Blaze! The Christmas Journey Read online

  Kate said, "Uh-oh."

  The preacher lowered his eyes and said in a matter-of-fact voice, "Precisely. Clara's husband was mayor of the town. It was only because of my, er, standing in the community that I was not tarred and feathered or worse. I was sent into the desert upon a mule and now the mule has died." An apologetic look crept into the preacher's glassy eyes. "And thus I find myself in your presence, dear people. Banished!"

  He waved an arm in a dismissive gesture.

  "Religion, bah! Let me tell you about religion. Superstitious nonsense! Created by Man to control Man! What arrogance! What conceit for puny Man to think he understands the mysteries of the universe because he's been taught fairy tales in a 'good book' written by Man! I was tested not by a god but by a superstitious—"

  Rosa Rivas said, "Enough!" She crossed herself and regarded the man angrily. "Such words will not be spoken in my home, Señor preacher. You will sit now and open your mouth only to put food in it."

  Kate added, "You really ought to, padre. Food will sober you up."

  The Reverend Sullivan retained his balance with effort, glaring at them.

  "And what if I do not wish to sober up? I find sobriety extremely distasteful, given my current situation."

  J.D. finished his bowl of stew. He spoke in a conversational tone.

  "Sit down, preach. You're getting on people's nerves, including mine."

  The drunk man considered this. Then he replied in kind.

  "Upon reflection, I'm inclined to agree with you, brother." The preacher shifted his bleary attention to the meek man who had finished his meal; who now sat with his sample case in his lap as if coddling a baby. "And who shall I be dining with? Your name, sir?"

  A loud gulp from the drummer.

  "I am a traveling salesman, sir. The name is Meek. Wilbur Meek." The drummer looked extremely uncomfortable but with effort maintained a sense of civility. He tapped his sample case. "I am a humble seller of spirits who wishes nothing more than to rejoin his loving family."

  The Reverend paused.

  "Spirits, you say? There are many kinds of spirits."

  The army girl said, disdainfully, "He's a whiskey drummer."

  Kate emitted a small groan. "That was a mistake."

  Reverend Sullivan's glazed eyes widened.

  "Whiskey? Whiskey, you say?"

  Mrs. Mitchell said, "It is the Devil's brew, Reverend! Take it from me. It's the ruination of any believer!"

  The preacher's countenance beamed. "Then I'll have some! I am already defrocked and ruined." He started around the end of the table, his arms opening wide as he approached the whiskey drummer. "Bother Meek! Have you heard that the meek shall inherit—"

  Mr. Meek cowered in his chair.

  J.D. said, under his breath, "Oh, hell."

  From his place at the table, he stretched out a leg. His boot inserted itself between the Reverend's legs at the ankles. The preacher lost his balance and tumbled forward, straight into a waiting fist, courtesy of Billy Combs, that clipped the Reverend Sullivan smartly and lightly across the chin.

  Sullivan collapsed onto the floor where he lay, unconscious.

  Mrs. Mitchell said, "Good gravy, is that what I looked like when you cold-cocked me?"

  "Naw," Kate assured her. "Even on a bad day, you're a lot better looking than the Rev."

  Billy Combs checked his watch.

  "The boys should have got me a fresh team hitched and rarin' to go. Time to board and head out, folks."

  Rosa Rivas glared down at the unconscious preacher.

  "What about him?"

  Billy rose from the table. "Stage company hired you folks to run this here station and the company sure don't want alkies lolly-gaggin' around even if they are wearing their collar backwards. Reckon that means I just picked me up another passenger."

  Polly, the army girl made a face.

  "I do not wish to ride with that...that fornicating atheist!"

  Billy pocketed his watch.

  "Then you'll have to stay behind for a few days until the next stage comes through. No one's asking your permission, miss."

  Mr. Meek said, "But—"

  Kate said, "Don't worry. We'll see he doesn't hurt you."

  This seemed to satisfy the whiskey drummer and Polly. Mrs. Mitchell remained mute. Mike and Rosa Rivas observed without comment.

