A Rocky Mountain Christmas

by William W. Johnstone

  A ROCKY MOUNTAIN CHRISTMAS

  WILLIAM W. JOHNSTONE with J. A. Johnstone

  PINNACLE BOOKS

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  EPILOGUE

  Turn the page for an exciting preview

  Copyright Page

  Notes

  PROLOGUE

  Lambert Field, St. Louis, Missouri—

  December 20, 1961

  Rebecca Daniels Robison awaited her flight in the comfort of the Admiral’s Lounge. A huge Christmas tree sparkled with blinking lights and shining ornaments and Christmas music played softly over the lounge speakers. Rebecca was reading the newspaper when she was approached by a very attractive young woman.

  “Ambassador Robison? My name is Margaret Chambers, and I’m a reporter for the St. Louis Globe-Democrat. I wonder if you would consent to an interview?”

  “Why would you want to interview me, dear? I’m no longer an ambassador.”

  “No, but you are still active on the international scene, and a recent poll put you as the country’s most admired woman.”

  “Nonsense, my dear. Eleanor Roosevelt is the most admired woman.”

  Margaret laughed. “You came in second, and Mrs. Roosevelt doesn’t count. She’s been the most admired woman for the last thirteen years.”

  “And rightly so,” Rebecca said. “She has certainly been most gracious to me, over the years.”

  A voice came over the intercom. “Attention passengers, all flights are on temporary hold until the runways can be cleared of snow.”

  “I was about to say there wouldn’t be time for an interview,” Rebecca said. “But it appears that my flight has been delayed, so I would be happy to talk to you. I suppose you want to hear about my time as ambassador to Greece.”

  “No, ma’am,” Margaret said. “I’m doing a story for our special Christmas edition. I understand you once had a most harrowing Christmas experience when you were a child.”

  “Harrowing? Yes, I suppose it was, though that’s not exactly the word I would use. But it was also the most uplifting experience of my life.”

  “Could you share that story with our readers?”

  “How much do you know about that incident?”

  “Hardly anything. Just that you’ve been very reluctant to discuss it in all these years and that you’ve turned down every request for it. Your father was a U.S. Senator then . . .”

  “A state senator in Colorado,” Rebecca corrected.

  “Yes, thank you. According to what little information exists, you and your family were on a train going from Pueblo to Red Cliff, Colorado, during a blizzard.”

  “That’s correct. But that is only part of the story. If I told you everything, I’m afraid you would have a very difficult time believing it. Which is why I have never told the story before.”

  Margaret held her little narrow reporter’s pad on her knee and raised her pencil, poised to take notes. “Why don’t you try me? I would love to hear the entire stor y.”

  “Margaret, is it?”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  “Well, since my plane is delayed, Margaret, I will tell you the whole story of that Christmas so long ago. I’m almost eighty years old and don’t much care if people think I’m a crazy old lady or not. I guess now is as good a time as any to finally tell it. “

  “Thank you, Ambassador Robison.”

  “Let’s sit down, Margaret. And please, no questions until I am done.”

  CHAPTER ONE

  New Orleans, Louisiana—July 9, 1889

  The Delta Mist was moored to the bank, running parallel with Tchoupitoulas Street. Matt Jensen showed his ticket to the purser, then boarded the vessel, a packet boat that made the run between St. Louis and New Orleans and back again. Instead of going directly to his stateroom, he stopped at the rail of the texas deck, looking back toward the city of New Orleans, at the flower-bedecked ironwork trellises and balconies, and the belles of New Orleans strolling the streets in butterfly-bright dresses under colorful parasols.

  Of all the cities he had visited, New Orleans was one of the most unique. Although it was an American city, it retained much of its French heritage, and although it was a Southern city, it had its own unique culture, making it stand apart from other cities of the South. Aromas of food, flowers, and a “perfume” distinctive only to New Orleans wafted toward the boat. Music, interspersed with laughter—loud guffaws of men and high trills of women—came from a riverfront bar on Tchoupitoulas Street.

  The captain of the boat stood on the lower deck, frequently pulling out his pocket watch to check the time. It was obvious he was waiting for someone, and whoever it was, was late, contributing to an increasing agitation.

  Matt watched a cab approach the river, the horse in a rapid trot, then pull to a stop at the river’s edge. A woman got out, handed a bill to the driver, and hurried across the gangplank and on to the boat.

  “Uncle, I’m so sorry. I was shopping and lost track of the time,” the woman apologized.

  “Jenny, I can’t hold up the entire boat because my niece can’t keep track of the time,” the captain said.

  From his spot on the texas deck, Matt was able to examine the woman rather closely. She was an exceptionally pretty woman with red hair, a peaches-and-cream complexion, blue eyes, and prominent cheekbones. If one had asked her about her lips, she might suggest they were a bit too full.

  “Mr. Peabody!” the captain called.

  “Aye, sir,” answered one of the other officers.

  “Away all lines. Pull in the gangplank.”

