A Texas Hill Country Christmas (2 page)

There were four men in the group that had just come into the saloon. Bellowing curses, they charged Ace, Chance, and Porter. Customers leaped to get out of their way, as did the girls working in the saloon.

Ace didn't reach for the gun on his hip, although he considered it for a second. Firing a shot into the ceiling might shock the men into stopping their attack. But the saloon had a second floor, and Ace wasn't willing to endanger anyone up there.

So it would be hand-to-hand combat.
Mano a mano.

Not the first brawl the Jensen boys had been mixed up in, that was for sure.

Ace stepped up to meet the charge. The closest man swung a wild, looping punch at his head. Ace ducked under it and hooked a left into the man's belly. The man bent forward as the breath
whooshed
out of him. Ace straightened him up with a hard right to the jaw.

Meanwhile, another man lunged at Chance and tried to wrap him up in a bear hug. Chance twisted away and peppered a left-right combination to the man's face. That slowed the attacker down but didn't stop him. The man barreled into Chance and carried him backward. Chance slammed into the wall behind him.

The third man yelled, “There's that blasted gee-tar player! It's all his fault! Get him!”

He and the fourth man grabbed Porter by the arms and dragged him away from the table. Porter tried to writhe out of their grip but wasn't able to. He exclaimed, “Gentlemen, please! This is all a misunderstanding! I'm an intellectual, not a roughneck!”

“Shut him up,” one of the men growled.

“With pleasure,” the other said, and an instant later he sunk a fist into Porter's midsection.

Ace saw that from the corner of his eye, but there was nothing he could do about it. He was too busy blocking the punches his opponent threw at him and trying to launch a few of his own. One of the blows got through and caught Ace in the chest, rocking him back against a chair. He almost stumbled and fell, and as he did, the man crowded in to try to take advantage.

Ace turned that against him, grabbing the man's arm and letting himself fall. As he went down, he hauled the man with him, planting a foot in his belly and levering him up and over. The man flew through the air and landed on his back hard enough to make the floor shake a little under Ace.

Chance's opponent had pinned the young man's left arm to his side, but Chance's right arm was still free. He hammered that fist into the man's ears as arms like young tree trunks closed around him and started squeezing. Chance's feet came up off the floor and his ribs seemed to creak under the inexorable pressure. He hit the man again and again, seemingly without any effect.

Then one of the punches landed on the man's jaw, and his grip loosened. Chance hit him there again, then a third time. The arms fell away from him as the man's eyes started to look a little glassy.

Panting for breath, Chance stepped back and said, “Glass . . . jaw . . . eh?”

He began to use his speed and agility, dancing around his opponent as the man swiped at him with those apelike arms. Chance snapped punch after punch to the man's jaw, lefts and rights that flew with blurring speed to strike home.

It wasn't long before the man's eyes rolled up in their sockets and his knees buckled. He went down with a heavy thud and didn't move again.

With their foes disposed of, Ace and Chance turned toward Porter, who was still being thrashed by the other two men. Each held an arm with one hand and used the other hand to take turns punching Porter.

Ace and Chance tackled them, knocking them loose from the slender, mustachioed Porter. The battling men staggered back and forth, upsetting chairs and tables as they traded punches. Some of the people in the saloon had fled into the rain. The others had pulled back to give the combatants in the wild melee plenty of room.

Porter leaned on a table and shook his head, evidently trying to get the cobwebs out of it. Then he straightened, grabbed a spittoon from the floor, and swung it like a club. With a resounding
bong!
, the spittoon landed on the head of the man who was slugging away at Chance. The man went down, splattered by the spittoon's reeking contents.

That distracted the final troublemaker enough for Ace to finish him off with a powerhouse right and left that lifted him from his feet and dumped him across the sprawled bodies of his companions. Ace stood there with his chest heaving a little from the exertion.

“You . . . all right . . . brother?” Chance asked.

Ace dragged the back of his hand across his mouth to wipe away some blood and said, “Yeah. How about you?”

“I'll live,” Chance replied.

