A Texas Hill Country Christmas (18 page)

The servant came in just then, carrying a tray with four coffee cups on it. Quickly, she set the tray on a sideboard and hurried to Mrs. Fielding's side. Sally was already there, patting Louise on the shoulder and trying to comfort her.

“It is all right, señora,” Mariquita said as she put her hand on Louise's other shoulder. “Nothing has happened to Señor Fielding. I am sure of it.”

“I . . . I wish I could be sure,” Louise said as she lowered her hands from her tear-streaked face.

“Maybe you'd better tell us what's happened,” Smoke suggested. Sally frowned slightly at him, as if she thought he shouldn't be bothering the upset woman right now, but he and Matt couldn't do anything to help until they knew what the situation was. Smoke sympathized with Mrs. Fielding, but at the same time he was practical.

“Chet . . . Chet's been worried about the stock,” Louise said. “With all this rain, he was afraid that some of them might have bogged down in the low places. He and the men have been going out every day to check on them. But then yesterday . . . he couldn't find Diablo Rojo.”

Smoke exchanged another glance with Sally. That was the bull he had come to see about buying from Chet Fielding.

“He loves that bull,” Louise went on with a weak smile. “I'm surprised he ever agreed to even think about selling him. But we've had a run of not so good luck and have been a little cash-poor . . . you know how it is to be a rancher, Mr. Jensen.”

“I sure do,” Smoke agreed. “And call me Smoke.”

Louise looked up at him and went on, “He said he'd heard enough about you to know what a fine man you are and that he was sure you'd do right by Diablo Rojo. That was the only reason he'd consider selling. But then, like I said, Chet couldn't find the bull, and it really upset him. It wasn't just what Diablo Rojo's worth.”

“I understand,” Smoke assured her. “He was afraid something had happened to the bull. I reckon he went looking?”

Louise nodded and said, “That's right. He came back in, got a fresh horse and some supplies, and set off by himself. He said there was plenty of work around the place for the hands to do, so he didn't take anyone with him. He didn't figure he needed to, since he knows every foot of this range better than anybody else.”

“I understand about that, too,” Smoke said. “I feel the same way about my spread.”

“I told him not to stay out overnight, and he promised he wouldn't unless he had to. He said he'd be back this morning, one way or another. But we haven't seen any sign of him.”

Matt said, “No offense, ma'am, but it's only the middle of the day. Your husband might've gotten delayed by any number of things. Seems a mite early to be this worried.”

“I know. I'm being silly.”

“Now, that's not what I meant at all,” Matt said quickly as Sally glared at him for a second.

“It's just that Chet and I have been together for a long time,” Louise continued. “We've got a . . . connection, I guess you'd call it. I can tell when something's wrong, when he's in trouble. And I've been feeling it all day.”

Smoke said, “It sounds to me like somebody needs to go and look for him.”

“Chet left orders for all the hands to stay close to home . . . in case the river and the creeks start to rise and threaten to get out of their banks . . .”

“Matt and I can go.”

Matt nodded to show that he agreed with Smoke's suggestion.

“We don't know the range, but we're pretty good at finding our way around,” Smoke went on. “Which way was your husband headed when he left yesterday?”

“South,” Louise said. “That was the last place anybody saw Diablo Rojo, down close to the southern edge of the ranch, not far from Enchanted Rock.”

Matt frowned and said, “Seems I've heard of Enchanted Rock.”

“You can see it for miles around. It's not actually on our land, but our southern border is close to it.”

“Sounds like we'll be able to tell if we're headed in the right direction, then,” Smoke told her with another reassuring smile.

“Yes, you can't miss it.”

“I don't have a saddle horse with me, and Matt will need a fresh mount . . .”

“Take any of our horses you want. The men can tell you which ones are the best.”

Smoke figured he and Matt would be able to tell that just by looking at the animals, but he didn't say that. Instead he said, “Maybe you could have Mariquita put together some supplies for us . . . ?”

“Of course.”

