A Rocky Mountain Christmas

by William W. Johnstone

  “Yes?” the captain called.

  “Captain, permission to enter?”

  “Come in, Mr. Shardeen.”

  Luke stepped into the cabin, which was as large as all the other officers’ quarters combined. Captain Cutter was bent over the chart table with a compass and a protractor.

  “Captain, the barometer has fallen rather significantly in the last half hour. I’ve no doubt but that a storm is coming.”

  “Do you have any idea how fast we are going, Mr. Shardeen?”

  “It would only be a guess.”

  “We are doing nineteen knots, Mr. Shardeen. Nineteen knots,” Captain Cutter said. “It’s my belief that if we can maintain this pace, we’ll outrun the storm.”

  “We won’t be able to maintain this pace, Captain, if we rig the storm sails.”

  “I have no intention of rigging the storm sails. Certainly not until it is an absolute necessity.”

  “Very good, Captain.” Luke withdrew from the captain’s cabin and returned to the quarterdeck.

  “Mr. Shardeen,” the bosun called. “Will we be taking in the sail, sir?”

  Luke shook his head. “Not yet.”

  He looked out over the water. The sea was no longer blue, but dirty gray and swirling with whitecaps. It was the kind of sea referred to by sailors as “green water” and so rough the ship dropped into a trough and took green water over the entire deck as it started back up.

  Shortly, the storm was on them, with wind and rain so heavy it was impossible to distinguish the rain from the spindrift.

  “Captain, we have to strike sail!” Luke shouted above the noise of the gale.

  “Aye, do so,” Captain Cutter agreed.

  Luke sent men aloft to strike sail, praying that no one would be tossed off by the bucking ship.

  The masts were stripped of all canvas without losing anyone, but the storm continued to build. By mid-morning, it was a full-blown typhoon. Fifteen-foot waves crashed against the side of the 210-foot-long ship. The American Eagle was in imminent danger of foundering.

  “Captain, we have to head her into the wind!” Luke Shardeen shouted.

  “No. Even without sail we’re still making headway,” Captain Cutter shouted back.

  “If we don’t do it, we’ll likely lose the ship!”

  “I’m the captain of this vessel, Mr. Shardeen. And as long as I am captain, we’ll sail the course I’ve set for her.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  The huge waves continued to crash against the side of the ship and the rolling steepened, going over as far as forty-five degrees to starboard. It hung for so long the sailors had sure and certain fear it would continue to roll until it capsized.

  Below deck in the mess, cabinet doors swung open and plates, cups, and bowls fell to the floor, crashing against the starboard.

  “Everyone to port side!” Luke shouted through a megaphone and, though the sailors found it difficult to climb up the slanted deck, their combined weight helped bring the ship back from the brink of disaster.

  When the ship rolled back, the dishes tumbled to port, breaking into smaller and smaller shards until there was nothing left but a jumbled collection of bits and pieces of what had once been the ship’s crockery.

  Above deck the yardarms were free of sail except for the spanker sail, which had been left rigged, and was now no more than tattered strips of canvas, flapping ineffectively in the ninety-mile-per-hour winds.

  Captain Cutter was standing on the quarterdeck when a huge wave burst over the side of the ship. He and three sailors were swept off the deck, into the sea.

  “Cap’n overboard!” someone shouted, and Luke ordered the helmsman to turn into the wind. That kept the ship in place and stopped the terrible rolling, but it began to pitch up, then down, by forty-five degrees. Luke put the men to the rails to search for those who had been washed overboard. They found and recovered two of the sailors, but there was no sign of the third sailor or the captain.

  By late afternoon the storm had abated, and Luke ordered the ship to remain in place to continue the search. For the next two days, in calm winds and a placid sea, they searched for the captain and the missing sailor, but found no sign of either of them. Finally, Luke ordered the ship to continue on its original course.

  They raised San Francisco twenty-three days later.