  Billy Combs held open the door.

  "Let's move it, folks. I've got a schedule to keep. Can't forget that little girl waiting on her ol' Billy at the end of the line, no sir!"

  J.D. and Kate each got an arm around one of the Reverend's shoulders. They hoisted him into a standing position between them and walked him out.

  Chapter 12

  The stagecoach rushed on through the night, rocking on its springs, its heavy wheels pounding the washboard trails.

  The cold, even under blankets supplied by the stage company, and the constant smell of dust creeping in through the drawn window flaps, were unrelenting. A candle offered faint, wavering illumination from inside its glass base.

  To Kate's right, J.D. appeared to be sleeping soundly just as he had when they'd made the hairbreadth journey over Red Bank Pass, although she knew from experience that if awakened by any sort of sudden threat, her man would spring into action like a big, dangerous cat.

  Alma Mitchell slept to her left, resting against her corner of the jostling stage. Sleep for the poor woman would be a blessed escape from the reality of knowing that her son sat in a jail cell, awaiting execution. A rotten Christmas gift for any mother. She couldn't begin to truly know how the woman must be feeling as their journey drew them closer to Christmas Eve. Had the boy already been executed for his terrible crime of murdering a young mother and her baby in a bank holdup? What a tangled mess of emotion!

  Kate was glad they were following through on her intention to help the woman. She was glad J.D. had seen the light, if reluctantly at first. It wasn't just that it was Christmas. Kate rode the trails with two worn books among her meager possessions in her saddle bag: a copy of The Kama Sutra and a King James Bible, both equally well-worn.

  God comforts us in our time of trouble so we can comfort those in need with the comfort we have received.

  Then there was the incident at Rivas station. Where were those bloodthirsty Waddell brothers on this wintry night?

  Seated across from her, Polly and Mr. Meek pressed side-by-side, their bodies touching in a mutual effort to place themselves as far as possible from Reverend Sullivan, who remained passed out beside them. Polly did not even sleep. She did not appear drowsy as far as Kate could tell. The army girl rode with her back erect. Staring straight ahead. Mouth a thin, drawn line in a pretty face. Unreadable in the weak light. Mr. Meek clutched his sample case to his breast and had nodded off, his chin bobbing against his chest.

  The preacher muttered occasionally, maybe once an hour, his words incomprehensible. Slurred, but conveying the cadence of Biblical scripture.

  Kate snuggled up against J.D. for warmth, though the big guy seemed wholly impervious to her doing so. She burrowed deeper into the blanket that covered them and that helped some. At least the biting cold was shielded from sinking its teeth into the marrow of her bones. But even with a blanket and a husband, it was cold enough.

  Kate slept fitfully.

  * * *

  An hour after sunrise, the stage pulled into Contention.

  A sawmill town along the San Pedro River, where timber that was cut and hauled down from the Huachucas became lumber for the growing city of nearby Tombstone. Like the mines in Tombstone, the mills ran twenty-four hours a day to keep up with the demand. Even on a cold morning, the town was busy with workers walking to or coming from their job at one of several sawmills lining the river. The whine of the sawmill blades filled the hair. Mules drew wagonloads of lumber through the streets.

  Since the discovery of silver in these rugged, barren hills a few years earlier, Tombstone had exploded practically overnight in size and industry
to become the largest metropolitan area between St. Louis and San Francisco. It was a boom town, and no one knew how long it would last. Tombstone was notorious for its gambling dens, opium parlors, red light district, thirsty and horny miners and vicious feuds like the Earp-Clanton business.

  The outlying smaller communities like Charleston and Contention were another thing altogether. Working men from all points east had migrated with their families to such towns seeking an honest day's wages in a Territory teeming with money to be made.

  Kate felt refreshed by the simple act of leaving behind the confines of the stagecoach.

  The sky had softened to a pale blue overhead but not far off in the distance, gray clouds were forming on the horizon.

