A Rocky Mountain Christmas

by William W. Johnstone

  “She ain’t no lady, she’s a whore,” the deputy with Proxmire growled.

  “She is a female. And you can’t put women in jail with men. They have to have their own facilities. That is the law.”

  “Hah! Since when did you become a lawyer?” Proxmire asked.

  “You don’t have to be a lawyer to know that.”

  “We ain’t got no cell just for women, so she’s goin’ to have to stay here for a while.” Proxmire closed the door on the cell, locked it, and he and the other deputy returned to the front of the jail.

  The woman sat down on her bunk, leaned her elbows on her knees, and dropped her head in her hands.

  “I’m sorry about this,” Luke said. “It’s not right, them bringing you in here.”

  She looked up at him. “Thank you for speaking up for me.”

  “I’m only doing what’s right, Miss McCoy.”

  “Have we met?”

  “No, we haven’t. But I’ve wanted to meet you for some time now. I just wish it could have been under better circumstances, for both of us.”

  “I’m not a whore, by the way.”

  “No, ma’am. I know you aren’t.” Luke stuck his hand through the bars that separated their cells. “I’m Luke Shardeen. I own a ranch just north of town.”

  Jenny crossed her cell and shook his hand. “Luke Shardeen. Yes, I know who you are. You own Two Crowns. I read about your case in the paper. Everyone I know says that they don’t believe you are guilty.”

  “I’m not. Oh, I killed Gates, all right, but he and Sheriff Ferrell were trying to hold me up.”

  “What are you doing putting this poor girl in jail?” a woman demanded. “You let her out this very instant, or I will go to the newspaper with the name of everyone who has visited the Social Club in the last six months. Do you understand what I’m saying, Deputy Proxmire? Everyone!”

  “I can’t let her out until the judge says I can,” Proxmire replied.

  “Really? Would that be the same Judge Briggs who was with,” Adele took a piece of paper from her pocket and started reading from it, “Sandra, Sara Sue, Kate, and Ella Mae?”

  “Uh, all right, I’ll let her out. But she has to be present for her hearing tomorrow, and if she ain’t, I’ll hold you responsible.”

  “She’ll be there.”

  Proxmire returned to the cell area and unlocked Jenny’s cell.

  “Looks like you’re getting out,” Luke said. “I’m glad.”

  “I hope everything goes well for you, Mr. Shardeen,” Jenny said as Proxmire opened the door. “Good night.”

  “Good night.”

  Proxmire escorted Jenny to the front. “You just make sure you have her there for the hearing tomorrow,” he demanded as Adele left with Jenny.

  “I told you, you had no business bringing her here,” Luke called out after hearing the door closed behind them.

  “I don’t need you tellin’ me what is, and what isn’t my business,” Proxmire replied with a low growling snarl.

  “Your honor, Jenny McCoy is not a prostitute,” Adele said at the closed hearing the next day.

  “Does she, or does she not work for you?” Judge Briggs asked.

  “Yes.”

  “And do you run a house of prostitution?”

  “I run the Colorado Social Club.”

  “Which is a whorehouse.”

  “I don’t like to think of it in quite those terms.”

  “Regardless of how you like to think about it, it is a whorehouse. And if you deny that, I will lock you up for perjury.”

  “All right I admit, Your Honor, that I do have, uh, ladies of that profession in my employment. But Mrs. McCoy certainly isn’t one of them. Her only function is that of a hostess, not as a prostitute.”

  “But you do employ prostitutes?”

  “You know that I do, Your Honor. I might even add that you have, let us say, personal knowledge of that fact.”

  Briggs cleared his throat and rapped his gavel on the bench. “I am not the one on trial, Miss Summers. Jenny McCoy is on trial. Unless you want me to extend the charges to you as well.”

  “No, Your Honor.”

  “Then we will continue the hearing, and you will add nothing except your responses to my questions.”

  “Very well, Your Honor.”

  “Would you say that Jenny McCoy is a hostess in your establishment?”

  “Yes, that is exactly what she is. She is a hostess and nothing more. She is guilty of nothing.”

