An Arizona Christmas Read online

  “Tuttle’s the reason I’ve come to Prescott to see you, sir.”

  The governor frowned. “I try to keep up with things going on in the territory, and from what I hear, Tuttle’s managed to skirt along just inside the law. I wish it were otherwise, so I could press the local authorities to throw him behind bars, but—”

  “Tuttle’s been really good at hiding his trail,” Ballard said. “Several of his business rivals have disappeared in recent months. Nobody knows if they just left town, or if . . . something else happened to them.”

  “That’s a pretty serious accusation to make,” the governor said as his frown deepened. “Especially since you’re not offering me any proof Tuttle had something to do with their disappearances.”

  “That’s because there isn’t any proof,” Ballard admitted. “Like I said, he’s good at hiding his trail. That’s not all, though. He’s been pressuring some of the businesses in town to sell out to him. He made me an offer for the Courier a while back. I turned him down flat, of course.”

  “So if he can’t shut his enemies up, he’ll just buy ’em out, is that it?”

  “That’s part of it. He’s also hired a gunman, Smiler Coe, and has several other hardcases working for him. Some of them beat up my assistant, Edgar Torrance, a few days ago.” Ballard lifted a hand to forestall the governor’s question. “And before you ask, no, I don’t have any proof of that, either. Edgar never got a good look at the men who attacked him. But three of Tuttle’s men had been at the office just a short while earlier, making some veiled threats.”

  “The law can’t do much about that, and neither can I.”

  “No, sir, I know. But I’m coming to the point where you might be able to help the honest citizens of Tucson. Tuttle has one more weapon in his arsenal. He’s trying to take over the bank so he can foreclose on folks who have opposed him. The bank’s had some reverses and is in a bit of a precarious position. The president, Race Dobson, has been holding off Tuttle’s attempts to take over, but he may not be able to keep it up for much longer. The bank needs a fresh infusion of cash, and so do quite a few of the other businesses in town. Otherwise . . . it won’t be long before Avery Tuttle owns Tucson, lock, stock, and barrel.”

  While he thought about that, the governor opened a humidor on his desk and took out a long, fat cigar. He offered the smoke to Ballard, who shook his head and murmured a no, thanks.

  Without lighting the cigar, the governor chewed on it for a moment and then said, “I’ll be honest with you, Tom.”

  “I appreciate that, sir,” Ballard said, thinking that when a politician declared he was about to be honest about something, chances were just the opposite was true.

  The governor surprised him, though, by saying bluntly, “I can’t afford to have Avery Tuttle get his hands on that much power. He’ll try to tie my hands on everything I do, and sooner or later he’s liable to worm his way into this job. You came here to ask me for enough cash to shore up Tuttle’s enemies down there, didn’t you?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I can’t give it to you under the table. I won’t do that. I won’t claim to be any sort of angel, but so far I’ve managed to do things pretty much proper and legal, and I intend to keep on doing that. But I can get in touch with some of the bankers I know and see if they can arrange for a large loan. The money would come from several different sources, but it could be consolidated here in Prescott and sent back to Tucson with you on the train.”

  “Do you think you could get things done that fast? I didn’t want to have to wait here for too long, what with Christmas coming up soon . . .”

  “Don’t worry,” the governor said with a wave of his hand. “The process will move pretty quickly once I’ve thrown my weight behind it. We’ll get you back to Tucson in plenty of time to enjoy the holiday with your family.”

  “Thank you, sir. You don’t know how much this means to the town, and to me, too.”

  “What it means is throwing a wrench into Avery Tuttle’s plans, and I’m all for that!” the governor said as his teeth clamped down on the cigar in his mouth.

  * * *

  The governor called in his secretary, Gerald Saxby, and explained the situation to him, rattling off a list of names, all of them bankers or other prominent financiers he knew could be counted on for assistance. “Write notes to all of them, Gerald, and stress that speed is of the utmost necessity. We have to move quickly on this.”

  “Yes, sir. You’ll sign them before I have them delivered?”

