A Texas Hill Country Christmas (3 page)

 

That same night, the rain that was widespread over central Texas moved south into San Antonio and dumped a brief downpour on the city before moving on. Puddles covered the cobblestone street in front of the Menger Hotel as Luke Jensen stepped out of the entrance that led into the hotel bar. He glanced to his right. A block away stood the hulking building that had once been known as Mission San Antonio de Valera. The pediment at the top of its front wall was crumbling. Luke had heard that it was being used these days as a warehouse where grain was stored.

People had once known it by another name: the Alamo.

Luke's eyes narrowed as he thought he spotted movement in the shadows next to the old mission. He didn't see anything else, though, and decided it could have been anything—a drunk stumbling along, a tomcat on the prowl, a stray dog looking for food. It didn't have to be anything to do with him.

He left his black coat unbuttoned, though, so he could reach the twin Remington revolvers in their cross-draw rigs. He hadn't lived this long in a dangerous profession by getting careless.

Luke Jensen was a bounty hunter. He had made his living that way since the end of the Civil War. It was a bloody business, and he had long since accepted the fact that it would probably be the death of him, sooner or later.

Later, if he had anything to say about it, he thought as he began to stride along the street.

He was a tall man dressed in black from head to foot, the darkness relieved only by a silver concho on his hat band and the long-barreled, silver-plated, pearl-handled revolvers he wore at his waist. He was far from handsome. His features looked like they had been hacked out with a dull ax, in fact, but there was something compelling about them that women found attractive. A neatly trimmed mustache adorned his upper lip above a wide, expressive mouth.

He had been in the Menger talking to a man who tended bar there. Clancy was a burly, gray-haired Irishman with an extraordinary memory for faces. If the man Luke was looking for had passed through San Antonio and spent the night at the Menger or even just had a drink at the bar, Clancy would remember him.

Because of that, this had been Luke's first stop. If he didn't find out anything, he would move on to the Buckhorn and then to all the other saloons, gambling dens, and whorehouses in town.

Sam Brant had been headed this way, and Luke didn't think the outlaw would have gone around San Antonio without stopping. Brant had expensive taste, too, which meant it was more likely he would have stopped at the Menger. That tendency toward extravagance meant Brant needed a lot of money, which explained why he had turned to robbing banks and holding up trains. Because of that he had a five thousand dollar bounty on his head, and Luke intended to collect it.

Luck was with him. Clancy had remembered the man Luke was looking for.

“Aye,” Clancy had said as he wiped the polished mahogany of the bar with a rag. “Sandy-haired fella with a little scar over his left eye. Bit of a lantern jaw. He was here, all right.”

“How long ago?” Luke had asked.

“Oh, 'tis nigh on to six months ago, I'd say. No, wait... Bless me, 'twas more like eight or nine.”

“That long?”

“Oh, my, yes. But I can see him plain as day, as if 'twas yesterday.”

Luke had known that Brant's trail was cold, but he hadn't expected it to be
that
cold. Still, he had run into a man over in Refugio who had told him that Brant was headed in this direction, and now he had proof of that, so he asked Clancy, “I don't suppose he said where he was going from here.”

“No, I'm afraid not.” Clancy frowned. “But I believe he mentioned something about Enchanted Rock.”

“What's that?”

“Big mounded heap of stone up in the Hill Country north of Fredericksburg. Never seen it meself, mind you, but I've heard tell of it. Sounds like a place where the old Druids would have one o' their pagan ceremonies, if ye ask me.”

That was interesting, Luke had thought, but he couldn't think of any reason why an outlaw like Sam Brant would be headed there. Still, it was a starting place, a trail for him to follow, and he had never asked for anything more.

He didn't have the money to stay at the Menger, so he would have to find some place cheaper. He had left his horse at a stable on the other side of the old mission. He was walking in front of that building with its blood-soaked heritage when three men stepped out of the shadows to block his path.

Luke wasn't surprised. The hint of movement he had seen in the gloom had alerted him to the possibility of trouble. He stopped short but didn't reach for his guns just yet. He wanted to find out who these men were and what they wanted with him before any gunplay broke out.

Luke didn't care to kill someone if there was no profit in it.

“You just hold it right there, mister,” the middle one of the trio said. “We got some business with you.”

“I doubt that,” Luke said. “I'm not looking for any business this evening, or any trouble, either.”

“You're Luke Jensen,” the man on Luke's left declared. “I recognized you through the front window of the Menger.”

“You've got the advantage on me, then.” Luke's keen eyes had adjusted to the darkness, and he could make out the faces of the three hombres in the faint light that came from nearby buildings. They were all cut from the same cloth, men with hard-planed, beard-stubbled faces. Men much like him, Luke mused, but he was convinced they were on the opposite side of the law.

