee in the dining room and I’ll tell you what I know . . . but it’s sure as hell not much.”
* * *
Smiler Coe paused in Avery Tuttle’s outer office and nodded toward the closed door on the other side of the desk. “He’s in there?”
“Yes, he is,” Amy Perkins said as she got up from her chair. “But he’s upset.”
“Yeah, and I reckon I know why,” Coe muttered.
“Still no sign of the stagecoach?”
“I’ve got men ridin’ back and forth between here and Sahuarita Ranch several times a
day, bringin’ me word. The coach ain’t shown up yet. When it does, they’ll be waitin’ to jump it as soon as it’s far enough away from the way station.”
“Something’s happened to it,” Amy said, a little breathlessly. “The Apaches got it, or it was lost in that sandstorm . . .”
“If that’s true, then Tuttle gets what he wants. That money’s gone, and so is Tom Ballard.”
“But we don’t get the money,” Amy practically wailed. “I was counting on that—”
“Never count on money until it’s in your pocket,” the gunfighter told her. “Folks can always try to double-cross you, and sometimes fate just ain’t on your side.” He put his hands on her shoulders. “But believe this, darlin’ . . . if there’s any way to get hold of that cash, I’m gonna do it. And for anybody who gets in my way, it’s just too damn bad.”
“Oh, Smiler . . .” Amy leaned in, came up on her toes, and pressed her mouth hungrily against his.
Was she hungry for him, Coe asked himself... or just for the money?
He couldn’t answer that but figured it would all play out the way nature intended. So far, nature seemed to intend that he wind up on top. He broke the kiss and stepped back. “Reckon I’d better go talk to him.”
“Don’t lose your temper with him.”
“I don’t intend to.” Coe moved to the door and grasped the knob.
“Maybe you’d better knock first,” Amy suggested.
He gave her a look that said he didn’t like being subservient to anybody, even the man he worked for, but then he shrugged and rapped a couple times on the door with the knuckles of his left hand.
“Come in,” Avery Tuttle called.
Smirking, Coe twisted the knob and went in.
Tuttle stood by the window, half-turned away from it as if he had been looking through the glass before Coe knocked. His hands were clasped together behind his back. “Is there any news?” he asked briskly.
“Nope,” Coe said as he propped a hip on a front corner of the big desk.
“Tomorrow is Christmas. That stagecoach should have arrived yesterday.”
“You mean it should have started up the river trail and ran right into the ambush I’ve got waitin’ for it.”
“It’s the same thing,” Tuttle snapped. “Do you think it’s lost somewhere out in the desert west of here? Could the driver have strayed from the road during that storm and not been able to find his way back?”
“Can’t rule that out,” Coe said with a shrug. “Or the Apaches, either.”
“I suppose I should be happy.” Tuttle stepped away from the window and went behind the desk. “Tom Ballard is no longer a thorn in my side, and the money he was bringing back will never help my enemies. I’ll take over the bank, call in all the notes, and by the first of the year, nearly all of Tucson will belong to me.”
“Yeah, you’ll be a rich man. A richer man, I reckon I ought to say.”
“But I want to know,” Tuttle said. “The uncertainty is tormenting me. Ballard could still be out there somewhere, heading this way to ruin all my plans. I can never be sure that he isn’t.”
“I can take care of that for you,” Coe said as a plan formed in his mind. “If I don’t get word by tomorrow morning that the stagecoach showed up and our boys stopped it, I’ll ride down there, gather ’em up, and we’ll retrace the route until we find it. If Ballard and that loot don’t come to us, we’ll go to him.”
Tuttle frowned in thought for a moment and then nodded. “All right. That’s a good idea. Just make sure that whatever happens, none of it will ever come back to threaten me.”
“Sure, boss.”
Yeah, that was like Tuttle, all right. Making sure his own hide was safe, no matter what happened to anybody else. Things might be different, Coe told himself, once he had his hands on that money. Amy knew all the details of Tuttle’s business enterprises. No reason the two of them couldn’t run things just as well or better than Tuttle had been doing. All it would take was not being afraid to seize power . . .
“Is there anything else?” Tuttle snapped, interrupting Coe’s thoughts.
“Nope.” Coe’s lips pulled back in a grin, exposing the gold tooth. “I reckon I’ve got plenty to think about.”
CHAPTER 40
Smoke brought the coach to a stop when the remaining Apaches were far out of sight behind them then called to the passengers, “Need some help up here!”
As they piled out, Smoke spewed orders. “Preacher, keep an eye on our back trail. Tom, give me a hand with Scratchy.”
Ballard hurried to assist Smoke in lowering the old jehu to the ground. The front of Scratchy’s shirt was dark with blood.
Mike’s face was pale and drawn. His shirtsleeve below the arrow shaft was bloody, too, but at least he was conscious. “Scratchy’s hit bad.” His voice was choked with emotion. “You’ve got to help him.”