Smoke looked at his wife and said, “You don't mind staying here and keeping Louise company, do you, Sally?”

“Certainly not,” Sally replied, although Smoke saw a hint of worry in her eyes, too. She might not like the idea of him and Matt setting out into bad weather and what might be even more trouble, but she wasn't going to argue about it. For one thing, she knew how futile that would be.

“I really don't see how you're going to find him,” Louise said as she took a linen handkerchief from her pocket and dabbed at her eyes. “It's such a big country out there.”

“Maybe so,” Matt said, “but Smoke and I have a knack for finding things.”

He didn't mention that what they found was usually some sort of danger—and Smoke was grateful for his brother's discretion.

 

 

Smoke and Matt ate a quick lunch before they set out from the headquarters of the CF Ranch. Smoke rode a sturdy dun, while Matt was mounted on a high-spirited roan. They trailed an extra saddle horse behind them. It was possible that Chet Fielding had lost his own mount somehow and would need a horse to ride when they found him.

Assuming they did find him, and Smoke wasn't going to allow himself to consider any other possibility. But at the same time, he knew how big this country was, and even though it was relatively settled these days, there were still plenty of things out there that could kill a man if he was careless or unlucky.

A steady drizzle began to fall not long after they rode out of sight of the ranch house. Both men were already wearing their slickers, because it had been obvious from the clouds that the weather wasn't going to stay dry for much longer.

While they were getting the horses ready to ride, they had talked to several of the CF hands and found out exactly where Diablo Rojo had been seen last. That was where Chet Fielding would have started his search.

“You won't be able to pick up his trail,” one of the cowboys warned Smoke and Matt. “Not as much as it's been rainin'. There was a good downpour last night, like there's been 'most every night lately.”

“We're not expecting to pick up his trail,” Smoke had said. “We'll just range back and forth looking for him.”

“We can fire a shot now and then, too,” Matt had added. “If Mr. Fielding's in some sort of trouble and hears that, he'll know somebody's looking for him. Maybe he can fire some shots and lead us to him.”

“It's worth a try,” another of the ranch hands agreed. “But if you fellas don't find him by tomorrow, the whole crew's liable to head down there to look, orders or no orders.”

“Tomorrow's Christmas Eve,” Matt said.

“Yeah, well, findin' the boss all right would be a pretty good Christmas present, let me tell you,” a grizzled old puncher said. “I've rode for a lot of spreads and a lot of bosses, but never any better than the CF and Chet Fielding.”

Smoke remembered those words now as he sent the dun plodding along a trail that wound between wooded hills. Water stood in all the low places, so the horses kicked up little splashes with every step.

After an hour or so, Matt reined up and pointed.

“Look there,” he said. “Is that Enchanted Rock?”

Smoke peered through the misty afternoon and saw a large, dark hump looming over the hills in the distance to the south. Judging by the size of it, even though it had to be several miles away, the rock formation was quite massive.

“Reckon that's got to be it,” Smoke said. “Don't know if it's enchanted, but it's a mighty big rock, no doubt about that.”

“Those punchers said we need to steer straight for it when we see it, and we'll come to the range where Diablo Rojo roamed most of the time.”

Smoke nodded and nudged his horse into motion again.

More than anything else, Enchanted Rock looked like the humped back of some huge animal, one of those land leviathans from prehistoric times that he had heard Sally talk about. Or maybe the biggest buffalo that ever lived, Smoke mused with a faint smile. He knew more about things like that.

They came to a broad, shallow valley between two ridges. Matt said, “This looks like the place those cowboys told us about, the one where the bull was.”

“We'll comb it good,” Smoke said.

Every ten or fifteen minutes, they paused in their search. Smoke pointed his Winchester at the sky and fired a shot. The clouds and the drizzle seemed to muffle the sharp crack a little, but Smoke knew the sound would carry for a good distance anyway. If Chet Fielding was within earshot, the regular reports ought to alert him to the presence of a search party.

