A Texas Hill Country Christmas

by William W. Johnstone, J.A. Johnstone

Genres: Action & Adventure; Holiday books; Westerns

Synopsis

The greatest Western writers of the 21st century

As winter descends on the great state of Texas, the Jensen family faces off with renegades, rivals, and one raging storm in this special yuletide adventure from America's beloved Western storytellers.

While most folks are busy preparing for Christmas, the tight-knit Jensen clan can only hope they'll make it home. Luke Jensen is in San Antonio tracking down a dangerous outlaw. But when he finds the man leading a wholesome life - as a charity-working Hill Country pastor - Luke agrees to wait until after Christmas to bring him to justice. Meanwhile, Smoke and Sally Jensen head out from Fort Worth by stagecoach, only to be stranded by unrelenting rains - and stalked by a crazed Commanche killer. And in Austin, Ace Jensen falls head over heels in love with a girl he wants to marry. Unfortunately, she's engaged to one of the outlaw gang that's gunning for Luke's bounty.

This year the Jensen family is in for a stormy Christmas they will never forget - and one deadly showdown they may never survive.

Release date: November 1, 2015

Publisher: Pinnacle Books

Print pages: 336

Sample

Austin

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.”

There were four men in the group that had just come into the saloon. Bellowing curses, they charged Ace, Chance, and Porter. Customers leaped to get out of their way, as did the girls working in the saloon.

Ace didn’t reach for the gun on his hip, although he considered it for a second. Firing a shot into the ceiling might shock the men into stopping their attack. But the saloon had a second floor, and Ace wasn’t willing to endanger anyone up there.

So it would be hand-to-hand combat. Mano a mano.

Not the first brawl the Jensen boys had been mixed up in, that was for sure.

Ace stepped up to meet the charge. The closest man swung a wild, looping punch at his head. Ace ducked under it and hooked a left into the man’s belly. The man bent forward as the breath whooshed out of him. Ace straightened him up with a hard right to the jaw.

Meanwhile, another man lunged at Chance and tried to wrap him up in a bear hug. Chance twisted away and peppered a left-right combination to the man’s face. That slowed the attacker down but didn’t stop him. The man barreled into Chance and carried him backward. Chance slammed into the wall behind him.

The third man yelled, “There’s that blasted gee-tar player! It’s all his fault! Get him!”

He and the fourth man grabbed Porter by the arms and dragged him away from the table. Porter tried to writhe out of their grip but wasn’t able to. He exclaimed, “Gentlemen, please! This is all a misunderstanding! I’m an intellectual, not a roughneck!”

“Shut him up,” one of the men growled.

“With pleasure,” the other said, and an instant later he sunk a fist into Porter’s midsection.

Ace saw that from the corner of his eye, but there was nothing he could do about it. He was too busy blocking the punches his opponent threw at him and trying to launch a few of his own. One of the blows got through and caught Ace in the chest, rocking him back against a chair. He almost stumbled and fell, and as he did, the man crowded in to try to take advantage.

Ace turned that against him, grabbing the man’s arm and letting himself fall. As he went down, he hauled the man with him, planting a foot in his belly and levering him up and over. The man flew through the air and landed on his back hard enough to make the floor shake a little under Ace.

Chance’s opponent had pinned the young man’s left arm to his side, but Chance’s right arm was still free. He hammered that fist into the man’s ears as arms like young tree trunks closed around him and started squeezing. Chance’s feet came up off the floor and his ribs seemed to creak under the inexorable pressure. He hit the man again and again, seemingly without any effect.

Then one of the punches landed on the man’s jaw, and his grip loosened. Chance hit him there again, then a third time. The arms fell away from him as the man’s eyes started to look a little glassy.

Panting for breath, Chance stepped back and said, “Glass . . . jaw . . . eh?”

He began to use his speed and agility, dancing around his opponent as the man swiped at him with those apelike arms. Chance snapped punch after punch to the man’s jaw, lefts and rights that flew with blurring speed to strike home.

It wasn’t long before the man’s eyes rolled up in their sockets and his knees buckled. He went down with a heavy thud and didn’t move again.

With their foes disposed of, Ace and Chance turned toward Porter, who was still being thrashed by the other two men. Each held an arm with one hand and used the other hand to take turns punching Porter.

Ace and Chance tackled them, knocking them loose from the slender, mustachioed Porter. The battling men staggered back and forth, upsetting chairs and tables as they traded punches. Some of the people in the saloon had fled into the rain. The others had pulled back to give the combatants in the wild melee plenty of room.

Porter leaned on a table and shook his head, evidently trying to get the cobwebs out of it. Then he straightened, grabbed a spittoon from the floor, and swung it like a club. With a resounding bong!, the spittoon landed on the head of the man who was slugging away at Chance. The man went down, splattered by the spittoon’s reeking contents.

