A Rocky Mountain Christmas

by William W. Johnstone

  “That’ll be fine,” Ward agreed. “But I need some of my tack, first.”

  “Sure, what do you want?”

  “I want a poncho, blanket, and my rifle.”

  “Look here, mister, it sounds like you’re goin’ huntin’. If that’s true, be awful careful ’bout where you shoot your rifle. You could cause an avalanche, and you for sure don’t want to get caught in one of those.”

  “I’ll be careful,” Ward insisted.

  “All right. You can come on back and get your tack.” As they passed one of the stalls, Ike pointed. “I reckon you heard about the murder. Billy found ’im lyin’ right there. He’d been stabbed.”

  “I read about it in the paper,” Ward said.

  “There’s your tack, all there as you can see. Your stuff is safe here. Yes, sir, in all the years I been runnin’ this livery, ain’t never been nothin’ stole from it.”

  “Just somebody murdered,” Ward mumbled.

  “What? Oh, yes, sir, I guess that’s right. I sure ain’t proud of it, but I guess it is right.”

  Ward pulled his rifle from the tack. Reaching down into his saddlebag, he opened a box of ammunition and scooped out a handful of extra rifle rounds, which he put in his pocket. The poncho and blanket were rolled together in a tight roll. He put the roll over one shoulder, let it fall diagonally across his body, and tied the two bottom ends together. This allowed him to carry the blanket and poncho while keeping his hands free.

  “I appreciate you lettin’ me put your horses together,” Ike said. “That’ll free up three more stalls.”

  Ward nodded, then stepped into the street in front of the livery. He looked toward the market, where, a few minutes earlier he had seen two men loading a sled. The men were gone, and he felt a moment of apprehension that he had lost them. Then, looking up the track, he saw them plodding along, pulling the sled behind them.

  On board the train

  The wire from the telegraph line had been run through the window of the car so Bailey could send and receive messages from the relative comfort of the car. Newspapers and pieces of carpet were stuffed into the open section of the window to keep as much cold air out as possible.

  Some of the passengers had asked that he send messages back to let their family know that they were still alive. Senator Daniels asked if he could send a message to the Denver newspapers.

  “All right,” Bailey agreed.

  Senator Daniels cleared his throat, then began to speak. “My fellow citizens. I am addressing you by the magic of harnessed lightning, to tell you that I am safe, though I, and the others with me, are being held hostage by a convicted criminal, Michael Santelli. He and other brigands with him have taken control of the dining car, wherein is stored all the food on this train. The result is four days of starvation and want.

  “I want all my constituents to know that I, and the others herein exposed to such danger and privation, are doing all we can to fight against this evil, and it is my belief that we will prevail. But, I ask—no, I demand—the Denver and Pacific do whatever is necessary to come to our rescue.

  “It is unthinkable that in this day of mighty steam engines and powerful, steam shovels, of telegraph and telephone, that a loud and resounding hue and cry has not gone out over all the land to cause a mighty mobilization of forces, sufficient to overcome any such barriers as may stand between us, and our eventual rescue.

  “I further demand that—” Senator Daniels stopped in mid-sentence and looked down at Bailey. “You aren’t sending this.”

  “Senator, I can’t send all that. I can’t send more than twenty-five words in each message.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because this is not a regular Western Union station. We have what is called emergency access, which allows us but limited use of the line. If I attempted to send everything you just said, we would be cut off. And I feel that it is vital we keep this line open.”

  “Hrrumph,” Senator Daniels grumped. “Very well, very well.”

  “If you have something you can send in twenty-five words or less, I would be happy to send it.”

  “All right, send this to the Colorado Rocky News.” Again, Senator Daniels cleared his throat as if about to deliver a speech. “Though we face starvation and privation, I have rallied the beleaguered passengers to show courage in the wake of hardship. We will prevail. Jarred Daniels, State Senator.”

  “That’s twenty-seven words, Senator.”

