A High Sierra Christmas

by William W. Johnstone

  The saloon’s other customers started backing off, clearly wanting no part of what was about to happen. The bartender leaned over the hardwood and pleaded, “Boys, take it easy. You don’t need to bust the place up.”

  The Stoermer brothers ignored him, and Smoke could tell from the bartender’s nervous expression that the man wasn’t going to do anything to put an end to the confrontation. Some aprons would have hauled out a sawed-off shotgun from under the bar or grabbed a bungstarter and waded into the fracas themselves, but not this one.

  “Reckon it’d do any good to tell ’em who you are, Smoke?” Salty suggested tentatively.

  “You can give it a try if you want.” Honestly, though, Smoke didn’t believe it would help.

  Salty stepped forward and held up his hands as he raised his voice and said, “Hold on there, fellas. This here is Smoke Jensen, the fastest, deadliest gunfighter there ever was. They’s been a bunch of dime novels written about him. You’re bound to have read ’em.”

  “We ain’t much on readin’,” one of the brothers said.

  “And he’s an old man,” added another.

  “He ain’t even packin’ iron,” the third put in.

  The Stoermers weren’t armed, as far as Smoke could tell. They were all stocky, beard-stubbled bruisers, but they didn’t look like gunmen.

  He reached behind his back and drew the .41-caliber Lightning, which officially had been dubbed the Thunderer by Colt, but most folks called it by the same name as its .38-caliber sibling. The Stoermers came to an abrupt halt at the sight of the double-action revolver.

  “That ain’t fair,” one of the brothers protested. “We ain’t got no guns.”

  “But you consider three to one to be fair odds,” Smoke said with an edge of contempt in his voice.

  “Three to two,” Salty said as he stepped up beside Smoke. “You got into this mess because o’ me. I ain’t gonna let you face it by yourself.”

  Smoke laughed. “Salty, compared to a lot of the trouble you and I got ourselves into over the years, this isn’t really much of a mess.”

  “Yeah, you’re right about that.” The old-timer grinned contemptuously at the Stoermers. “More like shooin’ away some bothersome gnats.”

  “You talk mighty damn big, you old coot, when you’ve got a man standin’ beside you with a gun in his hand!” one of the men yelled.

  “Well,” Smoke said with a reckless grin of his own, “we can do something about that.”

  He set the Lightning on the roulette table.

  The gun was barely out of his hand when the Stoermer brothers charged.

  CHAPTER 15

  It was plumb foolishness to be getting mixed up in a saloon brawl at his age, Smoke thought as he braced himself to meet the attack.

  But it was going to feel mighty good giving some swaggering bullies what they had coming to them.

  The Stoermer brothers were used to winning fights on sheer strength and superior numbers. They were clumsy and had no technique. But one of their punches might take a man’s head off if it landed right.

  Smoke leaned away from the first one and snapped a jab to the nose of the man who had thrown it. It was a clean hit. Blood spurted hotly over Smoke’s knuckles as cartilage crunched. The man howled and staggered back a couple of steps.

  That made him bump into one of his brothers, and while they were trying not to get their feet tangled up, Smoke moved in and caught the second man with a left to the cheek, then sunk his right fist into his belly.

  From the corner of his eye, Smoke saw Salty duck under an attempt by the third man to catch him in a bear hug. Quick as a flash, Salty got behind the man and leaped onto his back. He wrapped his legs around the man’s waist, got his left arm around the man’s neck, and started walloping him in the head with a bony right fist.

  The man stumbled around, bellowing curses as he tried to throw Salty off.

  The one whose nose Smoke had flattened had caught his balance by now. Despite the blood streaming from that damaged appendage, the man bored in and hammered a punch to Smoke’s shoulder. The blow was aimed at Smoke’s face, but he slipped aside just in time.

  Even so, the punch packed enough power to rock him back a step and make his left arm go numb. He couldn’t raise it to block the Stoermer brother’s vicious follow-up. Smoke leaned away so that the iron-hard fist glanced off the side of his head. That was still enough of a jolt to set off red skyrockets behind his eyes.

