“Are you expecting something—or someone?” she asked.
“Nope, not at all. Just wondering why the westbound’s still here.”
“I reckon I can tell you that,” said Preacher. “The snow’s so deep in the passes up yonder that iron horse can’t get through.”
Smoke suspected that the old mountain man was right, but he still wanted to find out for sure. He didn’t have any particular reason for doing so, but he was in the habit of indulging his curiosity whenever he could.
“You go ahead.” Sally knew him well enough to know that once he got his mind set on something, he had to go through with it. “I’ll see you later at Louis’s. We can have lunch there.”
That idea put a grin on Smoke’s face. There wasn’t a better place in Big Rock to eat, not even Delmonico’s. He waved a farewell as Sally sent the buggy horse trotting on toward the church.
Preacher said to him, “Reckon we’ll go on down to the depot with you. Might be somethin’ interestin’ goin’ on, although I sorta doubt it.”
“Only one way to find out,” Chance put in with a smile.
The five men rode to the station, dismounted, and tied their horses at the hitch rails in front of the big, redbrick building. As they opened the doors and walked into the large, drafty, high-ceilinged waiting room, Smoke spotted Phil Clinton talking to the stationmaster, Sam Bailey. Clinton, the editor and publisher of the Big Rock Journal, was writing quickly on a pad of paper.
There must be some sort of story here after all, thought Smoke.
He noticed a large group of children, probably close to twenty in all, being herded through the lobby by a couple women and a man. The adults were dressed like Easterners, and all three had strained, worried expressions on their faces.
Smoke and his companions went up to the stationmaster and the newspaperman. He nodded in greeting. “Sam, Phil. What’s going on?”
Bailey’s prominent Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he said, “The snow is too deep in the passes for the trains to get through, so the line’s shut down for the time being.”
Preacher nodded, a satisfied look on his face because his prediction had proven accurate.
“The train’s stuck here,” Bailey went on. He lowered his voice. “And so are all those dang orphans.”
“Orphans?” Smoke repeated.
Clinton told him, “This is one of those orphan trains. You’ve probably heard of them, Smoke.”
Smoke shook his head. “Can’t say as I have.”
“I have,” Ace said. “Some group back East brings orphans out West where they find new families and get adopted. I’ve read about it in the newspaper.”
“You can read about it in the Journal in a few days, too,” Clinton said. “I’ll be doing a story about these particular orphans being stranded here.” He eyed Eagle-Eye, Ace, and Chance. “I don’t believe I’m acquainted with these gentlemen. . . .” As a newspaperman, he was always interested in newcomers to Big Rock. You never could tell when a visitor to the settlement might be worth a few lines of type in the paper.
Smoke said, “You’ve met Preacher, of course. This is an old friend of his, Eagle-Eye Callahan.”
“Eagle-Eye,” said Clinton. “That’s certainly a colorful nickname, Mr. Callahan.”
“I got it ’cause I’m so sharp-eyed,” Eagle-Eye said proudly.
Clinton nodded. “That’s what I assumed.”
“And these two young fellas are Ace and Chance Jensen,” Smoke went on.
“Ah, relatives of yours?” Clinton asked.
“Not that we know of, but they’re good friends anyway. We met down in Texas last year.”
Clinton smiled at Ace and Chance. “As visitors, what are your impressions of Big Rock?”
“Seems like a mighty nice place,” Ace said.
“It is,” Smoke said. “You couldn’t say the same thing about Fontana, the first settlement in this area. It was a mile or two from here, and it was full of outlaws and killers.”
“What happened to it?” asked Chance.
Preacher chuckled. “Smoke happened to it. That’s enough of an answer, right there.”
“Oh,” Ace said. He and Chance nodded as if they knew exactly what the old mountain man meant.
