A Rocky Mountain Christmas

by William W. Johnstone

Even as Matt and the others were discussing the situation, five of the remaining male passengers were huddled in the first passenger car, making plans of their own. Leading the discussion was Paul Clark, a deputy city marshal from Red Cliff. “I know these kind of men. I deal with them all the time. Basically they are cowards and get their way by bluffing. If we go into the dining car armed, like as not they won’t even put up a fight. And if they do, we’ll have the advantage of surprise.”

  “You can count on me,” Dennis Dace said. “I was a sergeant in the army. I’ve fought Indians from Wyoming to the Dakotas.”

  “I’m in.” Patterson was a teamster from Denver.

  The other two men also agreed to be a part of the team. All five pulled their guns and checked the loads.

  Clark looked back over the car at the other passengers, who were looking on with obvious anxiousness. “You folks. I think you’d best go back to the next car. You’ll be in less danger back there.”

  “What are you going to do?” one of the passengers asked.

  “What’s it look like we’re goin’ to do? We’re going to take back the dining car. Unless you folks are ready to go hungry.”

  “There are at least four of them in there.”

  “And there are five of us,” Clark replied. “Now, go on back into the next car. I wouldn’t want any of you hurt when the shootin’ starts.”

  Quickly, the passengers left the car.

  Clark and Dace led the other three men out onto the vestibule between the passenger car and the dining car. Signaling them to stay low, Clark raised up to look in through the door window. The car was well lit inside, and he could see the four armed men sitting at one of the tables drinking coffee. The three dining car workers, easily identified because they were wearing white uniforms, were sitting at a table between the armed men and the front of the train, effectively being held prisoners. Because the front of the train was under snow, there was nowhere for them to go.

  Inside the dining car, Santelli spoke quietly. “Boys, I think we are about to have a few visitors.”

  “What are you talking about?” Compton muttered.

  “I just saw someone peek in through the window, then he ducked his head back down. I wouldn’t be surprised if there weren’t four or five men out there about to rush us. You’d better get ready.”

  Unaware he’d been seen, Clark turned to the other men with him. “All right. They are all sitting at a table at the other end of the car. None of them will be expecting us, so that gives us the advantage. Are you ready?”

  “We’re ready,” Dace insisted. The other three men nodded, but said nothing.

  “Let’s go!” Clark shouted. Pushing the door open, he led the rush into the dining car.

  “Here they come!” Santelli shouted, alerting the other three gunmen, and all four turned their guns toward the men coming through the doorway.

  The attackers could only come through the door one at a time. Before they could even bring their guns to bear, Santelli and his men were shooting.

  Clark went down first, then Patterson, then Dace. The last two men, who hadn’t even made it into the car, withdrew quickly when they realized the attack had failed. One of them was nursing a wounded arm.

  Compton and Morris started after them, but Santelli called them back. “Let ’em go! They can’t do anything.”

  Outside they heard another rumbling sound.

  “What’s that?” Kelly called out in fright.

  They felt the train shake as snow came down on the dining car, but it stopped rather quickly, not covering the car completely.

  “We’d better be careful about any more shooting,” Santelli said. “I think that’s what’s causing all the snow to come down.”

  “Tell me, Santelli, how are we going to get out of here?” Kelly asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “We was supposed to disconnect the engine from the rest of the train and take it on down the other side of the pass. We sure can’t do that now, can we? I mean what with the engine under all that snow.”

  “We’re all right here. We’ll just wait it out.”

  “How are we goin’ to do that?”

  “Easy.” Santelli made a waving motion with his hand, then smiled. “We’ve got food. They don’t.”

  When Kelly realized what Santelli was saying, the expression on his face changed from one of concern to a broad smile. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s right. We do have food, don’t we?”

  “But how long will it last?” Morris asked, a bit concerned.