That distracted the final troublemaker enough for Ace to finish him off with a powerhouse right and left that lifted him from his feet and dumped him across the sprawled bodies of his companions. Ace stood there with his chest heaving a little from the exertion.

“You . . . all right . . . brother?” Chance asked.

Ace dragged the back of his hand across his mouth to wipe away some blood and said, “Yeah. How about you?”

“I’ll live,” Chance replied.

Porter moved between them and rested his hands on their shoulders, either in a gesture of comradeship or to help hold himself up . . . or both. He said, “I can’t thank you fellows enough for coming to my aid. I hate to say it, but we should probably depart. These barbarians won’t take long to come to their senses, and when the local gendarmerie hear about this altercation, they might bestir themselves enough to venture out into the rain to investigate.”

“You mean the law might haul us off to the hoosegow?” Ace said.

“And those polecats will come to and want to fight some more?” Chance added.

“Indubitably, on both counts,” Porter agreed.

Ace stooped to pick up his hat, which had fallen off during the fight, and slapped it against his leg to get the sawdust off of it. Chance found his hat as well, and Porter clapped a straw boater on his head.

“Let’s light a shuck out of here,” Ace said.

The rain had tapered off to a mist that didn’t get the three young men too damp as they strolled along Congress Avenue a short time later. Up at the top of a slight hill, about half a mile north, loomed the Texas Capitol Building.

“What set those fellas off?” Ace asked. “Something about a girl?”

Porter sighed and said, “Yes, but like I tried to tell them, it was a complete misunderstanding. Miss Clarissa Jenkins is a perfectly fine young woman, if a bit . . . dull. But my affections are centered on another lady.” He sighed again. “Unfortunately, she hasn’t proven receptive to my suit, at least not yet. I’m nothing if not determined, though. Sooner or later, I’ll win the heart of Miss Evelyn Channing.”

“I hope you do,” Ace said. “By the way, we never got the chance to introduce ourselves.” He stuck his hand out. “I’m Ace Jensen.”

Porter clasped it and said, “William Sydney Porter, at your service, sir.”

“And I’m Chance Jensen,” Chance said as he shook hands with Porter.

“Brothers, I take it. I thought I saw a distinct resemblance.”

“Twin brothers, actually,” Ace said. “We just don’t look exactly alike.”

“And your names are Ace and Chance,” Porter murmured. “No wonder you’re so good with the galloping pasteboards, Chance. How could you be otherwise with a name like that? But why weren’t you sitting in the game, Ace? You’re even more aptly dubbed.”

“Most of the time I leave the card-playing to my brother,” Ace said. “He’s more cut out for it than I am.”

“Our stepfather, the fella who raised us, was a gambler,” Chance explained. “You might have heard of him. Ennis Monday. Doc Monday, some called him.”

Porter shook his head and said, “I’m afraid not. I came to this region fairly recently from North Carolina.”

“What do you do?” Ace asked. It wasn’t considered polite to inquire too much into a man’s background or business, but he didn’t think Porter would take offense.

“Oh, a bit of this and that. I’ve been a pharmacist, but at the moment I’m working as a clerk in one of the banks here in town. My real interest is the arts, though. As I mentioned to Dale, I’m a member of a local quartet, and I play the guitar and mandolin as well. I’ve also been playing around with the idea of writing. You know, stories and sketches and essays.”

“You should write dime novels,” Ace said. “Folks read ’em by the bushel basketful.”

“Oh, I’ve read them myself,” Porter said with a smile. “Say! I thought the name Jensen was familiar. Are you any relation to the famous gunfighter Smoke Jensen? Dime novels have been written about him, you know.”

“Yeah, I’ve seen them. And we’ve actually met Smoke Jensen, haven’t we, Chance?”

“That’s right,” Chance said. “We’re no relation, though, as far as we know.” He chuckled. “Ace here likes to think that maybe we’re some sort of long-lost relatives, but that’s just a little hero worship, I reckon.”

“You could do worse than to be related to a man like Smoke Jensen,” Ace said.

“No doubt,” Porter agreed. “If what’s in the dime novels is even half of the truth, he’s quite the stalwart individual.” He stopped short and pointed across the street at a café where the windows glowed yellow with lamplight in the mist. “Would you gentlemen care for a cup of coffee to warm up on this rather raw evening? I’m buying.”

“I won’t argue with that,” Chance said.

As they started across the street, Porter went on, “I confess I have an ulterior motive in paying a visit to this establishment. Miss Channing works here.”

“The gal you’re sweet on?” Ace asked.

“One and the same.”

