A MacCallister Christmas

by William W. Johnstone, J.A. Johnstone

Genres: Westerns

Synopsis

From bestselling authors William W. and J. A. Johnstone comes a special action-packed holiday western tale of peace on earth and bad will toward men . . .



Ever since he left Scotland to start a new life in America, Duff MacCallister has stayed true to the values and traditions of his clan in the Highlands. But as Christmas approaches, he yearns to reconnect with his family—even the ones he hasn't met yet. This year, two of his American cousins—twins Andrew and Rosanna—will be joining Duff for the holidays at the Sky Meadow Ranch. That is, if they manage to get there alive . . .



The twins' train is held up by not one, but two vicious outlaw gangs. The Jessup gang has been using the Spalding gang's hideout to plan the robbery. The Jessups just lost two of their brothers in a bank job gone wrong—courtesy of Duff MacCallister—and they're gunning for revenge. Together, these two bloodthirsty bands of killers and thieves are teaming up to make this one Christmas the MacCallisters will never forget. But Duff's ready to deliver his own brand of gun-blazing justice, holidays be damned . . .

Release date: October 27, 2020

Publisher: Pinnacle Books

Print pages: 370

Sample

Chugwater, Wyoming... back then

Duff MacCallister took off his hat and raised his arm to sleeve sweat off his rugged face.

“If I dinna ken what day ’tis, I’d say ’twas the middle o’ summer, not December!”

“Not that long until Christmas,” Elmer Gleason agreed. “It’s unseasonably warm, that’s for sure.”

The two men had just finished loading a good-sized pile of supplies, including heavy bags of flour, sugar, and beans, into the back of the wagon they had brought into town from Sky Meadow, Duff’s ranch farther up the valley. Both were in shirtsleeves, instead of the heavy coats most men normally wore at this time of year in Wyoming. In fact, Duff had rolled up the sleeves of his shirt over brawny forearms.

He was a tall, broad-shouldered, tawny-haired young man, originally from Scotland, but now, after several years here in Wyoming, a Westerner through and through. He had established Sky Meadow Ranch when he arrived on the frontier, brought in Black Angus cattle, like the ones he had raised back in Scotland, and built the spread into a large, very lucrative operation that took in thirty thousand acres of prime grazing land.

Elmer, a grizzled old-timer who had lived a very adventurous life of his own, had been living on the land when Duff bought it, squatting in an old abandoned gold mine at the northern end of the property. People believed the mine was haunted, but what they had seen was no ghost, just Elmer.

Since Duff had made that discovery, the old-timer had become one of his most trusted friends and advisors. He worked as Sky Meadow’s foreman, and Duff had even made him a partner in the ranch with a 10 percent share.

Now, with the supplies Duff had purchased from Matthews Mercantile loaded, Elmer licked his lips and said, “I reckon we’ll be headin’ down to Fiddler’s Green to wet our whistles before startin’ back to the ranch? A cold beer’d taste mighty good on a day like today.”

“Aye, the same thought did occur to me,” Duff said. “Go ahead, and I’ll catch up to ye. I’ll be makin’ one small stop first.”

“At the dress shop?” Elmer asked with a knowing grin.

“Perhaps . . .”

“Go ahead. I’ll be down there yarnin’ with Biff when you’re done. We can talk about the weather, like ever’body else in town is probably doin’.”

Duff lifted a hand in farewell and turned his steps along Clay Avenue toward the shop where Meagan Parker sewed, displayed, and sold the dresses she made, which were some of the finest to be found anywhere between New York and San Francisco, despite the unlikely surroundings of this frontier cattle town. Meagan’s talents were such that she could have been in high demand as a designer and seamstress anywhere in the country, but she preferred to remain in Chugwater.

Duff MacCallister was a large part of the reason she stayed.

Duff and Meagan had an understanding. Neither of them had a romantic interest in anyone else, and because of financial assistance she had rendered him in the past, she was also a partner in Sky Meadow.

The ranch was named after Skye McGregor, Duff’s first love back in Scotland. The young woman’s murder had been part of a tragic chain of circumstances that resulted in Duff leaving Scotland and coming to America. A part of Duff still loved her and always would. Meagan knew all about Skye and Duff’s feelings for her, and she accepted the situation, so it never came between the two of them.

Someday they would be married. Duff and Meagan both knew that. But for now, they were happy with the way things were between them and didn’t want to do anything to jeopardize that.

