A Texas Hill Country Christmas (5 page)

Matt opened fire as several of the renegades burst into sight. He didn't have time to see if any of his shots hit their targets because the enemy sent a volley of hot lead screaming back at him. He had to duck as the slugs struck the log and showered him with bits of rotten wood.

An Indian vaulted over the log and fired his rifle at close range. The shot pounded Matt's ears like a fist. He felt the fiery lick of the bullet as it passed close to his cheek and dug into the ground next to his head. Holding his Winchester one-handed, he shoved the muzzle under the renegade's chin and pulled the trigger. The man's head blew apart in large chunks. A sticky mix of blood and brains showered down on Matt.

He rolled and threw himself on top of the boy to shield the slender form with his own body. Dropping the Winchester, he snatched his Colt from its holster. The revolver was better for close work like this. It boomed and bucked in his hand as he triggered a couple of shots and saw another of the attackers spin away with blood flying from his wounds.

Then another volley roared nearby. Bullets scythed through the trees, cutting down several of the renegades. A familiar voice shouted, “Come on, men!”

Major Macmillan and the rest of the patrol had arrived and not a moment too soon.

The renegades who were still on their feet turned to flee. Matt pushed himself up on his left hand and fired the Colt in his right. His slugs drove into the back of one raider, made the man cry out and stumble, then pitch forward onto his face.

Normally Matt preferred his fights face to face, but after seeing what these savages had done in earlier raids, he knew he wouldn't lose one second of sleep over shooting the man in the back like that. Any of the renegades who got away meant that the settlers in this region were still in danger.

The fight didn't last long once the troopers rushed down the ridge and plunged into the thick of the melee. The Comanche were outnumbered now, and in a matter of moments, all of them had been cut down.

As the shooting died away, Matt looked down at the boy and asked, “Are you all right, son?”

The boy swallowed hard and nodded.

“Yeah, I . . . I think so, mister,” he said. “I figured I was a goner for sure, though, when that Injun grabbed me.”

“What were you doing?”

“Tryin' to get a squirrel for my ma's stew pot.” The boy swallowed again. “That blasted squirrel was dang near the death of me.”

Matt chuckled and got to his feet. He reloaded the Colt, pouched the iron, and then reached down to give the youngster a hand. While he was doing that, Major Macmillan, Sergeant Houlihan, and Private Brenham came over to them.

“Looks like we got here just in time, Matt,” Macmillan said.

“Yeah, another couple of minutes would've been too late, Major,” Matt agreed. “Those varmints were about to overrun us.”

Macmillan nodded toward Brenham and said, “You can thank the private for that. He rode hard to find us, and then pushed us to get back here as fast as we could.”

Matt smiled at the Southerner and said, “I'm obliged to you, Taw, and so is . . .” He looked over at the boy and asked, “What's your name, son?”

“Tommy Chadwick, sir. That ranch down yonder belongs to my pa.”

“I'm Matt Jensen,” Matt introduced himself. “This is Major Macmillan.”

“Son,” Macmillan said as he nodded. “We'd better get down there and make sure the rest of your family came through this fracas all right.”

“I hope they did,” Tommy said. “They ought to be fine if they all got in the house quick enough. Pa built it sturdy. He said we might have to fight off Injuns now and then. Never had no trouble until now, though.”

Macmillan turned to Houlihan and said, “Sergeant, check on the enemy and see if there are any captives to deal with.”

“Yes, sir,” Houlihan said. Matt caught the glint in the man's eyes. He was pretty sure Houlihan would report that all the renegades were dead, even if he had to help some of them along into the next world.

Houlihan wasn't likely to forget what had happened at those other ranches, either.

Matt, Macmillan, and Tommy walked down the slope toward the double cabin. The doors opened before they got there. A stout woman with graying brown hair rushed out and cried, “Tommy!”, then hurried to meet them and threw her arms around the boy in a hug.

“Aw, Ma!” Tommy said. Now that the danger was over he was embarrassed by such a show of affection, as any boy his age would have been.

A middle-aged man who was probably Tommy's father trailed the woman. He had a bloody rag wrapped around his hand as a bandage, indicating that he was the one who had reached out to close the shutter on the window.

He was followed by a pair of boys in their late teens, a girl about fifteen, and a girl a little younger than Tommy. Matt saw smears of powder smoke grime on the faces of the older boys and the older girl and knew they had taken part in the fighting. Youngsters sometimes had to grow up quickly out here on the frontier.

