A Texas Hill Country Christmas (16 page)

As the blade flashed down at Smoke, his left hand shot up and caught Black Moon's wrist, halting the thrust in midair. The Indian had already built up too much momentum for Smoke to stop him completely, though. Black Moon barreled into him. Smoke went over backward, still holding off the knife.

They hit the floor and rolled toward the doorway. Smoke's right hand shot up and closed around Black Moon's throat. An instant later, Black Moon got hold of Smoke's throat with his left hand in a similar grip. Both men surged to their feet and swayed back and forth as they struggled.

Mildred Purcell screamed hysterically as she was finally able to give in to her terror. She clutched and clawed at her husband, who still stood as if frozen by shock and fear. Mrs. Olmsted and Betty rushed toward them, while Sally moved with swift efficiency to scoop up Arley's gun from the floor. She turned toward Smoke and Black Moon with the weapon.

Sally hesitated with her finger on the trigger. The two men were so close together she couldn't risk a shot. There was too great a chance she might hit Smoke.

But if she had an opening, she would be ready to take it.

Smoke was vaguely aware of what else was going on in the room because his peripheral vision was so good he saw it happening. He didn't pay much attention to it, though, because he was too busy fighting for his life. Black Moon was lean but possessed a wiry strength, and the madness that gripped him gave him even more. Smoke had to struggle to keep the renegade from plunging the knife into his body, and red spots were starting to dance in front of his eyes from lack of air. His blood roared in his veins like a raging river.

Black Moon had to be going through the same thing. Smoke had immense power in his grip, and as he closed it tighter and tighter around Black Moon's throat, he wondered how much more the man's windpipe could stand without collapsing.

Of course, the same thing could be said about
his
windpipe. . . .

Suddenly, Black Moon took him by surprise by letting off on the arm holding the knife and lunging against him. The impact drove Smoke backward again. This time they staggered across the porch and off the steps, toppling into the muddy yard in front of the station.

Puddled water flew up around them, drenching Smoke's face and momentarily blinding him. With slick mud now coating them, it was impossible for either man to maintain his grip. They writhed and twisted apart. Smoke came up and threw himself backward as the Bowie knife streaked past his face, missing him by no more than an inch.

He kicked Black Moon in the belly. The blow made the Indian double over. Smoke clubbed his hands together and swung them in a powerful punch that caught Black Moon on the jaw and straightened him up. In that instant, Smoke saw that Plumlee and the Olmsteds had formed a circle around them. The men leveled rifles and shotguns at the fighters.

“Hold your fire!” Sally shouted from the porch. “Smoke promised him a fair fight!”

After what had been done to Jonas McClaren, the men probably didn't care about fairness. Smoke couldn't blame them if they riddled Black Moon with lead. But he would have to get out of the way for them to do that, and that would mean retreating.

When the Good Lord made Smoke Jensen, he didn't put in any back-up.

One way or another, this would be a fight to the finish.

As Black Moon staggered back from the powerful two-handed punch, Smoke bored in after him and kept him off-balance by peppering him with short, sharp blows to the face and body. Unable to get himself set, all Black Moon could do was flail desperately back and forth in front of him with the knife. That forced Smoke to break off his attack.

Even though the respite lasted only a second, that was enough for Black Moon to get his feet under him and go on the offensive again. Smoke darted out of the way as the blade came at him. He raised his left arm, and the knife passed under it. Smoke clamped his arm down on the Indian's forearm, pinning it. He pivoted and at the same time used his right hand to catch hold of Black Moon's right arm, just below the shoulder. Black Moon had no choice but to go with him as Smoke continued turning. Smoke threw his hip into it. Black Moon left his feet and sailed through the air, then smashed down in the mud on his back.

The throw, taught to Smoke by Preacher—who had, ironically enough, learned it from Indians in his youth—had wrenched Black Moon's arm so violently that he had lost his grip on the knife. It lay in the mud near Smoke's left foot. He kicked the Bowie to the side, well out of reach of either of them.

Now the fight really was man to man, hand to hand—
mano a mano
, as they said south of the border.

Black Moon rolled and came up on his hands and knees, then without climbing the rest of the way to his feet launched himself in a diving tackle at Smoke's knees. Smoke couldn't get out of the way in time. He went down as Black Moon wrenched his legs out from under him.

The renegade hammered a punch into Smoke's face, stunning him for a second. Black Moon grabbed his shoulders, rolled him over, and planted a hand on the back of Smoke's head, forcing his face down into the mud where there was no air to breathe.

A man could drown in this soupy mud, just the same as he could in water.

Smoke wasn't going to let that happen. He got his hands and knees underneath him and tried to buck upward, but he slipped in the slick mud and went down again. The next time he dug deeper with his hands, ignored the mud that tried to clog his mouth and nose, and heaved himself up and back. Black Moon lost his hold and toppled off.

