An Arizona Christmas

by William W. Johnstone

  “We’re fine.” Quickly, he explained what had gone on behind the bank.

  “Then it really is all over now? We can relax and enjoy the rest of the holiday with our family and our new friends?”

  “I think so. We’re going to dinner at Mrs. Bates’s house tonight, right?”

  “That’s the plan. Try not to get mixed up in any more shoot-outs between now and then, all right, Smoke?”

  “I’ll sure try,” he said as he put his arms around her and drew her to him. “Thing of it is, you never know—”

  Somewhere else in Tucson, a gun went off just then. Sally stiffened, but Smoke’s arms tightened around her. He brushed his lips against her dark hair and said, “Nothing to do with us.”

  Sally looked up at him. “You promise?”

  Smoke’s kiss was answer enough.

  Belgium, December 1944

  “As it turned out, Smoke was wrong for one of the few times in his life,” Sarge said. “That gunshot was Avery Tuttle taking the easy way out when the sheriff came to arrest him. Tuttle would have just gone to prison for a few years, since he hadn’t killed anybody and Smiler Coe never confessed to anything except bank robbery and setting up that ambush on the stagecoach. But Tuttle couldn’t bear the thought of even that and put a bullet in his brain.”

  “Ho, ho, ho. Merry Christmas,” Private Bexley said. “Sarge, don’t you know Christmas stories are supposed to be full o’ warmth and good cheer, not all that shootin’ and killin’ and stuff?”

  Corporal Wallace grunted. “Tell that to the Krauts. It don’t seem like they’re takin’ a holiday, does it?”

  Despite his fears, Private Mitchell had gotten caught up in the story. “What happened to that gunfighter? Smiler Coe?”

  “Well, my grandpa kept up with everybody, of course, since that was sort of his job, and he told me Coe lived through his prison term and went on to raise more hell,” Sarge said. “He even met up with Luke Jensen again and caused some pretty bad trouble for him. I don’t think we’ve got time for that story tonight, though.”

  “Wait a minute,” Private Thorp said. “What about the girl? The one who worked for Tuttle.”

  Private Hogan nudged him in the ribs. “You always got the pretty girls on your mind, don’t you, Thorp?”

  “Amy Perkins dropped out of sight and was never seen in Tucson again. Maybe she reformed after that or maybe she got mixed up in some other crooked scheme.” Sarge shrugged. “I don’t reckon we’ll ever know.”

  Bexley said, “It was a good story. I guess you’re sayin’ that those people bein’ caught in that storm and then surrounded by Apaches is sorta like us, right, Sarge? The odds were against them, but they came through all right.” He patted the .30 caliber. “We don’t have Santa Claus comin’ outta nowhere with a Gatling gun, but we got this baby.”

  “What about that fella Kendall?” Wallace asked. “He wasn’t really . . .”

  “Santa Claus?” the sarge asked with a grin. “I don’t know, Wallace. A guy has to make up his own mind about that stuff, doesn’t he?”

  The dogfaces were silent for a few moments. The German artillery barrage had stopped, and the night was unusually quiet.

  The sound of combat boots tromping through the thin layer of snow made all the soldiers swing around and lift their rifles. The sergeant’s hands tightened on his Thompson submachine gun.

  “Sergeant Ballard?” a man called softly.

  Sergeant Thomas Ballard III heaved a sigh of relief and answered, “Here, Lieutenant.”

  An officer slipped up to the machine gun post and knelt as the men gathered around him. “I’m making the rounds, checking on all the outposts personally. How are you holding up?”

  “We’re fine, sir,” Ballard said. “A little cold, but fine. Isn’t that right, boys?”

  A chorus of agreement came from the men, even from Mitchell.

  Bexley said, “The sarge has been tellin’ us cowboy stories to pass the time, sir.”

  “Is that so?” The lieutenant chuckled. “Maybe after the war you can write for those pulp magazines, Sergeant. I hear a lot of newspapermen write fiction on the side.”

  “Yes, sir, I’ll give that some thought,” Ballard said. “Right now I’d rather just concentrate on getting through this fight.”