Porter moved between them and rested his hands on their shoulders, either in a gesture of comradeship or to help hold himself up . . . or both. He said, “I can't thank you fellows enough for coming to my aid. I hate to say it, but we should probably depart. These barbarians won't take long to come to their senses, and when the local gendarmerie hear about this altercation, they might bestir themselves enough to venture out into the rain to investigate.”

“You mean the law might haul us off to the hoosegow?” Ace said.

“And those polecats will come to and want to fight some more?” Chance added.

“Indubitably, on both counts,” Porter agreed.

Ace stooped to pick up his hat, which had fallen off during the fight, and slapped it against his leg to get the sawdust off of it. Chance found his hat as well, and Porter clapped a straw boater on his head.

“Let's light a shuck out of here,” Ace said.

 

 

The rain had tapered off to a mist that didn't get the three young men too damp as they strolled along Congress Avenue a short time later. Up at the top of a slight hill, about half a mile north, loomed the Texas Capitol Building.

“What set those fellas off?” Ace asked. “Something about a girl?”

Porter sighed and said, “Yes, but like I tried to tell them, it was a complete misunderstanding. Miss Clarissa Jenkins is a perfectly fine young woman, if a bit . . . dull. But my affections are centered on another lady.” He sighed again. “Unfortunately, she hasn't proven receptive to my suit, at least not yet. I'm nothing if not determined, though. Sooner or later, I'll win the heart of Miss Evelyn Channing.”

“I hope you do,” Ace said. “By the way, we never got the chance to introduce ourselves.” He stuck his hand out. “I'm Ace Jensen.”

Porter clasped it and said, “William Sydney Porter, at your service, sir.”

“And I'm Chance Jensen,” Chance said as he shook hands with Porter.

“Brothers, I take it. I thought I saw a distinct resemblance.”

“Twin brothers, actually,” Ace said. “We just don't look exactly alike.”

“And your names are Ace and Chance,” Porter murmured. “No wonder you're so good with the galloping pasteboards, Chance. How could you be otherwise with a name like that? But why weren't you sitting in the game, Ace? You're even more aptly dubbed.”

“Most of the time I leave the card-playing to my brother,” Ace said. “He's more cut out for it than I am.”

“Our stepfather, the fella who raised us, was a gambler,” Chance explained. “You might have heard of him. Ennis Monday. Doc Monday, some called him.”

Porter shook his head and said, “I'm afraid not. I came to this region fairly recently from North Carolina.”

“What do you do?” Ace asked. It wasn't considered polite to inquire too much into a man's background or business, but he didn't think Porter would take offense.

“Oh, a bit of this and that. I've been a pharmacist, but at the moment I'm working as a clerk in one of the banks here in town. My real interest is the arts, though. As I mentioned to Dale, I'm a member of a local quartet, and I play the guitar and mandolin as well. I've also been playing around with the idea of writing. You know, stories and sketches and essays.”

“You should write dime novels,” Ace said. “Folks read 'em by the bushel basketful.”

“Oh, I've read them myself,” Porter said with a smile. “Say! I thought the name Jensen was familiar. Are you any relation to the famous gunfighter Smoke Jensen? Dime novels have been written about him, you know.”

“Yeah, I've seen them. And we've actually met Smoke Jensen, haven't we, Chance?”

“That's right,” Chance said. “We're no relation, though, as far as we know.” He chuckled. “Ace here likes to think that maybe we're some sort of long-lost relatives, but that's just a little hero worship, I reckon.”

“You could do worse than to be related to a man like Smoke Jensen,” Ace said.

“No doubt,” Porter agreed. “If what's in the dime novels is even half of the truth, he's quite the stalwart individual.” He stopped short and pointed across the street at a café where the windows glowed yellow with lamplight in the mist. “Would you gentlemen care for a cup of coffee to warm up on this rather raw evening? I'm buying.”

“I won't argue with that,” Chance said.

As they started across the street, Porter went on, “I confess I have an ulterior motive in paying a visit to this establishment. Miss Channing works here.”

“The gal you're sweet on?” Ace asked.

“One and the same.”

“It would be an honor to meet her.”

