A High Sierra Christmas

by William W. Johnstone

  It remains to be seen whether such an ambitious undertaking can be concluded successfully, but this reporter intends to travel with Mr. Jensen and his family members on the historic journey in order to maintain a journal and produce a volume telling the story of this adventure, in the great literary tradition of Mr. Mark Twain’s Roughing It and other such stirring tales.—Peter Stansfield.

  Smoke’s grip on the newspaper had tightened as he read. He was breathing a little harder by the time he finished, but from anger, not exertion.

  Louis said, “I can tell you’re not pleased, Father.”

  “Not pleased is putting it pretty mildly.” Smoke rolled up the newspaper and smacked it against the palm of his left hand. “How in blazes did that scribbler find out about this?”

  “And perhaps more importantly, do you intend to allow him to come with us?”

  “Not hardly,” Smoke snapped.

  “How are you going to stop him?”

  “It’s a private coach, or what amounts to it,” Smoke pointed out. “It’s not like when Fred Davis or anybody else was running a regular stage line, where folks who could afford to buy a ticket had a right to ride. I can tell this persistent varmint Stansfield to—”

  Smoke stopped short, since he wasn’t inclined to engage in language that was too colorful or profane . . . and that was certainly what he was feeling at the moment.

  “You can tell him that, of course,” Louis agreed, “but if you do, he’s just going to write more newspaper stories that make you look bad.”

  Smoke snorted. “You reckon I care about that?”

  “I know you don’t. But Mother might.”

  “Your mother would tell him to go climb a stump. And then she’d grab a shotgun and threaten to dust his butt with birdshot if he didn’t leave us alone.”

  “It’s a new century,” Louis argued. “Some would say a whole new world. The newspapers reach a lot more people than they used to. They mold public opinion.” He gestured toward the paper still clutched in Smoke’s hand. “In that story, he paints you two different ways. He calls you a hero . . . but he refers to you as notorious as well. He makes you sound like a good family man, but he points out that you were once considered an outlaw, too.”

  “That was a long time ago,” Smoke said.

  “Very true, but does the average reader of this newspaper know that? And it’s certainly possible that the story will be picked up and run in other places in the country as well. It could spread all the way to the East Coast.”

  “Like I said before, I don’t care.”

  “Read between the lines,” Louis said, “and you can see where Stansfield makes it sound like this is going to be a very dangerous trip. He all but says that you’re putting your children’s lives at risk unnecessarily. I hate to say it, Father, but that’s not good for business. And since you want me to handle that end of the ranch’s operation at some point, I’d like to think that you’d give my opinion some weight.”

  “Are you saying you think I don’t trust you?”

  “I’m saying if you let this reporter come along, then he’ll see what sort of man you really are, and that’s what he’ll write in the future.” Louis shrugged. “It really can’t hurt anything.”

  Smoke wasn’t so sure about that. But Louis was right about one thing: if Smoke was going to put his faith in the youngster to handle the ranch’s business affairs, he had to learn how to pay attention to him.

  Smoke brandished the newspaper and said, “Stansfield says he wants to come with us, but he hasn’t shown up and asked me yet. If he does before we leave in the morning, I’ll think about it. But if he’s late, I won’t wait for him. As soon as that team gets there and we’ve got them hitched up, that stagecoach is rolling for Reno!”

  CHAPTER 18

  Smoke was up early the next morning and made sure that Denny and Louis were, too. After coffee and breakfast in the hotel dining room, Smoke had all their bags loaded onto a buckboard to be taken to Fred Davis’s house, where they would be placed in the canvas-covered boot on the back of the stagecoach.

  Louis looked askance at Denny’s outfit as they stood near the hotel entrance, waiting to leave. She wore boots, jeans, a flannel shirt, and a sheepskin jacket. Her long, curly blond hair was tucked up under a brown Stetson.

  “You and Father look more like twins than you and I do, at least in your attire,” he said. “What possessed you to bring along such garb on a trip to San Francisco?”