  The other man had recovered some, too. He circled to grab Smoke from behind and pin his arms.

  “I’ll hold him, Bart!” he yelled to his brother. “Pound the son of a bitch!”

  The bloody-faced Bart closed in, fists cocked and ready to beat Smoke within an inch of his life.

  He didn’t get the chance. Smoke yanked both legs up and straightened them in a double-barreled mule kick that landed on Bart’s chest and knocked him all the way to the wall on the other side of the saloon. The back of Bart’s head thudded against the wall, and when he bounced off, he pitched forward to land on his face and didn’t move again.

  The kick also sent Smoke’s would-be captor flying back the other way. The small of his back rammed against the bar, causing him to cry out in pain and lose his grip on Smoke.

  Smoke’s boots hit the floor. He had to take a second to catch his balance and gather himself, but when he had, he whirled around and brought a looping, thunderbolt right-hand punch with him. His fist crashed into the man’s jaw. The powerful blow twisted his head so far it looked like it was about to pop off his neck.

  The man’s eyes rolled up in their sockets, and he went down like a pile of cow dung dropped off a shovel.

  The feeling was back in Smoke’s left arm. His knuckles ached a little, but otherwise he was fine. He turned to check on how Salty was doing and saw that the old jehu still clung to the remaining Stoermer brother’s back, yelling like he was riding a bucking bronc as he battered his opponent with punches to the head.

  Eloise was getting in on the fight, too. From somewhere, she had picked up one of the trays the saloon girls used to deliver drinks and was clouting the last of the brothers with it.

  The man finally got hold of Salty, tore him loose, and flung him into Eloise. Both of them wound up lying on one of the tables. Before the man could go after them, Smoke caught hold of his shoulder, hauled him around, and delivered a punch that dropped him to his knees.

  The man stayed there for a couple of seconds, swaying back and forth like a tree trying to make up its mind whether to fall, then toppled over on his side and stayed there.

  Salty scrambled off the table and helped Eloise to her feet. He had lost his hat during the fracas, and his long white hair was a wild tangle as he jerked his head back and forth, looking around for more enemies.

  “Did we get all of ’em?” he asked Smoke. “Is that all o’ the varmints?”

  “That’s all of them,” Smoke said. Lightly, he rubbed the bruised knuckles of his right hand.

  “Whooo-eee! That was a dandy fight! Best ruckus I’ve had in a month o’ Sundays!” Salty reined in his exuberance and turned to Eloise with a worried frown. “Are you all right, darlin’?”

  “I’m fine,” she said as she brushed herself off and straightened her gown. “And I appreciate you defending my honor, Salty. But you really didn’t have to.”

  “Durned right I did! That no-good polecat claimed you was cheatin’! I couldn’t let him get away with that, no sirree.”

  She leaned toward him and kissed his leathery old cheek. That made him gawp and open and close his mouth like a fish.

  “Aw . . . aw, shucks!” he managed to say.

  “You sit down,” Eloise told him. “I’ll get you a cup of coffee from behind the bar.”

  “Well . . . all right. I’m obliged to you.”

  “It’s the least I can do,” she assured him.

  Salty sat down while Smoke followed Eloise over to the bar. He took another double eagle from his pocket and slid it
across the hardwood toward the bartender.

  “For the damages,” he told the man quietly.

  “The Stoermers ought to pay for that,” Eloise said.

  “Maybe, but I think Salty and I got our money’s worth in excitement,” Smoke said with a smile. “I’ll bet he feels younger right now than he has in quite a spell.”

  “You’re probably right about that.” She looked around and smiled fondly in Salty’s direction, then told the bartender, “Hank, get me a cup of coffee, all right?”

  “Sure, Eloise,” the man said. He went through a door behind the bar to what was probably a small kitchen where a coffeepot would be sitting on the stove.

  While the bartender was gone, Smoke said in a voice so quiet only Eloise could hear him, “You do have a brake on that wheel, don’t you?”

  She darted a nervous glance toward him. “What makes you say that?”

  “I saw the little move you made with your foot on that last spin, just before the wheel stopped. There was a little hitch in the wheel just then while it was turning, too. Then the ball landed on red for Salty.”

