A Texas Hill Country Christmas

W
ILLIAM
W. J
OHNSTONE

A T
EXAS
H
ILL
C
OUNTRY
C
HRISTMAS

PINNACLE BOOKS

Kensington Publishing Corp.

All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

Table of Contents

 

It was a rare day for this part of Texas. Snow covered the Hill Country. Only a couple of inches, true, but it was enough to lay a white mantle over the rugged countryside. The snow and the thick growth of evergreens made it look more like a picturesque scene from New England or some old Currier & Ives print than central Texas. Having a white Christmas in these parts wasn't unheard of, but it
was
uncommon.

Helen Sievers thought it was beautiful as she stood at the picture window in the living room of the rambling ranch house and looked out. In the distance she saw the dark, looming, humped shape of Enchanted Rock. A lot of people thought of it as gloomy and forbidding but not Helen.

She had been born in Fredericksburg seventy years earlier and raised on various ranches in the area, so to her Enchanted Rock was just part of her home. She remembered climbing to the top of it many, many times over the years. To a wild tomboy like her, who could rope and ride as well as any of the boys she grew up with, exploring it had been as natural as breathing.

The first time she had stood atop Enchanted Rock and looked around at the magnificent scenery, her last name had been Jensen. She had been born a Jensen and would always be one, no matter how much she had loved her late husband Gerald.

Christmas carols played softly on the radio in the big mahogany home entertainment center that sat on one side of the living room. The sound was nice, especially blended as it was with the voices of Helen's children and grandchildren, laughing and talking as they always did at these family get-togethers. Luckily, the snow hadn't been bad enough to make travel dangerous, so the kids had been able to come in from Austin, Brownwood, Fort Worth, and Tyler. Once again the ranch house was full, and Helen liked it that way.

She turned away from the window as the sunlight faded outside. It got dark early this time of year.

Helen's daughter-in-law Jenny came in from the kitchen, wiping her hands on the apron she wore, and said, “Dinner will be ready soon, Mom.”

Helen was glad Jenny called her that. But then, most folks tended to call her Mom, whether she was related to them or not. That was just the sort of woman she was. She smiled and said, “I wouldn't have minded helping, you know.”

“Oh, I know that,” Jenny said with a wave of her hand. “But you deserve to take one day off from taking care of everybody, don't you? One day a year?”

“I suppose so. I was raised to work, though.” That was true of just about everyone in her generation.

“You've worked plenty and you will again. Why don't you sit down and take it easy?”

Helen managed not to say, “Hmmph.” Taking it easy
didn't
come natural to her.

But as she sat down in her recliner, six of her grandchildren came running into the living room. Ranging in age from seven to twelve, they were a veritable stampede. Helen motioned for them to slow down and then sit down, and they settled cross-legged on the carpeted floor in a semicircle around her.

“Tell us a story,” one of the girls said.

“About the old days,” one of the boys added.

“You mean when I was a little girl?” Helen asked with a smile.

The boy shook his head and said, “No, before that. The old,
old
days. When there were still gunfighters and outlaws and Indians in Texas.”

“There are still Indians in Texas,” Helen pointed out. “Many of them. And they're fine people.”

“What about gunfighters and outlaws?” another girl asked. “Are they still around, too?”

“I suppose there will always be outlaws,” Helen said. “Not so many gunfighters, though. Not like Smoke Jensen.”

“Was he our grandfather?” the boy asked.

“No, he was my great-grand-uncle . . . I think. I get mixed up about those things. Smoke Jensen's brother Luke was my great-grandfather. That would make Smoke your . . . great-great-grand-uncle?”

“But he was a gunfighter, right?”

Helen nodded and said, “One of the most famous gunfighters who ever lived. His brother Luke was good with a gun, too, and their adopted brother Matt was very fast. They were men to stand aside from in those days, let me tell you. Like your great-grandfather Ace.”

“He was named after a card?”

“Well, not really. His real name was William. Ace was just his nickname. His twin brother was named Benjamin, but everyone knew him as Chance. Those were the names they were called by the man who raised them, and they used those names all their lives.”

“I like Ace and Chance,” another of the girls said. “Did they look just alike, since they were twins?”

“Did they dress alike?” the first girl asked.

Helen laughed and shook her head.