“I'm Dewey Dunham,” the man in the middle said. He angled his head toward the man on Luke's left. “Thad Barnes.” Then the one on Luke's right. “Ned Godfrey. I'll bet you know the names, don't you . . .
bounty hunter
?”

Dunham's voice was full of contempt and scorn. Luke was accustomed to that attitude. Most folks didn't have much use for his kind, even the law-abiding ones.

As a matter of fact, Luke did recognize all three names. He had seen them on various wanted posters. None of them had a particularly large bounty on his head, but together they would add up to a not-bad payoff. They were wanted for rustling, stagecoach robbery, attempted murder, and assorted other crimes.

“Yeah, I know who you boys are,” Luke said, “but I haven't been looking for you. Wouldn't be worth my while to go out of my way to do so. Since you've been kind enough to turn yourselves in to me, though—”

Barnes cursed bitterly, interrupting him. Dunham said, “We're not turnin' ourselves in, you fool, and you know it. We're here to kill you, Jensen. You killed Henry Stockard out in El Paso a few months ago. Henry was a friend of ours. We rode with him for nigh on to a year.”

“You're here to settle the score for Stockard, eh? Well, he had a chance to surrender. I called on him to put down his gun. It was his choice not to do it.”

“So you killed him!” Godfrey yelled. “You son-of-a—”

He broke off and clawed at the gun on his hip.

The three outlaws had called the tune, and there had never been any doubt in Luke's mind what it would be. So he was ready, and as soon as Godfrey made his move and the other two hardcases followed suit, Luke went for his guns, too.

He was twice as fast as any of them. Both of his Remingtons were out before any of the trio cleared leather. The guns roared at the same time. The one in Luke's left hand was aimed at Barnes, the one in his right at Godfrey. Both shots found their target. Barnes staggered back as a slug drove into his chest.

The hit on Godfrey wasn't quite as clean. He was moving a little when the bullet struck him in the right shoulder and spun him halfway around.

Dewey Dunham had his gun out by now. Flame lanced from the muzzle. Luke heard the shot whip past his ear as he pulled both triggers again. The lead hammered into Dunham's body and knocked him backward off his feet. His revolver went off a second time as his finger jerked the trigger in a dying spasm, but the weapon was pointed skyward by then.

Barnes caught himself as he stumbled backward but couldn't stay on his feet. He pitched forward on his face. Godfrey was the only one still upright. His right arm hung limp at his side as streams of blood rolled down it from his bullet-shattered shoulder. He had dropped his gun. It lay on the dirt at his feet.

“Don't do it,” Luke warned as Godfrey started to lean over and reach for the fallen Colt with his left hand. Luke held the Remingtons at waist level and pointed both guns at him. “You won't have a chance, you blasted fool.”

“You . . . you done killed Thad and Dewey,” Godfrey panted. Pain drew his face into gaunt lines. “Just like you killed Henry.”

“But you don't have to die,” Luke said. “That gun arm's never going to be any good again, mister. Your days as an outlaw are over no matter what you do. Might as well serve a stretch in prison and try to make something out of the life you've got left.” Luke shrugged. “Doesn't make any difference to me. The reward's good dead or alive.”

Godfrey licked his lips, said, “Prison?” He laughed harshly. “Go to—”

He lunged for the gun without finishing the epithet. Luke waited for him to grab it before squeezing both triggers. The slugs knocked Godfrey into a limp sprawl next to his dead comrades. He kicked once and then lay still.

Luke holstered one of the Remingtons and started reloading the other. As he carried out that task with practiced ease, he glanced from the dead men to the stone and adobe wall looming over them. These three were hardly the first to die in front of the Alamo, but they were a lot more craven than the men who had given up their lives fighting for Texas's independence.

Somebody shouted nearby. Footsteps pounded on the street as they came toward Luke. The law would be on hand soon, and he'd have to go to the trouble of explaining who he was and why he had killed the three men. He would put in a claim for the rewards he had coming, too. The whole thing might delay him here in San Antonio for a day or two.

But that shouldn't matter, since he was already months behind Sam Brant. As soon as everything was taken care of, he would head north into the Hill Country and see if he could pick up the outlaw's trail.

Enchanted Rock might be the best place to start.

 

The man and woman who got off the train in Fort Worth the next morning drew admiring looks from everyone who saw them. The man was only slightly above medium height but was so muscular and well-built he appeared bigger. His shoulders were especially impressive. They seemed to be as wide as an ax handle. He wore a brown tweed suit but looked like he would be more at home in range garb. The tan, broad-brimmed hat on his ash-blond hair just reinforced that image.

The woman with him was also dressed well. She possessed the sort of classic beauty that made men sigh and other women scowl if they were the jealous sort. Her thick, dark hair was arranged in an elaborate pile of curls under the neat little hat pinned on it.

