He took off his hat and threw it onto the bed. When he was a child, his mother had told him that having a hat on the bed was bad luck, but that old biddy had been wrong about everything else, so why not that, too?
He turned to the dressing table near the wall lamp. A gilt-framed mirror hung above the table. Kellerman could have watched himself set the case down flat on the table if he’d wanted to, but he had no urge to do that. Instead he took out the handkerchief and wiped his face again.
This is a disaster, he thought, an utter disaster. He couldn’t afford to be stuck here in Sacramento, still so close to San Francisco. The precautions he had taken ought to ensure that what he had done wouldn’t be discovered for several days, but he couldn’t guarantee that. Flukes, strokes of bad luck, were always possible. He had planned to stay on the move until he was far away.
This way, if the shortage were uncovered, it wouldn’t take them long at all to track him down and arrest him.
The thought made a shudder go through him. He went to the carpetbag and rummaged in it until he found a silver flask. He unscrewed the cap and took a long drink, the muscles in his throat working as he swallowed.
The liquor’s fiery bite strengthened him and stiffened his spine. He drank more of it and then felt well enough to go back to the case on the dressing table.
He laid his hand on it but didn’t open it just yet. Instead, another thought intruded on him.
He had been upset by the situation and annoyed by the little boy, but despite that, he had noticed how attractive the woman was. Fluffy, light brown hair; a tantalizing face; a slender but feminine body . . . And despite being the child’s mother, which meant she wasn’t totally unsullied, she had possessed an air of wholesome innocence that greatly appealed to Kellerman.
Of course, such a woman would never pay any attention to a man like him, older, portly, yes, even pompous, he had to admit that. None of those were qualities that attracted lovely young women.
But money did.
Kellerman laid his hands on the case and unfastened the catches. He raised the lid and gazed upon the contents, still in awe at what he had managed to do.
Neat stacks of crisp bills bound together with paper wrappers filled the case.
Fifty thousand dollars.
Enough to live like a king for the rest of his life . . . if only he could get far enough away from San Francisco, fast enough.
Jerome Kellerman looked up, and this time he did smile at himself in the mirror. With that much money, any woman he wanted could be his.
Even that sweet little brown-haired beauty down the hall.
But only if they didn’t catch him and throw him in prison for the rest of his life. That wouldn’t happen, Kellerman vowed to himself. He would never let them take him back.
Kellerman’s hand closed around the other object in the case and lifted it out, the smell of gun oil strong in his nose as he tightly gripped the Smith & Wesson.
CHAPTER 12
Denny and Louis hadn’t been able to get a suite at the hotel, but they had secured rooms for themselves and Smoke. When Smoke reached the hotel, the clerk at the desk told him he would be staying in Room 212. Louis was next door in 214, while Denny was directly across the hall from her brother in 215.
After making arrangements for Alma Lewiston to have a room as well, Smoke headed upstairs. He was glad this hotel didn’t have any of those fancy rising rooms like the Palace in San Francisco. He preferred climbing the stairs with his own two feet.
Smoke’s room and Louis’s were adjoining, and the door between them was open when Smoke came in. Both of the younger Jensens were waiting for him there, seated in overstuffed armchairs near the window.
On the other side of the glass, snow still fell, not heavily but steadily.
Smoke took off his hat and placed it on the dressing table. Louis asked, “Did you send that wire to Mother letting her know we won’t be back for Christmas after all?”
“I sent her a wire telling her that Donner Pass is closed,” Smoke said. “But that’s not the only route, and I told her we’d try to get back some other way.”
Denny said, “That’s what Louis and I were just talking about. In the morning, we can catch a train for Los Angeles, go down there, head across to El Paso, and then up through New Mexico into Colorado and on to Big Rock that way. They had some train schedules down in the lobby. The connections aren’t as good as they might have been. We’ll lose some time to layovers that can’t be avoided. But we should be able to make it, barely, if we don’t run into any more trouble.”