“Oh, my, no. They were what's called fraternal twins, not identical, so it was easy to tell them apart even though they resembled each other, of course. And they dressed very differently, judging by the pictures I've seen. Chance liked to be well-dressed, usually in a suit, while Ace looked more like a cowboy.”

“Our great-grandfather was a cowboy?” the oldest boy asked.

“Sometimes. Sometimes he did other things. He drove a stagecoach, worked for the railroad, even wore a lawman's badge a few times.”

“What did Chance do?”

Helen hesitated. Chance Jensen was a gambler, not really a shady character but definitely someone who spent a lot of his time in, well, disreputable places like saloons. That probably wasn't the best thing to tell a bunch of impressionable children.

“He did a lot of different things, too,” she answered, being deliberately vague. To keep the youngsters from pressing the issue, she went on, “You know, Ace and Chance traveled all over the West, but I remember hearing about one Christmas when they were right here in this neck of the woods. They were spending some time in Austin.”

The capital city of Texas was about eighty miles from Fredericksburg.

“Was it snowing that Christmas?”

Helen thought back on the story as she had heard it. She shook her head and said, “No, but it was raining a lot that year. In fact, that was probably the rainiest Christmas season this part of the country has ever seen . . .”

 

Ace Jensen looked out through the saloon window at the steady drizzle falling from the gray sky and wondered what had gone wrong with the plan. He and his brother Chance had drifted down here to Texas to spend the winter, thinking that it would be warmer, the weather more pleasant, than in Wyoming or Colorado.

Maybe it wasn't as cold here as it would have been up north—although the dank air was pretty chilly—but nobody in his right mind could call this climate pleasant.

It had been raining off and on for days as Ace and Chance rode across Texas. The roads were muddy, and they had to be careful not to let their horses get bogged down. The legs of Ace's big chestnut and Chance's cream-colored gelding were covered with mud and the horses looked downright bedraggled.

The same could have been said of Ace and Chance when they reached Austin. Despite their slickers and hats, they were soaked to the bone. They had resembled nothing so much as a pair of wet rats, Ace figured.

At least their situation had improved somewhat since they'd ridden into town. The horses were in a nice warm livery stable getting cleaned up by a friendly hostler who had introduced himself as Enrique. Ace and Chance had used some of their dwindling poke to rent themselves a hotel room and have a tub of hot water brought up. They had flipped a silver dollar to see who got to soak away the chill first. Chance won, as he usually did when it was anything involving pure luck.

Unless his brother had slickered him somehow, Ace had thought at the time. Chance was, to put it mildly, crafty.

But they had both gotten washed up, dressed in dry clothes, and during a spell when the rain stopped had walked across Congress Avenue to the saloon, where Chance hoped to find a game and maybe improve their finances.

Ace had contented himself with nursing a beer and snacking on the crackers and chunks of ham and cheese sitting out on the bar on a silver tray. When the bartender started glaring at him, he ordered a refill and stopped eating, picking up the mug instead and wandering over to one of the saloon's front windows to look out at the broad avenue and the steady
drip-drip-drip
from the heavens.

When the rain had stopped earlier, Ace had hoped that meant it was over for a while. Obviously, he'd been wrong.

“Full house, gentlemen,” Chance said from the table where he was playing poker. “I believe that means the pot is mine.”

Ace looked over his shoulder. He had warned his brother in the past about gloating too much when he won. That got on the other players' nerves, and an annoyed card player was liable to turn into an angry card player. From there it was just one step to accusations of cheating, shouted curses, and hands reaching for guns.

Chance wasn't smirking in triumph, though, as he raked in the pile of coins and greenbacks in the center of the table. He was very matter-of-fact about it, and the other players didn't appear to be upset.

In fact, one of them was smiling. In a voice that had a hint of a southern drawl, he said, “Well played, my friend. I honestly thought you were bluffing.”

“Oh, I never bluff,” Chance said. “Too hard on the nerves.”

That brought chuckles from several of the men at the table. Chance didn't look like the sort of hombre whose nerves would ever give him trouble. In his neat brown suit, white shirt, vest, and expertly tied cravat, he looked cool and collected. He was a handsome young man with close-cropped brown hair, compactly built, and athletic.

Ace was a couple of inches taller and more rugged, with broader shoulders and features that were roughhewn in comparison to Chance's. His thick, slightly tousled hair was a darker shade of brown. He wore boots, jeans, and a buckskin shirt. A broad-brimmed black hat was thumbed to the back of his head.