Still on his knees, Smoke twisted around and dived after the Indian. He rammed his left elbow into Black Moon's belly, got his right hand under the man's chin and thrust up as hard as he could. Black Moon's head went back so far it seemed impossible that his neck didn't snap. He writhed away, though, before Smoke could finish him off.

Slowly, both men climbed to their feet and faced each other with six feet separating them. Their chests heaved from the exertion and strain of this epic combat. Then with an inarticulate cry of hatred, Black Moon leaped at Smoke again.

Black Moon went high so Smoke went low, ducking under the attack and catching hold of the renegade around his knees. Smoke straightened and dumped Black Moon over his head. He whirled around, summoning his last reserves of strength and speed to do so and dropped to his knees to catch hold of Black Moon from behind. His right arm went around Black Moon's neck. His left hand caught the right wrist, clamped the arm in place. Black Moon squirmed and flailed but couldn't get free.

The muscles under Smoke's coat bunched like giant cables as he heaved upward. Over the pounding of the rain sounded a sharp crack, like a branch breaking. A final shudder went through Black Moon, then he hung there limply in Smoke's grip as the rain washed down over both of them.

Smoke let go. Black Moon toppled forward to land facedown in the mud. He didn't move again.

Smoke looked up and was surprised to see that a horseman now sat in the yard in front of the stagecoach station. In the heat of battle, Smoke hadn't noticed the man's arrival.

He was even more surprised to realize that he knew the man.

His brother Matt leaned forward in the saddle. Water dripped from the brim of his black Stetson as he said, “Never expected to run into you down here, Smoke. It looks like you've done my job for me.”

Smoke sat close to the fireplace, wrapped in a blanket as he warmed up. He had scrubbed off as much of the mud as he could from his hands, face, and head. Mrs. Olmsted had his clothes soaking in a pot of hot water in the kitchen.

One of the Olmsted boys helped Arley Hicks over to another rocking chair near the fire. Arley was wearing a borrowed shirt over some bandages wrapped around his midsection, since his shirt had been soaked with blood from the wound in his side. Sally had cleaned and dressed the injury, which she had said looked worse than it really was.

“I'm startin' to wonder if there's gonna be anything left of me by the time I get to Bandera,” Arley said with a rueful grin. “Done been shot and stabbed already. I'm afraid to ask what's gonna happen next.”

“You probably don't want to know,” Smoke said.

That brought a laugh from Arley, whose spirits seemed undaunted by the bad luck dogging his trail. Or maybe it was good luck, Smoke reflected, because as the young cowboy had pointed out, somebody had tried twice now to kill him, and he was still breathing.

Sally and Mrs. Carter sat at the table, drinking coffee. The Purcells were on the other side of the room, not saying anything to each other or anyone else. Donald Purcell wouldn't meet his wife's eyes, but she seemed to have no trouble glaring at him. Smoke guessed Mildred wasn't too happy about the way her husband had frozen in fear.

Of course, if Mr. Purcell had tried to put up a fight against Black Moon, the renegade probably would have killed him in less time than it took to talk about it.

Smoke heard boots stomping on the porch. A minute later, the door opened and Matt and Ike Plumlee came inside after hanging up their slickers and hats. Matt said, “Good news. It's stopped raining, and I think the creek has gone down a little already. If it keeps dropping, the stage might be able to make it on into Mason by late this afternoon.”

“Yeah, if it don't start rainin' again,” Plumlee added.

The two of them had ridden down to the south fork bridge to check on the level of the creek. Smoke was glad to hear what they had to report. The sooner they got Jonas McClaren's body to the undertaker, the better.

“You boys need some coffee,” Mrs. Olmsted said. She picked up the pot from the stove and began filling cups.

Matt carried his coffee over to stand between the rocking chairs occupied by Smoke and Arley. He said, “Now that I think about it, Smoke, I recall you saying in one of your letters that you planned to come down here to Texas to see about buying a bull. I didn't expect you to do it at Christmastime, though.”

“Chester Fielding wrote me that he had other folks interested in that bull,” Smoke explained, “so I'd better come on down if I wanted first crack at it. We've agreed on a price, and if I like the looks of the animal, we have a deal. If he's as fine as Fielding claims, he'll improve my herd.”

Matt had already told Smoke about how he had been on Black Moon's trail for several days, having followed the renegade south from the Palo Pinto Mountains.

“I guess he saw the stagecoach and figured it was stuck here by the high water,” Matt had said. “He just couldn't pass up the chance to kill that many white folks.”

He had also told Smoke about tracking down the war party of Comanche renegades with Major Macmillan and the cavalry patrol. Matt hadn't gone into detail about the atrocities Black Moon and his companions had carried out.

