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Authors: J. A. Johnstone

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Chapter Forty-nine
Jacob O'Brien rode in the shadow of the Zuni Mountains, a high-country caravan of rawboned peaks, hanging valleys, deep canyons, and piñon and pine forests marching parallel to the Continental Divide.
He rode at a walk on a tired horse, heading nowhere through a vast and aloof wilderness of trees and rock that wore its majestic quiet like a cloak.
Blood, long crusted and black, fanned up above Jacob's belt on the right side and caused him pain. Caldwell's bullet had ripped away two inches of flesh and skin and left a wound that was raw and hard to heal.
Following a faint trail, Jacob came up on the ruin of an ancient pueblo, three of its adobe walls still standing. He drew rein in the shade of a wall and built a cigarette, a man without purpose or direction, a deep, dark depression weighing on him like an anvil.
He could have returned to Dromore, but the thought of burdening the colonel and the others with a wounded man didn't enter into Jacob's thinking. They'd been through enough recently without him adding to their troubles.
Only the mountains offered a refuge where he would be a burden to no one. Maybe come winter he'd find a cave, snuggle next to a big mama cougar, and sleep until spring. Or he could crawl into a hollow log. Now that would be right cozy when the snows came.
Jacob ground out the cigarette butt on his boot heel.
A complex, often troubled man, Jacob felt the need to be alone, to think, to plan his future, if such even existed. He was tired, sick of killing and death, and he was uneasily aware that Dora DeClare had opened a gateway to the darker recesses of his mind that should have remained forever closed.
He felt the need, for the first time in his life, to get closer to his God.
Again, where better to find him than the mountains?
Jacob rode away from the pueblo, a terrible weariness on him.
Damn, he was exhausted, body and soul.
Jacob took to the ribbon of trail again and then swung his horse toward the mountains. He followed a switchback game trail back and forth up a piñon-covered slope, then into ponderosa where there was dappled shade. He kept to the dim trail until suddenly it led into a hanging valley of high grassland. The surrounding slopes were covered in pine, and here and there outcroppings of sandstone rock, formed into grotesque shapes by erosion, perched like gargoyles on the façade of a Gothic cathedral.
Jacob kneed his horse forward, and it walked slowly, neck arched and ears pricked, wondering, as its rider did, at the building a hundred yards away, sitting on a shelf of rock among the trees.
The valley was an isolated, lonely place where shadows came early and lingered late. A stream, fed by an underground spring, bubbled over a pebbled bottom near the house, and on its banks a few willows struggled for life, raising their thin arms in supplication to an uncaring sky.
Despite the heat of the day, the breeze blowing off the surrounding crags was cool and smelled of pine and of the bitter loneliness of a place lost between earth and sky, an odor like ancient rock.
When he was fifty yards from the house, Jacob drew rein and took stock.
The building was a mission in the Old Spanish style, but constructed of gray stone, not adobe, and it glowed with the patina of centuries.
Jacob was tempted to slide the Winchester from under his knee, but he dismissed the idea. He sensed no threat. There was a strange peace about the place, quiet, like a hush of a confessional.
He rode forward again. A stable backed against the west wall of the mission, and behind that a smokehouse, forge, and other outbuildings. A pyramid of firewood was stacked high near one of the structures, against the coming winter.
But what caught and held Jacob's attention was a tree—a green apple tree with swelling fruit on its leafy limbs.
The mission's iron-studded oak door opened, and a monk wearing a brown robe stepped outside. He looked at Jacob and smiled. “Welcome,” he said.
“You knew I was coming?” Jacob said.
“Yes, I did.”
“I'd like to help you pick the green apples,” Jacob said.
“I think the crop will be even heavier next year,” the monk said. His eyes were very blue. “Can you stay until then?”
“Yes,” Jacob said. “I'd like to stay. I'm wounded and very tired.”
“I know you are.”
Jacob dismounted, and the monk put his arm around his shoulder and led him into the mission that smelled of candle smoke and yellow parchment.
“I'll see to your wound,” the monk said, “and then you must sleep . . . sleep for a long, long time.”
“And then I'll pick the green apples?” Jacob said.
“Yes. You can gather them one by one until the tree is bare,” the monk said.
Turn the page for an exciting preview . . .
 
