Authors: William W. Johnstone

A Rocky Mountain Christmas (24 page)

BOOK: A Rocky Mountain Christmas

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C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY
-
ONE

On the mountain

Smoke and Duff had been climbing for the better part of four hours, encountering one obstacle after another. On three separate occasions, they had come to an absolute halt. Each time, they had to backtrack, sometimes for two or three miles, until they found another route.

With each subsequent try the trail became more difficult. Walking in snowshoes made the trek more manageable, but it was still exhausting. They stopped, then sat down under a juniper tree, drawing in huge, heaving breaths that filled their lungs with cold air and caused their chests to hurt.

“It’s hard enough just to get your breath at this altitude,” Smoke pointed out. “It’s even more difficult when you are exerting yourself as hard as we are.”

“This trail seems somewhat more difficult than any of the others we have tried, so far,” Duff said.

“It is. The other trails were much easier going, but as you saw, each of those trails reached a point to where we could go no farther. I would rather have the trail difficult, but with no insurmountable obstacle, than to have an easy trail that comes to a dead end.”

“Aye, you have a point there,” Duff agreed.

Ward was exhausted. He had not thought about bringing snowshoes, and struggled mightily with each step he took. Twice he lost trail of the two men he was following, only to see them coming back down the trail toward him. In those cases he was glad to be far enough away they didn’t come across his tracks.

Panting hard, he pulled his feet up from the snow, feeling agony from the cold and the heavy breathing.

Grumbling about snowshoes, he continued on through the snow, step by agonizing step, when he noticed the men had stopped. Resting. Immediately, the solution came to him. He would kill them, take their snowshoes, then go on to the train carrying the extra pair of snowshoes. Once he reached the train he would give the other pair to his brother, abandon the men he had recruited to help him, and he and his brother would split the five thousand dollars between them. He gauged the distance between him and the two men to be no more than about fifty yards, an easy shot with the rifle. Raising the Winchester .30-06 to his shoulder, he aimed at the one farthest away, then pulled the trigger.

Smoke leaned forward to adjust his foot in the snowshoe, which proved to be a fortuitous move. He heard the pop of the bullet as it passed close to his ear, and knew what it was, even before he heard the sound of the rifle shot.

“What is it?” Duff called, looking around.

“Get down!” Smoke called.

As both men began clawing at their heavy coats, trying to get to their pistols, they heard another sound. Not that of a second gunshot, but the heavy thunder of cascading snow.

“Avalanche!” Smoke shouted, and he and Duff crouched behind the tree, looking up at the snow as it came barreling down the side of the mountain.

Smoke was certain he was going to die. He felt no fear, just a sense of wonder that he had survived so many gunfights and close calls only to be killed by an avalanche. His biggest concern was that he had failed Matt and the others on the train.

About three hundred feet above, the avalanche changed direction, and Smoke and Duff watched in fascination as more than a hundred feet of snow snapped trees and gathered rocks as it roared down the side of the mountain and right past them. Miraculously, the avalanche left them in the clear.

Following the moving mountain of snow with their eyes, they saw the shooter swept up into the massive slide. His head and shoulders protruding from the great slide, the man’s face contorted in pain and terror just before he went under. A moment later, the snow appeared red with blood in spots, then the avalanche continued down the hill, breaking trees off at the trunk, the loud pops sounding like explosions. As the avalanche rolled on down the side of the mountain, the sound, in Doppler effect, decreased in volume until, way down at the bottom of the mountain, the crashing trees sounded more like snapping twigs.

“That was close.” Smoke stood up in amazement.

“Aye, indeed it was. Who was that fellow, Smoke, and why was he shooting at us?”

Smoke shook his head. “I don’t have the slightest idea.” He let out a long, frustrated sigh. “After this, though, I don’t see how we are ever going to make it up the rest of the way. I wouldn’t be surprised if this didn’t close every path there was. I’m not ready to give up yet, but—” Smoke stopped in mid-sentence and looked up the side of the mountain. “God in heaven! It can’t be!”

“What is it? What are you talking about?” Duff craned his neck to see what Smoke was looking at.

“You don’t see him?”

“See who?”

“How can you not see him? He’s no more than fifty feet away!” Smoke said, pointing.

“The shooter? How can that be?” Duff asked in confusion.

“No, not the shooter. The mountain man! But it can’t be who I think it is. It can’t be!”

“Lad, have ye gone daft? There is no one in the direction you are pointing, be it fifty or a hundred feet away.”

The man Smoke saw was an old mountain man dressed in buckskins and a bear coat. He was carrying a Hawkens .50 caliber muzzle-loading rifle, and he was smiling at Smoke. “It’s good to see you again, boy.”