  Matt maintained his position at the rail on the texas deck, watching as the boat crew performed the ordered tasks. Captain Lee had reached the wheelhouse, and once the boat was free of its restraints, a signal was sent to the engine room. Smoke belched from the twin, fluted chimneys and the stern wheel began to turn, pushing the boat away from the bank and into the middle of the Mississippi River. The boat turned upstream, and the great red and yellow paddle wheel began spinning rapidly, leaving behind it a long, frothing wake.

  Jenny Lee worked for her uncle as a hostess in the Grand Salon of the Delta Mist. It was her duty to see to the comfort and needs of the passengers who came into the Grand Salon. She also arranged friendly games of whist, checkers, and even poker for the passengers who wanted to participate.

  Over the past two days, t
he boat had been averaging twelve miles per hour and was approaching Memphis, 704 miles by river from New Orleans. She was passing pleasantries with some of the passengers when a loud, angry voice got the attention of everyone in the salon.

  “No man is that lucky! You have to be cheating!”

  The speaker was standing at one of the tables, and the object of his anger and the subject of his charge was Matt Jensen.

  Unlike the angry man, Matt was composed as he sat across the table.

  Not so the other two players who, at the outburst, had stood up and backed away from the table so quickly they knocked over their chairs.

  For a long moment there was absolute silence in the Grand Salon, with nothing to be heard but the sound of the engine, the slap of the stern paddle, and the whisper of water rushing by the keel.

  “Mister, nobody cheats me and gets away with it,” the man addressed his hostility toward Matt.

  “You’re out of line, Holman.” Dr. Gunter was one of the other players at the table. “Nobody has been cheating at this table.”

  “The hell there ain’t nobody been cheatin’! I ain’t won a hand in the last hour. And he’s won the most of ’em.” Holman reached for the money piled up in the middle of the table. “I’m just goin’ to take this pot to make up for it.”

  “That’s not your pot.” Jay Miller, a lawyer from St. Louis, was the fourth player at the table.

  “Yeah? Well, we’ll just see whose pot it is,” Holman said contemptuously as he started to put the money in his hat.

  “Leave the money on the table, Holman.” Those were the first words Matt had spoken since being challenged.

  “The hell I will. This money is mine, and I’m takin’ it with me.”

  Jenny hurried over to the table. “Mr. Holman, please. You are creating a disturbance, and your behavior is making the passengers uneasy.”

  “Yeah? Well, to hell with the passengers. What kind of boat is this, anyway, that you allow cheaters in the games?”

  “I wasn’t cheating,” Matt pointed out dryly.

  “Mr. Jensen is tellin’ the truth, Miss Lee.” Dr. Gunter pointed toward Matt. “He wasn’t cheatin’.”

  “What do you say, Mr. Miller?” Jenny asked the third man.

  “I’ve played a lot of cards in my day, and I think I can tell when someone is cheating. I don’t believe he was.”

  Jenny looked back at the angry gambler. “These gentlemen don’t agree with you.”

  “Of course they don’t. They are probably in on it. I wouldn’t be surprised if they all get together later on and divide up the money. My money.” Once again, he leaned over the pile of money on the table. “Like I said, I’ll be taking this pot.”

  “Miss Lee, I’ve played cards with Mr. Jensen,” declared a passenger who wasn’t currently in the game. “I’ve never known him to be anything but honest.”

  “Same here,” another put in. “I wasn’t in this game, but I’ve played a few hands with him since we left New Orleans, and I found him to be an honest man. If these two gentlemen who were in the game say he wasn’t cheating, then I would be inclined to believe them.”

  “Mr. Holman, that makes four people who say Mr. Jensen wasn’t cheating. When you play cards for money, you are accepting the possibility of losing. The only thing protecting the game is the honesty, integrity, and honor of the players.”

  “You!” Holman pointed at Jenny. “You are in on it too, aren’t you? You are all in it together.”

  “Look. We were in the same game as you. You think we would take up for him if he was cheating? Hell, we lost money, too,” Miller said.

  “Yeah, well, neither one of you lost as much money as I did.”

  “That’s because neither of them is as bad at cards as you are,” Matt gracelessly pointed out.

  “What do you mean, I’m a bad player? Why, I’m as good at cards as any man.”

  “No, you aren’t,” Matt insisted. “You can’t run a bluff and you raise bets in games of stud when the cards you have showing prove you are beaten. You should find some other game of chance and give up poker.”

  Jenny turned to Matt. “Mr. Jensen, I believe the pot is yours.” She reached for the money to slide it across the table toward him, but Holman pushed her away from the table so hard that she fell.

  He pointed down at her. “Keep your hands off my money. Like I said, I’m takin’ this pot, and there’s nobody here who can stop me.”

  Matt and another passenger helped her up. “Thank you for interceding, Miss Lee, but I think you had better let me handle this now.”

  “Ha!” the angry gambler cried. “You are going to handle this? What do you plan to do?”