  “Quite a while, I expect. You know there is enough food to feed thirty or more people, and they always pack a bit extra. But there’s only four of us that will be eatin’ it. Yes, sir, we are in fine shape.”

  “What about the three men we just killed?” Kelly asked.

  “What about them?” Santelli replied.

  “I don’t care to stay in this car with three dead men.”

  “That’s no problem. Just push ’em off. The cold won’t bother ’em none,” Santelli added with an evil chuckle.

  Matt learned of the aborted attack from one of the participants, a man named Turner. He had made his way to the last car.

  “There was three of us that got killed.” Turner had been shot in his left arm and was being attended to by Jenny, who had tied a bandage around the entry and exit wounds of the bullet. “Clark, he was the first one to go down. He was the one that talked the rest of us into doin’ it. Then Dace went down, and after him, Patterson got kilt. Me ’n Simpson was still out on the vestibule, hadn’t even made it into the dining car yet, but when them other three got shot, well, we turned and run off.”

  “Was Simpson hit?” Matt asked.

  “No. He was just scared is all.” Turner chuckled. “I was, too, to tell the truth.”

  “Well, there is certainly no need for shame,” Senator Daniels said rather pompously. “To try and rescue the rest of us was a noble and brave thing.”

  “It might have been noble and brave, but it wasn’t very smart.” Matt let out a sigh.

  “What do you mean it wasn’t very smart?” Senator Daniels asked all in a huff. “What is your proposal? That we just sit here and do nothing while we starve to death?”

  “I propose that, as much as possible, we do not shoot a gun nor incite them into shooting one. Any more shooting and the entire train could be buried under hundreds of feet of snow.”

  “Heavens!” Millie exclaimed. “We certainly don’t want that!”

  “Well, just what do you propose that we do?” Senator Daniels asked again.

  “I think we should just sit tight. When the train doesn’t reach the station in Big Rock, the station agent will telegraph back to Buena Vista, and they’ll send another train after us.”

  “Yes”—Senator Daniels cheered up a bit—“I suppose that is true, isn’t it? Unless . . .”

  “Unless what?” Millie asked.

  “Well, if the pass is buried under hundreds of feet of snow, the telegraph poles will be as well. They won’t be able to get a telegram through. How will anyone know of our plight?”

  “That’s not a problem,” the conductor said.

  “What do you mean, it isn’t a problem?” Once again Senator Daniels questioned what had just been said.

  “We are used to lines being down for one reason or another,” Bailey explained. “If they can’t send a telegram directly through the pass to Buena Vista, they will send it where the wires are up. The telegram will be sent from station to station, going all the way around the pass, perhaps even as far as New York and back.”

  “To New York?” Millie repeated. “Oh, my, if it has to go that far it will take so long they’ll never know about us.”

  Bailey chuckled. “How long do you think it takes to get a telegram signal to New York?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “As fast as you can blink an eye.”

  “He’s right, Mrs. Douglas. It doesn’t make any difference how far away it i
s, the telegraph signal gets there instantly. Why, a telegram can come all the way from London to New York, then by telegraph wire across the United States to San Francisco. It is so fast a message from London can reach San Francisco before it was even sent from London.”

  “What?” Millie gasped.

  Luke smiled. “Well, maybe I am joking with you just a little. But you needn’t worry if the telegraph has to go to other places before it reaches Buena Vista. Believe me, that won’t slow it down.”

  Millie smiled. “Well then, we have nothing to worry about, do we?”

  “Nothing at all, my dear,” Senator Daniels said, putting on a brave front for his wife and daughter.

  Up at the front of the train, the engine had withstood the avalanche. Don and Beans sat unharmed in the engine cab within what amounted to an air bubble. They’d been stuck there for several hours. Realizing they were beginning to run out of air, they were trying to decide their best course of action.

  “You know what? I’ve got a shovel,” Beans said. “There’s no need to be trapped here like this. We can shovel our way out of here.”

  “Good idea,” Don agreed.

