A High Sierra Christmas

by William W. Johnstone

  “It is,” Smoke replied with a grin. He had taken off his gloves as he waited for Davis to come to the door. He stuck out his right hand and went on, “It’s been a long time, Fred.”

  “By God, it sure has!” Davis gripped Smoke’s hand with the strength of a man who had hitched and unhitched thousands of teams of stagecoach horses, and then the two of them roughly embraced and slapped each other on the back. “What in blazes are you doing here? Wait, never mind that right now. Come on in here out of the cold!”

  Davis ushered Smoke into the house, which was as neat inside as it appeared from the outside. He took Smoke’s hat and sheepskin jacket and hung them on a rack inside the door.

  “There’s coffee on the stove,” he offered.

  “With snow on the ground, this is a mighty good morning for it,” Smoke agreed.

  When the two men were sitting in the parlor with their coffee, Smoke in an armchair and Davis in a rocker, the older man said, “How many years has it been?”

  “Since we shook and howdied? Ten, I’d say. And a little more than double that since I rode shotgun for you.”

  “You sure saved my bacon that time,” Davis said. “Hell, you saved the whole hog! What brings you to Sacramento? Just passing through? I’m sure you didn’t come all the way from Colorado just to see an old pelican like me.”

  “Well, I might have. We had some high old times back then that would be good to revisit.” Smoke sipped his coffee. His expression grew more serious as he went on, “But to tell you the truth, Fred, I actually was just passing through, on my way home from San Francisco. You remember me mentioning my boy, Louis, in my letters, I’m sure. Well, he has some health problems, and we were seeing a doctor in San Francisco about them. His twin sister, Denise, is with us, too.”

  “Sorry to hear about the boy having trouble. Doesn’t seem right, any son of Smoke Jensen not being as hale and hearty as his pa.”

  “Sickness doesn’t care who you are or where you come from. It can ambush anybody.”

  Davis nodded solemnly and said, “Aye, that’s true. It took my Emily without much warning.”

  “You know how sorry I am about that, Fred.”

  Davis waved a hand. “We don’t need to make a gloomy day even darker. You said you were on your way home. Trying to get there before Christmas, I expect.”

  “That’s right,” Smoke said, “only we ran into trouble.”

  “Donner Pass.”

  “I’m not surprised you guessed it. You had to deal with it often enough during winters past.”

  “I surely did! Nothing more unpredictable than a Sierra Nevada snowstorm. I hadn’t heard that the pass was closed, but I’ve been smelling snow in the air for the past couple of days.”

  “The telegraph lines are still up, or at least they were yesterday,” Smoke said. “Word from the Summit Hotel is that an avalanche collapsed a long section of snowsheds and blocked the pass. Christmas will be over before it ever gets cleaned up enough for the trains to get through.”

  “So you can’t get home to Sally. That’s mighty bad luck, all right.”

  “It’s not just Sally. My brothers and nephews are supposed to join us for the holiday.”

  “And now you’re stuck in Sacramento, so you decided to pay a visit to an old man.” Davis cocked his head a little to the side. “Don’t try to fool me, Smoke. That’s not the only reason you’re here. You’ve got something else on your mind.”

  “I never thought for a second I could fool you, Fred,” Smoke said with a smile. “What I’ve got in mind is the McCulley Cutoff.”

  Davis’s bushy gray eyebrows rose. “Nobody uses that anymore. No need to.”

  “But it was a good road in its day. Better for stagecoaches than Dutch Flats ever was. The only reason the stage lines used Dutch Flats was because it was shorter and faster . . . when it wasn’t covered up with snow.”

  Davis chuckled. “Always struck me as funny how the highest trail over the mountains got named after some flats, but that’s the way it worked out. I’m sure you know there’s no stagecoach running through the Sierra Nevadas anymore, not over Dutch Flats or McCulley or anywhere else.”

  “No . . . but there could be.”

  That left Davis frowning in puzzlement even more. “What are you getting at, Smoke? Spit it out, boy.”