  A tugboat met them in the Bay, a seaman shot a line up to them, and, with all sail gone, they were towed to the docks, where they dropped anchor. As soon as the ship was made fast by large hawsers, a ladder was lowered for the officers and a gangplank was used by the men to offload their cargo of tea.

  Luke sat in the outer office of the headquarters for the Pacific Shipping Company. The walls were decorated with lithographs of the company’s ships, including one of the American Eagle. Beside each ship was a photograph of its captain. Emile Cutter’s face, stern and dignified in his white beard, was alongside the picture of the ship Luke had just left.

  “Captain Shardeen, Mr. Buckner will see you now,” a clerk said.

  Luke wasn’t a captain, but he figured the clerk didn’t know that or had called him “Captain” because he had assumed command of the ship to bring it home.

  Although Richard Buckner’s shipping empire had made him a millionaire, he had never been to sea. Nevertheless, his office was a nautical showplace, replete with model ships, polished bells engraved with the names of the ships from which they came, and the complete reconstruction of a helm, with wheel and compass.

  Buckner was a man of average height, but in comparison to Luke’s six-foot-four-inch frame, he seemed short. He greeted Luke with an extended hand. “Mr. Shardeen, you are to be congratulated, sir, for an excellent job of bringing the ship back safely. Please, tell me what happened.”

  Luke told about the storm, and how a huge wave hit them broadside, washing the captain and three other sailors overboard. Luke made no mention of the argument he’d had with Captain Cutter about bringing the ship into the wind.

  “We rescued two of the sailors right away and stayed on station for two days, but we never found Captain Cutter or Seaman Bostic.”

  “Thank you. I’m sure that Mrs. Cutter will be comforted to know exactly what happened and will be grateful for the effort the entire ship showed in trying to rescue her husband.”

  “I wish we had been successful.”

  “Yes, well, such things are in the hands of God. Now, Mr. Shardeen, if you would, there are some reports you need to fill out. After you are finished, please come back into the office. I have something I want to discuss with you.”

  “Aye, sir.” Luke normally didn’t use aye except when he was at sea, but he knew Buckner enjoyed being addressed in such a manner.

  As he was filling out the reports, Luke was given a stack of letters that had been held for him until the ship’s return. One of them was from a lawyer’s office in Pueblo, Colorado. He had never been to Pueblo, Colorado, and as far as he was aware, didn’t know anyone there. Tapping the envelope on the edge of the table, he wondered why he would be the recipient of a letter from a Pueblo lawyer. His curiosity was such that he interrupted the paperwork in order to read the letter.

  1 February 1890

  Dear Mr. Shardeen:

  It is with sadness that I report to you the death of your Uncle Frank Luke, who passed away on the 5th of August from an infirmity of the heart.

  As you were his only living relative, you are the sole beneficiary of his will, in which he leaves you the following items:

  18,000 acres of land

  A four room house

  All the furniture therein

  A bunkhouse

  A barn

  1500 head of cattle

  20 horses with saddles and tack

  $1017.56 (remaining after all final expenses)

  In order to claim your inheritance, you must present yourself at the Pueblo courthouse on or before November 1st, 1890.

  Sincerely,

  Tom Murchison


  Attorney at Law

  The letter came as a complete surprise. Luke had not seen his uncle Frank in over ten years, had no idea he’d lived in Colorado, or that he even had anything valuable to leave in a will. And he’d left everything to him!

  Conflicting emotions quickly rose in Luke—elation over what appeared to be a rather substantial inheritance and guilt because not only had he not seen his uncle Frank, he had corresponded with him only three or four times in the last ten years.

  Setting the letter aside, he finished the paperwork and returned to Mr. Buckner’s office as requested.

  “Mr. Shardeen,” Buckner said. “With the unfortunate death of Captain Cutter, we have to find a new captain for the American Eagle. You know the ship and the men, and you brought her successfully through a terrible storm. I would like for you to be her new captain.”