After every shot, Smoke and Matt listened intently for the sound of a reply. They didn't hear anything except the steady whisper of the rain.

Searching the valley took most of the afternoon. They didn't find any sign of Chet Fielding or the huge, reddish-colored bull Diablo Rojo.

“That dang bull wandered off somewhere, and Fielding went after him,” Matt said as they paused to take stock of the situation.

Smoke glanced at the sky, where the grayish light was already fading, and said, “We don't have much time left. Looks like we're going to be out overnight after all.”

“Reckon we can find a dry place to do it?”

“I wouldn't be too optimistic,” Smoke said.

A creek cut through the far ridge and led on south toward Enchanted Rock. They followed it, and as they did Smoke kept an eye on the trunks of the trees they passed on the bank. After a while he stopped and pointed to a live oak.

“Something's been rubbing on that trunk in the past day or two,” he said.

Matt studied the faint marks on the tree and nodded.

“Diablo Rojo, you think?” he said. “Bulls like to do things like that.”

“Seems a good bet to me. It probably would seem like that to Fielding, too.”

“So we're on the right track.”

“Maybe,” Smoke said. “That's what we've got to go on, anyway.”

He cast a glance at the creek. It was flowing fast, and it was high in its banks.

Overhead, lightning crackled, thunder boomed, and the rain started to fall harder. That wasn't good, Smoke thought grimly.

Like Matt had said, it wasn't going to take much more to put a big chunk of the Hill Country under water.

“We might as well admit it,” William Sydney Porter said gloomily. “We're lost. We have no idea where we are or where we're going.”

“That's not exactly true,” Chance said as he stretched in the saddle to ease tired muscles. “We're somewhere north of Fredericksburg. As long as you know where you are, you can't say that you're lost.”

“That's ridiculous,” Porter snapped. “If you don't know where you're going, you're lost.”

Chance shook his head and said, “That's not the way I see it. We know if we turned around and rode south, sooner or later we'd come to Fredericksburg, or at least we'd hit the road between there and Johnson City. And if we headed north, sooner or later we'd come to some other town. So you can't say that we're—”

“Oh, shut up, both of you,” Ace said disgustedly. “Arguing about whether or not we're lost doesn't accomplish a blasted thing.”

“Maybe not,” Chance admitted. “But still—”

“We've lost the trail,” Ace said. “I know you don't want to admit that, Will, but we don't have any idea where Miss Channing is or where to find her. We're just riding around in circles. We might as well go back.”

Porter got a stubborn look on his face as he said, “And abandon poor Evelyn to whatever fate awaits her at the hands of those desperadoes? I can't do that, Ace. I don't need to remind you of the danger she's in.”

“No, but there's nothing I can do about it, either.”

Chance sighed and thumbed his hat back as he said, “Besides, it's Christmas Eve. Leastways I think it is, if I've counted the days up right.”

“I hope you don't think I feel like celebrating,” Porter said as he scowled at the Jensen brothers.

“Nobody said anything about celebrating,” Ace told him. “But we've been out here for several days on short rations, we've gotten soaked more than once by rainstorms, and we're no closer to finding Miss Channing than we were when we started out. We need to head back to town and at least pick up some supplies before we start looking again.” Ace paused, then added, “Anyway, it's possible the sheriff took out a posse and found Miss Channing. She could be sitting there in Fredericksburg right now, warm and safe, while we traipse around these hills and just get more miserable.”

Porter frowned in thought for a long moment, then finally sighed and nodded.

“I suppose that's possible,” he admitted. “Still, it feels like I'm giving up. I don't like that.”

“Consider it a strategic retreat,” Chance told him.

“Very well.” Porter looked up at the overcast sky. “But how are you going to tell which way is south, so we can find our way back to Fredericksburg? I have no idea where the sun is.”

Chance grinned and said, “Ace is pretty good at knowing which direction is which, even if he doesn't have much to go by. It's just a natural talent of his, sort of like the way I am with cards and women.”