“Which we might, traveling through the mountains in New Mexico at this time of year,” Smoke pointed out. “Those passes get blocked by snow sometimes, too.”
“Well, do you have a better idea, Pa?” Denny asked.
“Maybe,” Smoke said. “The railroad is still open between Big Rock and Reno. We’ll meet your mother and the others and celebrate Christmas there.”
Louis raised his eyebrows. “In Reno? Away from home?”
“We’ve been away from home for Christmas plenty of times over the years. The most important thing is being with family, not where you are.”
“But we can’t get to Reno, either,” Denny said. “The train can’t get through, remember?”
“Of course I remember,” Smoke said. “That’s why we’re going by stagecoach.”
Both youngsters stared at him for a moment. Then Denny said, “Are you telling me there’s a stagecoach that runs from here to Reno and it can get through where a train can’t?”
“There’s not a regular stagecoach route anymore,” Smoke said, “but there used to be several that went through the Sierra Nevadas. The Dutch Flats Wagon Road followed pretty close to the same route the railroad uses now, up through the pass. But we can swing south on the McCulley Cutoff through easier terrain that’s less likely to be blocked, then turn back north toward Reno on the other side of the mountains.”
Denny frowned and said, “I suppose we could do that . . . if we had a stagecoach.”
“Do you remember Fred Davis?”
Louis and Denny looked at each other. Louis shrugged, and then Denny shook her head and told Smoke, “That name doesn’t mean anything to me.”
“Fred used to own a number of stage lines that ran where the railroads don’t and kept the small communities in touch with the rest of the world. Twenty-some-odd years ago, after your mother and I had started the Sugarloaf but before you two were born, I did a favor for Fred and rode shotgun on one of his routes when he was being plagued by a gang of road agents.3 We’ve kept in touch ever since. He’s retired now, but he stayed in the stagecoach business up until just a few years ago, keeping a small line going here in California. He lives here in Sacramento and told me in one of his letters that he has the last of his stagecoaches in storage here.”
Louis said, “So you’re going to just . . . what? Borrow a stagecoach?”
“I don’t see why not,” Smoke said.
“Mother would say you’ve lost your mind,” Denny told him.
“I don’t know about that. She’s always had a pretty adventurous nature. She married me, after all.” Smoke smiled. “But just in case, that’s why I didn’t tell her what I had in mind. I’ll go and talk to Fred in the morning, and if we can work out a deal, I’ll wire your mother then and ask her to meet us in Reno.”
“Wait a minute,” Louis said. “Who’s going to drive this stagecoach, assuming you can even find one?”
“I can handle a six-horse hitch if I have to.” Smoke shrugged. “It might be better if we could hire somebody with experience, but I don’t know who’s available or if there even are any jehus left around here from the old days.”
“Any what?” Denny asked.
“Old Spanish word. It translates roughly to stagecoach driver. That’s what we called them sometimes, back in the old days.”
Louis shook his head dubiously and said, “I’m not sure you’ll find anyone willing to sign on for
a risky trip like that, especially at this time of year.”
“What about you two?” Smoke asked bluntly. “Are you willing to risk it?”
“Taking a stagecoach over the mountains in the middle of winter, not knowing what sort of trouble we’ll run into?” Denny laughed. “Actually, it sounds exciting to me.”
“It would,” Louis said.
“If you think it would be too much of an ordeal for you, son—” Smoke began.
“That’s not what I said at all. I just meant I’m not surprised Denny thinks it sounds exciting. She’s always been willing to tackle just about anything if it strikes her as an adventure.”
“I can’t help it.” She pointed at Smoke. “I inherited it from him.”
“I have the same legacy,” Louis said. “If you think we can make it across the mountains in a stagecoach, I guess that’s what we’ll do!”
Smoke smiled at his children, pleased that neither of them lacked for sand. It was a wild idea, and he knew it, but with luck and determination they could see it through.
Before they could continue the discussion, a soft knock sounded on the hotel room door.