  “You never know when you might need to do some riding,” Denny said. She smiled. “I left my gun belt and Colt in one of my bags, but I can get them out and wear them, too, if you think I ought to.”

  Louis held up a hand and said, “No, no, that’s all right. I don’t expect you’ll need to be armed.”

  “The time you think you don’t need a gun might be the time when you need it the most.”

  “Yes, you sound like Father, too.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  Louis shrugged and said, “As well you should.” He sighed. “There are times I wish that I reminded people of Father. Perhaps then he wouldn’t be disappointed in me.”

  Denny frowned and told her brother, “I’ve never once heard him say to anybody that he’s disappointed in you. Not ever, as far back as I can remember.”

  “Maybe not, but he has to feel that way sometimes, don’t you think?”

  “Not for a second,” Denny said. “You need to put that kind of thinking out of your head. And for damn sure, don’t ever say it where he can hear it.” She nodded across the lobby. “Here he comes.”

  Smoke was indeed striding toward them. If he noticed the solemn looks on the faces of his children, he gave no sign of it. He grinned and said, “Ready to go?”

  “We sure are,” Denny said. “Isn’t that right, Louis?”

  “Absolutely,” he replied. “We’re setting off on a grand adventure.”

  “I’ve had more than my share of adventures,” Smoke said. “I just want to make it to Reno in time for Christmas with the rest of the family.”

  Smoke checked his watch after they had climbed into a waiting carriage in front of the hotel. He wanted to be away from Davis’s place by eight o’clock, and they were on schedule to accomplish that.

  There had been a few breaks in the clouds over Sacramento the day before, allowing shafts of sunlight through, but the sky was completely overcast again this morning and a chilly breeze swept over the capital city.

  To the east, above the Sierra Nevada Mountains, thick, dark clouds still roiled and clustered, at times taking on the sinister aspect of a black-fanged mouth looming wide and waiting to close on unwary travelers. No snow fell over the city this morning, but Smoke had a hunch it might still be coming down heavily in the mountains.

  Before the carriage’s driver could flap the reins and get his team moving, a woman came out of the hotel and hurried over to the vehicle. She placed a gloved hand on the sill of the window beside Smoke and said, “Mr. Jensen! Could I talk to you for a moment, please? It’s very important.”

  Louis was sitting on Smoke’s other side. He leaned forward, looked past his father, and said, “Mrs. Buckner? Is that you?”

  The name jogged Smoke’s memory. This nice-looking young woman was the mother of that talkative boy Brad. He nodded politely and said, “Mornin’, Mrs. Buckner. I’m sorry, but we’re in kind of a hurry—”

  “Just a minute of your time,” the woman said. “Please.”

  Smoke was too much of a gentleman to be rude. He called up to the driver, “Hold on for now,” then asked Mrs. Buckner, “What can I do for you?”

  “Take Bradley and me to Reno on that stagecoach with you,” she answered bluntly.

  Smoke had had no idea what the woman wanted, but he wouldn’t have guessed she’d make that request. He started to ask her how she knew what their plan was, but then he realized what must have happened.

  “You saw that newspaper story, didn’t you?”


  “Yes, and it was like . . . deliverance. My son and I really need to get to Reno, Mr. Jensen. My mother lives there and is very ill. This will almost certainly be her last Christmas. She wrote to me and asked me to come see her, and to bring Bradley with me. She . . . she’s never met him, you see.”

  “Never met him?” Smoke repeated. “The boy’s got to be at least eight years old.”

  “He is indeed eight. But when I married his father, my mother greatly disapproved of the match. She said I was too young . . . only fifteen . . . and . . . well, she wasn’t fond of my late husband. She thought he was too wild and reckless. She said that if I insisted on marrying him, she wouldn’t have anything more to do with me. So I haven’t see her since then, and she’s never seen Bradley, and now she . . . she’s dying, and . . .”

  The words had come out of Melanie Buckner’s mouth in a rush, but now they trailed off and tears began to roll down her cheeks. Louis quickly took out his handkerchief and leaned past Smoke to hand it to her.