Smoke shook his head. “This isn’t possible.”

“Smoke, what are you talking about? Who are you talking to?” Duff asked, puzzled by Smoke’s strange actions.

“Are you going to tell me that you don’t see anyone there?” Smoke asked.

Duff looked again in the direction Smoke was pointing, then looked back at Smoke with an expression of confusion on his face. “I see nothing.”

“Never mind the Scotsman,” the old mountain man said. “Follow me. I’ll show you the way.”

“How did you—?” Smoke asked, but the mountain man interrupted him.

“We’ve no time for palaverin’ now, boy. We have to get a move on it. Ain’t that right, honey?”

A little girl, who appeared to be about nine years old, stepped out from behind the old mountain man.

“We need you, Mr. Smoke,” the little girl said. “Please come help us.”

“What? God in Heaven, who are you?”

“My name is Becky.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I came from the train.”

“Where are your mama and daddy? Do they know you are here?”

“They think I’m asleep,” Becky said.

“Yes, and well you should be. You’ve got no business being out in this weather. You’ll freeze to death!”

“Please hurry,” the little girl said. “We need you. Everyone on the train needs you.”

“What is she doing here?” Smoke asked the old mountain man. “Did you bring her?”

“No, she came on her own, just to show you how much those folks on the train need you.”

“Smoke, would you be wanting me to drag the sled now?” Duff asked.

Smoke looked at Duff, then back at the mountain man and the angelic little girl who was standing beside him. Both seemed to be glowing in some sort of ethereal light.

“Old man, can I ask you something?”

The old mountain man chuckled. “Now, Smoke, would you tell me when, for as long as I have known you, you have ever needed permission to ask me a question?”

“I’ve never seen you . . . uh . . . quite like this, before,” Smoke said.

“All right, ask the question.”

“Why hasn’t Duff said anything about you or the little girl? Does he see you?”

“Duff has his own reality,” the mountain man said. “And you have yours.”

“Reality? Is that what you call this?”

“What do you call it?” the old mountain man asked.

“I don’t know what to call it.” Smoke looked at the little girl again, and thought that he had never seen a more beautiful child.

Smoke turned to Duff. “Do you see this old man and this young girl standing here before us?”

Duff was down on one knee, adjusting the cord to the sled. He gave no indication he had even heard Smoke.

“Why doesn’t he answer me?”

“He doesn’t hear you.”

“How can he not hear me? He’s right here.”

“I told you. He has his own reality.”

“Are you saying I’m not a part of his reality?

“Sometimes you are and sometimes you aren’t.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“Do you think that when a caterpillar is born, he knows someday he will be a butterfly?” the old mountain man asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Then let’s leave it at that. Just because you don’t know, doesn’t mean that it isn’t real.”

“All right, let’s accept this as my reality. How are we going to get up to the train? There’s no way up the side of this mountain. It’s for sure the avalanche has closed every passage.”

“Not every passage,” the old mountain man explained. “Come along and follow me. I know a way. Have I ever steered you wrong?”

“Are you sure the avalanche has closed every passage?” Duff asked Smoke. “Or would you like to go on and see if we can find something? If you want to go on, I’m willing to go with you.”

“You heard that? You heard me say that the avalanche had closed all the passages?”

“Of course I heard it. I’m standing right here.”

“But you didn’t hear me talking to the little girl.”

“What little girl?”

“Never mind. Are you game to keep going?”

“Aye. ’Tis for sure ’n certain we can’t turn back now,” Duff said. “You know this mountain, I don’t. But I’ve got confidence you can find a way up for us.”

“He’s got faith in me, and he doesn’t even see me.” The old mountain man snickered.

“Ha. He said he has faith in
me
,” Smoke boasted.

“It’s the same thing, my boy.”

“Where is the little girl? What happened to her?”

“What little girl?”

“She said her name is Becky.”

The old mountain man chuckled. “Like I said, boy. You’ve got your own reality. Now, are you ready or not?”

“I’m ready,” Smoke said.

“Good. Then I’m with you,” Duff answered. “I’ll draw the sled for a while.”

The old mountain man led the way, trudging up the hill. He wasn’t wearing snowshoes, but that didn’t matter because he wasn’t sinking into the snow. The trail became much easier as they went through areas that looked as if a channel had been dug just to clear the way.

“Smoke, have you noticed something curious?” Duff asked as they made their way up the mountain.

“Everything about this is curious,” Smoke replied. “I’m glad to see that you have finally noticed.”

“How can you not notice this trail?” Duff asked. “It’s just seems too easy to be real, and I’ve got a feeling we’re going come upon a sheer rock cliff, or something else just as impassable. I can’t actually believe we’ve found a path that leads to the top.”