  “Oh, I’ll do whatever it takes.” Matt’s calm, almost expressionless reply surprised the angry man.

  The shock showed in his face, but was quickly replaced by an evil smile. He stepped away from the table and flipped his jacket back, showing an ivory-handled pistol in a tooled-leather holster.

  “Mister, maybe it’s time that I tell you who I am. My name ain’t John Holman like I been sayin’. My actual name is Quince Justin Holmes, only some folks call me Quick Justice Holmes because I tend to make my own justice, if you know what I mean.”

  “Quick Justice Holmes,” A passenger repeated in awe. “That’s Quick Justice?”

  “This is gettin’ downright dangerous,” another said.

  “What do you say now?” Holmes asked.

  “I say the same thing I’ve been saying. You aren’t getting that pot,” Matt said resolutely.

  “It won’t matter none to you whether I get the pot or not, ’cause you ain’t goin’ to be around to see it,” Holmes said, his voice menacing.

  “Does this mean you are inviting me to the dance?” Matt asked, still calm.

  Holmes laughed. “Yeah, you might say that. I’ll even let you make the first move.”

  Despite his offer, his hand was already dipping for his pistol, even as he was speaking. He smiled as he realized his draw had caught Matt by surprise. But the smile left his face when he saw Matt’s draw.

  To the witnesses, it appeared Matt and Holmes fired at the same time. But in actuality, Matt fired just a split second sooner and the impact of his bullet took Holmes off his aim. Holmes’s bullet whizzed by Matt’s ear and punched through the glass of one of the windows of the Grand Salon.

  “I’ll be damned! I’ve been kilt!” Holmes cried as he staggered back from the blow of the bullet.

  “You could have prevented it at any time,” Matt uttered.

  Holmes dropped his gun and clamped his hand over the wound in his chest. Blood spilled through his fingers, and he opened his hand to look at it before he collapsed.

  Matt returned his pistol to his holster. Looking over toward Jenny, he saw a horrified expression on her face. “I’m sorry about this, Miss Lee.”

  “No,” she replied in a small voice. “You . . . had no choice.”

  The boat put in at Memphis, and a coroner’s inquest was held. The hearing lasted less than an hour. Enough witnesses testified that Quince Justin Holmes instigated the shooting and a decision was quickly reached.

  Quince Justin Holmes died as a result of a .44 ball, which was energized to terrible effect by a pistol held by Matthew Jensen. This hearing concludes that Mr. Jensen was put in danger of his life when Holmes drew and fired at him. It is the finding of this hearing that this was a case of justifiable homicide and no charges are to be filed against Mr. Jensen.

  Matt was welcomed back aboard the Delta Mist by those who had witnessed the shooting, as well as those who had only heard about it. He apologized to the boat captain for having been involved in the incident.

  “Nonsense,” Captain Lee replied. “Why, you’ve made the Delta Mist famous. People will want to take the boat where the infamous Quick Justice Holmes was killed. To say nothing of the fact that he was killed by Matt Jensen. You are truly one of America’s best known shootists, as well known for your honesty and goodnes
s of heart as you are for your prowess with a pistol.”

  “Hear, hear!” someone called, and the others cheered and applauded.

  For the next 575 miles, the distance by river from Memphis to St. Louis, passengers vied for the opportunity to visit with Matt, or better, to play poker with him. His luck wasn’t always as good as it had been during the trip from New Orleans to Memphis. By the time the boat docked up against the riverbank in the Gateway City, he had no more money with him than he had when he left New Orleans.

  Jenny Lee stood by the gangplank, telling the passengers good-bye as they left the boat and thanking them for choosing the Delta Mist.

  “Mr. Jensen, I do hope you travel with us again. You managed to make this trip”—she paused mid-sentence and smiled broadly—“most interesting.”

  “Perhaps a little too interesting,” Matt suggested as he took the hand she had offered him.

  CHAPTER TWO

  At sea—September 23, 1890

  The ship was the American Eagle, a four-masted clipper in the Pacific trade. As much canvas as could be spread gleamed a brilliant white in the sunshine, and the ship was lifting, falling, and gently moving from side to side as it plowed over the long, rolling swells of the Pacific. The propelling wind, spilling from the sails, emitted a soft, whispering sigh as the boat heeled.

  The helmsman stood at the wheel, his legs spread slightly as he held the ship on its course. Working sailors moved about the deck, tightening a line here, loosening one there, providing the exact tension on the rigging and angle on the sheets to maintain maximum speed. Some sailors were holystoning the deck, while others were manning the bilge pumps.

  Twenty-four-year-old Luke Shardeen stood on the leeward side on the quarterdeck, his big hands resting lightly on the railing. From the age of seventeen he had been at sea, rising from an able-bodied seaman to first officer. His dark hair blew in the wind as his brown eyes examined the barometer for the third time in the last thirty minutes. There was no doubt it was falling, and that could only presage bad weather. Shrugging his broad shoulders, he left the quarterdeck and tapped on the door of the captain’s cabin.