  “I’m sure we all feel the same way. The Germans sent a surrender demand, you know. What answer do you think General McAuliffe sent back to them?”

  Bexley said, “I hope he told ’em to go to hell.”

  The lieutenant laughed. “Not quite, Private, but close. He told them, ‘Nuts!’ Can you imagine the looks on the faces of those Kraut generals? ‘Nuts!’ ”

  “Sounds like something Smoke Jensen might have told them if he was here,” Ballard said.

  The lieutenant shook his head. “I don’t know who that is, Sergeant.”

  “Just an old friend of the family, sir. Just an old friend of the family.”

  Keep reading for a special preview of the next Smoke Jensen adventure!

  VENOM OF THE MOUNTAIN MAN

  When Smoke Jensen sees a gang of outlaws holding up a stagecoach, his gunfighter instincts take over and he storms in with guns blazing. He kills one of the gunmen—the rest scatter like the rats they are. But the dead man is the brother of the notorious outlaw Gabe Briggs, and Briggs will want revenge . . .

  Tired of the savagery of the lawless countryside, Smoke’s wife, Sally, heads back east for a spell, only to find the big city choking in filth, violence, and corruption. Before Sally can return home, though, she’s snatched right off the street.

  When Smoke gets word that Sally’s been kidnapped, he hops the first train east. But Gabe Briggs and his ruthless band of badmen are along for the ride. Unless Smoke can punch their tickets to hell first, they’ll blow this train sky high . . .

  Coming in December, wherever

  Pinnacle Books are sold.

  Salcedo, Wyoming

  The hooves of Smoke Jensen’s horse, Seven, made a dry clatter on the rocks as Smoke made a rather steep descent down from a seldom used trail. Seeing the road below, he felt a sense of relief.

  “There it is, Seven, there’s the road. Taking the cutoff wasn’t all that good of an idea. I was beginning to think we never would see that road again.”

  Seven whickered.

  “No, I wasn’t lost. You know I don’t get lost. I just get a little disoriented every now and then.”

  Seven whickered again.

  “Ah, so now you’re making fun of me, are you?”

  On long rides, Smoke often talked to his horse, because he wanted to hear a voice, even if it was his own. And talking to his horse seemed a step above talking to himself.

  Smoke dismounted, and reached up to squeeze Seven’s ear. Seven dipped his head in appreciation of the gesture.

  “Yeah, I know you like this. Tell you what, why don’t I walk the rest of the way down this hill, that way you won’t have to be working as hard. And when we get on the road, we’ll have a little breather.

  A few minutes later, before they reached the road, Seven suddenly let out an anxious whiney, and using his head, pushed Smoke aside so violently that Smoke fell, painfully, onto the rocks.

  “What was that all about?” Smoke said, angrily.

  Seven whinnied again, and began backing away, lifting his forelegs high, and bobbing his head up and down. That was when Smoke saw the rattler, coiled, and bobbing its head, ready to strike.

  Smoke drew his pistol and fired. There was a mist of blood where the snake’s head had been, the head now at least five feet away from the reptile’s still coiled but decapitated body.

  “Are you all right?” Smoke asked, anxiously, as he began examining Seven’s forelegs and feet. He found no indication that the snake had bitten him.

  Smoke wrapped his arms around Seven’s neck “Good boy,” he said. “Oh, wait, I know what you really want.” Again, Smoke began squeezing Seven’s ear.

  “Well, as much as you
like this, we can’t hang around here all day. We need to get going.”

  Smoke led Seven on down the rocky incline then, just before he reached the road, his foot slipped off a rock, and he felt the heel break off.

  “Damn,” he said, picking up the heel. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’m not going to remount right away, but probably a little earlier than I previously intended.”

  Smoked limped along for at least two more miles then, when he was certain Seven was well rested, he swung back into the saddle. “All right boy, let’s go,” he said.

  Smoke started forward at a trot that was comfortable for both of them.

  “We’ll be coming into Salcedo soon. Tell me, Seven, do you think this bustling community will have a shoe store?”

  Seven dipped his head.