  “Here, Mrs. Buckner,” he said. “Please don’t worry. I’m sure everything will be all right.”

  She managed a weak smile as she took the handkerchief and dabbed at the tears.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Louis,” he reminded her. “My name is Louis.”

  “Ma’am, I’m sorry,” Smoke began, “but I hadn’t intended on taking anybody else with us on this trip—”

  “Why not?” Louis said. “Oh, I understand why you don’t want that annoying reporter along, but surely it wouldn’t cause any problem to provide some humanitarian assistance to Mrs. Buckner and her son.”

  “This might not be an easy trip. We’re talking about several days in a stagecoach, and we won’t know what sort of shape the trail is in until we get there. The weather could be pretty rough, too.”

  “I’m willing to risk all that, Mr. Jensen,” Melanie said, “to see my mother again and especially to make sure Bradley knows her before she’s gone.”

  Smoke frowned. He’d been honest when he told Melanie of the dangers inherent in this journey, but at the same time, if he didn’t believe they could make it through, he wouldn’t be setting out with Denny and Louis accompanying him.

  “We won’t be able to take it easy,” he warned. “We’ll be setting a fast pace.”

  The young woman summoned up a smile. “I want to reach Reno before Christmas just as much as you do, Mr. Jensen.”

  Smoke glanced across at Denny, on the opposite seat of the carriage, but couldn’t read her expression to tell whether she approved or disapproved of the idea.

  His first instinct was to refuse Melanie Buckner’s plea. At the same time, he recognized the genuine suffering in her eyes. He wasn’t in the habit of turning his back on folks who needed help.

  “All right,” he said, reaching a decision. “You can come with us, ma’am, but only if you can get ready pretty quick-like. We need to get started.”

  A brilliant smile appeared on Melanie’s face. She said, “I can be ready very quickly, Mr. Jensen. I already packed, because I had faith in you. I just need to get Bradley and our bags. I’ll be back in five minutes! Maybe less!”

  She turned and hurried back into the hotel, leaving Smoke with a rueful smile on his face. He had never been the sort to second-guess himself, but this was one of those rare occasions when he hoped he had done the right thing.

  As soon as Melanie had disappeared into the building, Denny leaned forward and punched Louis in the shoulder.

  “You hypocrite!” she said. “Humanitarian assistance, my hind foot! You just want us to take that woman along because she’s a widow and you think she’s pretty!”

  “Denise, you wound me deeply,” Louis said with a grin. “The only thing I feel for that poor woman is compassion. You heard her story.”

  “Yes, and it was like something out of a cheap melodrama. How do you know she wasn’t lying and has some other reason for needing to get to Reno?”

  Smoke commented, “It seemed to me that she was telling the truth.”

  “Well . . . maybe,” Denny admitted, clearly not wanting to question her father’s judgment. “But that doesn’t change the fact that Louis has his eye on her.”

  “I have a bad heart, remember?” Louis said.

  Denny scoffed and said, “That never stopped you from chasing half the girls in Europe, once you got old enough to figure out they were different from boys.”

  “Mrs. Buckner is older than me,” Louis pointed out. “She has an eight-year-old son, after all.”

  “And if she had him when she was fifteen, that would make her just two years older than us. Two years doesn’t add up to a lot of difference, Louis.” Denny paused. “Remember the Countess Belloq in Paris?”

  Louis’s expression tightened at the mention of the countess, prompting Smoke to look at his son, raise an eyebrow, and drawl, “I don’t reckon I’ve heard that story.”

  “And there’s no need to bring it up now,” Louis snapped. “That was an entirely different situation.”

  “Not so different,” Denny said. “You saw something you wanted, and you went after it—”

  She stopped as Smoke said, “Here comes Mrs. Buckner and the boy.” He frowned. “But who’s that with them?”

  A stocky, white-haired man bundled in an overcoat, wearing a bowler hat, and carrying a carpetbag and a flat leather case hurried along beside Melanie and Brad as they headed for the carriage.