From the bestselling masters of the American West
comes a heart-racing story of frontier justice, pioneer
spirit, and one town's last-chance miracle . . .
 
Three weeks before Christmas, the little town of
Chug Water in Wyoming Territory is stunned
by a brutal crime. The mayor's family has been
slaughtered in cold blood on their ranch outside
of Rawhide Buttes. As the townsfolk gather to pay
their last respects, Duff MacCallister saddles up to
go after the killers. He returns with two outlaws—
a cold-blooded, nasty pair of snakes, Jesse and
T. Bob Cave. But the day before they're sentenced
to hang, the Cave brothers escape their fate . . .
Into this holiday hell storm ride three friendly
travelers, Smoke, Sally, and Matt Jensen,
come to spend Christmas with Duff. But a deadly
diphtheria outbreak leaves the town beholden to
the mercy of the Cave brothers. It's a desperate
bind to be stuck in, but Duff and his friends will
use every bullet they can find to shoot their way
into a merry but bloody Christmas.
 
A FRONTIER CHRISTMAS
by William W. Johnstone
with J.
A.
Johnstone
 
On sale now, wherever Pinnacle Books are sold.
Chapter One
Greeley, Colorado
 
Ralph Walters stood on the depot platform, waiting for the train. He had a long trip in front of him—to Cheyenne by rail, then by stagecoach up to Rawhide Buttes, Wyoming. He was a traveling troubadour, someone who could play the guitar, banjo, fiddle, harmonica, and drum. In one of his acts, he would pass himself off as a one-man band, and play the banjo, harmonica, and drum all at the same time. He was also a skilled magician.
Because entertainment was rare and much appreciated, especially in the small towns, he did a good business.
He was going to Rawhide Buttes to perform for a firemen's benefit show, and for the students in the Rawhide School. Schools didn't pay as much as some of the more adult venues, but he could almost always schedule a school in conjunction with his adult show, and that's what he had done in Rawhide Buttes.
He'd skipped breakfast and lunch because he wasn't hungry. It was probably a pretty good thing that he still wasn't very hungry. He had awakened with a sore throat and wasn't sure he would be able to swallow, anyway. Reaching up, he wrapped his hand around his throat and thought he felt some swelling there.
“Here she comes!” somebody shouted, and several people moved closer to the track.
Walters remained in place as the big engine came roaring into the station with steam gushing from the drive cylinders and glowing coals dripping from the firebox. The engineer was leaning on the windowsill of the cab, his jutting chin and hooked nose looking as if they were about to join. Brakes were applied, and the train came to a halt. It sat there with wisps of steam wreathing the drive wheels, the journals and gearboxes popping and snapping as they cooled.
“Board!” the conductor shouted.
Those who were about to make the trip rushed to climb onto the train.
This was old hat to Walters, who had made hundreds of trips on trains as he went from town to town.
The conductor recognized him, and smiled. “Hello, Mr. Walters, riding with us again, I see.”
“Yes, but only as far as Cheyenne. There I must take a coach.”
“Welcome aboard. I see that your regular seat hasn't been taken.”
“Good, thank you.” Walters moved down the aisle to the last seat on the left.
With a series of starts and jerks, the train resumed its journey a moment later.
Walters leaned his head back against the seat. He believed he might also be getting a fever.
 