  “Change ‘we will prevail’ to ‘I will prevail’ and sign it Senator Daniels.”

  Bailey sent the message, along with several other messages. Then, after a few minutes of quiet, the telegraph key began clacking. Bailey responded, then listened.

  “Mr. Jensen,” Bailey called. “There is a message coming in for you.”

  “For me?” Matt asked, surprised by the announcement.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What does he say?”

  The machine clattered again, and Bailey recorded the message. Then he chuckled. “I’m sure this has some meaning for you.”

  “What?”

  Bailey read aloud what he wrote. “Will pull your behind from snow again. Hang on. Rescue soon.”

  Matt smiled, broadly. “Yes, sir, it has a lot of meaning for me. It means Smoke is coming to get us. And it means that we will be out of here sometime within the next twenty-four hours.”

  “Smoke? Are you talking about Smoke Jensen?” Senator Daniels asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I am well aware of the exploits of Smoke Jensen. However, he is but one man, and I don’t see how one man can possibly come to our rescue. I mean, even if he gets here, what can he do? He can’t free the train, and he is no more capable of taking the dining car back than we are.”

  “Never underestimate Smoke Jensen,” Matt warned. “If he says he is going to rescue us, that is exactly what he is going to do.”

  “It must be refreshing to have such childish confidence in a person,” Senator Daniels said sarcastically.

  “Oh, there’s nothing childish about it, Senator. As I am sure you will see soon enough.”

  The telegraph began clicking again, and once more, Bailey recorded the incoming message on a tablet. When finished, he reread the message. “Well, I’ll be.”

  “What is it?” Matt asked.

  Bailey showed him the message, and a big smile came across his face after he read it. “Luke, you might want to hear this message,” Matt called.

  Luke was sitting in the seat just across from Jenny, who was still holding Becky’s head in her lap. He turned to Matt. “Yes?”

  “This message pertains to you,” Matt said.

  Luke came over to Matt and Bailey, his face reflecting curiosity and a slight bit of anxiousness.

  Matt read aloud from the paper. “Sheriff Ferrell killed robbing stagecoach. Judge Briggs indicted for collusion. Removed from the bench. Shardeen’s charges dropped. Governor vacated sentence.”

  “Does that mean I’m free? Really free?” Luke asked.

  “It does indeed,” Matt congratulated. “When we are rescued from this train, you can go back to your ranch, a free man.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  On the mountain

  Smoke and Duff had been climbing for the better part of four hours, encountering one obstacle after another. On three separate occasions, they had come to an absolute halt. Each time, they had to backtrack, sometimes for two or three miles, until they found another route.

  With each subsequent try the trail became more difficult. Walking in snowshoes made the trek more manageable, but it was still exhausting. They stopped, then sat down under a juniper tree, drawing in huge, heaving breaths that filled their lungs with cold air and caused their chests to hurt.

  “It’s hard enough just to get your breath at this altitude,” Smoke pointed out. “It’s even more difficult when you are exerting yourself as hard as we are.”

  “This trail seems somewhat more difficult than any of the
others we have tried, so far,” Duff said.

  “It is. The other trails were much easier going, but as you saw, each of those trails reached a point to where we could go no farther. I would rather have the trail difficult, but with no insurmountable obstacle, than to have an easy trail that comes to a dead end.”

  “Aye, you have a point there,” Duff agreed.

  Ward was exhausted. He had not thought about bringing snowshoes, and struggled mightily with each step he took. Twice he lost trail of the two men he was following, only to see them coming back down the trail toward him. In those cases he was glad to be far enough away they didn’t come across his tracks.

  Panting hard, he pulled his feet up from the snow, feeling agony from the cold and the heavy breathing.

  Grumbling about snowshoes, he continued on through the snow, step by agonizing step, when he noticed the men had stopped. Resting. Immediately, the solution came to him. He would kill them, take their snowshoes, then go on to the train carrying the extra pair of snowshoes. Once he reached the train he would give the other pair to his brother, abandon the men he had recruited to help him, and he and his brother would split the five thousand dollars between them. He gauged the distance between him and the two men to be no more than about fifty yards, an easy shot with the rifle. Raising the Winchester .30-06 to his shoulder, he aimed at the one farthest away, then pulled the trigger.