Now that Duff wasn’t lifting heavy bags and crates into the wagon, the day didn’t feel quite as warm to him, although the sun still shone brightly in a sky almost devoid of clouds. A couple of times earlier in the fall, a dusting of snow had fallen, but it wouldn’t have been unusual for several inches to be on the ground by now.

A little breeze kicked up as Duff walked toward Meagan’s shop. He lifted his head to sniff the air. There was a hint, just a hint, of coolness in it.

Maybe that was a harbinger, Duff thought, an indication that the weather was going to change again and become more seasonal. Even though a man would have to be a fool not to enjoy the pleasant weather—it wasn’t a raging blizzard, after all—with Christmas coming, it needed to feel like winter. That little tang he had detected put some extra enthusiasm in Duff’s step. He was in a good mood, and he didn’t think anything could change that.

Four men reined their horses to a halt in front of the Bank of Chugwater, swung down from their saddles, and looped the reins around the hitch rail there. Hank Jessup, the oldest of the group, turned to the other three and said, “All right, Nick, you’ll stay out here with the horses.”

They all had the same roughly dressed, rawboned appearance, and their facial features were similar enough that it was obvious they were related. Hank, with his weather-beaten skin and white hair, could have been father to the others, based on looks, but in actuality he was their older brother. Half brother, anyway. Late in life, their father had married a much younger woman and somewhat surprisingly sired the other three—Logan, Sherm, and Nick.

They had willingly followed Hank into the family business of being outlaws, and they had come to Chugwater to help themselves to an early Christmas present of however much loot was in the bank’s vault.

“You said I could go inside this time, Hank,” Nick complained. “I always have to watch the horses.”

Sherm said, “It’s an important job, kid.”

“You’re our lookout, too,” Logan added. “You’ve got to warn us if any blasted badge-toter comes along and starts to go in the bank.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Nick muttered. “I guess so.”

Hank said, “And you’re watching the horses because I say so, that’s the most important thing.” He squared his shoulders, nodded to Logan and Sherm. “Come on.”

The three of them stepped up onto the boardwalk and headed for the bank’s front door. They didn’t draw their guns yet, because they didn’t want to alert people on the street that anything unusual was going on.

Nick lounged against the hitch rail, handy to the spot where the reins were tied so he could loosen them in a hurry if he needed. This wasn’t the first bank robbery he and his brothers had pulled. Sometimes the boys came out walking fast, still not wanting to draw attention, and sometimes they came on the run, needing to make as rapid a getaway as they could.

Inside the bank, Hank glanced around quickly, sizing up the situation without being too obvious about it: two tellers, each with a single customer, one man and one woman. A bank officer, probably the president, was seated at a desk off to one side behind a wooden railing. The man had a bunch of papers spread out on his desk and was making marks on one of them with a pencil, pausing between each notation to lick the pencil lead.

No guard that Hank could see, but it was entirely possible those tellers had guns on shelves below the counter, and the bank president probably had an iron in his desk drawer, too. Question was, would they be smart enough not to try to use them?

Hank wouldn’t mind gunning them down if it came to that. Wouldn’t mind at all.

He exchanged a glance with his brothers and nodded. No time like the present.

Hauling the gun from the holster on his hip, Hank yelled, “Stand right where you are! Nobody move, or we’ll start blasting!”

Meagan was sitting at a table with several pieces of cloth in front of her when Duff came into the shop. She had three straight pins in her mouth, taken from a pincushion close to her right hand. She looked up at him and smiled.

“Careful there, lass,” he cautioned. “Ye dinna want t’ be stickin’ pins in those sweet lips o’ yours.”

Deftly Meagan took the pins out of her mouth and returned them to the pincushion, which allowed her to smile even more.

“I certainly wouldn’t want to hurt my lips,” she said, “when I have such an important use for them.”

“Oh? And what would that be?”

Meagan stood up and came toward him, a sensually shaped blond beauty. Because of the unseasonably warm weather, she wore a lightweight dress today that hugged her figure, instead of being bundled up.

“This,” she said as she put her arms around Duff’s neck and lifted her face so he could kiss her. He did so with passion and urgency.

After a very enjoyable few moments, Duff stepped back and said, “I have some news this morning. Elmer and I stopped at the post office on our way t’ the mercantile, and a letter was there waiting for me.”

“Well, don’t keep me in suspense,” Meagan said. “Who is it from?”

“My cousin Andrew. Ye’ve heard me speak of him many times.”

“Of course. He’s the famous actor. He and his twin sister, both.”