Smoke let that pass. He wasn’t the sort to boast about any of his accomplishments—and he had plenty of them—especially considering the fact that he was still a relatively young man. To change the subject, he asked, “What’s going to happen to those orphans?“
Sam Bailey shook his head. “I reckon we’re going to have to try to find a place for them to stay. It won’t be easy. There are twenty of ’em, as well as the three folks who are taking care of ’em. I’m not sure the hotel can accommodate that many.”
An idea popped into Smoke’s head. He didn’t know if it would work out—and he didn’t know if Sally would go along with it—but he thought there was a good chance she would. She loved children and had mentioned more than once that someday she wanted to have a whole houseful of her own.
It might be good practice for that, thought Smoke, although he was sure she never had in mind having twenty children of her own!
“Sam, why don’t you let me talk to the folks who are in charge of those kids? Maybe we could put them up out at the Sugarloaf. Some of them, anyway. I’m not sure we’d have room for all twenty. I’d have to talk to Sally about that.”
“Shoot, if you could take half of them, that would be a big help, Smoke,” Bailey replied. “The folks at the hotel might be able to find a place for the others. If you’re sure you want to make such a generous offer, come along and I’ll introduce you to the people in charge.”
“Let’s do that,” Smoke said with a decisive nod.
As the men started toward the group of children that had gathered on the other side of the big waiting room, Preacher said quietly to Smoke, “You sure it’s a good idea doin’ this without talkin’ to Sally first?”
“She’ll be fine with it,” Smoke said confidently. “Anyway, it’s only for a few days, more than likely. How much trouble can a few kids be?”
CHAPTER 29
The sound of numerous footsteps approaching from behind her made Mercy Halliday turn around. She almost gasped at the sight of the men crossing the lobby toward her.
They looked so . . . She couldn’t come up with the right description. Threatening wasn’t the word since they all appeared friendly enough.
But they still seemed dangerous somehow. All of them were wearing guns except the stationmaster, whom she recognized. The man had talked to her and the Gallaghers earlier to explain the situation.
A ruggedly handsome ash-blond man with extraordinarily broad shoulders appeared to be the leader. Accompanying him were two older men wearing buckskins, and two younger men, one big and attractive in a rough-hewn way and the other slightly smaller and more conventionally handsome. Unlike the others, he wore a suit and had a more sophisticated air about him.
“Peter,” Mercy said.
He turned toward her with a harassed expression on his face. “What—” He stopped short as he saw the men coming toward them. His eyes widened and Mercy thought he looked frightened. She could understand that. The Western men were rather daunting.
The leader’s voice was quiet, controlled, and polite as he stopped in front of them and pinched the brim of his hat “Ma’am.” He nodded to Grace and added another respectful, “Ma’am. I hear you folks have a considerable responsibility on your hands.”
“You could certainly say that,” Peter responded. “We have to look after all these children and find a place for them to stay because of this abominable weather.”
“Mr. Jensen here thinks he can help you out with that,” the stationmaster said. “By the way, this is Smoke Jensen, one of the valley’s leading citizens.”
Hearing that description seemed to make Peter a little more amenable. He nodded, only a little grudgingly. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Jensen. I’m Peter Gallagher
. This is my wife Mrs. Gallagher and our associate Miss Halliday. We’re with the Children’s Aid Society of New York City.”
“New York City,” one of the older men said. “I was there once. Didn’t care much for it. Like to broke my neck lookin’ up at the buildin’s. Some of ’em musta been three or four stories tall.”
“Not like the mountains, eh, Preacher?” Smoke said with a smile. He turned back to Mercy and the Gallaghers. “This is my old friend Preacher and his friend Eagle-Eye Callahan.”
“Very colorful nomenclature,” muttered Peter.
“Norman who?” said Preacher.
Smoke ignored the exchange. “And those two young fellas are Ace and Chance Jensen.”
Judging by the way they nodded as Smoke said their names, Mercy figured the bigger of the two was Ace, while the one in the brown suit was Chance. If that was right, he was the one who took his hat off and held it over his chest. “It sure is a pleasure to meet you folks.”