  Had this offer been made to Luke one month earlier—or even one hour earlier—he would have accepted it immediately. But the letter from Tom Murchison had changed all that.

  “I thank you for the offer, Mr. Buckner. I am extremely flattered by it.” Luke took a deep breath before plunging on. “But I believe I will leave the sea for a while. I’ll be submitting my resignation today.”

  “What?” Buckner replied in shocked surprise. “You can’t be serious! Mr. Shardeen, this is the opportunity of a lifetime. How can you possibly pass it up?”

  “Simple. Until today, I had no anchor. But now”—Luke held up his letter—“I am a man of property and can no longer afford to sail all over the world.”

  “Are you absolutely positive of that? If you are, we will have to promote someone else to captain.”

  “I am positive.”

  “Very well. The company will hate to lose you, Mr. Shardeen. You have been a good officer. If ever you wish to return to the sea, please, come see us first.”

  “I will do so,” Luke promised.

  CHAPTER THREE

  New Orleans—October 5

  Nate McCoy boarded the Delta Mist and immediately entered the Grand Salon, interested in getting into a game of poker. He dressed well, had impeccable manners, and seemed able to get along with everyone. He was also the most handsome man Jenny had ever seen.

  For the next two days, she watched him as he played, though she stood on the far side of the salon so nobody could see that she was watching him.

  As evening fell, she took a quick break from her duties and she leaned on the railing of the texas deck, looking down at the great stern wheel, its paddles spilling water as they emerged from the river.

  A man spoke to her. “You have been watching me.”

  Turning toward the speaker, Jenny saw Nate McCoy. “I’m supposed to watch people in the salon. That is my job.”

  “You’re not watching me as part of your job. You’re watching me for the same reason I’m watching you.”

  “Oh? And why is that?”

  “I think you know why that is,” McCoy quipped.

  Jenny was lost from that moment, falling head over heels in love with him.

  Three months later, On January 3, 1891, they were married.

  Jenny learned quickly that marrying Nate McCoy was the biggest mistake she had ever made. Although he’d told her he was a broker who dealt with “other people’s money,” that was an extremely broad interpretation of his actual profession. McCoy was a professional gambler, and not an honest one.

  Caught cheating on the Delta Mist, he was barred from taking passage on that or any of the passenger boats that plied the Mississippi. When he left the boats Jenny left with him, and for the next eighteen months, her life with McCoy became little more than running from town to town just ahead of a lynch mob.

  “Why do you cheat?” Jenny asked her husband.

  “Why do I cheat? Isn’t it obvious? I cheat to make money. Where do you think we get the food we eat? The expensive clothes you wear? How do we pay for the fine hotel rooms? From my winnings, that’s where. The odds of winning are not good enough for all that unless I give myself an edge. And that is exactly what I do, my dear. I give myself an edge.”

  “By cheating.”

  “You call it cheating, I call it increasing the odds.”

  “When you were caught cheating on the boats you were barred from taking any further passage on them. But if you are caught cheating in a saloon or a gambling house, the consequences could be much more severe. You could be killed.”

  “Ahh, it does my heart good to know my darling wife is frightened for me,” Nate said sarcastically.

  “Nate, why don’t we make a living doing something else? I have an education. I could teach school.” Jenny made that offer, even though she knew most schools had a provision in their contract that the teachers they hire be unwed.

  “Assuming you could get around the obstacle of being married, what would you propose that I do, my dear? Become a store clerk perhaps?”

  “Why not? It would be honest work. And we could settle down somewhere and have a real home like ordinary people.”

  “Like ordinary people,” McCoy repeated, emphasizing the word.

  “Yes.”

  “And this real home, no doubt, will have a white picket fence? Perhaps some flowers that you care for so tenderly? Maybe even a brat or two running around?”

  “I-I wouldn’t call them brats,” Jenny mumbled, hurt by his sarcastic response.

  “Yes. Well, my dear, as for your rather tedious dream, I am not ordinary, as you know.”