  “Look, don’t say anything, all right, mister?” she asked, her voice scared now. “I don’t want to lose this job. Anyway, is it really that bad when you’re just trying to help an old-timer feel better about himself?”

  “Is that what you were doing?”

  “You don’t think I was getting anything out of it for myself, do you?” Eloise sounded a little offended by the idea. “Salty started coming around a while back, and he was so sweet. I could tell he was smitten by me. But he’s terrible at roulette.”

  “Is he?” Smoke said.

  “One of the worst I’ve ever seen. I don’t know how much money he has, but he would have wound up broke if he kept going the way he was. The worst part about it was that I could tell he was just doing it trying to impress me.”

  “So you made sure he started to win.”

  “Not all the time,” Eloise said quickly. “And not a fortune, either. Just enough to keep him breaking even, or maybe making a little.”

  “And your boss doesn’t know about this.”

  “Oh, Lord, no. Look, Mr. Jensen, most of the time I run an honest game. I’m only supposed to . . . help the odds a little . . . if it looks like somebody’s going on a really lucky streak that might cost the place a significant amount of money. That’s it.”

  Smoke nodded as the bartender returned with the cup of coffee for Salty. Eloise started to turn away from the bar, but Smoke stopped her by saying, “You don’t feel the same way about Salty that he does about you, do you?”

  “Well . . . not really. But I like him. I think he’s a very sweet old man.”

  “I wouldn’t want to see him hurt.”

  “And I’d never hurt him,” she insisted.

  “I reckon we see eye to eye on that, then,” Smoke said. “You might not have to worry about his roulette skills much longer, either.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I’m going to offer him a job.”

  Eloise frowned in puzzlement, but she didn’t ask Smoke anything else. She carried the coffee over to the table and set it in front of Salty.

  “There you go, hon.”

  “I’m much obliged to you,” the old-timer said. “Smoke, why don’t you join me?”

  Smoke pulled back an empty chair at the table, sat down, and said, “Actually, I was hoping you’d join me.”

  Salty took a sip of the coffee, smacked his lips over it, and said, “Eh?”

  “I’ve got a proposition for you, Salty. I need a top-hand stagecoach driver, and I don’t reckon I’d find a better one if I looked all the way from the Rio Grande to the Milk River.”

  “You need a stagecoach driver? What in tarnation for?”

  “Why, to drive a stagecoach, of course. Specifically, Fred Davis’s old stagecoach, which he’s agreed to loan to me if you’ll agree to handle the teams. Seems like he trusts you to bring the coach back safely.”

  “Well, I should hope to smile he does! I drove hundreds o’ runs for ol’ Fred’s lines and never lost a coach, a passenger, a mail pouch, or even a horse! But what in blazes do you need a stagecoach for, Smoke?”

  Smoke had to wait a minute to answer that question because the Stoermer brothers were regaining consciousness. Their moans and groans and curses created quite a racket.

  The one called Thad, the first one Smoke had clashed with, got to his feet first and helped one of his brothers up. Then they got the remaining two onto unsteady feet.

  Smoke stood; picked up the Colt Lightning from the roulette table, where it still lay; and turned to face the brothers.

  Bart, the one with the broken nose and bloody face, held up his hands.

  “No more, mister, no more,” he declared. “We’re done here. We just want to go on our way without any more trouble.”

  “Fine by me,” Smoke said with a curt nod. He didn’t return the revolver to his waistband at the small of his back until all four of the Stoermers had stumbled out of the Rusty Hinge, though.

  Then he sat down again and told Salty about how Donner Pass was blocked by an avalanche and how he had come up with the idea of taking a stagecoach around the McCulley Cutoff to Reno so he, Denny, and Louis could meet Sally and the others there for Christmas.

  “The McCulley Cutoff, eh?” Salty scratched at his beard as he frowned in thought. “I didn’t figure anybody ever used that old trail anymore. You reckon it’s still in good enough shape for a stagecoach?”

  “There’s only one way to find out,” Smoke said. “I suggested I could drive the coach myself, but Fred wanted a more experienced hand at the reins.”