  “You’ve got a stagecoach,” Smoke said as he spread his hands. “I need to get to Reno.”

  Davis’s eyebrows climbed higher this time. “You’re talking about that old coach I couldn’t bear to part with because I’m a foolish, sentimental old man?”

  “I’d take good care of it and make arrangements for it to be brought back to you,” Smoke promised.

  “It’s just been sitting in the barn out back for a couple of years. And I don’t have a team.”

  “I can rent or buy a team. Fact is, I ought to have two teams, so I can switch them out and keep them fresh. There are no stage stations along the way to get relay teams.”

  “These days, there sure as blazes aren’t.” A calculating look appeared on Davis’s weather-beaten face. He was starting to really consider the idea and not finding it as far fetched as he’d thought at first, Smoke told himself.

  “You think it could be done, don’t you?”

  “Don’t know. Probably been a lot of snow even on the cutoff, but it never was bad about drifting too much through there. If a man had two good sturdy teams and didn’t get in too much of a hurry . . . You say you want to get to Reno?”

  “By Christmas,” Smoke said.

  “You’d be cutting it close, but you might could do it. Not without a good driver, though.”

  “I can handle the teams.”

  Davis shook his head. “Under good conditions, you sure could. I don’t doubt it for a second. But setting out across the Sierra Nevadas in the middle of winter, even on an easier route, would be plumb foolish without an experienced hand on the reins.”

  “You know where I can find one?”

  “Happens that I do. You remember old Salty Stevens?”

  The name brought back memories, all right, and surprised a question out of Smoke. “That old codger is still alive?”

  “And kicking.”

  Smoke chuckled and said, “Well, he would be, if I recollect what Salty was like. He’s here in Sacramento?”

  “Yeah. He got into town a while back. I know because he came to see me. Of course, it wasn’t just a social call. He wanted to borrow money. Sort of how you came looking for a favor today.”

  “You’re right, Fred. If I hadn’t been caught up in trying to get home before Christmas, I would’ve made time to stop and visit with you.”

  “Remember that next time,” Davis said.

  “What’s old Salty been doing?” Smoke asked.

  “He went up to Alaska, of all places, to hunt for gold. Ran into some gunfighter while he was there and partnered up with him for a while. The way Salty tells it, they had some wild times. The other fella had to go off on his own to take care of some business, though, and that left Salty by his lonesome again, so he decided to hunker down here for a while.”

  “In Sacramento?”

  “He kept talking about how he wants to go on down to Mexico and spend the rest of his life there, but he ran out of time this year. He swears he’ll get there next year, though.”

  “Salty was as good at handling a team as anybody I’ve ever seen,” Smoke said. “But he’s got to be getting on up in years by now.”

  Davis grunted. “Aren’t we all? He doesn’t seem like he’s aged much since the last time I saw him, though, and I’ve got a hunch he can still do it. Plus, it would probably be a good idea to give the old rapscallion some honest work before he gets himself in trouble!” He leaned forward in the rocker and clasped his hands between his knees. “I’ll make a deal with you. Get Salty to sign on as jehu, and you can have the loan of my stagecoach. He can even bring it back when you’re done with it. I don’t reckon he’d mind spending some time in
Reno until the weather gets better. How does that sound to you?”

  “It sounds like you’ve got a deal,” Smoke said as he stood up. Davis got to his feet as well, and the two men shook hands again to seal the agreement.

  Davis pointed over his shoulder with a thumb and said, “The coach is in the barn out back. I’ll go over it and make sure everything is in top shape. When do you want to leave?”

  “As soon as possible,” Smoke said. “Which means I’d better go hunt up Salty right now. Do you know where I might be able to find him?”

  “I can give you a pretty good idea,” Davis said dryly. “There’s a saloon not far from here called the Rusty Hinge. Salty spends a lot of time there.”

  “You reckon he’d be in a saloon this early in the day?”

  “I’d say there’s a good chance of it. He’s sweet on a gal who works there.”

  It was Smoke’s turn to lift his eyebrows. “He’s still chasing women at his age?”