“It would be an honor to meet her.”

Just before they reached the café’s front door, it swung open and a man stepped out. In the light that came from inside the building, Ace saw that the man was somewhat older, probably around thirty. He wore a dark suit and a black, flat-crowned hat. He had a handlebar mustache like Porter, but his face was beefier. He stopped short at the sight of the three young men, and his hand moved to his coat, sweeping it back so that the butt of a revolver with ivory grips was revealed.

“Porter,” the man grated coldly, and Ace wondered just how many enemies William Sydney Porter had in Austin.

“Hudson,” Porter said. His tone was just as curt and chilly as the other man’s had been, but Ace could tell that Porter was nervous. That was understandable. Hudson had the look of a gunman about him. Porter went on, “What are you doing here?”

“I think you know,” Hudson said. “Just as I know why you’re here.” He smiled, but the expression did little to relieve the grim lines of his face. “But it’s not going to do you any good. Miss Channing has just consented to be my wife.”

Porter took a sharp step back and looked like someone had just slugged him in the gut. He said, “No! That can’t be.”

“It’s the truth. Surely you can’t be that surprised. Evelyn’s never given you any encouragement, after all.”

“I don’t believe it,” Porter said stubbornly as he shook his head.

“You might as well. She’s going to meet me in Fredericksburg a few days from now, and we’ll be married. And there’s not a thing you can do about it.”

Porter’s hands clenched into fists. Ace could tell that he wanted to take a swing at Hudson, but natural caution held him back. Hudson was older, bigger, and no doubt stronger. Plus he had that ivory-handled gun on his hip. Ace didn’t know for sure if Porter was armed, and he hadn’t caught sight of any weapon so far.

Hudson’s cold gaze took in Ace and Chance. His hand shifted a little and rested on the gun butt.

“Who are your friends?” he asked.

“They’re not part of this,” Porter snapped. “This is between you and me.”

“You’re wrong about that, too.” A bark of laughter came from Hudson. “There’s nothing between you and me. Less than nothing. You’re completely insignificant to me, Porter. And to Evelyn as well.”

He was trying to goad Porter into taking a swing at him, Ace realized. If that happened, he and Chance might have to step in, and that would give Hudson an excuse to draw his gun. The man must have figured he was pretty good, to be willing, even eager, apparently, to take on odds like that.

And maybe he was. Ace didn’t know. But he was certain he didn’t want to get mixed up in a shooting on their first night in Austin. He and Chance had been on the drift for quite some time and hoped to stay here for a while.

Ace put his left hand on Porter’s right shoulder and said, “Listen, why don’t we go on inside? That cup of coffee we were talking about sounds better all the time.”

“I’m not afraid—” Porter began.

“Nobody said you were,” Chance told him. “Come on in. We’ll talk about it.”

Hudson said, “There’s nothing to talk about. It’s all settled.”

“If there’s nothing to talk about, why don’t you move on, mister?” Ace suggested.

“Maybe I don’t like being told what to do,” Hudson replied, thin-lipped with anger.

Slowly, Ace shook his head. His hand tightened on Porter’s shoulder. Chance took hold of Porter’s other shoulder. Together, they started to steer him around Hudson toward the door of the café.

“We’re not looking for any trouble,” Ace said.

Hudson laughed, and the smugness of the sound made Ace’s jaw tighten. It was almost enough to cause him to throw caution to the wind and find out just how slick on the draw Hudson really was.

There was only so much prodding he could take.

But then Porter shook loose and said, “It’s all right, fellows. Come on.” He took a deep breath. “Let’s go inside.”

Narrow-eyed, Ace told Hudson, “Things might be different, happen we cross trails again.”

“Sure, kid.” Hudson smirked. “Whatever you say.”

He turned and strolled off through the mist.

“That son-of-a—” Chance began.

He didn’t finish because the café door opened and a woman said, “Mr. Porter, is that you? I thought I saw you out here. Please, come in out of the weather.”

She didn’t step out into the mist, but she extended a slim hand and smiled. Her blond hair was put up on her head. She wore a crisp gingham dress with a white apron tied over it. From the looks of the outfit, she worked as a waitress in the café.

“Miss Channing,” Porter said. “I . . . I . . .”

He couldn’t go on. Instead he turned and started walking along the street in the opposite direction from the way Hudson had gone. His head was down.

“Oh, dear,” Miss Channing said. She looked at Ace and Chance.

“Don’t worry about him, ma’am, we’ll go after him,” Ace said as he lifted a hand and pinched the brim of his hat. He wasn’t sure why he had just volunteered himself and Chance to look after Porter, unless it was because somebody needed to.

“Ma’am,” Chance said as he touched the brim of his hat as well. Then he and Ace . . .