A Rocky Mountain Christmas

by William W. Johnstone

  Laughing, Smoke put on his coat, then grabbed one of the pastries and went outside to meet Eddie, the fifteen-year-old telegraph messenger.

  “Another telegram?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Hope there’s no trouble with Matt getting here.”

  “No, sir. He’s just tellin’ you he’s gettin’ on the train, is all,” Eddie said. “‘Course, that don’t mean there ain’t goin’ to be no trouble.”

  “Why, what do you mean?”

  “We’re gettin’ reports from all over about snow. I know it ain’t started snowin’ here yet, but it’s acomin’ down just real heavy in the mountains, they say. I’m surprised they even let the train leave.”

  “Eddie, would you like to come inside and warm up a bit before you start back to town?” Smoke invited.

  “No, sir. Thank you very much. If I come in and get warm, it’ll be that much harder to come back outside again.”

  Smoke chuckled. “Young man, you are wise beyond your years.” He gave the boy a dollar and the pastry.

  “Thank you!” the boy said with a broad grin. “There can’t nobody make bear claws as good as Miz Sally can.”

  “Well, if you’re going, you’d better get on back into town before you freeze to death,” Smoke pushed. “It’s really cold, and I have a feeling it’s going to get a lot colder before this night is out.”

  “Yes, sir, I do believe it is goin’ to do just that,” Eddie agreed as he turned his horse and started back into the night.

  Smoke looked toward the mountains, thinking of the train traveling through Trout Creek Pass. It had snowed quite a bit in the last several days, and he could see the white, almost luminescent, snow-capped mountain peaks against the dark sky.

  Once back inside the house, he opened the yellow envelope and read the message aloud. “In Pueblo boarding train nine p.m. Arrive Big Rock six a.m. tomorrow.”

  “What time does that mean Sally will have to get up to go meet him?” Duff asked.

  “I’d say about four-dark-thirty in the morning would get her there on time,” Smoke teased.

  “What? Not on your life, gentlemen. I’ll have you know I will be warm in bed when you two go to town to meet him.”

  “Is that the way it’s going to be? And here, I thought that being it is so close to Christmas, you’d have a little more compassion in your heart,” Smoke teased some more. “All right, if that’s the way it is, you can stay home. But there’s no sense in Duff and me both going to pick him up. I’ll go by myself.”

  “I’ll be for goin’ with you, lad,” Duff offered. “I’d be glad to.”

  “Did you hear that, Sally? He’s not only going to go with me, he’ll be glad to go. That’s what he said. He would be glad to go.”

  “I heard.”

  “Well, I think you should know it’s good to see that I can count on some people,” Smoke said pointedly.

  “Try not to wake me when you leave,” Sally taunted.

  “What do you mean, don’t wake you? Aren’t you even going to get up to make coffee for us?”

  “Nope.”

  “You are one cruel woman, do you know that?”

  “So I’ve been told,” Sally replied with a laugh.

  “Eddie said there’s been a lot of snow up in the mountains. I hope the train has no trouble getting through the pass,” Smoke said.

  “Don’t they keep the tracks clear?” Duff asked.

  “Well, yes, when they can.”

  Sally walked over to the window and looked up toward the mountains. “I don’t know, Smoke, it looks like there might be a big storm brewing.”

  “Could be,” Smoke agreed. “Sally, what was that poem about snow that Preacher liked so much? You remember, he was always asking you to say it to him. It was by . . . some poet. I can’t remember.”

  “Ralph Waldo Emerson. ‘The Snow-Storm.’”

  “Yes, that’s the one. Can you still say it?”

  “Of course.”

  “Say it for us. Listen to this, Duff. I swear, you could hear this poem in the middle of the summer and start shivering.”

  Sally began to recite the poem, speaking with elegance, flair, and with all the proper emphasis.

  “Announced by all the trumpets of the sky

  Arrives the snow, and, driving o’er the fields

  Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air

  Hides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven,

  And veils the farm-house at garden’s end.

  The sled and traveller stopped, the courier’s feet

  Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit

  Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed

  In a tumultuous privacy of storm.”

  “That was beautiful, Sally. You have quite a way with words,” Duff said.

  “Thank you, but I only spoke the words. Emerson wrote them, and it was a loss to literature when he died.”

  Smoke chuckled. “Until I married Sally, I had never heard of him. One of the advantages of marrying a schoolteacher is that you get an education.”