  “Of course. In fact, why don’t you just write one note and then have Ford use the typewriter to make a copy for each man?” The governor chuckled. “We ought to get some use out of that new-fangled machine after we went to the expense of buying one.”

  “A good idea, sir. I’ll have the notes typed up and ready for your signature before the end of the day.”

  “Thanks, Gerald. I knew I could count on you.”

  As a matter of fact, Gerald Saxby was very loyal and very efficient. It took him only a few minutes to write an effective note appealing for financial help for Tucson. Then he passed over the handwritten copy and the list of recipients to Raymond Ford, the assistant secretary. “Type a copy for each of these men, Raymond.”

  “Certainly, Mr. Saxby.”

  Within moments, Ford had the typewriter clattering. The racket filled the outer office. Saxby didn’t know how to use the machine, and the governor definitely didn’t, but Ford had taken right to it. He could type swiftly and accurately, and he didn’t even really have to think that much about what he was typing.

  That was good, because his brain was full of the debts he owed from IOUs signed during various games over the past few weeks. The men who held those IOUs weren’t the sort to sit around waiting forever for their money. Ford had already been told more than once to cough it up or he’d wind up in a dark alley some night, being pummeled and stomped into senselessness.

  Luck might not have been on his side during those poker games, Ford reflected as his fingers flew over the typewriter keys, but he had been fortunate in other ways. Now he had some valuable information in his hands, and he knew just who he was going to sell it to, as soon as he found out exactly what the results of these notes were going to be.

  Whenever Raymond Ford knew what that was, Avery Tuttle would know as soon as possible after that. And Ford was certain that Tuttle would be very grateful . . .

  It might turn out to be a much better—and less violent—Christmas than he’d expected after all, Ford thought with a smile.

  CHAPTER 11

  Smoke, Sally, and Preacher got on the train at the Big Rock station on a crisp, cold day a week before Christmas. Smoke hadn’t heard from Luke and Matt, but he hoped his letters had found them and that his brothers would meet them in Tucson sometime during the next week. With the train changes and layovers, it would take a couple days for Smoke, Sally, and Preacher to reach their destination in Arizona Territory.

  Pearlie and Cal had come into Big Rock with them to see them off on their journey. Monte Carson was at the station, too, along with Louis Longmont and several more of Smoke and Sally’s friends. Plenty of waving and calling good-bye went on between the group on the depot platform and the trio of travelers inside one of the railroad cars.

  “That’s a whole lot o’ carryin’-on, if you ask me,” Preacher said.

  “It’s just our friends being . . . well, friendly,” Sally told him as she smiled and waved through the window glass.

  “Yeah, but you’ll be back in a couple weeks or less. It ain’t like you’re goin’ off to Timbuktu or one o’ them other foreign places. Shoot, it’s just Arizona. I hear tell it’s almost civilized down there, leastways when the Cherry Cows ain’t out on a rampage.”

  With a blast of the locomotive’s whistle, a huge puff of smoke from its diamond stack, and a rumble of rods and drivers, the train surged into motion.

  As the platform and the well-wishers dropped behind, Sally settl
ed back on the seat beside Smoke and looked at Preacher, who was riding in one of the seats across the aisle. “Cherry Cows?” she repeated. “What in the world is that, and why should we be worried about them? Surely you’re not talking about actual cows!”

  Preacher just chuckled.

  Smoke explained. “He’s talking about the Chiricahua Apaches. Old-timers sometimes call them Cherry Cows.”

  “Do we have to worry about running into trouble from them?” Sally asked.

  “Probably not. The army’s been down there fighting them and the other Apache tribes for quite a while, and most of them are on reservations now. But from what I hear, there are still a few bands holding out in the mountains here and there, not just Chiricahuas but Mescaleros and White Mountain Apaches and a few others.” Smoke paused. “Geronimo and his warriors are still out there somewhere. It never pays to underestimate tough hombres like that, but the chances of them trying to stop a train these days are pretty slim.”