The way he was looking at her when he said it made it seem that he was talking directly to her. She felt her face flush momentarily but didn’t know if the reaction was from embarrassment or pleasure.
Peter asked, “What is it we can do for you gentlemen?”
“It’s what we can do for you, I hope,” Smoke said. “My wife and I have a ranch with a large ranch house several miles west of town. We’ve got plenty of room for some of you folks if you’d like to stay with us. I reckon we can take at least half of the youngsters.”
Peter frowned. “That’s a very generous offer, but I don’t know if we should split up the group—”
“I don’t see why not, Peter,” his wife interrupted him. “Mr. Bailey already told us there might not be enough room at the hotel for all of them.”
“Yes, but we haven’t even checked with the hotel yet.”
Mercy could tell he was irritated that Grace had spoken up.
He bristled. “I really ought to do that. I think it would be best to keep the children together if we can.”
“Of course, dear. Whatever you say,” Grace murmured.
“That’s fine,” Smoke said. “We’ll be in town until sometime this afternoon. If you’d like to take me up on the offer, I’ll be at Longmont’s Saloon.”
“A saloon?” Peter repeated, clearly not happy about the idea of venturing into such an establishment.
“It’s a restaurant, too,” Smoke explained. “Not as fancy as what you’ve got back in New York, I reckon, but plenty respectable, even for the ladies.”
“I can vouch for that,” the stationmaster said. “Longmont’s is nothing like the Brown Dirt Cowboy.”
Peter’s lip curled as he said, “The Brown Dirt Cowboy?”
Mercy wished he wouldn’t be quite so condescending. Mr. Jensen and his companions seemed like nice men, and there was no need to insult them. She watched their reactions and decided they didn’t seem bothered by Peter’s attitude.
Smoke touched a finger to his hat brim again. “See you folks later.”
Chance added, “I surely do hope so.”
Again, Mercy felt her face warming.
When the men had walked off, Peter said quietly, “It’s out of the question that we’ll let them take any of the children out to that ranch. Can you imagine? It just wouldn’t be safe. There are all sorts of things that could happen to them, and they’re our responsibility.”
“I doubt if they would be in any more danger on a ranch than they were on the streets of New York, where they came from,” Grace pointed out. “If anything, probably less so, since they’d have Mr. Jensen and his friends looking out for them. He’s certainly quite an . . . impressive . . . individual.”
“You really think so? He seemed like just another roughneck cowboy to me.”
“Then you weren’t paying enough attention, Peter.”
He frowned at his wife’s comment. “I’m going to the hotel to see about the situation there. You and Mercy stay here and keep an eye on the children.” Without giving them a chance to agree or disagree, he strode off, leaving them behind.
Mercy wasn’t sure how she hoped the situation would turn out. The idea of spending a few days out of town on a ranch was intriguing, but also a little frightening. Would there be outlaws? Savage Indians? She had made several Western trips, but she’d never ventured far away from the train stations. All she really knew about frontier life came from the illustrated newspapers, and they weren’t noted for their restraint.
The children were restless, of course. They didn’t like being told to sit on the benches in the waiting room and be still and quiet. That went against their nature. Mercy and Grace stood nearby, watching them to make sure no one wandered off, while they waited for Peter to come back from the hotel.
Mercy was taken a little by surprise when a deep voice asked from behind her, “Who were your new friends?”
She turned quickly to see Ed Rinehart standing there with a curious expression on his lean face.
He’d had mixed emotions about the idea of being stuck in Big Rock for a few days. Although the delay could give him a chance to get to know the boy called Caleb better and maybe find out for sure if he was really Donald Litchfield, little towns made him nervous. He was accustomed to life in the big city. But there was nothing he could do about the snowfall in the mountains, so he resolved himself to making the best of the situation. That might well involve spending more time with Mercy Halliday, and he couldn’t complain about that.