  Smoke leaned forward to adjust his foot in the snowshoe, which proved to be a fortuitous move. He heard the pop of the bullet as it passed close to his ear, and knew what it was, even before he heard the sound of the rifle shot.

  “What is it?” Duff called, looking around.

  “Get down!” Smoke called.

  As both men began clawing at their heavy coats, trying to get to their pistols, they heard another sound. Not that of a second gunshot, but the heavy thunder of cascading snow.

  “Avalanche!” Smoke shouted, and he and Duff crouched behind the tree, looking up at the snow as it came barreling down the side of the mountain.

  Smoke was certain he was going to die. He felt no fear, just a sense of wonder that he had survived so many gunfights and close calls only to be killed by an avalanche. His biggest concern was that he had failed Matt and the others on the train.

  About three hundred feet above, the avalanche changed direction, and Smoke and Duff watched in fascination as more than a hundred feet of snow snapped trees and gathered rocks as it roared down the side of the mountain and right past them. Miraculously, the avalanche left them in the clear.

  Following the moving mountain of snow with their eyes, they saw the shooter swept up into the massive slide. His head and shoulders protruding from the great slide, the man’s face contorted in pain and terror just before he went under. A moment later, the snow appeared red with blood in spots, then the avalanche continued down the hill, breaking trees off at the trunk, the loud pops sounding like explosions. As the avalanche rolled on down the side of the mountain, the sound, in Doppler effect, decreased in volume until, way down at the bottom of the mountain, the crashing trees sounded more like snapping twigs.

  “That was close.” Smoke stood up in amazement.

  “Aye, indeed it was. Who was that fellow, Smoke, and why was he shooting at us?”

  Smoke shook his head. “I don’t have the slightest idea.” He let out a long, frustrated sigh. “After this, though, I don’t see how we are ever going to make it up the rest of the way. I wouldn’t be surprised if this didn’t close every path there was. I’m not ready to give up yet, but—” Smoke stopped in mid-sentence and looked up the side of the mountain. “God in heaven! It can’t be!”

  “What is it? What are you talking about?” Duff craned his neck to see what Smoke was looking at.

  “You don’t see him?”

  “See who?”

  “How can you not see him? He’s no more than fifty feet away!” Smoke said, pointing.

  “The shooter? How can that be?” Duff asked in confusion.

  “No, not the shooter. The mountain man! But it can’t be who I think it is. It can’t be!”

  “Lad, have ye gone daft? There is no one in the direction you are pointing, be it fifty or a hundred feet away.”

  The man Smoke saw was an old mountain man dressed in buckskins and a bear coat. He was carrying a Hawkens .50 caliber muzzle-loading rifle, and he was smiling at Smoke. “It’s good to see you again, boy.”

  Smoke shook his head. “This isn’t possible.”

  “Smoke, what are you talking about? Who are you talking to?” Duff asked, puzzled by Smoke’s strange actions.

  “Are you going to tell me that you don’t see anyone there?” Smoke asked.

  Duff looked again in the direction Smoke was pointing, then looked back at Smoke with an expression of confusion on his face. “I see nothing.”

  “Never mind the Scotsman,” the old mountain man said. “Follow me. I’ll show you the way.”

  “How did you—?” Smoke asked, but the mountain man interrupted him.

  “We’ve no time for palaverin’ now, boy. We have to get a move on it. Ain’t that right, honey?”

  A little girl, who appeared to be about nine years old, stepped out from behind the old mountain man.

  “We need you, Mr. Smoke,” the little girl said. “Please come help us.”

  “What? God in Heaven, who are you?”

  “My name is Becky.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I came from the train.”

  “Where are your mama and daddy? Do they know you are here?”