  Billy Combs climbed down, lowering some of the luggage from atop the stage. He produced the little footstool for the ladies, opened the stage door and doffed his hat, extending his arm.

  "Welcome to Contention, ladies and gents. Hope you enjoyed the ride. Train station is just around yonder corner."

  Polly stepped from the stage to be greeted by a broad shouldered, square jawed cavalryman. They exchanged a chaste hug.

  Next off was the whiskey drummer.

  "Enjoy the ride!" he mimicked, meek but rattled. "Enjoyable if one likes one's innards scrambled like eggs for hours on end!"

  Mr. Meek shivered with distaste and hurried off with his valise and sample case. Mrs. Mitchell alighted next, followed by Kate and J.D.

  Reverend Sullivan had regained consciousness just before sunrise. He looked bad. Bleary of eye. Unshaven. Able to alight with a visible effort made at maintaining his equilibrium.

  "We have arrived!" he crowed to no one in particular. Then his eyes rested on Polly. His demeanor abruptly changed. "And you, miss. A lovely traveling companion! You are a lucky man, sir," he congratulated the cavalryman.

  The soldier appeared unsure of precisely how to respond.

  Polly said to him, "He is an odious drunk. Take me away from here."

  Reverend Sullivan raised a hand.

  "Indeed I shall no doubt soon be drunk again, as God is my witness." The Reverend massaged his forehead. "But it is alcohol's aftereffects that presently torment me, though my mind is clear enough." He lowered the hand and drew himself up straight, his troubled eyes locking with the girl's cool, calm eyes. He said, "Tell me, child. Is that all you would convey at this, our parting? You have been most reticent throughout our shared journey."

  Polly left her man's side. She walked right up to the preacher and faced him eye to eye. Her gloved hand rested upon his arm. She spoke gently.

  "This is a trial of faith for you. Restore your faith. There is a purpose in pain. Our God is good and merciful. He does not allow it if He cannot bring good out of it. Let this test of your faith be your testimony."

  Then she rejoined her husband. They walked away, arm-in-arm.

  Billy Combs did his best to move things along.

  "Been real nice seein' y'all." He tossed down the remainder of luggage from the coach top. "The train engineer's eying that sky yonder, sure as shootin'." He nodded to the winter clouds puffing up along the horizon. "Them clouds is the makings of a norther fixing to blow. That train's been waiting on me to show. The drummer's likely already aboard. Engineer's going to toot that whistle and head out real prompt-like."

  Kate and J.D. exchanged a "Merry Christmas" with Billy, then they gathered their gear. Kate felt a fondness for the gruff but lovable stage driver but she withheld giving him a goodbye hug. He smelled mighty bad.

  The train whistle sounded.

  J.D. said to Kate and Mrs. Mitchell, "Let's get a move on. We've got a train to catch."

  Behind them, the preacher struggled to keep up.

  Chapter 13

  "Holy moly," Skid Waddell said to his brother. "Do you see what I see?"

  They stood along a side wall of the Contention train station, observing the approach of J.D. and Kate Blaze who were still a block away down the frosty street.

  A steam engine locomotive hissed and wheezed on the tracks like a giant black beast, breathing smoke and fire, chomping at the bit to be gone.

  Ordinarily a community the size of Contention would not warrant its own rail line, but the saw mills produced lumber for more than Tombstone alone. Nearby Benson and distant Tucson also required massive amounts of lumber for their growing population and economy. A spur line ran north along the San Pedro to Benson, where the main east-west line connected Arizona Territory with the rest of the world.

  The night before had been a long, cold ride across the prairie for the Waddell brothers. The food at Rivas Station had renewed their energy. Les knew a winding, narrow trail; a shortcut, under stars and half-moon across the foothills, that got them into Contention twenty minutes before the stagecoach arrived.

  They made time for several shots of whiskey at the saloon before buying their ducats on the train, leaving their weary horses at the hitching post in front of the saloon. The horses had been stolen and could always be replaced.

  Then Skid spotted J.D. and Kate walking down the street.