Just before they reached the café's front door, it swung open and a man stepped out. In the light that came from inside the building, Ace saw that the man was somewhat older, probably around thirty. He wore a dark suit and a black, flat-crowned hat. He had a handlebar mustache like Porter, but his face was beefier. He stopped short at the sight of the three young men, and his hand moved to his coat, sweeping it back so that the butt of a revolver with ivory grips was revealed.

“Porter,” the man grated coldly, and Ace wondered just how many enemies William Sydney Porter had in Austin.

“Hudson,” Porter said. His tone was just as curt and chilly as the other man's had been, but Ace could tell that Porter was nervous. That was understandable. Hudson had the look of a gunman about him. Porter went on, “What are you doing here?”

“I think you know,” Hudson said. “Just as I know why you're here.” He smiled, but the expression did little to relieve the grim lines of his face. “But it's not going to do you any good. Miss Channing has just consented to be my wife.”

Porter took a sharp step back and looked like someone had just slugged him in the gut. He said, “No! That can't be.”

“It's the truth. Surely you can't be that surprised. Evelyn's never given you any encouragement, after all.”

“I don't believe it,” Porter said stubbornly as he shook his head.

“You might as well. She's going to meet me in Fredericksburg a few days from now, and we'll be married. And there's not a thing you can do about it.”

Porter's hands clenched into fists. Ace could tell that he wanted to take a swing at Hudson, but natural caution held him back. Hudson was older, bigger, and no doubt stronger. Plus he had that ivory-handled gun on his hip. Ace didn't know for sure if Porter was armed, and he hadn't caught sight of any weapon so far.

Hudson's cold gaze took in Ace and Chance. His hand shifted a little and rested on the gun butt.

“Who are your friends?” he asked.

“They're not part of this,” Porter snapped. “This is between you and me.”

“You're wrong about that, too.” A bark of laughter came from Hudson. “There's nothing between you and me. Less than nothing. You're completely insignificant to me, Porter. And to Evelyn as well.”

He was trying to goad Porter into taking a swing at him, Ace realized. If that happened, he and Chance might have to step in, and that would give Hudson an excuse to draw his gun. The man must have figured he was pretty good, to be willing, even eager, apparently, to take on odds like that.

And maybe he was. Ace didn't know. But he was certain he didn't want to get mixed up in a shooting on their first night in Austin. He and Chance had been on the drift for quite some time and hoped to stay here for a while.

Ace put his left hand on Porter's right shoulder and said, “Listen, why don't we go on inside? That cup of coffee we were talking about sounds better all the time.”

“I'm not afraid—” Porter began.

“Nobody said you were,” Chance told him. “Come on in. We'll talk about it.”

Hudson said, “There's nothing to talk about. It's all settled.”

“If there's nothing to talk about, why don't you move on, mister?” Ace suggested.

“Maybe I don't like being told what to do,” Hudson replied, thin-lipped with anger.

Slowly, Ace shook his head. His hand tightened on Porter's shoulder. Chance took hold of Porter's other shoulder. Together, they started to steer him around Hudson toward the door of the café.

“We're not looking for any trouble,” Ace said.

Hudson laughed, and the smugness of the sound made Ace's jaw tighten. It was almost enough to cause him to throw caution to the wind and find out just how slick on the draw Hudson really was.

There was only so much prodding he could take.

But then Porter shook loose and said, “It's all right, fellows. Come on.” He took a deep breath. “Let's go inside.”

Narrow-eyed, Ace told Hudson, “Things might be different, happen we cross trails again.”

“Sure, kid.” Hudson smirked. “Whatever you say.”

He turned and strolled off through the mist.

“That son-of-a—” Chance began.

He didn't finish because the café door opened and a woman said, “Mr. Porter, is that you? I thought I saw you out here. Please, come in out of the weather.”

She didn't step out into the mist, but she extended a slim hand and smiled. Her blond hair was put up on her head. She wore a crisp gingham dress with a white apron tied over it. From the looks of the outfit, she worked as a waitress in the café.

“Miss Channing,” Porter said. “I . . . I . . .”