“I think I'm better at finding my way around than that,” Ace said dryly as he started to turn his horse. He stopped short, though, and frowned. “Hold on a minute.”

“You hear something?” Chance asked.

“No. I
smell
something. Wood smoke.”

Chance lifted his head and sniffed the damp air. After a moment, he nodded.

“Yeah, me, too,” he said.

“Well, I don't smell a thing,” Porter said. “I don't doubt that you're right, though. Your senses are sharper than mine. One of the drawbacks of being a city boy at heart, I suppose. Do you think the smoke means anything?”

“Not necessarily,” Ace said. “There are plenty of farms and ranches in this part of the country. It might be worth checking out, though. Most folks are pretty hospitable. Maybe we could buy some supplies from them.”

Smiling, Chance said, “They might even ask us to stay over and have Christmas dinner with them.”

“I suppose that would be better than going all the way back to Fredericksburg,” Porter said. “I'm game, if you think you can follow the scent.”

“Don't worry about that,” Chance told him. “Old Ace is like a bloodhound. Once he's got the scent, he won't lose it.”

“‘Old'?” Ace repeated. “We're the same age, remember?”

“You were born a few minutes earlier,” Chance said smugly. “You reminded me of it often enough when we were kids, Grandpa.”

Ace ignored the gibe. He lifted his reins and said, “Come on.”

The three young men rode across the hills, under the leaden sky. The smell of burning wood got stronger, until even Porter could recognize it.

“That must be coming from somebody's chimney,” Chance said.

“Or a good-sized campfire,” Ace replied. “If that gang of owlhoots is still in this part of the country, they have to be holed up somewhere. And it wouldn't surprise me if they were, since the weather has been terrible for traveling.”

That was certainly true. All three of them were starting to feel like they might never dry out completely again.

The smell led them up a long, fairly steep slope covered with thick stands of trees and rocky outcroppings. Ace held up a hand in a signal to stop as the slope came to an end about twenty yards ahead of them, falling away to become the face of a bluff that overlooked a valley with a creek running through it.

“There's nothing up here,” Porter said. “The smoke must be coming from somewhere down in that valley.”

Ace frowned and said, “Maybe. But the smell is pretty strong here.”

Porter looked around, twisting a little in his saddle as he did so.

“I don't see a thing! There's no cabin or camp.”

“No,” Ace agreed, “there's not. But the smoke could be coming out of the ground.”

Porter looked at Ace like he'd lost his mind. Chance nodded slowly, though, and said, “You're thinking there's some sort of natural chimney around here.”

“That makes sense,” Ace said. “That smoke has to come from somewhere. We could be right on top of a cave with its mouth in that bluff up ahead.”

“A cave?” Porter repeated.

Ace nodded and said, “I've heard tell that there are caverns all over this part of the country.”

“And a place like that would make a good hideout for, say, a gang of stagecoach robbers and kidnappers,” Chance added.

A look of excitement appeared on Porter's face. He said, “You mean they could be holding Evelyn prisoner right here below our very feet?”

“It's a mite far-fetched,” Ace said with a shrug, “but we can't rule it out. What we need to do—”

A voice from behind them suddenly said, “What you need to do is put your hands up!”

Ace and Chance started to twist around in their saddles. Instinct made their hands move toward their guns. But before they could touch iron, a shot blasted, echoing over the damp, hilly countryside. The brothers froze.

Not Porter, though. He panicked and started to yank his horse around. The man who had told them to lift their hands yelled, “You loco fool! I warned you!”

Ace knew Porter was about to be blasted out of the saddle. He kicked his feet free of the stirrups and hauled his horse around so that it rammed against Porter's mount. At the same time he dived from horseback and tackled Porter just as another shot slammed through the air. The slug hummed past Ace's head as he and Porter crashed to the muddy ground.

That was enough of a distraction for Chance to get turned around and draw his gun. He spotted the beard-stubbled, slicker-clad man who stood next to a bush holding a Winchester. Chance snapped a shot at him and came close enough to make the man jump for cover.