  “You know Salty. He’s always been determined to live up to his name!”

  CHAPTER 14

  Being the state capital, Sacramento was full of politicians and bureaucrats, or as Smoke thought of them, confidence men and paper pushers. They had their own places downtown where they drank.

  The Rusty Hinge, however, was more the sort of drinking establishment where men who actually worked for a living congregated.

  Even though it wasn’t noon yet, the saloon had a good number of customers. Some of them gathered around the free lunch that was already set out at the end of the bar, while a poker game was going on at one of the tables and a roulette wheel had several players standing around watching it spin.

  The wheel was being operated by a middle-aged woman who was still handsome and displayed signs of having been a real beauty in her youth. Her graying blond hair was done up on top of her head, and though her figure was a tad on the stout side, the dark blue gown she wore showed it off to her advantage.

  Smoke recognized one of the men playing the wheel. He was short and scrawny, with long white hair and a white beard. The battered brown hat he wore had seen better days, with a permanently pushed-up brim that was a little ragged here and there. A fringed buckskin jacket over a cowhide vest and flannel shirt, patched jeans, and high-topped, moccasin-style boots completed his outfit.

  Actually, Salty Stevens didn’t look a day older than he had the last time Smoke saw him. He was one of those men who had always appeared older than he really was, up to a certain point, and then he just stayed at that point, seemingly as unchanging as the mountains.

  “Let it ride, Eloise, honey,” he was saying as Smoke stepped up beside him.

  “Are you sure about that, Salty?” the blonde asked. “I think you’ve been pushing your luck on red.”

  “No, ma’am, it’s gonna come up again,” Salty insisted. “I can feel it in my bones, and there ain’t nothin’ I trust more than the feelin’ in my bones.”

  “I trust his bones, too,” Smoke said as he reached out and placed a twenty-dollar gold piece on red. He wasn’t a man who normally gambled for enjoyment, but he could afford to risk a double eagle now and then.

  Salty glanced over at him, curious who was betting the same as him. Then the old-timer looked again, sharply, and said, “Smoke? Can’t be! Smoke Jensen?”

  Smoke grinned at him and said, “That’s right, Salty.”

  “Well, I’ll be a ring-tailed horned toad!” Salty grabbed Smoke’s hand and pumped it enthusiastically. “Dadgum, son, it’s good to see you!”

  “You too. I’ll admit, I was a little surprised when Fred Davis told me you were still alive.”

  “What sort of a thing is that to say to a fella? Durned right I’m still alive! Feelin’ mighty spry, too. Even better now, seein’ you again after all these years!”

  One of the other players said, “Have your reunion some other time, pop. Some of us are here to win money.”

  “Keep your pants on, sonny,” Salty snapped. “You don’t know who this fella is.”

  “I don’t care if he’s Billy the Kid or Wild Bill Hickok come back to life.” To the blonde, he added, “Spin the damn wheel, lady.”

  Salty’s face flushed with obvious anger, and Smoke wondered if the blonde was the woman Davis had mentioned, the one Salty was sweet on. It seemed possible, given the old-timer’s reaction to the other player’s rude comment.

  Salty was about to say something to the man when Eloise announced, “All bets are down. Here we go, gentlemen.”

  She spun the wheel.

  Salty’s eyes were drawn to the colorful blur of motion. All the men around the wheel watched it, including Smoke. There was something compelling about the motion and the uncertainty of its result.

  The wheel slowed gradually as the little ball bounced, and after a few more turns, the ball gave a last hop and came to rest on one of the red spaces.

  “I told you!” Salty exclaimed. “My bones always know where it’s gonna wind up!”

  The man who had complained a moment earlier let out a frustrated curse and thumped a fist on the edge of the table. He snapped, “Tell your bones to shut up, old man!”

  “Take it easy, friend,” Smoke told him. “It’s not Salty’s fault if you lost. Just bad luck. That’s why they call it gambling.”

  “Nobody asked you to butt in either, mister. Keep your damn trap shut.”

  Salty said, “Best tread lightly there. You don’t know who you’re talkin’ to.”