“It’s all a matter of reality,” Smoke said. “Yours and mine.”

“What?”

“Nothing. Apparently we have found a good trail, at least so far. But you may be right. We might wind up somewhere that is totally impassable.”

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY
-
TWO

Pueblo

Adele declared an open house on Christmas Eve. A huge, silver bowl was filled with eggnog, and cookies, fudge, pies, and cakes were laid out on the table beside it. Several of the town’s leading businessmen were present, though she had put out the word earlier the night was to be social only. None of her girls would be available for anything more than friendly parlor conversation.

One of Adele’s girls was playing the piano in the keeping room and a group of carolers, men and women, were gathered around it.

“God rest you merry gentlemen,
Let nothing you dismay,
Remember, Christ our Saviour
Was born on Christmas day,
To save as all from Satan’s power
When we were gone astray.
O tidings of comfort and joy,
Comfort and joy,
O tidings of comfort and joy.”

The Social Club was well decorated for Christmas, with staircase and fireplace mantel festooned with bunting and evergreen boughs. A large tree was decorated with ornaments and red and green rope, as well as candles. The candle flames were shielded by glass globes to prevent the flames from coming into contact with the pine needles.

“This is quite a party you are putting on, Adele.” Charles Matthews was president of the largest bank in Pueblo.

“If you can’t celebrate at Christmas, when can you celebrate?” Adele replied.

“You have certainly gone all out with the food. I don’t believe I have ever eaten so well. So far I’ve had cookies and a piece of cake. I thought I might try a piece of cherry pie as well, if I can find room. But I’m stuffed.”

“I feel a bit guilty,” Adele said. “Here we are surrounded by food, while up at the pass, an entire trainload of people are starving. And that includes Jenny McCoy, bless her heart.”

“Jenny McCoy? She’s on that train? Well, no wonder I haven’t seen her tonight. I figured she would be sitting on a sofa somewhere, holding court with her many admirers.”

“No, she’s been gone for the better part of a week now.”

“Gone to visit someone for Christmas, has she?”

Adele shook her head. “No. Mr. Matthews, are you not aware that she was run out of town by Judge Briggs?”

“Ha! You mean former Judge Briggs, don’t you? He’s in jail now, which is exactly where he should be. And no, I wasn’t aware. What do you mean she was run out of town? Why would that be? From what I know of Jenny McCoy, she has done nothing that would cause her to be run out of town. Why, she wasn’t even one of your girls. Not in the traditional sense. Unless there were certain, uh, special people who could enjoy her favors, of whom I’m not aware. At least, I was never able to do more than have a conversation with her.”

“There were no special people who could enjoy her favors,” Adele said. “For all the time she was here, she remained chaste.”

“Then what happened to cause Briggs to run her out of town?”

“She was hosting the Honorable Lorenzo Crounse, Governor of Nebraska, in the tearoom, when some armed brigands broke in on them. They forced poor Jenny to disrobe, then took a picture of her, sitting nude beside the governor.”

“Uh-oh. That sounds like political chicanery,” Matthews said.

“Yes, I’m sure it was,” Adele said. “And I wouldn’t be surprised if Briggs was behind it.”

“I don’t doubt that for a moment. Well, he won’t be doing things like that anymore. I expect he is going to spend a long time in jail.” Matthews chuckled. “And here is the interesting thing. A lot of his fellow inmates will be people that he put there.”

“What poor timing. If Briggs had gone to jail a week or so ago, Jenny would be right here, enjoying the party along with the rest of us.” Adele was quiet for a long moment. “Instead she is trapped on that train, starving to death.”

“Well, it’s too late to do anything about her being on that train, but we can certainly make it so she can come back to Pueblo,” Matthews said. “That is, if she wants to. After the shabby way she was treated, she may not even want to come back.”

“You are right about that. Jenny is a young woman with a lot of personal pride and self-confidence. Coming back to Pueblo might be about the last thing she has on her mind. But I think she ought to have to option to come back if she wants to.”

“Yes, well, I don’t know what made Briggs think he could run her off in the first place. But with him no longer on the bench, his order that she be run out of town is certainly without authority now. I tell you what, the mayor is over there. I’m sure he has the authority to vacate Briggs’s order. Especially since Briggs has been removed from the bench.”

“Oh, do you think so?” A smile of hope crossed Adele’s face.

“I not only think so, I’m so sure of it I’ll go ask him right now.”

“I’ll go with you.”

His Honor Mayor C. E. “Daddy” Felker, a man of rather imposing girth, was sitting on the sofa, squeezed between two of Adele’s girls. It was obvious he didn’t mind the closeness, as he had a big smile on his face when Matthews and Adele approached him.