Sugarloaf Ranch, Colorado
When Smoke Jensen came back from town he had a letter from his friend Duff MacCallister. “Sally, I heard from Duff.” Smoke reached for a hot bear claw.
“Don't eat more than one. I'm doing this for the boys in the bunkhouse. What does Duff have to say?”
“I don't know I haven't opened it yet. I thought we would read it together.”
Sally smiled. “That was nice of you.” She put another tray of dough puffs into the oven.
“How many of those things are you making?”
“We have eight hands spending the entire winter with us, and you know very well that Cal and Pearlie could eat this entire tray by themselves.”
Smoke chuckled. “I guess you're right.” He opened the envelope and began to read, silently.
“Well, what does he say?”
“He has invited us to come to Chugwater to spend Christmas with him.”
“Christmas in Chugwater? That's very nice of him. I wonder why he invited us, though. You would think he would have invited someone like Falcon, or one of the other MacCallisters.”
Smoke nodded in agreement. “But he not only invited us, he invited Matt, too, since he's here to spend the holidays with us.”
“Well, be gentle when you turn Duff down. The poor man is so far away from his ancestral home, I'm sure that Christmas is a difficult time for him.”
Smoke's eyebrows rose. “Why would I turn him down? I'm the one who hinted that we would be receptive to an invitation in the first place.”
“What? Smoke, I thought we were going to New York for Christmas.”
“Whatever gave you that idea?”
Sally frowned. “Didn't we make that decision this past summer?”
“You said it had been a long time since you were in New York, and you'd like to go back for a visit sometime. That's not making a decision, that's talking about it. Besides, Matt and I have to be at Fort Russell, Wyoming, in December to sell our horses, so it just seems natural that, since we are going to be up there, anyway, that we drop in on Duff.”
“But, Smoke—”
“And didn't you just say that you thought Christmas might be a difficult time for him? Where is your compassion?”
Sally laughed. “I hate it when we are arguing and you use my own words on me.”
“Were we just arguing?”
“Of a sort, I suppose.”
Smoke smiled then reached for her. “Good. The best part of arguing is making up,” he said, pulling her to him.
 