Duff nodded and said, “Aye, Rosanna. The pair o’ them were actually the first of my American cousins I ever met, when they came to Glasgow to perform in a play called The Golden Fetter. Andrew had written to me then, introducing himself and asking me to come see the play and meet him and Rosanna. Fine people they are.”

“Being MacCallisters, how could they be anything else?”

“Aye, ’tis true, we are a fine clan. I’ve seen them a number of times since then, in New York and elsewhere, and back in the summer, I wrote to Andrew and invited him and Rosanna to spend Christmas at Sky Meadow if they could arrange their schedule to make it possible. In his letter I received today, he says they’ve been touring, but they’re ready t’ take a break from it and pay me a visit for the holidays.”

“Duff, that’s wonderful news,” Meagan said. “I’m looking forward to meeting them. When will they be here?”

“Andrew is no’ sure yet, but ’twill not be for another few days, at least. He assures me they’ll arrive before Christmas.”

“And what about your cousin Falcon? Didn’t you tell me that he’s coming for Christmas, too?”

Duff grinned and said, “Falcon told me he would try to make it. Wi’ Falcon, ye never can tell what wild adventure might come along an’ drag him away. So if he shows up, I’ll be mighty glad t’ see him, of course, but I willna be surprised if circumstances prevent that.”

“Well, I hope he’s able to come,” Meagan said. “It would be almost like a family reunion. Isn’t he Andrew and Rosanna’s brother?”

“Aye, youngest brother. Falcon is the baby of the family, although I doubt he’d appreciate bein’ referred to as such. Andrew and Rosanna are ten years or so older than him.”

“Aren’t there other brothers and sisters?”

Duff waved a hand and said, “Aye, spread out all over the country, they are. One o’ these days, they need to have a proper MacCallister family reunion.”

“I’ll bet that would be exciting,” Meagan said with a smile. “There’s no telling what might happen.”

“Och, lass, are you for sayin’ that th’ MacCallisters attract trouble or some such?”

“Well, now that you mention it . . .”

Duff chuckled and pulled Meagan back into his arms for another hug and kiss. He stroked a big hand over her blond hair and said quietly, “’Tis something else I’d rather be attractin’.”

“Oh, you do, Duff. You definitely do.”

He was about to lower his lips to hers for another kiss when gunshots suddenly rang out somewhere down the street. The sounds shattered the warm, peaceful day and made Duff jerk his head up again.

Those shots were concrete proof of what Meagan had just said. No MacCallister could go very long without running into a ruckus.

“I’ll be back,” Duff said over his shoulder as he charged out of the dress shop.

As president of the Bank of Chugwater, Bob Dempster’s job usually involved making sure all the numbers added up and all the other day-to-day details were attended to. But as a frontier banker, he knew that sometimes he might be called upon to perform other tasks as well.

For that reason, a .45 revolver rested in the middle drawer of his desk. As the three rough-looking strangers entered the bank, Bob took note of them and carefully eased the drawer out so that the gun came into view.

When the three men pulled their guns, and the oldest one shouted for everybody not to move, Bob reached for his own weapon and closed his hand around it.

Unfortunately, the boss outlaw swung sharply toward Bob and lined his revolver on him.

“When you take your hand outta that drawer, mister, it better be empty, or I’ll put a bullet right through your brain.”

Bob wasn’t going to throw his life away by betting on his own rudimentary gun-handling skills. Slowly he opened his hand and lifted it away from the drawer. He raised his other hand at the same time.

“Now you’re bein’ smart,” the outlaw said. “Stand up and move over here, careful-like.”

While Bob was doing that, another of the robbers herded the two customers away from the tellers’ windows at gunpoint. The third man menaced the tellers with his gun and told them, “You fellas come out of those cages. We want everybody together. And make it pronto!”

Soon the robbers had the five people in the bank lined up along the railing in front of the president’s desk. The leader jerked his head toward the counter and told his companions, “Get everything in the tellers’ drawers, and then we’ll clean out the vault.”

“You got it, Ha—”

The man who started to reply cut it short just as he started to say the leader’s name. Looking a little embarrassed by his near slipup, he hurried to carry out the orders.

Bob Dempster looked at the others and nodded confidently, hoping they would take his meaning that they should cooperate with the bank robbers and maybe they would all come through this all right. Bob hated to think of the monetary loss, but it was more important that these innocents survived.