  “I like to say I didn’t educate him, I trained him.” Sally grinned.

  “Whoa, now. I wouldn’t go that far,” Smoke protested.

  Sally and Duff laughed.

  “I will say this, though. What Preacher didn’t teach me, Sally did.”

  “Who is Preacher? You mentioned him before. He was the one who carved the crèche, I believe.”

  “Yes,” Smoke said. “Preacher didn’t exactly raise me, but he almost did.”

  “He gave you your name, too,” Sally pointed out.

  “That’s right. I was called Kirby until Preacher changed it to Smoke. Did you know that he killed a bear with just a knife when he was only 14 years old?”

  “Och, ’twould take quite a man to do such a thing.”

  “You’ve got that right. He was quite a man. You probably wouldn’t like him, though. He fought against the English at the Battle of New Orleans. He was just a boy, then.”

  “I’ve no real love for the English, laddie, I can tell you that for sure,” Duff declared.

  “But you are English,” Smoke argued.

  “I’m a Scotsman, lad. We may be part of Great Britain, but there be no love lost between the Scots and the English, that I can tell you. ’Twill be another hundred years or more before the Scotts forgive the English for Flodden, and then forgiven it will be, but never will it be forgotten.”

  “Flodden? Yes,” Sally said. “I think I once read a poem about Flodden.”

  Duff cleared his throat and began to speak.

  “From Flodden ridge,

  The Scots beheld the English host

  Leave Barmoor Wood, their evening post

  And headful watched them as they crossed

  The Till by Twizell Bridge.

  High sight it is, and haughty, while

  They dive into the deep defile;

  Beneath the cavern’d cliff they fall,

  Beneath the castle’s airy wall.

  By rock, by oak, by Hawthorn tree,

  Troop after troop are disappearing;

  Troop after troop their banners rearing

  Upon the eastern bank you see.”

  “Yes!” Sally said. “That is the poem.”

  “There’s a song about the battle called ‘The Flowers of the Forest’,” Duff said. “If you’d like, I’ll play a wee bit of it on m’ pipes.”

  “I would love for you to,” Sally said.

  Duff went into his room then returned a moment later with his bagpipes. After filling the bag with air, he began playing the piece, the melody, with its poignant strains, re-creating the tragedy of the terrible event. When he finished, the last note lingered as a haunting echo.

  “That was beautiful, Duff. Sad, but beautiful,” Sally commented.

  “Thank you,” Duff acknowledged with a nod of his head.

  “Uh-oh,” Smoke remarked.

  “What?” Sally asked.

 
“Look out the window.”

  Outside the snow was falling thick and fast. Huge, heavy snowflakes were quickly covering the ground.

  “This can’t be good,” Sally said.

  “Maybe, maybe not,” Smoke said. “Just because it is snowing here, doesn’t mean it is snowing in the pass.”

  “But it probably is, right?” Sally asked.

  Smoke was silent for a moment, before he answered. He nodded. “Yeah, it probably is.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Big Rock

  Cephas Prouty had on woolen long johns under his clothes, and a wool-lined sheepskin over his clothes. He had a scarf around his neck, a stocking cap over his head, and heavy gloves on his hands. Thus attired, he set out in a handcar for the purpose of inspecting Trout Creek Pass. For the first eight miles the track was relatively flat and pushing the hand pump up and down was easy. But it got harder when he started up the long grade that would take him to the top of the pass.

  Prouty was used to it, though, as he made the trip several times a week. And tonight, he didn’t even mind the pumping. The extra exertion helped keep him warm in the subzero temperatures.

  It took him an hour and a half to reach the summit. He set the brake on the car, then stepped down to have a look around. He checked the track, then examined the cut on either side. If he found any reason why the train couldn’t make it through, he’d wire the station at Buena Vista, warn them the pass wasn’t safe, and have them hold the train there.

  Prouty walked along the track from its most elevated point to where it started back down on the west side. He turned around and walked up to the summit, continuing on to where it started back down on the east approach. Occasionally he would stick a ruler into the snow to measure its depth. Nowhere did he find the snow over two inches deep, and even then it wasn’t accumulating on the rails. He didn’t see any reason why the trains couldn’t continue to come through the pass.