  “Oh, yeah, you would say that. You always are the optimist.”

  * * *

  Salcedo was the result of what had once been a trading post, then a saloon, then a couple of houses, a general store until, gradually it became a town along the banks of the Platte River. The river was not navigable for steamboats, and even flatboats had a difficult time because of the shallowness of the water and the many sandbars and rocks long the route.

  An overly optimistic sign at the town limits read:

  SALCEDO

  POP. 210

  Smoke had been to Rawlins, and was on his way back to his ranch, Sugarloaf, when he broke the heel. He found a boot and shoe store on Main Street, and heard the cobbler’s optimistic account that he could fix it. He was now standing in the window of the shoe repair shop, his attention drawn to a stagecoach parked at the depot just across the street.

  “Swan, Mule Gap, and Douglass!” the driver shouted. “If you’re goin’ to Swan, Mule Gap, or Douglass, get aboard now!”

  Five passengers responded to the driver’s call: two men, and a woman with two children. The coach had a shotgun guard, and as soon as he was in position, the driver popped his whip, the six horses strained in their harness, and the coach pulled away.

  “Your boot is ready,” George Friegh, the shoemaker, said as he stepped up beside Smoke. When he saw that Smoke had been watching the coach leave, he added to his comment. “It’s carryin’ five thousand dollars in cash money.”

  “You mean that’s common knowledge?” Smoke replied. “I thought stagecoach companies didn’t want it known when they were carrying a sizeable cash shipment.”

  “Yeah, most of the time they do try ’n keep it quiet. But you can’t do that with Emile Taylor.”

  “Who is Emile Taylor?” Smoke asked.

  “Taylor’s the shotgun guard. He’s an old soldier and like a lot of old soldiers, he’s a drinkin’ man. I heard him carryin’ on last night while he was getting’ hisself snockered at the Trail’s End.”

  Trail’s End was the only saloon in Salcedo.

  “He started talkin’ about the money shipment they’re takin’ down to Douglass. Five thousand dollars he said it was.”

  “He told you that?”

  “Not just me. Hell, mister, he was talkin’ loud enough that ever’ one in the saloon heard him.”

  Smoke examined the boot, then paid for the work.

  “You did a good job,” he said, slipping the boot back on. “I’d better be getting back on the road.”

  Five miles south of Salcedo, on the Douglass Pike

  Four men were waiting on the side of the road, their horses ground hobbled behind them.

  “You’re sure it’s carryin’ five thousand dollars?” one of them asked.

  “Yeah, I’m sure. I heard the shotgun guard braggin’ about it.”

  “The reason I ask if you’re sure is, the last time we held up a stage we didn’t get nothin’ but thirty-seven dollars, ‘n that’s what we got from the passengers. Hell, you could get shot holdin’ up a stage, and thirty-seven dollars ain’t worth it.”

  “This here stagecoach has five thousand dollars, you can trust me on this.”

  “Here it comes,” one of the other men said as the coach crested the hill to come into view.

  “All right, you three get mounted and get your guns out. Gabe, you hold my horse. I’ll have ‘em throw the money bag down to me. Get your hoods on,” he added, as he pulled a hood down over his own head.

  * * *

  Smoke heard the unmistakable sound of a gunshot in the distance before him. There was only one shot, and it could have been a hunter, but he didn’t think so. There was a sharp flatness to the sound, more like that of a pistol, rather than a rifle. He wondered about it, but there was only one shot, and it could have been anything, so he didn’t give it that much of a thought.

  Then, when Smoke reached the top of the hill he saw the stagecoach stopped on the road in front of him. This was the same stagecoach he had watched leave Salcedo and the passengers, including the woman and children, were standing outside the coach with their hands up. The driver had his hands up as well. For just a second he wondered about the shotgun guard, then he saw a body lying in the road beside the front wheel of the coach.

  There were four armed men, all but one mounted, and all wearing hoods that covered their faces. There was no doubt but that he had come upon a robbery.

  Pulling his pistol, Smoke urged Seven into a gallop, and quickly closed the distance between himself and the stagecoach robbers.