  “When it comes to handlin’ a six-horse hitch, there ain’t nobody more experienced than me!” Salty blinked as a thought occurred to him. “Where you gonna get the horses? You’ll need two teams, so’s you can switch ’em out.”

  “I thought the same thing. You know horseflesh, and Fred can probably help us locate some animals, too. I’ll rent them, or buy them if I have to.”

  “You’d spend that much just to meet up with your family for Christmas?”

  “The holiday means a lot to Sally,” Smoke said. “I don’t want to disappoint her if I can help it.

  “How about it, Salty? One last stagecoach run through the Sierra Nevadas?”

  The old-timer drew in a deep breath, then blew it out and nodded. He thrust a knobby-knuckled hand across the table to shake with Smoke.

  “Some people’d say we’re plumb crazy to try it,” he said, “but I reckon it’s time I done somethin’ plumb crazy again!”

  CHAPTER 16

  It looked like they would be staying another night in Sacramento, which would make the time remaining to reach Reno before Christmas that much shorter. But finding enough reliable, sturdy horses to make up two stagecoach teams was a lengthy process, even with the help of Fred Davis and Salty Stevens, and it had to be done.

  Smoke’s wealth helped, because he wound up having to buy all the livestock. Fred Davis could sell them for him once Salty got back to Sacramento with the coach.

  The stock included a couple of good saddle mounts for Smoke and Denny. They might need those mounts if any of the coach horses got scattered for some reason and had to be rounded up.

  Smoke could tell that Denny wouldn’t really mind if that happened. She was always on the lookout for some sort of adventure.

  She came by that honestly, too.

  During the busy afternoon, Smoke managed to swing by the telegraph office and send a wire to Sally explaining the plan and asking her to meet him in Reno for Christmas.

  When he got back to the hotel that evening, after making all the arrangements to have the horses brought to Fred Davis’s house first thing the next morning, he found her reply waiting for him.

  Some wives would have chided their husbands for coming up with such a scheme, would have called them reckless, foolhardy, even harebrained. Sally Jensen had never been a typ
ical wife.

  A GRAND AND DARING JOURNEY STOP WILL SEE YOU IN RENO STOP LOVE TO DENISE LOUIS AND MY DARLING HUSBAND STOP MERRY CHRISTMAS STOP

  Smoke grinned as he read the telegram. He knew that if Sally said she would be there in Reno, he could count on it. Now all he had to do was complete his part of the trip.

  He was having dinner in the hotel’s dining room with Denny and Louis that evening when one of the waiters approached him with a folded piece of paper.

  “A boy just delivered this message for you, Mr. Jensen,” the man said as he held out the paper.

  Smoke took it and reached for his pocket to pull out a coin, but the man shook his head and gestured for him not to do that.

  “Not necessary,” the waiter said. “My boy is a loyal reader of the dime novels about you. I hate to think about how many coins he’s put in the pockets of Mr. Beadle and Mr. Adams!”

  “And those publisher fellas keep those dimes and don’t give a penny to me,” Smoke responded with a grin. “Doesn’t hardly seem fair, does it?”

  “No, indeed. But I was wondering . . . perhaps I could prevail upon you to sign one of them for him . . . ?”

  “You know I don’t write them, don’t you?”

  “Of course, sir. But you are the dashing hero whose exploits fill their pages.”

  Smoke chuckled. “Sure, I’ll sign one of them. First time I ever recall anybody asking me to do that.”

  “I’ll stop by your room later this evening, if that’s all right.”

  “Sure,” Smoke said.

  With that taken care of, the waiter left and Smoke unfolded the paper. A frown creased his forehead as he read the scrawled words.

  “What’s wrong, Father?” Denny asked. When they were out on the range, or when she was excited or upset about something, she called Smoke “Pa.” In more elegant, genteel surroundings like this hotel dining room, however, he was “Father.”

  Smoke tapped a fingertip against the paper and said, “This note is from Salty. Says he needs to see me. Some problem with the stagecoach.”

  “Oh, no,” Denny said. “Once I got used to the idea, I started looking forward to this trip.”