  “Well, then, I won’t worry about it,” Sally said. “Anyway, I have you and Preacher with me. What person in their right mind would be nervous with you two around?”

  “I dunno as I’d say that,” Preacher drawled. “Ain’t you ever noticed how often trouble crops up when Smoke’s around? I think he attracts it like one o’ them magnets draws metal to it.”

  “And you just bring peace and harmony with you wherever you go,” Smoke said as he directed a wry grin at the old mountain man.

  Preacher sniffed. “I never claimed to be nothin’ but what I am.”

  * * *

  So far, the area east of the Front Range in Colorado had had only a few light dustings of snow, although it was thick at the higher elevations. The train had no problems making it through the passes, and at Denver the travelers switched to a southbound headed for Albuquerque. They could have taken that train all the way to El Paso, but in Albuquerque they switched to a line running east and west.

  A day and a half after leaving Big Rock, they were in Williams, Arizona Territory, the next stop west of Flagstaff. The railroad line split there, one leg going on west toward California and Nevada, the other turning south toward Prescott, Wickenburg, Phoenix, Casa Grande, and ultimately Tucson. It would take most of a day to cover the remainder of the distance.

  Smoke was glad he wouldn’t have to ride the train for any longer than that. While it was true that a fellow could get from one place to another a lot faster by rail than by riding horseback, he wasn’t used to it. He didn’t mind a horse’s regular gait, but the swaying and lurching of a railroad car got old in a hurry. Also, when a fellow was in the saddle, he could breathe fresh air instead of smoke and cinders, so from time to time Smoke had to get up and stretch his legs.

  He walked to the platform at the front end of the car and stood there with his hands resting on the railing, enjoying the sight of tree-covered, snowcapped peaks in the distance. It was cold, but better than the stuffy air inside the passenger coaches.

  The vestibule door of the passenger car directly in front of him burst open, and a boy emerged from it at a run. As he bounded over the gap between platforms, a stout, gray-haired woman appeared in the open door behind him and called, “George! George, stop!”

  Smoke turned and grasped the boy’s arm, stopping him without being too rough about it. “Whoa there, son. A train’s sort of a dangerous place to be running around like that.”

  “Lemme go!” the boy cried. He was about ten years old, with reddish-brown hair and a scattering of freckles. He tried to pull away from Smoke’s grip. “You got no right to hold me, you son of a bitch!”

  “George!” The woman’s eyes widened in horror as she came to a stop on the other platform.

  Smoke’s fingers tightened on the boy’s arm, but not enough to actually hurt him. With a stern expression on his face, he said, “I know a fella up in Wyoming. Any time somebody calls him a bad name he says, ‘When you call me that name . . . smile!’ You’re not smiling, son, so I’m liable to think you meant that seriouslike. I don’t cotton much to that.”

  The youngster swallowed hard as he looked up at Smoke towering over him and seemed to figure out that maybe he should’ve watched what he’d said. “I’m sorry, mister,” he managed to get out.

  “Don’t let it happen again.” Smoke looked over at the woman. “Is this hombre supposed to be with you, ma’am?”

  “Yes, and thank you for stopping him, sir. I was so afraid he was going to hurt himself.” She was a well-dressed woman, probably in her fifties, with a few touches of what had once been lustrous brown hair among the gray under her stylish hat.

  Smoke looked from her to the boy and back again and thought he saw a slight resemblance. “Your grandson, ma’am?”

  “That’s right. His name is George. George Bates. I’m Mrs. Violet Bates.”

  Smoke reached up and ticked a finger against the brim of his Stetson. “Smoke Jensen, at your service.”

  The name didn’t seem to mean anything to her, which was all right with Smoke. He glanced at George, who seemed to be the sort of boy who read dime novels. Of course, most boys read dime novels .. . when they could get away with it. However, George didn’t appear to recognize Smoke’s name, either.

  That was good. Smoke got tired of explaining to folks that the dime novels about him were usually wildly exaggerated fantasies written by fellows who didn’t know much about the frontier and rarely sobered up. A few of those scribblers knew what they were talking about, but they were the exceptions that proved the rule.