He’d seen her and the Gallaghers talking to a bunch of cowboys, and for some reason that had bothered him. Maybe it had something to do with the way one of them kept smiling warmly at Mercy every time he said something. As soon as the men and Peter had departed, the detective had indulged his curiosity and strolled over to where the women were waiting with the children.
Mercy smiled. “Oh, Mr. Rinehart . . . I mean, Ed. I thought you’d left and gone to the hotel.”
“No, I’ve just been waiting to see what was going to happen.” Keeping an eye on her and the children was what he really meant, of course. “I saw you talking to those fellows. Seems like nearly everybody out here packs a gun.”
“Yes, it’s very different from New York, isn’t it? I suppose the frontier is dangerous enough that most people feel the need to be armed.”
“I suppose so,” Rinehart agreed, not mentioning that he had a pistol in the pocket of his overcoat, a derringer in his vest pocket, a knife in a sheath strapped to his left forearm, and a sap and a pair of brass knuckles in another overcoat pocket.
Mercy said, “The gentleman I was talking to is named Smoke Jensen.”
“Smoke. That’s an odd name.”
“I’m sure it’s a nickname. At any rate, he’s a rancher and has a large house not too far from town. He suggested that some of the children could stay with him and his wife if there’s not room for them here in town.”
Grace was listening unabashedly to their conversation. She put in her thoughts about it. “I think the children would really enjoy that. A chance to spend some time on a real ranch, I mean.”
“Maybe so,” Rinehart said, but he didn’t much care for the idea. He needed to watch over Caleb and the other boys about the same age, at least until he determined which one was really Donald Litchfield. That would be more difficult to do if some or all of them were out at some ranch where anything might happen.
Of course, he had to admit that the men who had been talking to Mercy had certainly appeared capable of handling any trouble that might come up.
“Peter’s opposed to the idea,” Grace went on.
That right there was almost enough to be in favor of it, Rinehart thought wryly. He looked at Mercy and asked, “What do you think?”
“I’m not sure. As Grace says, the children might enjoy it. One of us would have to go with them, though. We couldn’t send them out to Mr. Jensen’s ranch without someone from the Society watching out for them.”
Grace shook her head. “Peter would never do
it. He would consider such a thing ‘roughing it’, like in Mr. Twain’s book.”
“I suppose I could go. . . .” Mercy said.
Rinehart tried not to frown. He didn’t want to let Caleb out of his sight, and he felt the same way about Mercy. He gave thought to some way to get himself invited to go along, if indeed things worked out that way.
A few minutes later, he saw Peter Gallagher striding back into the railroad station. Gallagher seemed upset, and that didn’t bode well.
Didn’t look promising, Rinehart thought.
“What did you find out, Peter?” Grace asked as her husband came up to them.
“That lout at the hotel said there was only room for eight of the children. It seems that the place is busier than usual because people are in town to visit relatives over the holidays or some such humbug. Also, the town puts on a big Christmas Eve celebration, and a lot of people have come in from outlying ranches and the like for that. What a terrible confluence of circumstances. I told the man we could put ten children in each room and let them sleep on the floor, but he wouldn’t allow it.”
“Well, then,” said Grace, “I don’t see what else we can do other than accept Mr. Jensen’s kind offer.”
“I won’t hear of it. Perhaps we can appeal to the local churches and see if there are families in town that will take in a child or two apiece—”
“Oh, Peter, that’s an excellent idea!” Mercy exclaimed.
“It is?” He looked more than a little surprised that she would make such a comment about any of his suggestions.
Rinehart felt the same way.
“Yes, it is,” Mercy went on. “The whole idea was to find good homes for the children and arrange for them to be adopted. We don’t have to go all the way to Sacramento to do that. We can see if there are families right here in this town, or at least in the area, who would welcome a child with love.”
“You mean . . . they could be adopted here?”
“Why not? And until we can arrange that, perhaps Mr. Jensen and his wife would be willing to take in all of them for the time being. They could spend Christmas on . . . what was it he called his ranch?”
A Colorado Christmas Page 20