Together they made a mighty attractive couple. A perceptive observer might have taken the man for the owner of a successful ranch and the woman as his wife. And that was exactly what they were . . . as far as it went.

As a porter took the couple's bags from a baggage car, he asked, “You want me to have those taken to one of the hotels, Mr. Jensen?”

“No,” Smoke Jensen said. “We're not staying overnight in Fort Worth. We're supposed to catch a stagecoach later today.”

“A stagecoach?” the porter repeated. “Not many of those runnin' anymore, since the railroad's come to Texas.”

Smoke smiled and said, “The railroad still doesn't go everywhere.”

“Where are you and the missus bound, if you don't mind my askin'?”

“We're going to spend Christmas on a ranch owned by a man named Chester Fielding, down on the Llano River south of Mason,” Smoke explained. “I've come down here to do a little business with him.”

Sally Jensen's arm was linked with her husband's. She smiled and tightened her grip a little as she added, “And since it's almost Christmas, I certainly wasn't going to be separated from Smoke at this time of year if I could help it. So we're making an excursion of it.”

The porter shook his head and said, “Well, you folks sure didn't pick a very good time for a trip. I hear it's a mess down that way, what with all the rain.”

The sun was shining here in Fort Worth at the moment. Smoke frowned and said, “I hadn't heard about that.”

“Word's come in over the telegraph from Austin and San Antonio that it's been rainin' off and on for days down south of here. You're liable to run into some high water on that stagecoach.”

“Well, I hope not,” Smoke said. “I want to get to Fielding's spread and see about this prize bull he's got that I want to buy. Ought to be a good deal for both of us.”

“So your bags need to go to the stagecoach station?”

Smoke nodded and said, “That's right. The Cross Timbers Stage Line, over on Belknap Street.”

“Know right where it is,” the porter said. “I'll see that the bags are delivered there. When does your stage pull out?”

“Twelve thirty this afternoon.”

“You've got some time to kill, then.”

Sally frowned slightly, and Smoke knew why.

She didn't care for the phrase the man had used. Too many times in the past, for Smoke “time to kill” had to be taken literally.

In the years since young Kirby Jensen had headed west with his father, right after the Civil War, violence had dogged his trail. A chance meeting with an old mountain man known as Preacher, an attack by Indians, a desperate fight for life . . . and Preacher had dubbed Kirby “Smoke,” since he was that fast and accurate with a gun. The lethal skill was something that came natural to the young man, and over time it had been honed to the point that many people considered Smoke Jensen to be the fastest, deadliest gunfighter the West had ever seen.

The fact that Smoke had married, settled down, and become a successful rancher in Colorado had done nothing to lessen his reputation. Trouble still seemed to seek him out and follow him wherever he went.

Smoke knew Sally was hoping this trip would be different. So did he, but experience had taught him to have a more fatalistic attitude. Whatever happened would happen, and he would deal with it to the best of his ability . . . which was considerable.

He and Sally left the depot while the porter was supervising the loading of the bags onto a cart that would carry them to the stage station at the other end of Fort Worth's business district. They strolled along Calhoun Street and cut over to Throckmorton. It was a beautiful winter day in Texas, with crisp, cool temperatures and an achingly blue sky overhead. The weather might be bad farther south, but nobody here could say that.

They passed the Panther City Saloon. Sally smiled at the sign and commented, “That's an odd name.”

“Some folks call Fort Worth Panther City because they used to say it was so sleepy the panthers would come in from the hills and doze in the middle of Main Street at high noon,” Smoke said with a smile of his own. “That all changed when the cattle drives started and there were hundreds of cowboys coming through here all the time, and then when the railroad arrived the place got even busier.”

They stopped at a restaurant and lingered over a late breakfast that became lunch before they were finished. Smoke enjoyed a last cup of coffee, and as he did so he reflected that this was one of the most peaceful spells he had experienced in quite a while.

That realization was enough to make his nerves tighten a bit. When things were too peaceful for too long, he began to worry. It always seemed like hell was saving itself up and sooner or later would break loose.

They left the restaurant and walked on to Belknap Street, which followed a bluff overlooking the winding course of the Trinity River. The old army fort that had given the town its name had been erected here many years earlier. It was long since abandoned and gone, but the settlement that had grown up around it remained.

The headquarters of the Cross Timbers Stage Line consisted of a building that housed the office, plus a barn and a large corral next to it. A Concord stagecoach, painted a faded red with yellow trim and brass fittings, was pulled up in front of the office with a six-horse team hitched to it. The canvas covering over the boot at the back of the coach was thrown to the side so a man could load baggage into it, including the bags belonging to Smoke and Sally. Several trunks were already on top of the stage, lashed in place by ropes attached to the brass rail that ran around the vehicle's roof.