The female customer was an elderly widow named Mrs. Hettie Richardson, who raised chickens and made a small but livable income by selling their eggs. Cloyd Nelson was the other customer, who had driven a freight wagon for R.W. Guthrie in the past, but currently worked in Guthrie’s building supply warehouse. He was a short, brawny, middle-aged man known to have a bad temper, and if anybody was going to fly off the handle and cause a problem, Bob knew it would be him.

Unfortunately, Bob was wrong about that, because while he was watching Nelson warily, Mrs. Richardson reached into her bag and hauled out an old cap-and-ball pistol that had been converted to percussion. She held the gun in both hands, hooked bony thumbs over the hammer, and hauled it back to full cock.

“You scoundrels, get away from my money!” she cried, and the next instant she pulled the trigger.

The booming report was thunderously loud inside the bank. The boss outlaw’s hat flew off his head. The gun in his hand came up toward the five people gathered along the railing.

Cloyd Nelson yelled, “Mrs. Richardson, get down!” and lunged at her, apparently intending to grab her and pull her to the floor, out of the line of fire.

That put his back toward the outlaw, and the shot the man fired struck Nelson squarely between the shoulder blades. The slug’s impact threw the man forward into Mrs. Richardson. Both of them toppled over the railing and sprawled on the floor behind it.

The two tellers dived for the floor, no doubt thinking that now the shooting had started, the air would be full of flying lead. That was highly probable.

Bob Dempster turned and dashed back through the gate in the railing. Another shot boomed. He heard the ugly, high-pitched whine of a slug passing close beside his ear.

After the outlaws had gotten the drop on him, Bob would have cooperated in the hope that no one would be hurt. Now, with the fat in the proverbial fire, his best chance seemed to be to fight back.

He flung himself behind his desk, snatched the .45 out of the still-open drawer, and triggered twice in the general direction of the bank robbers. His two employees were on the floor, as well as Mrs. Richardson and Nelson, so he didn’t have to worry about hitting any of them.

Return fire blasted at him. He heard the bullets thudding into the desk, but the heavy piece of furniture stopped them. He stuck the gun up and risked another shot without having any idea if he’d hit anything.

“Hank’s hit!” one of the outlaws yelled. “Let’s get outta here!”

“I got the money from the drawers!” another man shouted.

Boot soles slapped the polished wooden floor as the men rushed out of the bank.

Bob Dempster waited a couple of heartbeats to make sure they were gone, then looked over the desk. A haze of powder smoke floated in the air. Bullets had shattered the frosted glass that flanked the tellers’ windows, and there might be other damage he couldn’t see yet. He pushed himself up and called, “Mrs. Richardson! Are you all right?”

“Get this big ox off me!” the old woman wailed.

That big ox probably had saved her life, Bob thought, but with Nelson’s considerable weight pinning her to the floor, she wasn’t thinking about that. She had to be worried that he would suffocate her, which he just might. Bob hurried around the desk and called to the tellers, “Give me a hand here!” Both young men appeared to be unhurt.

They were trying to lift Cloyd Nelson’s limp form off Mrs. Richardson when more shots roared outside.

When Duff reached the street, he could tell the shots were coming from the direction of the bank. He pulled his gun from its holster and started running along the street toward the impressive brick building.

As he approached, he saw Thurman Burns, the deputy town marshal, hurrying toward the bank from the other direction. A young man stood near four horses tied at the hitch rail in front of the building. He didn’t seem to have noticed Duff, but he had seen the deputy. Using the horses to shield his movements, he drew his gun and aimed over the saddles at Burns.

“Look out, Thurman!” Duff shouted. The warning caused Burns to veer to the side just as the man behind the horses fired. Burns didn’t appear to be hit.

Duff paused to line up a shot of his own. He wasn’t a fast draw, but he was remarkably accurate in his aim. Not even Duff could hit every mark, though. Just as he squeezed the trigger, the man pivoted, so Duff’s bullet missed narrowly and struck one of the saddle horns instead, blasting it to pieces and spooking the horse on which the saddle was cinched. The animal started to caper around and pull against the hitch rail. That made the other mounts skittish, too.

The young man snapped a shot at Duff that kicked up dirt in the street a good twenty feet to Duff’s right. He grabbed the reins and tried to get the horses under control as three more men came barreling out of the bank, throwing shots behind them. One of the robbers was unsteady on his feet and had blood on his shirt.