  Beans stepped to the edge of the steel plate between the tender and the engine and began shoveling. Within fifteen minutes his shovel hit something and he stopped. “I’ll be damned.”

  “What is it?” Don stood and called out.

  “It’s a body. I think it’s the fella that tried to stop us.”

  “He did more than try. He did stop us . . . but I don’t think this was quite what he had in mind.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Sugarloaf Ranch—December 20

  When Smoke woke up he got out of bed and looked through the window. “Woowee.”

  “What is it?” Sally asked groggily.

  “We had some kind of snow last night. I’ll bet we had at least twelve inches.”

  “Um, I’ll bet it’s pretty.”

  Smoke raised the window then scooped up a little snow from the windowsill. “You want to see how pretty it is?” He dropped the snow onto Sally’s head.

  “Smoke! Have you gone crazy?” Sally shouted, though her shout was ameliorated with laughter.

  “Poor Duff, he must think we are having a big fight in here,” Smoke said.

  “We are.”

  “Then I think the least you could do is get up and see us off this morning.”

  “Ahh. That was the whole idea of dropping the snow on my head, wasn’t it?”

  “You don’t have to fix breakfast. We’ll get something in town. Maybe just some coffee and warm up a couple of the bear claws.”

  Sally got out of bed and dressed, and soon the house was permeated by the rich aroma of coffee and warm pastries. Sally joined the men at the table. “How are you going into town? With this snow, I don’t think a buckboard would be a good idea.”

  “I was thinking we might hook up the sleigh,” Smoke said.

  “Yes,” Duff agreed. “That’s a good idea.”

  Warmed and full of coffee and bear claws, it took only a few minutes to get the horses in harness and attached to the sleigh. Then, wrapped in buffalo robes, and taking an extra robe for Matt when they met him, the two men started into town.

  The horses quickly found their footing, and the runners of the sleigh made a swishing sound as they slid quickly and easily through the snow. Reaching the depot a little before six o’clock, Smoke and Duff went inside to warm themselves as they waited for the train.

  “Smoke, are you here to catch the train?” Phil Wilson, the station agent asked.

  “Hi, Phil. No, I’m here to meet a friend who is going to spend Christmas with Sally and me.” Smoke introduced Duff.

  “I hope it gets through.”

  “Why do you say that? Have you heard something?”

  “No, I haven’t heard anything. It’s just that, if it snowed so hard here, what must it have done in the pass?”

  “Why don’t you send a telegram to Buena Vista and see if they have anything to report?”

  “I was going to wait until six-thirty, and if the train didn’t arrive, contact them then. But there’s really no sense in waiting, is there?”

  Smoke and Duff followed Phil back to the corner where the telegrapher had his office.

  “Johnny, contact Buena Vista for me, would you? See if they have any information on the train.”

  Johnny nodded, then reached out to the telegraph key. He clicked out the code for BV, or Buena Vista. He tried it several times, then looked up at the men gathered anxiously around his desk.

  “I’m not getting a response. Their line must be out.”

  “Can you go around?”

  “Yes. I can go south to Del Norte, and they can go through Pueblo. Pueblo should be able to reach Buena Vista.”

  Johnny keyed the instrument again, then it was answered with a series of clacks. Smiling, Johnny sent his message. “It’ll take a moment for them to forward the message on,” he said, looking up from the telegraph key. “I made some coffee if you fellas would like some.”

  They were drinking coffee and talking when, a few minutes later, the telegraph instrument started clacking.

  Johnny held up his finger, then hurried to the key to respond. After that, the instrument emitted a long series of clicks while Johnny listened and recorded. When it was finished, he read the message to the others. “The train left the station at Buena Vista on time last night. It has not returned to the station, and we have no further word.”

  “How do you interpret that, Phil?” Smoke asked.