He didn't need to. Smoke had seen the renegade's work for himself, and it was going to be a while before those grisly images faded from his mind.

Sally walked over to join them and asked, “What are you going to do now, Matt?”

“Well, I figured I'd ride shotgun on the stagecoach the rest of the way into Mason,” Matt said. “I've done that job before.” He shrugged. “After that, I don't have any plans. You know how fiddle-footed I've always been.”

“I have an idea,” Smoke said. “Come with us to Chester Fielding's ranch. We'll all spend Christmas there.”

Matt grinned and said, “Christmas and trouble seem to go together for us, don't they, Smoke? This won't be the first one we've spent with varmints trying to kill us.”

“Bite your tongue,” Sally scolded him. “All the trouble's over now. And I agree with Smoke's suggestion. You should come with us, and we'll all enjoy the holiday together.”

Matt nodded and sipped his coffee. He said, “I reckon that's a good idea. And I'm sure that's the way things will turn out.”

The adventuresome twinkle in his eyes as he looked at Smoke, though, made it clear he wasn't convinced that what he said was true.

After overflowing its banks, the creek next to Enchanted Rock Baptist Church went down quite a bit overnight. As the water receded, it left large puddles in the fields that had been flooded the night before.

The members of the congregation left the wall of sandbags in place, blocking the low spot that would threaten the church if the creek rose again. That possibility seemed all too real. Dark gray clouds still hung over the Hill Country landscape. Old-timers afflicted with the rheumatism said their bones told them there was more rain in those clouds, and no one disputed that prediction.

As people began to gather at the church for the Sunday morning service, though, no rain was falling. Everyone seemed happy and relieved to see each other, Seth Barrett thought as he stood just inside the door and greeted them as they filed in. They all drew comfort from their shared faith.

Besides, it was only two days until Christmas, one of the most joyous days of the year, a day to celebrate the birth of the Lord.

Seth shook hands, smiled, and nodded to everyone, old and young alike. The lady who played the piano sat down on her bench and began quietly playing “Shall We Gather at the River.”

“Good morning, Mr. Barrett,” Delta Kennedy said as she appeared in the doorway, herding Charlie along in front of her. The little boy looked uncomfortable in his Sunday clothes, and although his mother had tried to slick down his hair, a cowlick stood up stubbornly at the back of his head.

Delta looked fresh and beautiful, thought Seth. She showed no signs that she had been here at the church until late the night before, not leaving until everyone was satisfied there was no more danger of flooding. She took Seth's hand when he extended it, and even though she wore gloves, he felt the warmth of her grip through them. He smiled and closed his left hand around hers as well.

“Good morning, Mrs. Kennedy,” he said. “I hope you and Charlie are well this morning.”

“We're fine, thank you.”

Seth looked down at the boy and asked, “Are you about ready for Christmas to get here, Charlie?”

That made the boy perk up. He smiled, nodded, and said, “I sure am.” Then he grew serious and added, “Except for one thing.”

“What's that?” Seth asked.

“We don't have a Christmas tree.”

Cutting down a tree, bringing it into the house, and decorating it was a fairly new custom in these parts, Seth knew, brought over from Germany by the many settlers from there.

Delta frowned and said, “I've tried to explain to Charlie that I can't really do that. Besides, we have more important things to worry about.”

Charlie looked crestfallen as he muttered, “Yeah, I guess so.”

Delta mouthed
Sorry
to Seth as she steered Charlie on up the aisle to their usual pew. He smiled to let her know it was all right.

When everyone was seated, Seth walked up the aisle to the pulpit, carrying his Bible in his left hand. He set it on the pulpit and opened it to the passage he had marked in the Gospel of Luke covering the Nativity. He motioned for everyone to stand for the opening prayer. Once every head was bowed, he led the prayer in a powerful voice that filled the sanctuary. Then, while everyone was still standing, they sang a hymn.

After Seth welcomed the congregation, he went on, “I want to say a special thank you to everyone who came here last night to help tame the raging floodwaters and turn them back from entering our church. It was a valiant effort, and we might not be in here this morning enjoying this service if not for all the hard work of so many people. And the Lord was truly with us last night, struggling right alongside us.”

A chorus of “Amen” came from several places in the sanctuary.

Seth led them in another couple of hymns, including “Hark, the Herald Angels Sing” because of the season, then launched into his sermon. As usual, all the fretting he had done about it proved to be for nothing. He began by reading from the Scripture, and the power of the beautiful words filled him and transported him out of himself. At moments like this, he knew the Lord truly was speaking through him.

No one came forward during the altar call, but Seth didn't allow himself to be disappointed about that. Winning people over to the Lord was an effort that had no real end. He would go on doing that good work as long as he drew breath. That was why he had been led to this place and inspired to put his old life behind him.