The man patted Tommy awkwardly on the shoulder, then turned to Matt and the major. As he stuck out his hand, he said, “I'm John Chadwick. I reckon my boy owes his life to you fellas. Probably the rest of us do, too. I'm obliged to you more than I could ever say.”

“We're here to protect the settlers from renegades,” Macmillan said as he shook hands with Chadwick. “I'm Major Patrick Macmillan, in command of this patrol from Fort Griffin. This is our scout, Matt Jensen.”

Chadwick clasped Matt's hand and said, “I think I've heard of you, Mr. Jensen. Sure was our good fortune that you came along today.”

“I'm glad we did,” Matt said. “We were on our way here to warn you that there might be trouble.”

“You know, when we settled here, I expected a raid from time to time, but it's been so peaceful in these parts I guess we all sort of let our guards down. These Indians are the first ones we've seen except for some old-timers passing through once in a while. They never seemed like they wanted any trouble.”

“Since Colonel Mackenzie broke the back of the Comanche resistance a few years ago up at Palo Duro Canyon, most of them have moved onto the reservation in Indian Territory,” Macmillan explained. “But there are always a few firebrands who can't stand to be tamed. They jump the reservation and go raiding now and then.” He paused, then added grimly, “This bunch won't do that again.”

“I hope you'll stay a spell,” Chadwick said. “We'd like to put on a feast and show you men just how much we appreciate what you've done.”

Macmillan smiled and said, “That might could be arranged, although we can't delay too long in returning to the fort—”

He stopped as Houlihan approached them. The little Irish non-com was frowning.

“What's wrong, Sergeant?” Macmillan asked.

Houlihan jerked a thumb over his shoulder and said, “We got fourteen dead Comanch' here, Major.”

“That's about how many we expected, isn't it?”

“Problem is, ain't none of 'em got that half-moon mark.”

Matt knew what Houlihan was talking about. He had seen the report that had been sent out to the different forts in Texas, listing the names and descriptions of the men who had left the reservation. The leader of the group, Black Moon, had gotten that name because of a black, half-moon-shaped mark on the left side of his face. The stain had been left there when someone had fired a gun practically in his face during a battle when he was a young man. The burning powder had pitted and blackened his skin permanently.

“Are you sure, Sergeant?” Macmillan asked. “Perhaps you should check again.”

“Already checked twice, sir. That devil ain't here.”

“Maybe he was killed in one of those earlier raids,” Macmillan suggested. “The people at those ranches fought back, after all, before they were massacred.”

Houlihan shrugged and said, “Could be.” It was obvious, though, that he didn't really believe it.

Neither did Matt. Black Moon was the ringleader of the group that had jumped the reservation. It was likely none of the other warriors would have turned renegade without his urging. Maybe they would have continued their rampage anyway if Black Moon had been killed, but Matt thought it more likely they would have tried to head back to Indian Territory and sneak onto the reservation, hoping to escape punishment for what they had done.

No, his gut told him that Black Moon was still alive and out there somewhere, having slipped away from this ranch when it became obvious to him that his followers were about to be wiped out.

John Chadwick frowned and asked, “Do you think we need to worry about this Indian you're talking about, Major?”

Macmillan shook his head without hesitation and said, “No, he's just one man. I don't think he represents any real threat. Local authorities can handle him from here on out. We'll spread the word that he may be in the vicinity so the Rangers and other lawmen can keep an eye out for him.”

“I'm not sure that's good enough, Major,” Matt said.

Macmillan sounded a little annoyed as he asked, “What do you mean?”

“You're going back to Fort Griffin, aren't you?”

“That's right. I can't justify keeping an entire patrol out just to hunt for one man.”

“You shouldn't need me anymore, though. I think I'll see if I can pick up Black Moon's trail.”

“You're going after him by yourself?”

Matt smiled.

“Like you said, he's only one man.”

Matt could tell that the major didn't like the decision he had made, but Macmillan had no way of stopping him. Matt was a civilian and subject to the officer's orders only as long as he was riding with the patrol. He hadn't signed a contract, so if he went off on his own it was none of the army's business.

Chadwick said, “You'll wait and let us feed you a good meal before you set out, won't you, Mr. Jensen?”

“I reckon I can do that,” Matt replied with a smile. “And I'm obliged to you for it.”

“Not as much as we are to you.” Chadwick put a hand on Tommy's shoulder again. “You saved my son's life.”

“Sergeant, have the men bring in their horses,” Macmillan ordered. “We'll be stopped here for a while.”

“Yes, sir,” Houlihan said. He hurried off to carry out the order.

