A Colorado Christmas Read online

  “That hombre you were talking about, you said he left the gang before you tried to pull that job. I don’t see how it’s his fault things went wrong.”

  “Playing devil’s advocate, eh?” Bleeker said. “That’s all right. You want to understand what you’re getting into.”

  The longer he talked to Bleeker, the more Frank thought he wasn’t getting into anything. All his instincts told him not to get involved with whatever the outlaw had in mind.

  “The law was waiting for us that day in San Antonio,” Bleeker went on as he poured himself another drink. “Now, I don’t know for sure what happened. Could be that one of my men slipped up somewhere and said something he shouldn’t have to some saloon girl or bartender, but I’m convinced that what really happened is Monte tipped them off. Even if he didn’t, things would have been different if he’d been there. He would’ve been one more gun on our side. A damn good gun, too. Like I said, he made his living with it . . . like you do, Frank.”

  “I never robbed banks,” Frank said, allowing a harsh note to come into his voice. He was starting to like Bleeker less and less.

  “First time for everything, right?” Bleeker waved off any answer Frank might have made. “Anyway, I’ve waited eight years to settle the score. I can wait a little while longer, but time’s getting short. I’m recruiting men to ride with me to the town where he lives now. He’s pinned on a badge, can you believe that? Calls himself a sheriff!”

  “You’re going to kill him?”

  “Eventually.” Bleeker took a sip of the whiskey instead of throwing back the whole shot. “But not until I’ve taken over his town, looted the whole damn place, and burned it to the ground in front of him. If any of the folks there get hurt—and I’m sure they will—it’s just too damn bad. They shouldn’t have hired a lobo wolf like Monte Carson to keep the peace.”

  Monte Carson . . . Frank stiffened and drew in a deep breath.

  Bleeker noticed the reaction. “You know the name? The two of you have met?”

  Frank nodded. “We’ve met.”

  A cabin in the Rockies

  Ten y ears earlier

  A thick haze of gray powder smoke hung in the air inside the old log cabin, stinging the eyes and noses of the two men who were forted up there as they knelt at loopholes and fired through them. A prospector had built the cabin and abandoned it when his search for gold had proven fruitless. Since then, cattlemen had moved into the area, and the cabin was used as a line shack by hands from one of the spreads.

  It was the last line of defense for the two men who had been pursued by a much larger force of gun-wolves working for a rival rancher.

  Frank Morgan levered a fresh round into the chamber of his Henry rifle and peered over the sights, watching for a target. When he saw a flicker of movement, he pressed the trigger. The Henry cracked, and he was rewarded by the sight of a man flopping out from behind a rock. From the way the hombre thrashed around on the ground, Frank knew he was hit hard.

  A moment later, the man went still. Death had claimed him.

  “Chalk up another one, Frank,” Monte Carson said from a loophole on the other side of the door.

  “No point in keeping track of it now. We won’t be getting out of here.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “I know that was my last round for this rifle.” Frank withdrew the Henry’s barrel from the loophole and leaned the weapon against the log wall.

  “I’m about out, too,” Monte said. “But we’ve got plenty of ammunition left for our Colts.”

  “Which won’t do us a hell of a lot of good as long as Flagg’s men stay out as far as they are. They can sit there and starve us out.”

  There weren’t many provisions in the cabin, only a couple cans of peaches sitting on a crude shelf. Water was even more of a concern, since Frank and Monte didn’t have any. They could hold out for a day, maybe a day and a half, but no longer than that.

  Monte took his rifle out of its loophole and turned to sit on the hard-packed dirt floor with his back leaned against the wall. He pushed his hat back on his head and grinned across the cabin’s dim interior at his companion. “What do you think, Frank? Go out there and meet ’em head on?”

  “They’ll shoot us to pieces.”

  “Yeah, but if we wait until we’re half dead from thirst, we won’t be able to put up much of a fight. Right now, we’re still so full of piss and vinegar, we can probably stay on our feet long enough to take some of ’em with us.”