Big Rock, Colorado
At the moment, Matt Jensen was in Longmont's Saloon, watching a three-card game that Louis Longmont was playing with a traveling gambler named Sherman who had not given a first name.
He had been having an inordinate run of luck since he came to town, so much luck that Longmont was convinced Sherman was helping his odds with a little card manipulation.
Sherman didn't know that Longmont wasn't just a saloon owner. He was also an exceptionally skilled gambler. Practically a magician with cards.
The game they were playing was a simple game, not too unlike the game of finding the pea under the shell. In this case, Sherman had to find the ace after watching Longmont shift the cards around in front of him. Sherman had tried his luck three times, and every time he had lost.
Another patron engaged the saloon owner in conversation. It wasn't idle conversation. It was a setup. The patron was a secret partner, sometimes letting Sherman know by coded signals what cards the mark was holding. In this case, his only purpose was to divert Longmont's attention.
With his opponent's attention shifted, Sherman reached across the table and put a small, barely noticeable, crease on one corner of the ace. Longmont could switch the cards around any way he wanted. Sherman wouldn't even attempt to follow him. He would simply select the card with the creased corner.
“You going to play cards, or are you going to talk all day?” Sherman asked.
Longmont turned back to the table. “Why, I'm going to play cards, Mr. Sherman,” Longmont said, smiling easily.
“Only, this time, let's bet some real money,” Sherman suggested. He put ten twenty-dollar gold pieces on the table.
“That's a pretty steep bet for a little friendly game like this, isn't it?”
“You own the saloon. Surely you can afford it.”
Longmont smiled. “Oh, I can afford it.”
As he put his own money on the table matching the bet, Sherman took one last look at the creased card. So far, Longmont hadn't noticed it. How could he? It was so subtle a crease that it was barely discernible, even to Sherman, and he was the one who put it there.
Longmont picked up the three cards and began shuffling them around. Sherman looked over at his partner and nodded. Longmont put the cards down on the table, then began moving them around, in and out, over and under with such lightning speed that the cards were nearly a blur. When he stopped, the three cards lay in front of him, waiting for Sherman to pick the ace.
Smiling confidently, Sherman reached across the table to make his selection . . . then suddenly froze in mid-motion. The smile left his face. His hand hung suspended over the table as he stared at the three cards with a sickly expression on his face.
“Hard to pick out the ace when they all look alike, isn't it,
mon ami
?” Longmont asked.
“Yeah,” Sherman said with a weak response. He had been had. Somehow Longmont had not only picked up on the card with the tiny crease, he had duplicated that crease on the other two cards, doing it so perfectly that Sherman had no idea which was the one he had marked.
“Are you going to pick a card or not?”
Sherman turned up a card. It was a queen. “Damn!”
“Maybe this isn't your game,” Longmont suggested as he pulled back the money from the center of the table.
“I don't believe the ace is even on the table.”
“Oh, it's on the table, all right.” Longmont reached for one of the cards.
“Wait a minute. I'll turn it over,” Sherman said.
“For all I know you have an ace palmed. You can make it appear anywhere you want.”
“All right. You turn it over.”
Sherman reached for the card Longmont had started for and flipped it over. It was the ace. “Damn,” he said again.
“Actually, I can make an ace appear anywhere I want.” Longmont picked up a new deck of cards, shuffled them, then spread them all out, facedown, on the table. “Here's the ace of diamonds,” he said, turning it up. “The ace of clubs, the ace of hearts, and the ace of spades.”
“What? How the hell did you do that?”
“Here are the four kings,” Longmont added, pulling them from the spread-out deck. “Here are the queens, and here are the jacks.”
“I . . .”
“You have run into someone who was not only able to catch you, but is a hell of a lot better at it than you,” Matt said.
The others gathered around the table to watch laughed.
“I tell you what, Mr. Sherman,” Longmont said, sliding ten of the twenty-dollar gold pieces back across the table. “Take your money, but leave my saloon and don't come back. When my customers play cards in here, they have a right to expect an honest game.”
Sherman stared at the money for a moment, then he reached for it. “A man has to make a living.”
“Yes, and most of my customers do that by the sweat of their brow, not by sitting at a table, cheating others.”
Sherman nodded.
“And take your partner with you,” Longmont added, looking at the man who had attempted to divert his attention earlier. “You can have one last drink, then both of you go.”
“Thanks anyway, but we aren't thirsty.” With a glance toward his partner, Sherman started toward the door.
“Oh, and
Joyeux Nöel
,” Longmont called as the two men left.
Chapter Two
Chugwater, Wyoming
When Duff MacCallister rode into town, he was curious at the number of people gathered in the street in front of Fiddlers' Green Saloon. Dismounting, he tied off his horse Sky, then called out to Fred Matthews.
“What's going on, Fred? Why all the people?”
“There's a man standing in front of the apothecary, holding a gun to Damon White's head. He's demanding that a thousand dollars be brought to him within an hour, or he's goin' to kill our druggist.”
“At the apothecary, you say?”
“Yes.”
“Where is Marshal Craig?”
“He has gone to Cheyenne. He left Johnny Baldwin in charge.”
Duff pulled his pistol and stepped out into the street.
“Duff, where are you going?”
“Well, we cannae be losing our druggist now, can we? And I'm afraid that Mr. Baldwin is too old to have to deal with something like this. I'll be going to talk to the gentlemen who's holding Mr. White. I'll be asking him, nicely, to abandon this project.”
“With a gun in your hand?”
“Aye. 'Tis no secret, Fred, that I'm not one of those men who has the talent to quickly extract my firearm. If any shooting is to be done, I'd best have the gun in my hand before it starts.”
“I would try and talk you out of it, but I can see that you have already made up your mind.”
“Aye, 'tis something I feel I must do.”
Holding his pistol down by his side, Duff started toward the apothecary at the far end of the street. As he got closer, he could hear the gunman shouting.
“Bring me the money! One thousand dollars! Bring me the money or this man dies! One thousand dollars!”
All the stores immediately around the apothecary had emptied. No one was on the street close to the gunman and Damon White.
“Bring me the money!” The gunman continued to shout from the wooden porch that extended from the front of the drugstore. He was about to shout something again, when he saw Duff walking toward him. “Who are you? What are you doing here?”
“The name is MacCallister, lad. Duff MacCallister. I'm here because 'tis needin' a bit of cough syrup I am, so I'd be grateful if you'd let the druggist go.”
The gunman kept the gun pointed at White's head. “That'll cost you a thousand dollars.”
“A thousand dollars, you say.” Duff shook his head. “
Och
, isn't that a mite dear, for a wee bit of cough syrup?”
“No. I mean, I'm not going to let this man go until I get a thousand dollars.”
“From who?”
“What?”
“Who is it that you expect to give you a thousand dollars?”
“I don't care. Are you dumb? Can't you see I'm holding a gun to this man's head?”
“Aye, that I can see.” Duff continued walking until he was at the bottom step.
“You've come far enough. Stop, right there, right now!” the gunman called down to Duff.
“I'll nae be doing that. I told you, 'tis a bit of cough syrup I'm needing.”
“If you don't stop right where you are, I'm going to shoot this man.”
Duff raised his pistol and pointed it straight at the gunman's head. He was so close that they were separated by less than ten feet. “If you shoot him, I'll shoot you.”
“Don't you understand? I'm going to shoot him, if you don't drop that gun!”
“Oh, I'm nae goin' to drop the gun, lad. I'll be needing it, you see, so I can shoot you after you shoot Mr. White.” Duff pulled the hammer back and the pistol made a deadly, double clicking sound as the sear was engaged.
For a long moment the two men stood there, a macabre tableau, Duff holding his pistol pointed directly at the gunman, while the gunman held his pistol to Damon White's head.
The gunman began to sweat, even though the weather was cold. The pupils of his eyes grew large.
“Tell me, lad, don't you think 'tis a bit cold out here?” Duff asked.
The gunman didn't reply.
“If you drop the gun, I can take you down to the jailhouse. I know that they keep the jail warm. Deputy Baldwin is an old man, and old men get cold awfully easily. You could be lying on a bunk in the cell, warm and waiting for your supper.
“Or, we can just carry this out, and you'll wind up in a place a lot warmer than the jail. I'm sure you know what I mean.”
The gunman began to shake, then he took the gun away from the druggist's head and pointed it toward the porch. Damon White moved away quickly.
Duff didn't move. “Drop the gun, lad. Drop it, and this whole business will be over.”
“You're crazy,” the gunman said. “Walking up on me like that. You're crazy.”
“Aye, so I've been told.”
The man was still holding the pistol in his hand, though the barrel was pointing straight down.
“I'll nae be telling you again to drop the gun.” The gunman opened his hand, and the gun fell to the porch with a loud thump.
“Mr. White, you have a telephone in your establishment, I believe?” Duff asked.
“Y-yes,” White said, relief from fear visible on his face.
“Would ye be so kind as to call the marshal's office 'n ask Deputy Baldwin if he would come collect his prisoner?”
“I'd be glad to. And the cough medicine is on the house.”
Duff smiled. “'Tis a funny thing. I no longer feel the need for the elixir.”
 