“We’ll do everything we can,” Smoke said as he and Ballard propped Scratchy up against one of the coach’s front wheels.
Scratchy was still breathing, but raggedly.
Sally knelt at Smoke’s side as he tore the shirt back to reveal the bullet hole in Scratchy’s chest. Both of them heard the faint whistling from the wound and saw the bloody froth on Scratchy’s lips. They glanced at each other, knowing he was shot through the lungs and was done for.
“Tom, help Mike down,” Smoke said quietly. “Sally, see what you can do for his arm.”
“Don’t worry about me,” Mike protested. “Just tend to . . .” His voice trailed off as he realized what Smoke’s words meant. “Aw, hell no! He can’t . . .”
Scratchy’s eyelids fluttered open. His eyes were unfocused for a moment, then his gaze settled on Smoke. “The passengers . . . ?” he said in a weak, raspy voice.
“I think everybody’s all right.”
“We are,” Mrs. Bates said from the coach’s open door. “No one was hurt.”
“That . . . Kendall fella . . . ?”
“I’m still up here on top of the coach,” Kendall said, “keepin’ an eye out for any more hostiles.”
“I don’t think any of them will be bothering us again,” Smoke said. “Not after the damage we did to them. There’s a good chance the ones who are left are lighting a shuck back to the border as fast as they can.”
“Hope . . . so,” Scratchy managed. “Smoke . . . listen to me . . .”
“You ought to take it easy.”
“Wouldn’t do . . . a derned bit o’ good. I know I’m . . . a goner . . . but I’d be obliged . . . if you’d get the coach through.”
“I’ll do it,” Smoke promised.
“Mike . . .”
With Ballard’s help, the young man had gotten down from the driver’s box. Sally was looking at his wounded arm, but she stepped back and nodded to him as Scratchy called his name. The wound appeared to be a clean one, not too deep, and a few minutes wouldn’t hurt.
Mike moved over and knelt beside Scratchy. “I’m right here, partner.”
“You gonna be . . . all right?”
“Yeah, don’t worry about me.”
“You help . . . Smoke and the others . . . get where they’re goin’ . . .”
“You can count on that.”
“We’re a good ways . . . north of the road . . . head southeast . . . that’ll take you . . . toward Sahuarita Ranch . . .”
“I know it,” Mike said, nodding. “I can find it.”
“Then I reckon I can . . . head on across the divide. . . without worryin’—” Scratchy straightened suddenly, his eyes opening wider. “Get on there!” he called, his voice strengthening as if he were calling out to his team. “Run, you blamed varmints! Run—” He fell back against the wheel and more blood bubbled from his lips. His chest rose, fell, and then didn’t move again.
Smoke reached up and gently closed the wide, staring eyes.
Catherine and Mrs. Bates were crying. A tear ran down Sally’s sun-bronzed cheek, too. Mike muttered something under his br
eath, a curse or a prayer . . . or both.
Smoke said, “Mike, can we make it to Tucson today?”
The young man swallowed his grief and nodded. “Ought to be able to by tonight, if we don’t run into any more trouble.”
“We’ll wrap Scratchy up in a blanket, then, and take him with us, instead of burying him out here.”
“Might be better to lay him to rest at Sahuarita Ranch,” Mike suggested. “He’d be happier at a way station than in town.”
“Then that’s what we’ll do,” Smoke said. “Now, let’s see about getting that arrow out of your arm. It’s going to hurt like hell.”
* * *
Preacher took Mike’s usual seat, riding next to Smoke as Smoke handled the team. Nick Kendall continued riding on top of the coach, with Ballard and George joining him to make room inside the vehicle for Scratchy’s blanket-shrouded body. A few days earlier, Catherine and Mrs. Bates probably would have complained about being forced to share the coach with a corpse, but they were just grateful to be alive . . . and grateful to Scratchy for everything he had done to help keep them that way.
The coach rolled into the way station at Sahuarita Ranch late that afternoon. Mike, with his wounded arm bandaged, had helped navigate from inside the coach, calling up to Smoke whenever he spotted a familiar landmark. Several men hurried out of the station when the coach rattled up.
The one in charge exclaimed, “We were starting to think we’d never see you folks!” Then he frowned. “Where are Stevenson and Olmsted?”
“We’re in here, Joe,” Mike said from the coach window. “Scratchy’s dead.”
“Good Lord! And what the devil is that up on the roof?”
“Devil’s right,” Kendall said with a laugh as he slapped the Gatling gun’s barrels. “This is what some folks call a devil gun.”
“Well, come on inside, all of you. We’ll take care of the team. You look like you’ve been through hell, so I reckon you can all use some rest.”
Smoke dropped to the ground and shook his head. “We’re pushing on to Tucson.”
“Now?” the stationmaster said in amazement. “But you won’t get there until after dark.”
An Arizona Christmas Page 26