  Monte had a point there, thought Frank. Ever since he had taken up the way of the gun, he’d expected to die a violent death. That was just the way things were. Everything that lived, died. That meant life was nothing but a grim, pointless joke. The only thing a man could really do was try to make sure he took as many of his enemies with him as possible.

  So why the hell should they stay in there and wait for the end? Better to go out and charge right into it, dealing out as much hot lead as they could.

  Frank stood up and drew his Colt. He took a cartridge from one of the loops on his shell belt and slid it into the cylinder’s empty sixth chamber. Grinning, Monte Carson got to his feet and did likewise.

  “I just wish Flagg was out there,” Frank said. “I’d like to put a bullet in him.”

  Jefferson Flagg was the rancher trying to take over the spread that belonged to Frank and Monte’s employer, Ben Kelton. The conflict between them had started as a boundary and water rights dispute, then quickly escalated into a full-scale range war. Frank had seen similar situations many times and had drawn fighting wages in a lot of them. It appeared that it would be the last for him.

  Rifles still blasted outside as Flagg’s hired killers peppered the cabin with slugs.

  Knowing that the gunmen might target the empty loopholes, Frank moved to one side to glance through the hole he had been shooting through. Movement caught his eye and made him peer more intently through the opening. “Riders coming up the valley,” he reported.

  “What? More of Flagg’s men?” Monte laughed. “It’s already bad enough. No need for it to get worse.”

  “No, I think it’s some of Kelton’s bunch.”

  Monte sprang to his side and bent over to look through the loophole. He let out a whoop. “Yeah, that’s Schaefer and Billings in front!” he exclaimed. “They must’ve heard the shooting when Flagg’s bunch jumped us.”

  “Yeah, but they’re hidden in those rocks on both sides of the gap. They’ll have our men in a crossfire. The way Shaefer, Billings, and the rest are headed this way so fast, they won’t have time to realize how much trouble they’re in before Flagg’s men blast them to hell.”

  Monte looked over at Frank with a grim frown creasing his forehead. “You’re right. Listen.”

  Frank listened and realized that the shooting from outside had stopped. “They spotted our bunch and are holding their fire so they’ll gallop right into that trap.”

  “Yeah . . . unless we warn them.”

  Most folks thought of hired guns as cold-blooded killers, men who had no morals or code who would do anything if the money was right. In some cases, that assessment was correct. But even the most hardened gun-wolf had a sense of loyalty toward the men he rode with. If you trusted a man to watch your back during a fight, you couldn’t stand by and do nothing while he rode into a deathtrap.

  “We were going out there anyway . . .” Frank said.

  “Yeah,” Monte agreed as a reckless grin spread over his face. “Now we’ve got an even better reason.”

  Frank went to the door they had barred when they’d holed up earlier. He set the bar aside, then looked at Monte and nodded. Monte returned the nod.

  Frank flung the door open and they charged out into the open. For the first few lunging steps, Frank held his fire because he couldn’t see any of the gunmen hidden in the rocks. Then shots blasted and he saw muzzle flashes and spurts of gun smoke. Bullets whined past his ears. A hundred yards away, Schaefer, Billings, and the other men
who worked for Kelton reined up as gun thunder rolled through the valley.

  Then they charged again, guns blazing as they raked the rocky sides of the gap with slugs.

  One of the men in the rocks raised up and turned to have a better shot at the onrushing riders. Frank was close enough to drill him with a .44 round from the Colt. The man arched his back in agony, then dropped his rifle and pitched forward over the rock that had protected him.

  A pair of shots slammed to Frank’s left. He looked in that direction and saw another of Flagg’s men tumbling down the slope with a rifle sliding ahead of him.

  Monte Carson, smoke curling from the barrel of his gun, called, “He had a bead on your head, Frank!”

  “Much obliged!” Frank shouted over the continuing uproar as he twisted back toward the rocks on his side of the gap. He saw another rifleman aiming at him and quickly dropped to a knee. As the man’s bullet whined over his head, Frank fired twice and sent the hombre spinning off his feet.