Matt gazed at the wooded slopes of Dark Valley. He didn't like the gloomy place any more than he had when he'd first laid eyes on it.

In fact, he liked it even less . . . because he knew there was a good chance that somewhere out there was a crazed killer named Black Moon.

 

Seth Barrett put his shoulder against the back end of the wagon and heaved. Beside him, a short, stocky boy of ten grunted as he threw all his strength into the effort as well. Charlie couldn't help much, Seth knew, but the youngster thought of himself as the man of the family because his father was dead. It was important for him to try to do as much as he could.

The wagon didn't budge, though. Its wheels remained stuck in the mud.

The blasted mud was the result of more than a week of intermittent, unseasonal downpours. Folks around here talked about how it never rained like this in December, nearing Christmastime. But it was raining this year, and that was all that mattered.

Seth stopped pushing and straightened up to catch his breath. He leaned to the side to call to the woman who stood at the heads of the mule team hitched to the wagon, “We'll try again in a minute, Mrs. Kennedy.”

“I don't believe this wagon is going anywhere, Mr. Barrett,” she replied in a despairing tone. “I'm afraid Charlie and I are just going to have to leave it here.” She sighed. “I should have paid more attention to where I was going and stayed on the drier parts of the road.”

Seth put a weary smile on his face and said, “The Lord tells us to persevere. I'm prepared to take Him at His word . . . at least a few more times before I give up.”

Charlie leaned over, put his hands on his knees and puffed for breath. He looked up and said, “No offense, Preacher, but I don't reckon even the Good Lord His own self could get this danged ol' wagon outta the mud.”

“Charlie,” his mother scolded. “That's no way to talk to Mr. Barrett. You shouldn't be doubting the Lord, either.”

“I just know how sticky this stuff is,” Charlie muttered.

Charlie was right about that, thought Seth. The rain had turned all the roads in these parts into gumbo. It wasn't raining now, but it had poured again earlier in the day and a thick overcast still covered the sky. Even if it didn't rain any more for a while, it would take days, maybe even weeks, for the ground to dry out.

Seth didn't figure that would happen anytime soon. The clouds were still ominous as they roiled and scudded through the sky overhead.

While he took a break from trying to free the wagon, he put his gaze on something a lot more appealing than the threatening sky.

Delta Kennedy's lovely face.

It was heart-shaped, framed by thick wings of dark brown hair that escaped from under the bonnet she wore. She had a small beauty mark on her right cheek and a tiny scar on her upper lip that just made her attractiveness distinctive rather than distracting from it. Her eyes, Seth happened to know, were a rich brown and could kindle a warm glow inside a man just by looking at him.

He knew that because he had experienced just such a glow more than once while talking to Mrs. Kennedy. On such occasions, just being near her had a tendency to make him a little tongue-tied. That was a definite drawback for a man who had always considered himself to be a little on the glib side.

Today she wasn't making quite as strong an impression on him because of the circumstances. He was concentrating on getting her wagon out of the mud, instead of thinking about how pretty she was. There was nothing flirtatious about her attitude, either. Naturally, she was worried about this dilemma. The wagon was loaded with supplies she had bought at Mr. Truesdale's crossroads store, and she had to get them back to her farm somehow.

Seth's saddle mount was standing nearby, reins dangling. He had been riding back to the Enchanted Rock Baptist Church, where he was the pastor, after visiting one of the congregation who was ill, when he spotted the stranded wagon. He would have stopped to help no matter who the wagon belonged to, since he liked to think of himself as a Good Samaritan, but he recognized the wagon's passengers right away and that made him even more eager to be of assistance.

“All right, Charlie,” Seth said as he clapped a hand on the boy's shoulder. “Are you ready to try again?”

“Any time you are, Mr. Barrett,” Charlie affirmed.

“Mrs. Kennedy, if you'll take hold of the harness and urge the team forward while we push . . .”

“Of course,” she said.

“If we don't get it loose this time, I'll tie my horse to the wagon as well and see if that will help.”

Seth and Charlie bent to the task, but before they could heave against the stubborn wagon, Seth heard riders coming along the road toward them. Horses' hooves splashed loudly in the puddles. Seth looked over his shoulder and saw four men approaching. He straightened up as he recognized the barrel-chested rider in the lead.

Felix Dugan reined his horse to a stop about twenty feet behind the wagon. The burly rancher was older than Seth, around forty. His face was round and sported what seemed to be a permanent sunburn year 'round. A mustache like a graying brush adorned his upper lip. His jaw was like a slab of Hill Country granite.