He couldn't go on. Instead he turned and started walking along the street in the opposite direction from the way Hudson had gone. His head was down.

“Oh, dear,” Miss Channing said. She looked at Ace and Chance.

“Don't worry about him, ma'am, we'll go after him,” Ace said as he lifted a hand and pinched the brim of his hat. He wasn't sure why he had just volunteered himself and Chance to look after Porter, unless it was because somebody needed to.

“Ma'am,” Chance said as he touched the brim of his hat as well. Then he and Ace took off after Porter. They were taller than the man from North Carolina, and their longer legs allowed them to catch up fairly quickly.

As they came up on either side of Porter, Ace said, “What was that all about? I think you may have insulted the young lady.”

“She's worried about you, anyway,” Chance said. “You could tell that by the look on her face.”

Porter shook his head and muttered, “She doesn't care about me. If she did, she wouldn't have agreed to go to Fredericksburg and marry that . . . that Oliver Hudson!”

He made the name sound like a curse.

“Let's find some place to get in out of the weather, and you can tell us all about it,” Ace said.

“Why would you do that? Why do you care?”

“We've been through a fight together,” Chance reminded him. “I took a poke in the jaw because of you, remember? That makes us brothers in arms, I guess.”

“All right,” Porter said. “But I warn you, it's not a pretty story.”

“You said you were thinking about being a writer,” Ace told him. “Make it better.”

 

 

They wound up in a smaller, quieter saloon. The bartender had a pot of coffee on the stove, so Ace and Chance got cups of the potent black brew while Porter nursed a glass of whiskey as they sat at one of the tables.

“I think I fell in love with Evelyn Channing the first time I went in that café and laid eyes on her,” Porter mused. “I began going there almost every day, and we became friends. I wanted it to be more than that. You saw how beautiful she is. You can understand why I felt that way.”

“She's a mighty pretty young woman,” Ace agreed.

“But it's not just that,” Porter said. “She's smart and charming and has a wonderful sense of humor. And a lovely singing voice! You should hear her.”

“So you started trying to court her,” Chance said.

Porter nodded.

“Every time I began to approach the subject, she turned it aside,” he said. “It wasn't long before I found out why. I had a rival for her affections.”

“That fella Hudson,” Ace said.

“And she liked him better,” Chance said.

Porter buried his face in his hands.

“Yes,” he said, his voice muffled. He lifted his head and laughed. “Can you imagine that? Just because he's big and handsome and tough, she prefers him to me!”

Porter laughed again. Ace edged the glass of whiskey away from him and said, “Maybe you'd better lay off this stuff for a spell.”

“I never dreamed she'd actually agree to marry him, though. I thought for certain that eventually she would see through him.” Porter lowered his voice to a confidential tone. “I don't trust the man, and it's not just because Evelyn likes him. He's dangerous, you can tell that by looking at him. I think he's a gunman. It wouldn't surprise me if he had several killings in his past.”

“But you don't know for sure,” Ace said.

Porter shook his head and said, “No, I tried to look into his background, but I couldn't find out anything about him. He's only been in Austin a few months.”

“What's his connection to Fredericksburg?” Chance asked. “That's a settlement west of here, right?”

“Yes, out in the Hill Country. The town was settled by German colonists. Excellent food, from what I hear. But I have no idea why Hudson is going there or why that's where he and Evelyn plan to be married, instead of here in Austin.”

Ace leaned back in his chair, thumbed his hat to the back of his head, and said, “Well, there are some things in life we have to just accept without understanding them, I reckon. Chance and I, we never knew our ma. She died when we were born. Nobody knew why. That's just the way it was.”

“It was meant to be,” Chance said. “Maybe it's meant to be that you and this gal Evelyn won't wind up together.”

Porter doubled his hand into a fist and thumped it on the table with unexpected vehemence.

“No,” he said. “No, I won't accept it. I know destiny when it's staring me in the face, gentlemen. I'm going to Fredericksburg, and I'm going to put a stop to this ill-fated wedding!” He looked back and forth between Ace and Chance. “And you two, my newfound friends, are going with me!”