Anybody could look at the two of them and guess they were related, and most folks would take them for brothers. Not many would guess that they were twins, however.

The young man who had complimented Chance on the hand that just ended gestured at Chance's winnings and said, “You're going to give us the opportunity to reclaim some of that bountiful harvest, aren't you?” His face was rather thin under curly black hair, and he sported a handlebar mustache with waxed tips.

“I don't know,” Chance said. “It might be time for me to cash in.”

“You don't want to do that.” The young man waved at the windows, where the rain was dripping off the awning over the boardwalk in the rapidly fading light. “It's miserable out there. It's warm and dry in here, with a convivial atmosphere to boot.”

Chance grinned and said, “Well, when you put it that way . . .” He gathered up the cards and began to shuffle for the next hand, since this was a friendly game with no professional dealer at the table.

The saloon's front door opened. The man who came in pushed the door hard enough to make it swing back and bang against the wall. The saloon was about half full, and most of the customers turned to look at the newcomer.

“Porter!” the man said in a loud, angry voice. “I figured I'd find you here, you grinning jackanapes!”

He was short and broad, built like a stump, with a face like an angry bulldog. Dark hair grew down to a point on his forehead. His hands clenched into fists as he stomped across the room toward the table where Chance was sitting. The man had been out in the rain without a hat or slicker. His clothes were soaked, and water dripped off his face. He was so angry and intent he didn't seem to notice or care.

The young man with the handlebar mustache pushed his chair back a little. He was worried, Ace thought, but he was trying not to show it.

“Why, Dale,” he said, “what brings you here?”

“You know good and well why I'm here, Porter,” the newcomer declared as he came to a stop beside the table. “You've been pitching woo at my girl Clarissa.”

“Nonsense,” Porter said. “I'm barely acquainted with the young lady.”

“Then what were you doing singing outside her window last night?” The question was phrased in a furious shout.

Porter didn't flinch. He said, “I won't deny serenading Miss Jenkins, but I wasn't alone, you know. There were three other lads with me. That's why they call us the Hill City Quartet. There are four of us.”

“Yeah, but you were the one standing out front, strumming on that guitar of yours. You were the ringleader!”

“Not a word you often hear applied musically,” Porter murmured. He straightened in his chair and went on briskly, “Listen, Dale, I assure you I have no romantic interest in Miss Clarissa Jenkins. My friends and I serenade young ladies simply to hone our vocal talents. We've found that it's easier to put our hearts and souls into the songs if we're singing them
to
someone. But it doesn't really mean anything.”

Dale's eyes narrowed. He said, “So you're not smitten with Clarissa?”

“No, I'm not.” A rather dreamy look came into Porter's eyes. “Truth be told, I have my sights set on a certain other young lady—”

Dale's hand shot out. He grabbed the front of Porter's shirt and jerked the young man to his feet.

“Are you saying Clarissa's not
good
enough for you, you fancy-pants little scribbler?”

Chance pushed his chair back, stood up, and said, “That's about enough, mister.”

Dale didn't look at Chance. He just leaned forward a little and shot out his left fist. Chance wasn't expecting the punch and couldn't get out of the way. It caught him on the jaw and knocked him backward. He tripped over the chair he had just vacated and crashed to the floor.

Ace was moving before his brother even hit the sawdust-littered planks. He crossed the room swiftly, clamped his left hand on Dale's shoulder and hauled the man around. Dale tried to hang on to Porter's coat, but Ace jerked him loose.

Ace's right came up in a looping punch that landed cleanly on Dale's nose, flattening it. Blood spurted over Ace's knuckles. Dale fell onto the baize-covered table, scattering money and cards. He rolled off and fell on the floor, moaning as he fumbled at his bleeding nose.

Somebody yelled from the still-open doorway. Several men crowded through it and came toward the table. They were wet from the rain, too, and looked almost as angry as Dale had when he burst into the saloon.

“Well, this is unfortunate,” Porter muttered.

“What is?” Chance asked. He had climbed back to his feet and was rubbing his jaw where Dale had punched him.

“Those men are friends with this lout,” Porter said with a nod toward Dale. “And they just saw you knock him down.”

“They're not gonna let me get away with that, are they?” Ace said. “Even though he started it.”

“I'm afraid not,” Porter said. “Prepare yourselves, my friends. We're about to come under attack.”