  Dust and powder smoke swirled around them. Hoofbeats, gunshots, and shouted curses all blended into a brain-numbing roar. Like most gun battles, it was noise and chaos and heart-stopping fear.

  And in the midst of it, there was no denying that Frank Morgan felt truly alive.

  Denver, December 1886

  “You look like you’re a million miles away, Frank,” Jim Bleeker said.

  Frank shook the memories of that day out of his head. “Not a million miles, just a couple hundred. And quite a few years. The years usually mean more than the miles.”

  “Ain’t that the truth!” Bleeker said with a laugh. “I’ve had eight of ’em to think about what I’m going to do. How about it, Frank? Can I count you in? It’ll be a hell of a payoff. Big Rock’s got a bank and a lot of successful ranches around it. Probably be more loot there for the taking than either of us have ever seen before.”

  “Forget it,” Frank said.

  Bleeker drew back a little in obvious surprise. He frowned and asked, “What do you mean?”

  “I mean I’m not throwing in with you,” Frank said in a flat, hard voice. “You’ve got me wrong, Bleeker. I hire out my gun, but I’m not an outlaw.”

  Bleeker looked angry. “Sounds like you think you’re better than me.”

  “I didn’t say that. I just said I don’t want any part of your plan, no matter how much money you figure to rake in.”

  “They call you the Drifter, don’t they?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Badge-toters look for an excuse to lock you up as soon as you ride into a town. Women grab their kids and hustle across the street with them rather than meet you on a boardwalk. Their menfolks are just as scared. They just try not to show it.”

  “What you say is true,” Frank admitted. “That still doesn’t mean I want to be part of what you have in mind.”

  “Why the hell not? What do you owe those people?”

  The people of Big Rock . . . that was the name of the town Bleeker had mentioned, Frank thought. He might not owe the people of Big Rock anything, but he owed his life to Monte Carson and his quick gun hand. One of Flagg’s killers had come within a hair of blowing Frank’s brains out.

  “Just let it go, Bleeker,” Frank said. “I’m not throwing in with you, that’s all.”

  Bleeker stepped closer and grated, “Damn it, I’m not used to people saying no to me.”

  “You’d better get used to it where I’m concerned.” Frank didn’t flinch, didn’t back off even a fraction of an inch. If Bleeker wanted to push, no matter how far, Frank was ready.

  A tense few seconds ticked past, then Bleeker abruptly grinned and laughed again. “Ah, hell! There’s no need for you and me to get crosswise, Frank. I made a suggestion, you said no thanks, that’s all. No hard feelings either way.”

  Frank shrugged noncommittally. He had some hard feelings, all right, but he preferred to get out of there without shooting up Lady Arabella’s place. She probably wouldn’t like that.

  “We can still have that drink together,” Bleeker went on.

  “I’ve got to be going,” Frank didn’t want to have a drink with that mad dog.

  “All right. I reckon I can count on you to keep this little discussion between us?”

  “Sure,” Frank lied. He knew Bleeker’s sort. The man had sat behind those gray prison walls for eight long years, stewing and stoking his hatred and planning his revenge. No matter what Frank said, Bleeker wasn’t going to give up his goal.

  It might be best just to go ahead and kill him, but Bleeker didn’t appear to be armed and if Frank gunned him down, it would be murder. He had never killed a man in cold blood, and he didn’t intend to start. But somebody had to warn Monte Carson that trouble was on the way, bad trouble.

  Frank knew that job had fallen to him. As soon as possible, he needed to find out where Big Rock was and head in that direction. With that in mind, he gave Bleeker a curt nod, turned, and walked out of the room.

  As he left, he felt Bleeker’s eyes boring holes into his back.

  CHAPTER 19

  When Frank stepped out of the sitting room, the first person he saw was Lady Arabella Winthrop. She was standing next to a roulette table, but didn’t appear to be paying any attention to the spinning wheel and the bouncing ball. She was watching the doorway of the sitting room and smiled when Frank came out.

  He started toward her, and she moved forward to meet him.

  “How did your business deal go?” she asked.