  “That’s where you are wrong, Miss Summers. Mrs. McCoy was soliciting to provide sexual acts for money. Maybe she wasn’t soliciting for herself, but she certainly was for others. And the penalty for solicitation for prostitution is the same as it is for prostitution itself.”

  “All right.” Adele finally had enough. “If you are unable to see the difference, I won’t argue with you. How much is her fine? I’ll pay it.”

  “I’m afraid that won’t work. This is far beyond having one of your women caught with a cowboy. You see, the gentleman she was with is the sitting governor of a neighboring state.”

  “I know that, Judge. Governors, congressmen, senators”—she paused—“and judges—have all visited the Colorado Social Club. And the more cultured of these gentlemen want to spend some time with Jenny, not as a sexual partner, but as a conversationalist.

  “And why not? Jenny is the most educated and intelligent person I know, man or woman. And you can see with your own eyes how beautiful she is. It is no wonder that such people find her interesting.”

  “Nevertheless, if it gets out that the governor was with Jenny McCoy, it could have far-reaching consequences. Therefore, my sentence for you, Mrs. McCoy, is that you leave Pueblo.”

  “What?” Jenny asked with a gasp. “Where will I go? What will I do?”

  “Like Miss Summers said, you are an uncommonly beautiful woman, Mrs. McCoy. I’m quite sure you will be able to find some means of supporting yourself. I just don’t intend for you to do it here.”

  “I will not be a prostitute!” Jenny said resolutely.

  The judge’s only response was to bang his gavel. “This hearing is adjourned.”

  Adele walked back to the Colorado Social Club with Jenny, comforting her as best she could.

  “I have never been so embarrassed and humiliated in my life,” Jenny said.

  “Nonsense, my dear. You have nothing to be humiliated for, or embarrassed about.”

  “But what will I do? Where will I go?”

  “You can go to Red Cliff,” Adele suggested. “I have a brother who owns a nice store there. I’ll write to him, and ask him to give you a job.”

  “Would you? Oh, Adele, you have been such a wonderful friend.”

  Colorado Springs—December 17

  Bob Ward was meeting Felix Parker, a man he had served time with in the Colorado State Prison in Cañon City. Also present at the meeting were three men Parker brought with him: Roy Compton, Gerald Kelly, and Melvin Morris.

  “Michael is still in jail in Kiowa. From what I’ve learned, he’ll be transported on the Red Cliff Special, leaving Pueblo at nine o’clock at night on the nineteenth,” Ward said.

  “What day is that?” Parker asked.

  “That will be Monday, day after tomorrow.”

  “How are we going to work this?” Morris asked.

  Ward gave out the first set of instructions. “You four will board the train in Pueblo. The train will have to go through Trout Creek Pass. It is 9,000 feet high, so by the time the train gets to the top of the pass, it won’t be goin’ any faster than you can walk.”

  “That’s when I’ll go to work,” Parker continued. “I’ll go up front and stop the train.”

  “And while everyone is distracted by the train being stopped, Compton, you, Kelly, and Morris, will take care of the deputy escorting Michael, then come to the front with him.”

  “I’ll disconnect the train from the engine, and we’ll go on over the pass, leaving the r
est of the train behind,” Parker said.

  “I’ll meet you in Big Rock with horses,” Ward continued. “After that, we’ll go get the money.”

  “Are you sure the money is there?” Morris asked.

  Ward smiled. “Let’s put it this way. The money damn well better be there, because Michael knows what will happen if it ain’t there.”

  “He’s your brother.”

  “Yeah? So was Abel Cain’s brother,” Ward said.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Claro, Nevada

  Matt Jensen opened his eyes and looked around his hotel room. The shade was pulled, but a small hole in the shade projected onto the wall a very detailed image, not a shadow but a photographic image of the winter-denuded cottonwood tree growing just outside the hotel.

  He sat up in the bed and swung his legs over the side, remaining there for a long moment before padding barefoot across the plank floor toward the chest of drawers. He picked up the porcelain pitcher and poured water into a basin. The water was just short of freezing, but it had an invigorating effect as he washed his face and hands, then worked up a lather that enabled him to shave.