Smoke opened the door to find a freckle-faced bellboy standing there with a small envelope in his hand.
“I have a wire for you, Mr. Jensen,” he said.
Smoke took the envelope and handed the boy a dime. “Thanks, son.” He took a folded yellow telegraph flimsy from the envelope and read the words printed on it. When he turned to Denny and Louis, a grim cast had settled over his features.
“What’s wrong, Pa?” Denny asked, sensing right away that the wire contained troubling news.
Smoke snapped the middle finger of his other hand against the paper he held and said, “This is a reply to the wire I sent Claudius Turnbuckle a while ago. He went to the jail to talk to that fella Lewiston, like I asked him to.”
“The opium addict who tried to rob you yesterday,” Louis said.
“Yeah. But when he got there, he found out that Lewiston was dead.”
“Dead!” Denny exclaimed.
Smoke nodded. Bleak lines formed trenches in his cheeks.
“He managed to tear up the blanket in his cell, make a rope out of it, and hang himself. I reckon he decided there was no way his wife could help him, and he couldn’t face the likelihood of going to prison.”
“That lawyer, Turnbuckle, is certain of his facts?” Louis asked.
“Says he saw the body himself. They hadn’t taken it to the morgue yet.”
Denny said, “Well, that’s just terrible. His poor wife is going to be devastated. Were you going to drop the charges against him, Pa?”
“More than likely,” Smoke said, “but I don’t think it would have done any good. The police had my statement, so they could have gone ahead and charged him whether I wanted them to or not. Turnbuckle might have been able to talk them out of it, but there’s no guarantee of that.”
“What are you going to do?”
Smoke shook his head. “Not much I can do other than go and tell Mrs. Lewiston what happened. I got her a room here. She’s up on the third floor.”
Denny got to her feet. “I’ll come with you.”
“That’s not necessary—”
“It might be better to have a woman along when you’re breaking bad news that way.”
That sounded exactly like something Sally would say, Smoke thought. He nodded and said, “Good idea. Thanks.”
“I’ll stay here and rest a bit,” Louis said. “When you get back, we can get some supper.”
Smoke reached for his hat.
A few minutes later, he and Denny stood in front of the door to Room 327. Smoke grimaced and said, “I think I’d rather take on a gang of owlhoots or an Apache war party than tackle a chore like this.”
“Let me tell her,” Denny suggested.
He shook his head. “It’s not your responsibility. I’m the one the fella tried to rob.”
He knocked on the door.
Alma Lewiston opened it a moment later. She had taken off the hat and jacket from her traveling outfit, leaving her in the long skirt and high-necked white blouse. She had taken her hair down, too, which softened her rather severe look.
As soon as she saw Smoke and Denny standing there, she caught her breath and took a step back. Her eyes widened and she started to shake her head. With an obvious struggle to speak, she said, “You wouldn’t be here . . . looking like that . . . unless . . . unless . . .”
Smoke took off his hat and held it in front of him with his left hand.
“I’m mighty sorry, ma’am,” he said. “I heard back from that lawyer I wired in San Francisco. He was willing to try to help your husband, but when he went to the jail—”
“Let me guess,” Alma interrupted him. Her voice was brittle with grief now. “Gordon found some way to kill himself, didn’t he?”
Smoke didn’t figure she needed to have all the details right now. He just nodded and said, “I’m afraid so.”
The woman surprised him by laughing, but it was a cold, humorless sound.
“He’s been trying to do that ever since he got back from the war, first with the laudanum and then the opium. It was taking a long time, but that’s what he was doing, all right. Since he couldn’t get any of that stuff in jail, he figured out something else. Hanged himself, more than likely.”
Since she was the one who had put it into words, Smoke nodded.
“That’s what the telegram from Turnbuckle said.”
Denny moved forward a little, as if to give Alma Lewiston a hug, but the woman stepped back again and said, “I don’t need your sympathy. You don’t know what I’ve gone through.”
“No, but I’m sorry for your loss,” Denny said.