  Les used his backhand to slap Skid upside the head. Skid's head hit the side of the building. Lester grabbed his little brother by the collar, yanking Skid with him so they remained out of sight of the approaching duo.

  "Naturally I seen what you seen," said Les. "My eyes're good as yours. It's my smarts that's ten times what you got."

  "But it's him, Les! The feller what chased after us at Horseshoe."

  "I know who he is." Les spoke with exaggerated patience. "And you are surely not so stupid that you've have forgotten what he is. What they are."

  Skid sighed with exaggerated patience. He rolled his eyes.

  "I know, I know. J.D. and Kate Blaze. The two fastest guns in the West. But think, Lester. Think!" Skid started to draw his six-guns. "Here they come, walking down the street, not expecting a thing. We can pick 'em off right here and now, easy as you please, no trouble at all. We're crazy not to ambush 'em!"

  This earned Skid another slap upside the head. Brother or not, Les could only take so much from the little twerp.

  "Oh one of us is crazy, all right," he groused, "and his name is Skid. Tell me what it is we're trying to do, little brother."

  "Why, we done booked passage on this here train to get us the hell out of Arizona Territory." Skid seemed proud of delivering the right answer so promptly.

  Les said, "That's fine, Skid. That's real good. And, uh, why is it that we want to get out of Arizona Territory?"

  Again a bright and prompt response. Skid indicated the twin saddle bags flung over Lester's shoulder; the saddle bags packed with greenbacks and silver from the bank in Horseshoe.

  "Why, because that swag's got the law after us, of course."

  Les nodded. "Exactly right, Skid." Then his voice took on a sharp, ominous edge. His right hand speared out. His steel-like fingers clamped around Skid's skinny throat. He slammed Skid's head against the wall, holding Skid in that position.

  He snarled, "And you think ambushing two people in broad daylight in town is going to help matters?"

  Skid's response was a croaking squeak.

  "Well...maybe it isn't such a good idea..."

  Les released his grip. He peered for an instant around the corner.

  Blaze and his wife were closing in at a brisk pace in order to catch the train, but they were still a half block away.

  Les couldn't help but smack his lips every time he eyed Kate Blaze. He thought, She sure is a looker! At the moment, though, the smartest thing for him to do was avoid that gunslinger gal and her gunslinger husband.

  Les said, "Come on."

  The brothers boarded the crowded, rowdy, foul smelling Third Class car. Les kept a firm grip on the saddle bags. He and Skid found themselves a bench in the middle after pushing a pair of teenage farm boys to the floor.

  Les's plan was to travel with the riff-raff, even though he and Skid could easily afford far better. But this wa
s not the time to draw attention to themselves. They blended right in with the noisy mob of cowboys and ruffians who had only been able to afford Third Class fare. The next car back was Second Class; working class folks on their way somewhere on Christmas Eve.

  It figured that J.D. Blaze, sporting that blonde wife of his who radiated class even in britches, would definitely take the First Class car, which placed them several cars back.

  That would have to do.

  Les had hardly expected to be riding the same train with J.D. and Kate Blaze, but luck had been a friend so far, ever since they'd walked into that bank in Horseshoe with their guns drawn. Their luck would hold. His idiot brother did have the kernel of a good idea. The notion of blasting an unsuspecting Kate and J.D. to glory did appeal to Les.

  Somewhere, somehow along the line—real soon—he would seize the first opportunity to shoot them dead.

  Chapter 14

  Kate said, "A peso for your thoughts."

  The Pullman was only half full, this being First Class and times being tough.

  Train travel was nothing new in America, of course, since the invention of the steam engine. But the laying of rail track across the breadth of the North American continent had overnight altered life in previously remote Arizona Territory.

  While once it was a grueling ordeal to get from any one point to another on this frontier—the stagecoach ride from Horseshoe had been no picnic!—never before had so many different types of people been loaded aboard fast-moving conveyances that whisked them hither and yon. It was still the frontier for damn sure, but only a fool could miss the writing on the wall. The world was growing smaller. The Old West was changing with the times.