As a preacher, Seth was supposed to like everybody, but he didn't like Felix Dugan. The man had a hard, ruthless arrogance about him. His ranch was the largest in the area, and he tended to run roughshod over his neighbors anytime they clashed with him. Naturally enough, the men who rode for him weren't any better. They smirked at Seth's mud-splattered clothes.

Even if Dugan had been a prince among men, though, Seth wouldn't have liked him for one simple reason.

Dugan was sweet on Delta Kennedy.

A widower for quite a few years, Dugan had been heard to express his admiration for Delta on more than one occasion and voiced the opinion that she would make a fine wife for some man. He left no doubt that he was talking about himself.

Now Dugan took off his hat, forced a smile onto his normally dour face, and greeted Delta by saying, “Good day to you, Mrs. Kennedy. You appear to have a bit of trouble on your hands.”

He didn't say anything to Seth. In fact, he acted like Seth wasn't even there.

“My wagon is stuck,” Delta said unnecessarily.

“Well, we'll take care of that right away,” Dugan said. “Won't we, boys?”

The ranch hands riding with him grinned and nodded. One man said, “Sure thing, boss.”

“Mr. Barrett is helping us—” Delta began.

“Preacher,” Dugan said curtly, acknowledging Seth's presence for the first time. “You'll never get that wagon out of the mud that way.”

Seth thought the rancher probably was right, which certainly didn't improve matters. But stubbornly, he said, “Charlie and I don't need any help.”

“I reckon we do,” the boy piped up. “This ol' wagon's a whole heap stuck.”

“Get out of the way,” Dugan snapped at Seth. “Boys.”

The ranch hands rode around Seth. A couple of them dismounted and tied ropes to the wagon while the third man went to the head of the team and said, “Let me have 'em, ma'am.” Delta relinquished her hold on the harness and moved aside.

The two cowboys tied the other ends of the ropes to their saddle horns. One man was on each side of the vehicle. They moved their horses forward until the ropes were taut. They pulled steadily while the man leading the mules urged them on.

“I'll give you a hand,” Dugan called. He swung down from the saddle and slogged through the mud to the back of the wagon.

“Step back, Charlie,” Seth told the boy. He wasn't going to let Dugan do this alone.

“I don't need any help, preacher,” Dugan said with a sneer.

“Neither did I, but you insisted anyway,” Seth shot back. He bent over and braced his shoulder against the wagon as he set his feet. Dugan did likewise. Both of them heaved against the weight and the grip that the mud had on the wheels.

Slowly but surely, the wagon began to move. Just an inch or two at first, then another and another and then with a loud squelching sound, the mud let go of the wheels and the wagon jolted forward.

The sudden movement threw Seth off-balance and made him stumble. He caught himself before he fell.

Felix Dugan wasn't as fortunate. His feet slipped out from under him, and he sprawled face-first in the mud, landing with a wet slapping sound.

A laugh burst from Seth's throat. He couldn't stop it. That pompous windbag wallowing around in the mud like a hog was the funniest thing he had seen in a long time. Charlie joined in the laughter, too, until his mother said his name sharply to silence him.

The three ranch hands kept the wagon moving until it reached a stretch of road that wasn't so muddy. Then the man who had been leading the team let go of the harness and hurried back to where Seth was standing. A few feet away, Dugan sputtered and spit as he tried to push himself up out of the mud.

The cowboy grated, “Think it's funny, do you?” as he snatched his coiled lasso off the loop where it was attached to his saddle. He crowded the horse toward Seth and slashed at him with the rope.

Seth darted out of the way, reached up, and caught hold of the man's arm. Taken by surprise, the cowboy couldn't stay in the saddle as Seth heaved on him. He let out a startled yell, turned over in the air, and splashed down into the mud.

He got up faster than his boss had managed to, and as he came to his feet, rage twisted his features and he clawed at the gun on his hip.

Delta cried, “Charlie, get away from there!” as she ran toward her son.

Seth crouched as instinct made his hand move toward his hip. There was nothing there for him to grab, though.

Dugan had made it to his knees. He yelled, “Andrews! Hold it!”

The cowboy stopped with his revolver half clear of the holster. He shook with anger and the urge to complete the draw. He said, “Boss, this varmint needs to be taught a lesson! He needs to know he can't laugh at his betters like that!”

“I agree,” Dugan said as he finished clambering to his feet. “But I'll be the one to teach him!”

He clenched his big hands into rock-hard fists, let out a bellow like a maddened bull, and charged toward Seth.