“I’ve been losing Gordon for two years now. Do you think I ever really believed this would end any other way?”
“We’re very sorry,” Smoke said. “I’ll pay for your ticket back to San Francisco and see to it that your husband is laid to rest properly.”
Alma shook her head. “There’s nothing there for me to go back to. As for Gordon, they can put him in Potter’s Field. He didn’t have any family besides me. Nobody’s going to mourn him, and there’s no point in pretending otherwise.”
“I really don’t mind—”
“You’ve already done enough.” Alma gripped the edge of the door. “Thank you for letting me know. Good night.”
“If there’s anything we can do—” Denny ventured.
“There’s not.”
The door closed in their faces.
Smoke saw the anger flaring in his daughter’s eyes and took hold of Denny’s arm to steer her along the corridor, away from the door.
“What a cold-blooded woman,” Denny said. “Doesn’t even want to go back and make sure her husband gets a decent burial.”
“Like she said, she’s known for a long time what was bound to happen sooner or later. Or at least, what the odds were that it would. I reckon she’s already done all the grieving she had inside her.”
“Well, it still seems wrong to me.”
“Folks have to handle losing loved ones in their own way.”
Smoke’s mind went back, ever so briefly, to his first wife, Nicole, whose name he had given to this beautiful young woman beside him. Nicole and their infant son, Arthur, had been murdered, and Smoke had handled that loss by going after and killing all the men responsible.
He couldn’t help but wonder if Alma Lewiston blamed him for what had happened to her husband.
And what she would do about it if she did.
CHAPTER 13
By the next morning, a thin layer of white lay over the capital city. It had stopped snowing sometime during the night, but from the looks of the clouds looming over the mountains in the distance, the terrific blizzard that had buried Donner Pass was still going on up there.
From the letters Smoke had exchanged with his old friend Fred Davis, Smoke knew the name of the street where the man li
ved, and a helpful desk clerk gave him directions to the neighborhood. Smoke found a livery stable several blocks from the hotel and rented a horse and tack.
It felt good to be in the saddle again, he thought as he rode toward Davis’s house. He spent too much time sitting behind the desk in his office at the Sugarloaf.
Calvin Woods handled the foreman’s duties these days, and Pearlie, although retired from that job, was still around to give Cal a hand with advice or whatever else needed doing.
Smoke had to take care of all the ranch’s paperwork, though, and it seemed like the longer he lived, the more of that pestiferous stuff there was.
One of these days—and it wouldn’t be that long from now if Smoke had his way—Louis would be wrangling all those papers, and Denny could make the decisions regarding the day-to-day running of the ranch. She was smart enough to rely heavily on a top hand like Cal, and Smoke knew his daughter’s own instincts were good to start with.
That would leave Smoke and Sally free to enjoy life without any real responsibilities for the first time in years. They could ride up into the high country, just the two of them, along with their mounts and a packhorse, and spend some time surrounded by beautiful isolation.
He might even take an ax with him, Smoke mused, so he could fell some trees and build a small cabin by hand, just like in the old days. He was only in his fifties, still the prime of life as far as he was concerned, and could handle that without any problem.
As long as the world was big enough for him and Sally, that was plenty big enough as far as Smoke was concerned.
Fred Davis lived in a residential area a good distance away from the capital and the businesses in the middle of town. Davis was a widower, Smoke knew, but the small house where he reined in was neatly kept, with flower beds in front of the porch even though they were empty at this time of year.
Smoke swung down from the saddle and wrapped the rental horse’s reins around one of the gateposts.
The jowly, elderly man who opened the door to Smoke’s knock had thinning gray hair and wore a simple shirt and trousers with suspenders. A pair of spectacles had slid down on his nose until they seemed to perch at the very end of it. He looked over the top of them and said, “Yes, what can I do for—” He stopped short, pushed the spectacles up with one finger, and exclaimed, “Good Lord! Is it really . . . Smoke Jensen?”
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