  “Drop your guns!” Smoke shouted.

  “What the hell?” one of the robbers yelled, and all four of them shot at Smoke.

  Smoke shot back, and the dismounted robber went down. There was another exchange of gunfire, and one of the mounted robbers went down as well.

  “Let’s get out of here!” one of the two remaining robbers shouted, and they galloped off.

  Smoke reached the coach then dismounted to check on the two fallen robbers to make certain they presented no further danger to the coach. They didn’t, because both were dead.

  A quick exam of the shotgun guard determined that he, too, was dead.

  “Mister, I don’t know who you are,” the driver said. “But you sure come along in time to save our bacon.”

  “The name is Jensen. Smoke Jensen. Are all of you all right? Was anyone hurt?”

  “We’re fine, Mr. Jensen, thanks to you,” the woman passenger said.

  From the Douglas Budget:

  Smoke Jensen is best known as the owner of Sugarloaf, a successful ranch near Big Rock, Colorado. He is also well known as a paladin, a man whose skillful employment of a pistol has, on many occasions, defended the endangered from harm being visited upon them by evil doers.

  Such was the case a few days ago when fate, in the form of the fortuitous arrival of Mr. Jensen, foiled an attempted stage coach robbery, and perhaps saved the lives of the driver and passengers. The incident occurred on Douglas Pike Road, some five miles south of Salcedo, and five miles north of Mule Gap.

  Although Mr. Jensen called out to the road gents, offering them the opportunity to drop their guns, the four outlaws refused to do so, choosing instead to engage Jensen in a gunfight. This was a fatal decision for Lucas Monroe and Asa Briggs, both of whom were killed in the ensuing gunplay. Two of the men, already mounted, were able to escape.

  Although the bandits were wearing hoods during the entire exchange, it is widely believed that one of the men who got away was Gabe Briggs, as he and his brother, Asa, like the James, Dalton, brothers, rode the outlaw trail together.

  Wiregrass Ranch, adjacent to Sugarloaf

  Wiregrass Ranch had once belonged to Ned and Molly Condon. When they were murdered, Sam Condon, Ned’s brother, came west from St. Louis. Sam had been a successful lawyer in that city, and everyone thought he was coming to arrange for the sale of the ranch. Instead, he decided to stay, and he brought his wife, Sara Sue, and their then-twelve-year-old son, Thad, with him. Both Sara Sue and Thad adjusted to their new surroundings quickly, and easily. Thad not only adjusted, he thrived in the new environment.

  Sam had made the conscious decision to se
ll off all the cattle Ned had owned, and replaced them with two highly regarded registered Hereford bulls, and ten registered Hereford cows. Within two years after he started his operation, he had a herd of fifty, composed of ten bulls and forty cows. By keeping his herd so small, he was able to keep down expenses by having no permanent cowboys. Thad, who was now thirteen years old, had become a very good hand.

  Sam Condon’s approach to ranching paid off well, and he earned a rather substantial income by selling registered cattle, both bulls and cows, to ranchers who wanted to improve their stock.

  Sam and Sara Sue were celebrating their seventeenth wedding anniversary, and they had invited Smoke and Sally, their neighbors from the adjacent ranch, to have a celebratory dinner with them.

  “Chicken and dumplin’s, Missouri style,” Sara Sue said.

  “Oh, you don’t have to educate me, Sara Sue,” Smoke said as his hostess spooned the pastry onto his plate. “It’s been a while, but I’m a Missouri boy, too.”

  “Well, I’m from the Northeast, but I’ve learned to enjoy chicken and dumplings as well,” Sally said. “Smoke loves them so, that I had to learn how to make the flat dumplings.”

  “She learned how to make them all right,” Smoke said. “She just hasn’t learned how to say ‘dumplin’s’ without adding that last g,” he teased.

  The others laughed.

  “Mr. Jensen, I read about you in the paper,” Thad said.

  “Oh?”

  “Yes, sir, I read how you stopped a stagecoach holdup, ’n how you kilt two men.”

  “Thad,” Sam said. “That’s hardly a subject fit for discussion over the dinner table.”