 
When Duff returned to where he had left his horse, several people applauded him.
“Come into the saloon, Duff, and I'll buy you a drink,” someone said.
“I thank you for the offer, Mr. Miller, but I must step into this shop for a few moments,” Duff replied, nodding toward the building next door to the saloon. A sign on the front of the building read MEAGAN'S DRESS EMPORIUM.
A bell on the door jingled as Duff stepped inside.
“I'll be with you in a moment,” a woman's voice called from the back of the room.
Stepping toward the sound of the voice, Duff saw Meagan Parker on her knees, pinning up the skirt on a dress being worn by Martha Guthrie, wife of the mayor of Chugwater.
“Mrs. Guthrie, 'tis a beautiful picture you make in that dress. You'll be warming R.W.'s heart, and that's for sure.
Martha, who was a short and rather rotund woman, blushed and giggled at the compliment. “Oh, do you think so?”
“That's exactly what I've been telling her,” Meagan said, standing up.
“I'm buying the dress for a Christmas party we'll be giving John, his wife, and our grandchildren,” Martha said. “They're coming to town for Christmas.”
“Oh, and what a joyous event that will be. I'll have to stop by to say hello,” Duff replied.
“Please do.”
“All right, Mrs. Guthrie, if you'll go back there and take off the dress, I'll have it finished for you in plenty of time,” Meagan said.
“Thank you, dear.” Martha took one more look at herself in the mirror. “You do such beautiful work.”
Meagan waited until Martha disappeared into the back room, then she kissed Duff. “What brings you here, today?”
“Smoke, Sally, and Matt will be coming to Sky Meadow. I want you to come out for dinner Wednesday night while they are here.”
“I'd be glad to.” Meagan frowned. “Didn't I see several people gathered in front of the Fiddlers' a few minutes ago? What was that all about, do you know?”
“Aye, 'twas a small disturbance down at the apothecary is all. 'Tis over now.”
She examined Duff with a quizzical smile. “Why is it that I think it might have been more than that, and that you had something to do with it?”
“Because you are a woman with a very suspicious heart,” Duff said.
“You are aware, are you not, Duff, that there is to be a dance on Christmas Eve?”
“And are you asking me to the dance?” Duff replied with a teasing smile.
“No, you are supposed to ask me.”
“Oh. Well then, lass, would you be so kind as to attend the dance with me?”
“Let me think about it,” Meagan replied. Then, with a wide smile she continued. “All right, I suppose I can.” She was about to kiss Duff again, but at that moment, Martha Guthrie reappeared.
“I left the dress on the table,” she said. “How soon will it be ready? I also want to wear it for R.W.'s Christmas dinner for the businessmen of the town.”
“Oh, you can pick it up tomorrow,” Meagan said.
“Wonderful. Thank you. Mr. MacCallister, please do drop by when John and his family are in town. I know they would love to see you.”
“I'll do that,” Duff promised.
As soon as Martha left, Duff turned back to Meagan. “I believe you were about to kiss me?”
“I will, but then you must go. I have work to do and, for some reason, I find you distracting.”
They kissed again, then Duff turned to leave. “I'll see you at dinner when Smoke and the others arrive.”
 