Another gun roared, off to Chance's left. The bullet whipped past his ear. He tried to turn in that direction, but with a sinking feeling he knew he was probably going to be too late.

Several yards away, Ace rolled over and came up on one knee in time to see the second man step out from some trees and fire a rifle at Chance. Ace's Colt was still in its holster, which was a stroke of luck because it could have fallen out when he and Porter toppled to the ground. The weapon seemed to spring into his hand. Flame licked from the muzzle as he triggered a round at the second rifleman.

The man's Winchester cracked, but the bullet screamed off into the overcast sky because he was already falling backward from the impact of Ace's slug drilling through his shoulder. He howled in pain as he flopped into the mud.

The first man was still a threat, though. He fired at Chance, who yelped as the bullet tore the sleeves of his slicker and coat and burned the flesh of his left forearm. The man leaped up and rushed at him, ramming the rifle's barrel into Chance's chest hard enough to knock him off the horse. The animal leaped out of the way. The man angled his Winchester down at the momentarily helpless Chance, who was gasping for breath after having the wind knocked out of him.

“Drop it, mister!” the man yelled at Ace, who still held his Colt as he knelt beside Porter.

Ace calculated his chances of dropping the hombre before the man could squeeze the trigger and kill his brother and decided they weren't good enough to risk it. He said, “Don't shoot.”

“I told you to drop that gun!”

Ace leaned forward and placed the revolver on the ground.

“Get the other fella's gun, too,” the rifleman ordered.

Ace slid Porter's gun from its holster and placed it next to his.

“Now both of you get up and back away from 'em.”

The second man, who was now sitting up and clutching his wounded shoulder, said, “Blast it, Tully, go ahead and shoot 'em!”

“Not yet,” the hardcase called Tully said. “I want to find out who they are and what they're doin' here. The boss might want to know.”

Porter appeared to be pretty shaken up by the fall, but he was able to say, “This so-called boss of yours is no doubt Oliver Hudson.”

Both men gaped at him, and Tully said, “How in blazes did you know that? Who are you, mister?”

This unexpected revelation made Ace catch his breath. It also confirmed what had seemed like wild suspicions on the part of William Porter. Porter had insisted Hudson was really the leader of the gang that ostensibly had kidnapped him and Evelyn Channing from the stagecoach, but the idea seemed pretty far-fetched to Ace.

But evidently Porter had been right all along when he tried to convince Evelyn and anyone else who would listen that Hudson was no good.

Stubbornly, Porter remained silent, refusing to answer the outlaw's question. After a moment Tully jerked the rifle barrel at the prisoners and went on, “We need to get this all sorted out.”

“And I need to get this blamed hole in my shoulder tended to,” the other man said bitterly.

“Move, you three,” Tully ordered Porter and the Jensen boys. “There's a trail down the bluff right over there.”

“What about our horses?” Ace asked.

“Somebody'll take care of them. Now move, before I lose my patience! And keep those hands where I can see 'em!”

At gunpoint, the three young men trudged down the trail. As it curved around an outcropping of rock, Ace caught sight of a large cave mouth and knew his guess about where the smoke was coming from had been right.

Not that it did them a lot of good now.

The two gunmen followed them, and as they stepped into the cave, another pair of outlaws were waiting for them with guns drawn. One of them said sharply, “We heard the shootin'. Who are these varmints, Tully?”

“They came snoopin' around up on top of the bluff, Deke,” Tully answered. “So far they ain't said who they are or what they were lookin' for—”

A cry of “William!” interrupted the man. Evelyn Channing, looking disheveled but otherwise unharmed, thrust aside some blankets that closed off a portion of the cave and rushed toward them.

“Evelyn!” Porter exclaimed.

Then they were in each other's arms, holding on tightly as they embraced.

“Yeah,” Deke said as he watched them, “the boss is gonna be real interested in this when he gets back.”