  “She didn’t say anything about anybody other than the boy being with her,” Denny said.

  “I guess we’ll find out,” Smoke said.

  The older man came up to the carriage, set the carpetbag down, and extended his hand through the window to Smoke, who took it out of politeness.

  “Mr. Jensen,” the man said as they shook, “my name is Jerome Kellerman. I ran into Mrs. Buckner in the hotel—our rooms are near each other—and she told me that you’re traveling to Reno by stagecoach. I would very much like to purchase a ticket for this trip.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Kellerman, but this isn’t a regular stagecoach run,” Smoke said. “I reckon you could call it a private coach. I made the arrangements for it, and I’m not selling tickets.”

  “Maybe you should, Pa,” Denny said with a mocking smile on her face.

  “Perhaps I phrased that badly,” Kellerman said. “I’m accustomed to approaching everything on a business basis, you understand, since I work in a bank. But I simply must reach Reno in the very near future, and I’m prepared to do whatever is necessary to accomplish that.”

  “I don’t think I can help you—” Smoke began.

  “Mrs. Buckner told me you agreed to take her and her son along.”

  “That’s a favor, to help her out with a family matter.”

  “Then I must throw myself on your mercy and appeal to your sense of family as well, sir. My wife is in Reno, and I would very much like to spend Christmas with her if at all possible.” Kellerman paused. “We’re moving there, you see, and I sent her on ahead, but then that confounded train couldn’t get through the pass. . . .” He took a deep breath. “It would mean a great deal to me, Mr. Jensen, and I’m ready to depart at this very moment. I won’t delay you, nor will I be any burden during the journey. I give you my word on that.”

  “That confounded train,” Brad said with a grin.

  Smoke looked at Denny and Louis. Melanie and her son were at the door on the other side of the carriage, ready to get in. Smoke assumed they had already put their bags on the buckboard that would follow them to Fred Davis’s house.

  “It’s about to get crowded in here,” Smoke said to his children. “What do you think? Are you willing to put up with it all the way to Reno?”

  Louis shrugged and said, “I don’t mind the company.”

  “Fine with me,” Denny said coolly. “If I get to feeling too crowded on the stagecoach, I’ll just get out and ride one of those saddle horses. Might do that most of the time, anyway, as long as the weather’s not
too bad.”

  “All right, Mr. Kellerman,” Smoke said. “Climb in. I don’t suppose it’ll hurt anything, and I wouldn’t keep a fella away from his wife on Christmas.” He smiled. “That’s one reason I came up with this idea, after all, so I wouldn’t be away from my wife.”

  A moment later, with the three newcomers in the carriage, making the quarters rather cramped, the vehicle rolled away from the hotel. Smoke looked at his children and added, “But if we get to Fred’s place and find a line of would-be passengers waiting, I’m liable to call the whole thing off!”

  CHAPTER 19

  As it turned out, there wasn’t a line of would-be stagecoach passengers waiting when the carriage got there.

  Only three.

  However, Smoke definitely wasn’t glad to see two of them in particular.

  Fred Davis had been busy this morning getting everything ready. The stagecoach was parked in front of the barn with a six-horse team already hitched into the traces.

  The other team of six horses were linked together by lead ropes. The two saddle mounts were there as well, their reins fastened to one of the brass rails at the back of the coach.

  Davis stood nearby, his breath fogging in the cold as he rubbed gloved hands together. Salty Stevens was with him, as well as a tall, lean, mustachioed man Smoke recognized as the reporter Peter Stansfield.

  The sight of the journalist couldn’t help but irritate Smoke. If not for Stansfield’s sensationalistic story in the previous day’s newspaper, the stagecoach might already be rolling toward its destination.

  Smoke had hoped he wouldn’t see Stansfield this morning and so would be justified in leaving him behind in Sacramento. That was what he had told Louis he would do.

  The woman standing near Davis, Salty, and Stansfield was the other person Smoke recognized, but her presence here came as a complete and not very welcome surprise. Alma Lewiston was dressed in black, as befitted her status as a recent widow.