  The man thrust out an already pugnacious jaw. “You said that before, and I told you, I don’t give a damn who he is.” He turned to Eloise. “I just can’t get a break today, can I? I’ve been losing steady, lady. Give me a chance next time, all right? Stop that wheel where I’ll win for a change.”

  Eloise frowned. “What are you saying, mister?”

  “Look, I know how these things work. That wheel’s got a brake on it so you can stop it wherever you want. You’ve got it rigged so this old man wins every time. Who is he, your pa?”

  “Why, you mouthy polecat!” Salty exploded. “Are you accusin’ this here fine lady of cheatin’?”

  The man sneered and said, “I’m saying nobody wins as much as you do without some help, grandpa.”

  Salty balled up his fists and took a step toward the man. “I ain’t your damn grandpa. No son or daughter o’ mine would ever spawn a whelp like you—”

  The tirade was cut off abruptly by the meaty thud of fist against flesh as the man punched Salty in the jaw.

  Smoke saw the blow coming and tried to get in front of Salty to block it, but there wasn’t time. The impact knocked Salty backward. Smoke was able to catch him and keep him from sprawling on the floor.

  Then as Salty shook his head groggily, Smoke gave him a shove into the arms of the blonde and stepped up to meet the attack.

  The man cursed him and said, “I’ll teach you to mind your own business!”

  “You hurt a friend of mine, and that makes it my business, mister,” Smoke said.

  The man snarled and threw another punch. His shoulders were heavy with muscle and the blow might have done some damage if it had landed.

  But Smoke was cat-quick and weaved aside from the big fist. The miss made the man lose his balance. Smoke hooked a left into his ribs and then rocketed a straight right to the face. The impact shivered satisfyingly up his arm.

  The man flung his arms out and went backward. Eloise gave a little scream as she clutched Salty and dragged him out of the way. The man struck the roulette table and fell onto it on his back.

  Smoke figured that would finish the fight almost as quickly as it had begun. But his opponent was tough and put a hand on the table to shove himself back up. He shook his head to clear it of cobwebs and lunged at Smoke.

  The man was surprisingly fast. He grabbed Smoke around the torso and tried to butt him in the face. Smoke jerked his head back to avoid that, but he couldn’t stop the man’s arms from locking around him with rib-crushing force. Smoke’s h
at flew off as the collision knocked him backward.

  Boots driving against the sawdust-littered floor, Smoke braced himself and stopped the man from forcing him off his feet. He cupped his hands and smacked them against his opponent’s ears.

  That brought a howl of pain from the man and caused him to loosen his grip a little. Smoke hit him under the chin with a short, sizzling uppercut that made the man’s head snap back like it was on a hinge. Smoke put both hands on his chest, shoved, and broke free.

  The man couldn’t get his arms up in time as Smoke hit him twice, a left and right that jerked his head first one way and then the other. Smoke bored in with a pair of punches to the body that rocked him even more.

  Then a roundhouse right lifted the man off his feet and sent him flying. He crashed down on a table that broke under him and left him sprawled on the floor, tangled in debris. The man moaned but made no attempt to get up.

  Smoke was breathing a little harder than he would have been after a fight like this twenty years earlier, but he felt good as he grinned, picked up his hat, and turned to Salty and Eloise, who stood beside the roulette wheel. Despite the man falling on it during the fight, the apparatus didn’t seem to be damaged.

  “Reckon that finishes that,” Smoke said as he brushed sawdust off his hat and then put it on.

  “It would have,” Eloise said, “if Thad Stoermer’s brothers weren’t here.”

  Smoke saw that she was staring apprehensively at something behind him. He turned his head to look over his shoulder and saw three men who had been gathered around the free lunch platters when he came in.

  Now they were advancing toward him with clenched fists and angry glares. Smoke saw the resemblance between them and realized their faces were very similar to the blood-smeared visage of the man he had just knocked out.

  “Brothers?” he said.

  “Yeah,” Salty replied, gulping a little. “And they stick together.”