  “They think I’m asleep,” Becky said.

  “Yes, and well you should be. You’ve got no business being out in this weather. You’ll freeze to death!”

  “Please hurry,” the little girl said. “We need you. Everyone on the train needs you.”

  “What is she doing here?” Smoke asked the old mountain man. “Did you bring her?”

  “No, she came on her own, just to show you how much those folks on the train need you.”

  “Smoke, would you be wanting me to drag the sled now?” Duff asked.

  Smoke looked at Duff, then back at the mountain man and the angelic little girl who was standing beside him. Both seemed to be glowing in some sort of ethereal light.

  “Old man, can I ask you something?”

  The old mountain man chuckled. “Now, Smoke, would you tell me when, for as long as I have known you, you have ever needed permission to ask me a question?”

  “I’ve never seen you . . . uh . . . quite like this, before,” Smoke said.

  “All right, ask the question.”

  “Why hasn’t Duff said anything about you or the little girl? Does he see you?”

  “Duff has his own reality,” the mountain man said. “And you have yours.”

  “Reality? Is that what you call this?”

  “What do you call it?” the old mountain man asked.

  “I don’t know what to call it.” Smoke looked at the little girl again, and thought that he had never seen a more beautiful child.

  Smoke turned to Duff. “Do you see this old man and this young girl standing here before us?”

  Duff was down on one knee, adjusting the cord to the sled. He gave no indication he had even heard Smoke.

  “Why doesn’t he answer me?”

  “He doesn’t hear you.”

  “How can he not hear me? He’s right here.”

  “I told you. He has his own reality.”

  “Are you saying I’m not a part of his reality?

  “Sometimes you are and sometimes you aren’t.”

  “That doesn’t make sense.”

  “Do you think that when a caterpillar is born, he knows someday he will be a butterfly?” the old mountain man asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Then let’s leave it at that. Just because you don’t know, doesn’t mean that it isn’t real.”

  “All right, let’s accept this as my
reality. How are we going to get up to the train? There’s no way up the side of this mountain. It’s for sure the avalanche has closed every passage.”

  “Not every passage,” the old mountain man explained. “Come along and follow me. I know a way. Have I ever steered you wrong?”

  “Are you sure the avalanche has closed every passage?” Duff asked Smoke. “Or would you like to go on and see if we can find something? If you want to go on, I’m willing to go with you.”

  “You heard that? You heard me say that the avalanche had closed all the passages?”

  “Of course I heard it. I’m standing right here.”

  “But you didn’t hear me talking to the little girl.”

  “What little girl?”

  “Never mind. Are you game to keep going?”

  “Aye. ’Tis for sure ’n certain we can’t turn back now,” Duff said. “You know this mountain, I don’t. But I’ve got confidence you can find a way up for us.”

  “He’s got faith in me, and he doesn’t even see me.” The old mountain man snickered.

  “Ha. He said he has faith in me,” Smoke boasted.

  “It’s the same thing, my boy.”

  “Where is the little girl? What happened to her?”

  “What little girl?”

  “She said her name is Becky.”

  The old mountain man chuckled. “Like I said, boy. You’ve got your own reality. Now, are you ready or not?”

  “I’m ready,” Smoke said.

  “Good. Then I’m with you,” Duff answered. “I’ll draw the sled for a while.”

  The old mountain man led the way, trudging up the hill. He wasn’t wearing snowshoes, but that didn’t matter because he wasn’t sinking into the snow. The trail became much easier as they went through areas that looked as if a channel had been dug just to clear the way.

  “Smoke, have you noticed something curious?” Duff asked as they made their way up the mountain.

  “Everything about this is curious,” Smoke replied. “I’m glad to see that you have finally noticed.”

  “How can you not notice this trail?” Duff asked. “It’s just seems too easy to be real, and I’ve got a feeling we’re going come upon a sheer rock cliff, or something else just as impassable. I can’t actually believe we’ve found a path that leads to the top.”