  “It didn’t,” he replied bluntly. “What Bleeker’s got in mind isn’t for me.”

  “You know, I’m glad to hear that. I could tell just by looking at the two of you that you weren’t the same sort of man.”

  Frank grunted. “That’s the truth.”

  She linked her right arm with his left and suggested, “Come have a drink with me.”

  He didn’t know if she was deliberately leaving his gun hand free, as he had done earlier, or if it was just instinctive on her part. Either way, it added to his impression of her. “That sounds good. Especially if I can get a cup of coffee instead of a drink.”

  “Of course. The finest coffee you’ll find in Denver, in fact.”

  “Then lead on, Your Ladyship.”

  “I told you, call me Arabella.”

  “Sure . . . Arabella.”

  She led him across the room, and after a moment he realized they weren’t going toward the salon where he had waited earlier but rather toward a curving staircase with an elaborately carved banister.

  “Where are we headed?”

  “I thought we’d have our coffee in the sitting room of my suite . . . if that’s all right with you?”

  “I reckon it is.”

  * * *

  Morley ushered Mitch Clark into the private sitting room a short time later. Clark had never seen Jim Bleeker before, but he felt certain that the big man sitting in an armchair near the fireplace was the boss outlaw.

  Bleeker had his legs stretched out in front of him and crossed at the ankles. Despite that casual pose, Clark sensed an aura of ruthlessness and command about him. He held a glass of whiskey but wasn’t drinking it. He appeared to be brooding about something.

  “Who’s this?” Bleeker asked as he looked up at Morley.

  “Fella name of Mitch Clark.” Morley’s voice held a faint mocking tone that Clark didn’t like, but he kept his mouth shut. It wouldn’t do to seem too proddy.

  Morley went on. “He’s been riding with some other fellas, and he figures they’d all make good additions to our ranks.”

  “He does, does he?” Bleeker threw back his drink, stood up, and set the empty glass on a granite-inlaid table. A long-legged stride brought him over to face Clark. Bleeker hooked his thumbs in the vest he wore and asked, “What was that name again?”

  “Mitch Clark,” he introduced himself. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Bleeker. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

  Bleeker grunted and looked at Morley, who shrugged a
nd said, “You’re the one who put the word out, Jim. You can’t expect it not to get around.”

  “I wanted to get in touch with certain men,” Bleeker said, “not every ambitious piece of trail trash out there.”

  Clark stiffened. He couldn’t help it. “You’ve got it wrong, Bleeker. My friends and I are top hands when it comes to this game.”

  “It’s not a damn game.” Bleeker nodded over Clark’s shoulder to Ray Morley.

  Clark’s breath hissed between his teeth as he felt the hard ring of a gun barrel prodding his back. He cursed silently to himself. He never should have allowed Morley to get behind him. He should have known better.

  “For a top hand, you let Ray get the drop on you mighty easy,” Bleeker said with a sneer.

  “I thought I was among friends,” Clark replied coldly.

  “Well, see, that was your mistake. Never assume somebody’s your friend. Nobody’s truly got any friends in this world—just people who think it’ll be to their advantage to use you.”

  “You can use us however you want,” said Clark, “as long as we get a share of the loot you’re gonna take out of Big Rock.” There was no point in denying that he knew something about Bleeker’s plans. All it would take was a word from Morley to make that clear to his boss. Admitting it before Morley said anything might help his case, thought Clark.

  Bleeker stared hard at him for a long moment.

  Clark wouldn’t have been surprised if the man ordered Morley to put a bullet in his back. The instant that was about to happen, he would make a move of his own, spinning around and knocking the gun aside before Morley could pull the trigger. More than likely, the effort would fail, but Clark wasn’t going to just stand there and let them kill him.

  Bleeker chuckled abruptly. “You’ve got some bark on you, don’t you?”

  “I don’t reckon life’s been easy for any of us,” Clark said.

  “You’re not full of big talk. I like that.” Bleeker stepped back and gestured to Morley.

  The gun barrel went away from Clark’s spine.