  “Yes,” Jenny said, the dream now dead. “How well I know.”

  Colorado Springs, Colorado

  Two days after that very conversation, Jenny and Nate had breakfast in the hotel dining room.

  “I’ve never seen a town that had so many people who were ripe for the plucking. Why, I wouldn’t be surprised if we didn’t get out of here with between a thousand and fifteen hundred dollars.”

  “Nate, please be careful.”

  “Oh, don’t you worry about that, my dear. I’ve been doing this for a long time. I know how to take care of myself.” McCoy stood and left Jenny to return to their room alone.

  Jenny tried to concentrate on the book in her hand, but her thoughts kept interrupting. Nate had been gone for over four hours, and it wasn’t like him to be gone so long. He had told her they would have lunch together, but it was nearly one o’clock and he hadn’t come back to the hotel room yet.

  Feeling an overwhelming sense of foreboding, Jenny put the book aside and walked to the window, looking down onto the street below. When there was a knock at the door she gasped. She knew something was wrong. Nate wouldn’t knock.

  Turning away from the window, she took a sharp breath, and with trembling hands, crossed over to open the door. The man standing in the hallway was wearing the badge of a deputy city marshal.

  “Mrs. McCoy?”

  “Is he dead?” Jenny asked in a quiet and resigned voice.

  If the deputy was shocked by her question, he didn’t show it. “Yes, ma’am, I’m afraid he is.”

  “What happened?”

  “I’m told he was caught with an ace up his sleeve. There was an altercation, your husband went for a gun, and he was shot.”

  “That isn’t possible.”

  “Mrs. McCoy, are you saying your husband didn’t cheat?”

  “No, he cheated all right. But it isn’t possible that he went for a gun. He never carried one.”

  “To be truthful with you, Mrs. McCoy, it doesn’t matter whether he had a gun or not. There was a bitter argument precipitated by your husband, and the man who shot him believed McCoy was going for a gun. The belief that his life was threatened is all it takes to justify shooting your husband.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “The undertaker has him. Will you be paying for his final expenses or will the city pay?”

  “You mean the city would pay?”

  “A plain pine box and a hole in the ground. I’m afraid there is nothing comforting about a city-fina
nced burying.”

  “I’ll go see the undertaker,” Jenny said. “Perhaps we can come to an accommodation of sorts.”

  Learning that the undertaker’s business was next door to the hardware store, Jenny left the hotel and walked down to see him. Surprised to see a rather substantial knot of people standing around in front of the undertaker’s building, she wondered why they were there.

  As soon as she arrived, she saw what was holding their attention. There, in an open casket, she saw her husband. His arms were folded across his chest, and he was holding a hand of cards. A hand-lettered sign read A CHEATING GAMBLER’S FATE.

  “I’ll bet all five of them cards is aces,” a man in the crowd said, causing several others to laugh.

  Jenny went into the establishment where she was met by a tall, gaunt man in a black suit, white shirt, and black string tie.

  “Yes, ma’am. Is there something I can do for you?”

  “There certainly is. You can remove my husband from that horrid display in the window,” Jenny answered pointedly.

  “Your husband? You mean the gambler?”

  “Yes, Nate McCoy. He is—was—my husband. And what you are doing, displaying him like that, is disgraceful. I thought morticians were supposed to show respect for the dead and their families.”

  “I-I beg your pardon, madam. I wasn’t aware the deceased was married, and I was especially unaware he had any family in Colorado Springs. Of course, I will remove the remains at once.”

  “Why would you do such a thing, anyway?”

  “I thought the city would be responsible for burying him. They pay so little I don’t even break even on the cost of the services I provide. Displaying his body in such a way draws people to satisfy their curiosity, morbid though it may be. And that is good publicity for my business.”

  “I will pay for his funeral,” Jenny promised.

  “Yes, ma’am. Will you want a church service and a minister in attendance during the committal?”