  “If it didn’t return, then I think it is probably still en route. Even if the snow didn’t close the pass, there is no doubt it would slow it down quite a bit. I suspect they are still on the way, just that it is coming very, very slow. I wouldn’t be surprised if it didn’t get here until sometime around noon, or maybe even later than that.”

  “All right. We’ll wait for it,” Smoke said.

  “Where will you be if I get any further word?” Phil asked.

  “We’ll be in Longmont’s Saloon.” Smoke turned at the door. “Oh, Phil, is it all right if I leave the team and sleigh here for a while?”

  “Certainly it’s all right,” Phil replied. “Tell Louis I said hello.”

  “Will do.”

  Smoke and Duff started toward Longmont’s saloon, which was four blocks away. They passed several business establishments where the owners or employees were out front, shoveling snow off the boardwalk. As a result, less than half of their walk was actually through the snow. One large, lumbering wagon pulled by four mules was the only traffic on the street. The snow was so high it was an impediment to the wagon’s forward progress.

  Longmont’s was on the opposite side of the road, so Smoke and Duff had to make their way through the knee-deep snow, too. Once they gained the walk in front of the saloon, they stomped their feet on the shoveled boardwalk to get rid of the snow clinging to their boots and the lower part of their trousers. When they had sufficiently divested themselves of the snow, Smoke pushed on the solid doors that had replaced the batwings to keep the cold out and they went inside.

  Longmont’s was one of the nicest establishments of its kind. The place would have been at home in San Francisco, St. Louis, or New York. It had a long, polished mahogany bar, with a brass foot rail that Louis kept shining brightly. A cut-glass mirror hung behind the bar, and the artwork was truly art, not the garish nudes so prominent in saloons throughout the West. Longmont’s collection included originals by Winslow Homer, George Catlin, and Thomas Moran.

  Louis Longmont was in the bar alone, sitting at his usual table in a corner. He was a lean, hawk-faced man, with strong, slender hands, long fingers, and carefully manicured nails. He had jet-black hair and a black pencil-thin mustache. He always wore fine suits, white shirts, and the ubiquitous ascot. He wore low-heeled boots, and a nickel-plated pistol with ivory handles hung low in a tied-down holster on his right side. If anyone thought the gun was an affec
tation, he would be foolish to call him on it. Louis was snake-quick and a feared, deadly gun hand when pushed.

  He had bought the saloon with winnings at poker, and could make a deck of cards do almost anything, but had never cheated at cards. Possessing a phenomenal memory, he could tell you the odds of filling any type of poker hand, and was an expert at the technique of card counting.

  “Smoke, good morning,” Louis called. “Ah, I see you brought Duff with you. What are you doing here so early? Not that I’m not pleased to see you, just a little surprised, is all. Especially on a day like today.”

  “We’re meeting the Red Cliff Special.”

  “Really? You mean even with all the snow we had last night, there will still be a morning train?”

  “Yes, well, that is the question, isn’t it? We were just over at the depot and as far as we know, it is still on the way.”

  “My cook’s on duty, if you’d like some breakfast,” Louis suggested.

  “Well, yeah, that’s why we came in here. You didn’t think we were going to start drinking this early, did you?” Smoke teased.

  “I thought you came in here out of genuine friendship, just to visit me,” Louis said, feigning hurt feelings.

  Smoke laughed. “Did the cook make any biscuits this morning?”

  “Of course she did. Can you really have breakfast without biscuits?”

  As Smoke and Duff waited for their breakfast, they carried on a conversation with Louis Longmont.

  Four blocks down the street, Bob Ward went into the depot, approached the stove, and stood there for a moment, warming himself.

  “Have you come to catch the train, sir?” Phil asked.

  Ward stared at him, but didn’t answer.

  “Because the train hasn’t arrived, and may not arrive.”

  “Why not?”

  “The mountain pass is blocked with snow. It may be that the train can’t get through.”

  “It may be that it can’t? Or it can’t?”

  “I don’t know. It might get here, but if it does, it will be very late.”