 
Elmer Gleason, Duff's foreman, had a most interesting background. He had been a guerilla with Quantrill during the war; had ridden some with Jesse and Frank James after the war; had lived with the Indians for a while, taking an Indian wife; and had gone to sea as an able-bodied seaman, sailing all over the Pacific.
In a way, one could say that Duff had inherited him with the ranch, because when Duff came to develop the land he had filed upon, Elmer was already there.
“They say the place is hainted,” R.W. Guthrie had told Duff when he'd first arrived in the territory. He was talking about Little Horse Mine, a worked-out and abandoned gold mine that was on the land Duff had just taken title to.
“Course, I ain't sayin' that I believe in haints, mind you. But that is what they say. Some say it wasn't the Spanish, but injuns, that first found the gold, and they was all kilt off by white men who wanted the gold for themselves. What happened was, after the injuns was all kilt, they became ghosts, and now they haint the mine and kill any white man who comes around tryin' to find the gold. Now, mind, I don't believe none of that. I'm just tellin' you what folks say about it.”
As it turned out, the haint Guthrie was speaking of was Elmer Gleason.
Elmer had located a new vein of gold in the mine, and unable to capitalize on it, was living a hand-to-mouth existence in the mine, unshaved and dressed only in skins.
Duff discovered him in the mine, which was on the property Duff had just filed upon. Everything Elmer had taken from it actually belonged to Duff, giving him every right to drive Elmer off, but he didn't. He offered Elmer a one-half partnership in the mine. That partnership had paid off handsomely for both of them.
Elmer had been with Duff from the beginning and was now Duff's foreman and closest friend.
Duff's half of the proceeds from the mine had built Sky Meadow into one of the most productive ranches in Wyoming. His operation was large enough to employ fourteen men.
When Duff returned to the ranch, Elmer was talking to the three other cowboys who had been with him for a very long time. Al Woodward, Case Goodrich, and Brax Walker not only worked for him, but were extremely loyal and top hands, occupying positions of responsibility.
“Get the men out to bust up the ice so's the cows can get to water,” Elmer was telling them. “And you'd better send a couple men out to check if any of the beeves have wandered off.”
The three men nodded in acquiescence, spoke to Duff a minute, then left to attend to their duties.
“Anything interesting happen in town?” Elmer asked.
“I invited Meagan to come to dinner when Smoke and the others are here.”
“Uh-huh. And you talked some feller outta shootin' Damon White, too, is what I heered.”
“Where did you hear that?”
“I sent Dooley into town to get some things, and he told me about it when he got back.”
“There wasn't much to it,” Duff said. “Are you goin' to ask your friend Vi to come to dinner?”
“You mean you don't mind?”
“Why should I mind?”
Elmer smiled. “Well, then, if you don't mind, I'll ride on into town and take care of that.”
Duff nodded, then rode on to the barn to get his horse out of the cold.

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