  Smoke put those thoughts aside, frowned down at George, and put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Now, why were you charging around like you had a pack of wolves chasing you?” He had been able to tell right away that George wasn’t running because of the sheer exuberance of youth.

  The boy had been running to get away from his grandmother.

  “I want to go home! I don’t wanna go to damn—I mean, darn—Tucson.” George relaxed a little under Smoke’s hand.

  Mrs. Bates said, “George, I want you to stop talking like that right now. Such language is rude and unacceptable.” She paused, and Smoke heard a considerable strain in her voice as she added, “Besides, you know perfectly well that we can’t go back to Flagstaff.”

  “Ma’am, I don’t mean to pry,” Smoke said, “but if there’s some sort of trouble—”

  “Thank you, Mr. Jensen, but other than keeping George from hurting himself like you did, there’s really nothing you can do. You see, my son and his wife . . . George’s parents—”

  “They’re dead,” the boy said.

  Smoke felt a pang inside. Even as old as he was, he remembered his folks and how neither of them had come to a good end. “I’m sure sorry.” He looked at the boy’s grandmother again.

  “They were both taken by a fever,” Mrs. Bates said. “It happened fairly quickly, which I suppose is the only blessing about the whole thing. That and the fact that they had only one child—”

  “Only one stinkin’ orphan for you to take care of, right?” George said with his lips curling in a sneer that looked out of place on one so young.

  “That’s not what I meant and you know it. I’m just glad no one else has to suffer the sorrow and grief that you and I are going through.” Mrs. Bates looked up at Smoke. “George and I, we’re the only family that each of us has left.”

  “Well, at least you’ve got each other, ma’am,” Smoke told her. “You’re right. That’s something to be thankful for.”

  “Oh, dear. Here we’ve gone on about our problems, and I haven’t even thought to inquire about your trip, Mr. Jensen. Is it for business or pleasure?”

  “Definitely pleasure,” Smoke replied with a smile. “My wife and an old friend and I are on our way to Tucson to spend Christmas with some other members of my family.”

  “They live there?”

  “Nope.” He chuckled. “Jensens tend to wander around a lot. You could say I’m the only one who’s put down roots. Tucson’s just
a handy spot for us to gather.”

  “Well, I hope you have a wonderful journey.” Mrs. Bates held out her right hand. “Now, come along, George. We need to get back to our seats.”

  “But I don’t want to go to Tucson,” the boy protested. “That ain’t where I live.”

  “It is now,” Mrs. Bates said, her tone growing firmer. “That’s my home, and now it’s yours as well, and nothing is going to change that.”

  “It will if I run away!”

  Smoke tightened his grip again, just a little. “You don’t want to do that, son. The world’s a mighty lonely place for a fella on his own. I had to learn that the hard way, back in my earlier days. Besides, if you run off, it’s going to make your grandmother mighty sad, and I can tell just by looking at her that she’s a good woman. You wouldn’t want to hurt her, would you? Hasn’t she always treated you good?”

  “Yeah, I guess,” George said with obvious reluctance.

  “And as sad as you are about your folks, I can promise you that you’ll feel even worse if you’re out there on your own. I learned that, too.”

  George cocked his head to the side and squinted up at Smoke. “You’ve had a lot of trouble in your life, mister?”

  “More than my share. I try not to let it get me down because I’ve got the prettiest wife in the world, a couple of fine brothers, and the best bunch of friends any man could ever hope for. I tell you, sometimes I feel like the richest man in Colorado.”

  “You mean you’ve got a bunch of money, too?”

  “You weren’t paying close enough attention, George. Money doesn’t mean a thing to a man who doesn’t have loved ones and friends.”

  “You should listen to Mr. Jensen, George,” Mrs. Bates said. “He sounds like a very wise man.”

  Smoke laughed. “I know some folks who would argue with you about that.”

  George shuffled his feet a little. “So you’re goin’ on to Tucson, too?”

  “That’s the plan,” Smoke said.