  It was already mid-morning, but the heavy green shade covering the window kept out most of the light. Not until he was dressed did he open the shade to let the morning sunshine stream in. He stood at the window for a moment, looking out onto the street below.

  Across the street, an empty wagon with one of its wheels removed sat on blocks. Another freight wagon was just pulling away while a third was being loaded. That Claro was an industrious town was well demonstrated by the painted signs and symbols used to make the various mercantile establishments known to the citizens as well as the farmers and ranchers who came into town to buy their supplies. The apothecary featured a large cutout of a mortar and pestle. Next to that, a striped pole advertised the barber shop, and next to that a big tooth led patients to the dentist. Directly across the street, Matt could see the painted, golden mug of beer inviting customers in to the Red Dog Saloon.

  Matt turned away from the window, pulled his suitcase from under the bed, and began packing. Nothing in particular had brought him to Claro, and nothing was keeping him there.

  When his suitcase was packed, he took it to the depot and bought a ticket to Denver, figuring it was time he got back to Colorado. He decided to send a telegram to his friend and mentor, Smoke Jensen, informing him of his plans.

  DEPARTING CLARO NEVADA 10 AM DEC 17 STOP

  ARRIVING DENVER 2 PM ON 19 STOP REPLY BY

  TELEGRAM TO CENTRAL PACIFIC DEPOT IN CLARO

  STOP MATT

  Matt checked his suitcase in, then went over to the Red Dog Saloon to have his breakfast. He had made friends in the Red Dog and thought to tell them good-bye.

  He took a seat at a table halfway between the piano and the potbellied woodstove that sat in a sandbox. Roaring as it snapped and popped, the fire put out too much heat if one was too close to it and not enough if one sat some distance away from it. Matt knew exactly where to sit to get just the right amount heat to feel comfortable.

  Trebor von Nahguav was sitting at the next table, drinking coffee. An Austrian, he was a pianist who had studied under Chopin.

  “Matthew, is it true you are actually leaving today?” Trebor asked.

  “I am.”

  “I will not like to see you go. You have brought a bit of bekanntheit to the saloon, and to the town.”

  “Bekanntheit?”

  “Ja. It means”—Trebor struggled for the word, then smiled as it came to him—“Fame. It is not every day that one gets to meet a character who has stepped from the pages of a book.” He was referring to the Beadles Dime Novels, specifically those written by Prentiss Ingram and featuring Matt Jensen as the protagonist. Matt’s friend Smoke had long been a character in the novels and, through him, Prentiss was made aware of Matt.

  Matt chuckled. “Just remember, Trebor, the operative word there is novel. By definition, novels are fiction. I do not claim any of the accomplishments Colonel Ingram has written about.”

  “That is only because you are too modest,” Trebor said. “I know about your exploits in Wyoming where you single-handedly eliminated the Yellow Kerchief gang and saved the young nephew of Moreton Frewen. What was his name? Winston?”

  “Yes, Winston Churchill. He was quite an impressive young man.”

  Lucy Dare, a buxom blond with flashing blue eyes and an engaging smile, walked over to join the conversation. So far, the dissipation of her trade had not diminished her looks.

  “Lucy, our friend is leaving us today,” Trebor said.

  Lucy leaned over Matt’s table, displaying her cleavage. “Are you sure I can’t talk you into staying with us?”

  Matt laughed. “No, but you can sure make it damn tempting.”

  “I will play something for you before you leave,” Trebor said. “I will play Tchaikovsky’s Piano Concerto Number One. It is not something the average saloon patron would like but you, mein freund, I know, will enjoy it.”

  “Thank you,” Matt said. “I am sure I will enjoy it.”

  Trebor moved over to the piano and played the piece, losing himself in the sweep and majesty of the concerto. Matt enjoyed it, but knew Trebor enjoyed it more. He used any excuse to play the classical music he loved, rather than the simple ballads he was forced to play night after night.