He called on one of the deacons to lead the benediction, and while that prayer was going on, Seth walked to the rear of the church and took up his place by the door again. The service's conclusion was the same process in reverse, as Seth shook hands, smiled, and talked with the members of the congregation as they departed. He was glad to see that no rain was falling. Maybe folks would be able to get home on their horses and in their wagons and buggies without getting soaked.

As Delta and Charlie came to the door, Seth smiled down at the boy and said, “I've been thinking about that Christmas tree you were talking about, Charlie. Maybe if your mother doesn't object, you and I could go up in the hills this afternoon and get one.”

Charlie's eyes widened as he exclaimed, “You mean it, Preacher?”

“I do,” Seth said solemnly, then glanced at Delta. “But only if it's all right with your mother.”

She was frowning a little, and he suddenly worried that he had put her in a bad position by giving in to the impulse he'd felt. Maybe she had some good reason she didn't want to have a Christmas tree.

But then she smiled and said, “That's very kind of you, Mr. Barrett. But wouldn't chopping down a tree mean that you'd be doing work on the Sabbath?”

Before Seth could answer, Charlie said, “Shoot, no, Ma, choppin' down a tree is fun, not work.”

“Well, I guess that would depend on how big the tree is,” Seth said with a grin. “But I don't reckon a nice-sized sapling would be too much of an effort.”

“Are you sure?” Delta asked. “I wouldn't want to put you to any trouble.”

“No trouble at all,” Seth assured her. “I wouldn't have said anything about it if it was something I didn't want to do.”

“Well, then . . . I suppose it would be all right. But only if you'll come and have Sunday dinner with us first.”

“I could do that,” Seth said, nodding.

“And then you can use our wagon to bring in the tree,” Delta went on.

“Good idea, since all I have is a saddle horse.”

“All right. Give me an hour?”

“I'll be there,” Seth promised. He couldn't seem to wipe the grin off his face. The idea of having dinner with Delta and Charlie and then spending the afternoon with them had put it there, and he didn't figure it was going away anytime soon.

 

 

Seth felt a little bad about praying for the rain to stay away Sunday afternoon, but he did it anyway. He didn't want anything to interfere with the outing he had planned.

So far, so good, he thought as he hitched up the team of mules to the Kennedy wagon after a fine dinner of fried chicken, potatoes, greens, and berry cobbler. The food was good.

The company was better.

A feeling of warmth filled Seth as he sat at the table with Delta and Charlie. A cloth of fine Irish linen covered the table, and Seth could tell that Delta had brought out the best china and silver she had for the meal, too. This was the sort of normal family experience Seth had never had in his hardscrabble life before coming to the Hill Country.

Charlie talked most of the time he wasn't eating, mostly about trees he had seen that he thought would be good for the Christmas celebration. Delta didn't say much, but she smiled a lot at Seth, and that was more than enough for him.

Now as Seth finished hitching up the mules, Charlie hurried out of the house wearing his hat and coat. Delta followed him and stood in the doorway with a shawl around her shoulders.

Seth smiled at her and said, “Why don't you put a coat on and come with us?”

“I don't know. It still looks like it might rain again.”

“It'll be less likely to if you come with us.”

Delta laughed and asked, “How do you figure that?”

“Rain wouldn't dare fall on someone as pretty as you.”

“Aw, Preacher!” Charlie exclaimed. “Don't go talkin' like that to my ma.”

“Hush, Charlie,” Delta said. “Let Mr. Barrett say whatever he wants. He's our guest, after all.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Charlie muttered.

“I suppose I could get my slicker,” Delta said. “Charlie should take his, too, just in case.”

“Sounds good,” Seth said with a nod. “You don't mind your ma coming along, do you, Charlie?”

“No, I reckon not,” the boy said, but he didn't sound all that sincere about it.

A short time later, Seth helped Delta climb onto the wagon seat and take her place beside Charlie. Again, the feel of her gloved hand in his sent a definite tingle through Seth.

He went around the wagon and swung up onto the seat from the other side, so that Charlie was sitting between him and Delta. No one could accuse them of behaving improperly. He picked up the reins, slapped them against the mules, and got the team moving.

He had a pretty good idea where to look for a Christmas tree. A hill not far away was covered with junipers that weren't too big yet. One of them ought to do just fine, Seth thought. There was an ax in the back of the wagon he could use to cut down the tree they chose. He would let Charlie have a few swings, so the boy would feel like he'd contributed, but Seth intended to do most of the work himself.

“This looks like it may be a good Christmas, despite the weather,” Delta commented as the wagon rolled along.

“Maybe the best ever,” Seth said. That grin was back on his face.

 

 

A few hundred yards away, a man on horseback lowered the field glasses through which he had been watching the three people on the wagon.

This Christmas looked like it might be a lucrative one indeed, Oliver Hudson thought with a satisfied smirk.