Duff dropped to a knee behind a water barrel and leveled his revolver. Confident that the men had at least attempted to rob the bank and might have committed who knew how much mayhem inside, as well as taking shots at him and Deputy Burns, Duff felt no hesitation in shooting to kill. He squeezed the trigger as one of the outlaws tried to swing up into his saddle. The gun roared and bucked in Duff’s hand.

Blood and brain matter sprayed in the air as the bullet blew a fist-sized chunk out of the man’s head. His momentum carried him on over the horse’s back, where he spilled into an ungainly heap in the street. The horse broke away and stepped on him a few times in stampeding away with reins trailing in the dust.

Thurman Burns had taken cover in an alcove, where a doorway was located. He fired around the edge of that alcove, not hitting any of the outlaws but coming close enough to distract them. That gave Duff an opportunity to aim again. His best shot was at the man who was already wounded, but still on his feet, and spraying lead around. He was hatless and had striking white hair, although he didn’t move like an old man.

Duff triggered two rounds. Both bullets pounded into the outlaw’s chest and drove him toward the boardwalk. The back of his boots hit the edge of the walk. He sat down, but didn’t fall over. Slowly his head slumped forward and he bent over until it looked like he was going to fall on his face, but he didn’t.

“Hank!” one of the remaining two outlaws shouted. “Hank, no!”

“Come on!” the other one urged. “Let’s go!”

They leaped into their saddles despite being caught in a cross fire between Duff and Burns. Desperation had given them wings. Bending low, they slashed at their horses with the reins and sent the animals charging into the middle of the street. Wild shots flew from their guns. All the bystanders on the street and the boardwalks had scurried for cover as soon as the shooting started. Duff hoped none of that flying lead found any of them.

The fleeing men were bouncing around so crazily in their saddles and the horses ran in such a jerky fashion that drawing a bead on them was next to impossible, even for Duff. He fired a few more times, then grimaced in disgust as the two outlaws galloped out of Chugwater without ever slowing down. He straightened from his position behind the water barrel and walked toward the two fallen outlaws, keeping his gun trained on them, just in case.

The man Duff had shot in the head was clearly dead. Nobody could survive having so much blood and brains leak out of his shattered skull. The other man, the white-haired hombre, hadn’t moved since sitting down on the edge of the boardwalk. He had dropped his gun, which now lay between his feet.

Duff kept his gun ready while he reached out cautiously with his other hand and prodded the outlaw’s shoulder. That was enough to make the man flop over backward onto the boardwalk. The glazed, unseeing look in his eyes was unmistakable as he stared up at the awning over the walk.

“Are they both dead?” Deputy Burns called from the alcove.

“Aye,” Duff replied. “Dead as ever can be.”

Burns emerged from cover and blew out a relieved breath. He said, “That was some mighty good shooting, Duff, as usual.”

Duff ignored the compliment and asked, “Where’s Marshal Ferrell?”

“Rode down to Cheyenne on some business and left me in charge.” Burns rolled his eyes. “Sure enough, that’s when somebody tries to rob the bank.” He paused, then said, “The bank! Has anybody checked in there yet?”

“Just about to,” Duff said.

“No need,” Bob Dempster said as he stepped through the open doors. He was pale and obviously shaken, but didn’t seem to be hurt. “They killed one of the customers, Cloyd Nelson, and the other customer who was inside, old Mrs. Richardson, may have a broken rib from Cloyd falling on her, but the tellers and I are all right.”

“Did they get away with much money?” Burns asked.

“Just what was in the tellers’ drawers. A few hundred dollars, more than likely. I’ll have to make an exact count, to know for sure.”

“So, three men dead and an old woman hurt, all for th’ sake of a few hundred dollars,” Duff said.

Dempster nodded and said, “I’m afraid so. Greed has a high price.”

“Aye, ’tis true.” Duff looked at the white-haired outlaw with the empty stare and thought about poor Cloyd Nelson. “And all too often, ’tis the innocent who have t’ pay.”

Nick Jessup struggled to hold back tears. He couldn’t allow himself to cry. He was a grown man. He had turned twenty-two his last birthday. Besides that, he was an outlaw. A bank robber and hardened criminal. Hombres like that didn’t bawl like babies.

But two of his big brothers were dead, and Nick had heard hot lead whispering past his ear. He would never forget the sight of Sherm’s head flying apart like that, blood and brains spraying in the air. Nick wasn’t sure, but thought some of it had splattered on him.

Even worse, Hank was dead. As far back as Nick could remember, Hank had been there, already grown, advising and protecting his younger siblings, more like an uncle or even a pa than a brother. Nick just couldn’t bring hims. . .