  After his breakfast Matt told his friends good-bye and left the saloon. He’d walked about a block when a man suddenly stepped in front of him and pointed a gun.

  “Give me all your money,” the armed man demanded.

  “Now why would I want to do that?”

  “Why? Because if you don’t, I’ll blow a hole in your stomach big enough to let your guts fall out.” To emphasize his threat, the man thrust the pistol forward until the barrel of the gun was jammed into Matt’s stomach.

  That was a mistake. Matt reached down and clamped his hand around the pistol, locking the cylinder tightly in his grip.

  His assailant tried to pull the trigger, but it wasn’t possible with the cylinder locked in place. He looked down in surprise, and Matt brought his left fist up in a wicked uppercut. The man relaxed his grip on the pistol as he went down, and it wound up in Matt’s hand.

  Bending down to check the robber’s pulse, Matt saw the man was still breathing. He waited until the man came to, then walked him, at gunpoint, down the street to the office of the Claro City Marshal.

  “Well, now, hello Percy,” the marshal said when Matt turned his prisoner over to him. “It didn’t take you long to get back in jail, did it? I just let you out this morning.”

  “What was I supposed to do?” Percy complained. “I didn’t even have enough money to buy breakfast.”

  “If you had asked me for enough money to buy breakfast, I would have given it to you,” Matt offered. “But pointing a gun at me doesn’t put me in the sharing mood.”

  When Matt went to the depot later that day, he found there was, indeed, a telegram waiting for him.

  DUFF MACALLISTER AT SUGARLOAF STOP COME

  SPEND CHRISTMAS WITH US STOP SMOKE

  Matt had to pay for only two words in his return telegram.

  WILL DO

  He smiled at the thought of spending Christmas with Smoke, Sally, and Duff. Sally was a very good cook, particularly bear claws, an almond flavored, yeast-raised pastry that was the best Matt had ever tasted. He turned his thoughts to Christmas, which was supposed to be spent with family. But he had no family.

  His parents and sister had been murdered when he was a boy. After spending some time in a brutal orphanage, he ran away in the dead of winter and would have frozen to death if Smoke Jensen hadn’t found him and taken him in. Smoke was the nearest thing to a family Matt had, so much so that he had taken Smoke’s last name as his own.

  It would be good to spend Christmas with his old friend, and Sally’s home-cooked meals would make it even nicer.

  Matt extended his ticket from Denver to Pueblo, p
utting him in Pueblo at eight o’clock in the evening on the nineteenth, just in time to connect with the last train to Big Rock. That trip would require going through Trout Creek Pass over the Mosquito Range, a part of the Rocky Mountains.

  He boarded the train at ten o’clock on the morning of the 17th of December for what the schedule said would be a two-and-a-half-day trip to Pueblo.

  Pueblo—December 19

  Jenny McCoy entered the train station at seven o’clock in the evening and bought a ticket on the Red Cliff Special, due to leave at nine. The judge had given her one week to settle her affairs and leave town, but it had taken her only three days.

  That didn’t leave time for Adele to write to her brother and receive a reply, so she wrote a personal and impassioned letter she gave to Jenny.

  “Show my brother this letter. He’s a good man with a good heart. When he reads this he and his wife will take you in, and if he can’t find work for you in his own store, I’ve no doubt that he will help you find employment.”

  “Thank you, Adele. I don’t know what I would have done in this town if it hadn’t been for you. I don’t know how I would have made a living.”

  “It is I who should thank you. You were a wonderful and classy addition to my business. I’m just sorry things turned out as they did. The judge had no right to order you out of town.”

  “I have made some good friends here, you especially, and I’m sorry to leave them.”

  “Someday you may come back, and when you do, remember that I will always count you as a dear friend.” Adele hugged Jenny and left the station.

  With Adele’s letter secure in her purse, Jenny bought a newspaper, then settled in a seat near one of the roaring potbellied stoves and began to read the Pueblo Chieftain.

  Another Cold Wave

  MOUNTAIN TOWNS REPORT CONTINUAL SNOWFALL