“Merry Christmas, Mr. Mayor,” Adele greeted.

“Yes, yes indeed, Merry Christmas,” Felker replied. “What a wonderful party you are throwing tonight.”

“It would be more wonderful if Jenny were here.”

“Oh, that’s right. She was forced to leave town, wasn’t she? Such a shame. She would have been a wonderful addition to the party.”

“She was run out of town by Amon Briggs,” Matthews informed.

“Amon Briggs. What a disreputable character he turned out to be,” Felker said. “I expect we will find that he was involved in a lot more chicanery than we even know about.”

“Mr. Mayor, you could undo some of the evil Briggs did,” Matthews suggested.

“Oh? And how is that?”

“You could vacate his order that Jenny McCoy be banished.”

“Do I have the authority to do that?”

“Who is going to tell you that you don’t? You are the mayor.”

“Yes.” Felker pounded his knee. “Yes, by golly, I am the mayor, aren’t I? You know, I believe I do have the authority to do that.”

“And will you do it?” Adele asked.

“Consider it done, my dear.”

Fifteen minutes later, Adele was at the telegraph office in the Denver and Pacific Depot. “I understand that we have been getting telegrams from the trapped train.”

“Yes, that is true. Mr. Bailey, the conductor, used to be a telegrapher and they have tapped into the wire.”

“Is it possible to send a telegraph to someone on the train?”

“Yes, we have already sent a few. Do you wish to send one?”

“Yes.”

“Who will be the recipient?”

“Jenny McCoy.”

“Jenny McCoy? You mean the young woman who was run out of town?”

“Yes, that is the Jenny McCoy I’m talking about,” Adele said pointedly.

“All right.” The telegrapher picked up a pencil and a pad. “What is the message?”

“Judge Briggs is gone. Mayor Felker says you can come back. I hope that you are willing to do so. And sign it Adele.”

“Very well. I’ll send it,” the telegrapher said.

As Adele left the telegrapher, she heard some carolers singing, and she stopped, just long enough to listen.

“Silent night, holy night
All is calm all is bright
’Round yon virgin Mother and Child
Holy infant so tender and mild
Sleep in heavenly peace
Sleep in heavenly peace.”

Adele stepped into the narthex of St. Paul’s Episcopal Church. Despite her profession, she was a very religious woman. Dipping her fingers into the baptismal font, she made the sign of the cross and thought back to when she had asked Father Pyron, the Episcopal priest, if he would accept her in his parish, and if she would be allowed to take the Eucharist.

“And why wouldn’t I allow it?” Father Pyron replied.

“Because I am a prostitute,” Adele said. “Well, I’m not really a prostitute, at least, not any longer. But I’m sure you know that I run a house of prostitution.”

“Have you considered closing it?”

“I have considered closing it. But if I did, where would my girls go? What would they do? They would wind up in cribs somewhere, barely eking out a living. And without my protection, some might even be killed.”

Father Pyron smiled. “You do have a powerful argument for your sin. But it has been suggested that Mary Magdalene was a prostitute. ‘She whom Luke calls the sinful woman, whom John calls Mary, previously used the unguent to perfume her flesh in forbidden acts.’ And of course, we know that Mary Magdalene was present at the crucifixion, the burial, and the resurrection. So if Jesus could accept Mary, then who am I to deny you the rite of communion?”

That conversation had taken place two years ago, and Adele had been a regular parishioner ever since.

She walked down to the chancel, genuflected before the cross, then knelt at the rail, crossed herself again, and prayed aloud. “Please, Lord, be with Jenny and all the other poor people trapped on that train. And let her find it in her heart to forgive the town, and return.”

She crossed herself again, stood and genuflected one more time, then left the church. She walked back to the depot, on the chance that Jenny might answer the telegram.

On board the train

When the telegraph began to clatter again, Bailey hurried over to it to write down the message. “Mrs. McCoy. This message is for you.”

“For me?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Who would be sending me a message?”

“It’s signed by the person who sent it,” Bailey said.

Jenny read the message, then felt tears welling up in her eyes.”

“Jenny!” Luke said. He hurried to her. “What is it? Is something wrong?”

“No. Something is right.” She smiled through her tears and showed the message to Luke. “It’s from Adele, and it looks like we might be able to have that dinner together after all.”

Luke read the message, then embraced Jenny.

“Mr. Bailey, can I send a message back to Adele?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Bailey said. “What do you want to send?”

“I want to say, Thank you, Adele, so much for this welcome news. I am sure you had a lot to do with it, and I’m very grateful. And sign it Jenny.”

Bailey translated the message into telegraph speak and sent it on its way.

BOOK: A Rocky Mountain Christmas

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