A lanky, brown-haired man with a ragged mustache came out of the office and approached Smoke and Sally. He smiled and stuck out his hand as he said, “Mr. Jensen? I'm Jed Ferguson, the manager of the line.”

Smoke shook hands and said, “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Ferguson. I reckon you got my wire booking passage to Mason?”

“Yes, sir, I sure did, and we're mighty happy to have you traveling with us. The stage is almost loaded and ready to go. It'll be pulling out in ten or fifteen minutes, I'd say.”

“We've heard that the weather is bad south of here,” Sally said. “Is that going to affect our trip?”

“It shouldn't,” Ferguson said. “There are some low-water crossings along the route, but I haven't heard anything about the streams being too high for a coach to get through. We have excellent drivers and the best teams that can be found. We'll take good care of you, you have my word on that, Mrs. Jensen.”

“How long will it take to get there?” Smoke asked.

“Barring any delays, you ought to roll into Mason late in the afternoon a couple of days from now. You'll spend two nights at stops between here and there. The accommodations may not be exactly what you're used to . . .”

“They'll be fine,” Smoke said, smiling faintly as he recalled some of the nights he had spent sleeping on cold, hard ground, back in the days when he had followed the owlhoot trail. The accusations of him being an outlaw were unjust, but he'd had to live like one anyway. Sally had known her share of hardships, too.

“Well, if you folks want to go ahead and get aboard,” Ferguson said, “we'll finish up and be ready to roll.”

Smoke opened the door on one side of the coach and helped Sally into the vehicle. He followed, settling himself on the forward-facing bench seat beside her.

Five other people were already in the coach. A middle-aged woman sat on Sally's other side. Across from them in the seat facing backward were a young couple and a fat, balding man who appeared to be some sort of traveling salesman. A young cowboy in his late teens perched on the bench in the middle of the coach with his saddle beside him. He reminded Smoke of Calvin Woods, one of his most trusted hands back on the Sugarloaf, the ranch Smoke owned in Colorado.

The youngster, who had a shock of red hair trying to escape from under his hat and fall forward across his forehead, looked wide-eyed at Smoke and exclaimed, “Say, I know you, mister! I've seen your pictures in the illustrated papers. You're Smoke Jensen!”

Smoke smiled, nodded, and said, “That's right.”

“Arley Hicks,” the cowboy said. He stuck out his hand. “It's a pure-dee honor to meet you, sir.”

Smoke clasped the young man's hand and said, “Pleasure to meet you, too, Arley.”

The other couple looked puzzled. From their clothes and general demeanor, Smoke pegged both of them as Easterners. It was likely they had never heard of him, which was just fine with him. The drummer recognized his name, though, when Arley blurted it out, and so did the middle-aged lady.

The young husband said, “Are you supposed to be someone famous, sir? I'd like to know if we're traveling with a celebrated personage.”

“Famous?” Arley repeated before Smoke could answer. “Mister, this here is Smoke Jensen. He's just the fastest, slickest gunhand there's ever been.”

The young woman frowned and said, “We're traveling with a gunman? Isn't that dangerous?”

“Don't worry, dear,” her husband told her. “I won't let anything happen to you.”

“There's nothing to worry about,” Smoke said, “because there's not going to be any trouble.” He inclined his head toward Sally. “This is my wife Sally. We're just making a little Christmas trip, combining business with pleasure. Hope to spend a pleasant couple of days with you folks, that's all.”

“My name is Donald Purcell,” the young man said stiffly. “My wife Mildred.”

Mildred Purcell didn't say anything, but her lips thinned in obvious disapproval.

“I'm Herman Langston,” the salesman said. “Patent medicines is my line.”

“And I'm Mrs. Genevieve Carter,” the middle-aged woman said. “Going to live with my sister in Kerrville.”

Grinning, Arley said, “You can tell by lookin' at me that I'm a cowboy. Got a ridin' job lined up down close to Bandera. Mighty lucky, findin' a place to sign on this time o' year, and I know it. I was afraid I might pert near starve 'fore spring rolls around.” He looked at Donald Purcell. “You didn't say what line of work you're in, Mr. Purcell.”

“That's right, I didn't,” Purcell replied. His tone was a little curt. But he shrugged and went on, “I'm going to take a teaching position. The previous schoolmaster passed away unexpectedly.”

“Now we all know each other,” Sally said, “and I'm sure we'll get along splendidly.”

Smoke wasn't so certain of that, but time would tell.

A minute later, the stagecoach shifted on the broad leather thoroughbraces that ran underneath it as the driver and guard climbed to the box. A whip cracked and the coach lurched into motion as the horses strained against their harness.

The pilgrims were on their way.