William Johnstone: A Rocky Mountain Christmas

He had met the deputy earlier, when he first rode into town, learning about Santelli’s latest atrocity at the same time. Matt and Deputy Mason were about the same age, and Matt respected the lawman’s dedication to duty.

When Mason saw Santelli standing at the bar, he stopped and stared for a long moment until he was sure it was the wanted outlaw.

“Santelli,” Mason called out. “Michael Santelli.”

Matt saw the way Santelli reacted, stiffening at the bar, but not turning around. The reaction gave him away, and Matt knew his first impulse had been right. The man was Santelli.

“You are Santelli, aren’t you? Michael Santelli?” Mason asked. The lawman’s voice was loud and authoritative.

Everyone in the saloon recognized the challenge implied in its timbre. All conversations ceased, and drinkers at the bar backed away so there was nothing but clear space between the lawman and Santelli. Even the bartender left his position behind the bar.

Matt stood in place at the opposite end of the bar, watching Santelli with intense interest as the drama began to unfold.

Santelli looked up, studying the lawman’s reflection in the mirror, but he didn’t turn around. “Lawman, I’m afraid you’ve got me mixed up with somebody else.”

“No, I don’t think so,” Mason said confidently. “I know who you are. You are a bank robber and a murderer, and you are under arrest.”

Not until that moment did Santelli turn to face the lawman, and he did so with a slow and assured nonchalance. “It looks like I can’t fool you, can I?” he said as a frightening smile curled across his lips. “What are you, anyway? A city marshal? A sheriff?”

“I’m a deputy sheriff. Mason is the name.”

“Well, now, Deputy Mason, you think you’ve got yourself a big prize, don’t you? You’re right. I am Michael Santelli, but there’s not a thing you are going to be able to do about it. Because the truth is, mister, you have just bitten off more than you can chew. If you make a move toward your gun, I’ll kill you right where you stand.”

“And then I’ll kill you.” Matt added his voice to the conversation for the first time.

Santelli was startled to hear a new challenge from his left, and he turned his head quickly to see Matt standing away from the bar, facing him. Like Mason and Santelli, Matt had not drawn his pistol.

“Who asked you to butt into this?” Santelli asked.

“Nobody asked me. But I met Deputy Mason earlier today, and I found him to be a fine, upstanding gentleman. I don’t plan to stand here and watch you shoot him.”

“Thank you, Mr. Jensen,” Mason said. “I appreciate your help.”

Santelli’s face, which had been coldly impassive, suddenly grew animated. His skin whitened and a line of perspiration beaded on his upper lip. “Jensen?” he said nervously. “Is that your name?”

“Matt Jensen, yes.”

“You fellas seem to have me at a disadvantage, two of you to my one.”

“I would say that is a smart observation, Santelli,” Matt said.

“Take your gun out of your holster, using only your thumb and finger,” Mason ordered.

Santelli reached for his pistol, then suddenly wrapped his entire hand around the pistol butt.

Seeing that, Matt made a lightning draw of his pistol, pulling the hammer back as he brought his gun to bear. The sound of the sear engaging the cylinder made a loud clicking noise.

Hearing it, Santelli jerked his hand away from his gun and held it, empty, out in front of him, imploring Matt not to shoot. “No, no! I ain’t goin’ to draw! I ain’t goin’ to draw!’ he shouted. Holding his left hand up in the air as a signal of surrender, Santelli’s right hand removed his pistol from the holster, using his thumb and forefinger as the deputy had directed.

“Now, lay your pistol on the floor and kick it over here,” Mason ordered.

Santelli did as he was directed.

“I’ll help you march him down to jail,” Matt said.

“Thanks.”

“Did you see that draw?” someone asked, the quiet voice reflecting his awe. “I ain’t never seen nothin’ like that.”

“Didn’t you hear who that is?” another asked. “That’s Matt Jensen.

Deputy Mason put Santelli in handcuffs, then he and Matt walked the prisoner down to the jailhouse. Three minutes later, the cell door clanked loudly as it closed on him.

“Jensen,” Santelli called out as Matt started to leave.

Matt turned to him.

“I have a feeling me ’n you are going to meet again, someday.”

Matt nodded, but said nothing.

CHAPTER FIVE

Pueblo—August 4

Jenny was getting desperate. She had not been able to find a job, and she was nearly out of money. She’d paid her rent for August, but if she didn’t find employment soon, she would have to give up her room. Sitting at her desk, she was writing a letter to her uncle, begging his forgiveness and pleading to be allowed to come back to work for him.

She was agonizing over the letter she didn’t want to write when there was a knock at the door. Answering it, she saw a very pretty, elegant woman in her early fifties.

Jenny recognized her. Adele Summers was the proprietor of the Colorado Social Club, a house of prostitution.

“Miss Summers,” Jenny said, surprised to see her. “What can I do for you?”

“I hope it is something I can do for you,” Adele replied. “I’ve heard of your problem, and how the school board, a bunch of ninnies, fired you. I would like for you to come work for me, and I will pay you three times more money than you were making teaching school.”

“Oh, Miss Summers, uh, I thank you, I really do. But I don’t think I could do something like—”

“Hear me out before you reply. It isn’t what you think.”

“Oh?”

“I’m not asking you to be a prostitute,” Adele said. “Not for a minute. I don’t know what you know about the Social Club, but it isn’t your ordinary house of prostitution. We have a very high-classed clientele. I would want you to meet our clients when they arrive, and for those clients who would enjoy such a thing, spend a little time with them, talking to them, having a drink with them, and making them feel welcome. That’s all.”

Jenny thought back to her time working in the grand salon on the Delta Mist and smiled. That was exactly what she did then. “You mean you want me to be a hostess.”

“Yes!” Adele replied with a wide smile. “Yes, that is exactly what you would be. You would be a hostess and nothing more.”

Kiowa, Colorado—November 11

A rather short, beady-eyed man with a red, splotchy face and thin blond hair dismounted in front of the Kiowa Jail. Tying his horse at the hitching rail, he went inside. Three men were in the front, two of them in conversation. The third sat behind a desk in the far corner of the room. The sign on his desk read ADAM CARTER—SHERIFF—ELBERT COUNTY.

“Can I help you?” one of the two deputies asked.

“You’ve got my brother in jail. I want to visit him.”

“What’s your name?”

“Ward, Bob Ward.”

The deputy shook his head. “We don’t have anyone by that name in jail.”

“You’ve got Michael Santelli here, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“That’s my brother.”

“Your brother?”

“We have the same mother. We don’t have the same father.”

Sheriff Carter looked up. “Ward? Isn’t there some paper out on you, Ward?”

“Not ’ny more, Sheriff. I was let out of prison two months ago. You can check.”

“All right. Mason, let him see his brother.”

“Take your pistol belt off and lay it on the desk,” Deputy Mason said.