  It wasn’t only during the snow season that he would come up to check. He made frequent trips during other seasons as well, to ensure the rails were whole and unobstructed. On a clear night in the summer. he could look one way and see the lights of Buena Vista or look the other way and see the lights of Big Rock.

  Tonight, though, the night was so overcast that when he looked out to either side of the pass he saw nothing but darkness.

  His inspection done, Prouty got on his handcar and started back toward Big Rock. His trip up the grade to the top of the pass had been difficult, requiring hard pumping. Going back down was easy. No pumping was required until he reached the flat. In fact, he had to apply the brake to keep from going too fast. He was certain that he was doing at least forty miles per hour on the way down. He began pumping when he hit the flats, making his total trip down the mountain in less than an hour. He coasted into the station at about nine-thirty, moving the cart onto a side track before going inside.

  “Well, Cephas, I see you made it back,” the stationmaster said. “I figured you would be turned into an icicle by now.”

  “I damn near am one,” Prouty replied as he stood shivering by the stove. “You got ’ny coffee, Phil?”

  “Yes, stay there by the stove and warm yourself. I’ll get it.”

  “Thanks.”

  “What about the pass?” Phil asked as he handed Prouty the cup.

  Prouty took a welcome sip before answering. “I think it’s all right.”

  “You think?” Phil chuckled. “That’s not very reassuring. What do you mean you think? Don’t you know? You were just up there, weren’t you?”

  “It’s open now, but the next train isn’t due through there until midnight. I believe that the pass will still be open, but I can’t guarantee it.”

  “Should I stop the train at Buena Vista?”

  “The next train through is a freight train, isn’t it, Phil?”

  “Yes.”

  “No, don’t stop it. I think we should let the freight come on through. The Red Cliff Special isn’t due through the pass until about five in the morning. When the freight pulls in here just after midnight, the engineer will have a more up-to-the-minute look at it, and a better idea as to the condition of the pass. We can get a report from him and make our decision about the passenger train then.”

  “Good idea,” Phil agreed.

  Prouty smiled. “You’re a good station manager, Phil, offering a track inspector a hot cup of coffee after he’s been out in the cold.”

  “Oh, I can do better than that. How about a cruller to go with your coffee?”

  “Phil, you are indeed a gentleman,” Prouty said gratefully.

  On board the Red Cliff Special

  On the other side of the Mosquito Range from where Phil and Prouty were having their discussion the Red Cliff Special was rumbling through the cold night. Matt kept repositioning himself, trying to get as comfortable as he could in the backseat. He had been on a train for over two days and was getting a little tired of the travel. The night before he had been in a Pullman car and had been able to sleep. But there were no Pullman cars on this run, so he had to make himself as comfortable as he could in the seat.

  Fortunately, he had the seat to himself and was able to stretch out somewhat. He wadded up his coat and placed it against the cold window to use as a pillow. The kerosene lamps inside the car had been turned way down so that, while the car was illuminated just enough to allow someone to move about, it wasn’t too bright to keep anyone from sleeping.

  Falling into a fitful sleep, Matt dreamed.

  An early snow moved in just before nightfall of the sixth day and the single blanket Matt had brought with him did little to push away the cold. It was also tiring to hold the blanket around him while walking. He considered cutting a hole in the middle but decided against it because he thought it would be less warm at night, that way.

  As the snow continued to fall it got more and more difficult to walk. At first, it was just slick, and he slipped and fell a couple times, once barking his shin on a rock so hard the pain stayed with him for quite a while.

  The snow got deeper and he quit worrying about it being slick, concerning himself only with the work it took just to get through it. His breathing came in heaving gasps, sending out clouds of vapor before him. Once he saw a wolf tracking him and wished he had his father’s rifle.

  He found a stout limb about as thick as three fingers and trimmed off the smaller branches with his knife. Using the limb as a cane helped him negotiate the deepening snowdrifts.

  Just before dark he sensed, more than heard, something behind him. Turning quickly, he saw that the wolf, crouching low, had sneaked up right behind him. With a shout, and holding the club in both hands, he swung at the wolf and had the satisfaction of hearing a solid pop as he hit it in the head. The wolf yelped once, then turned and ran away, trailing little bits of blood behind it.

  Matt felt a sense of power and elation over that little encounter. He was sure the wolf would give him no further trouble.

  As the sun set he found an overhanging rock ledge and got under it, then wrapped up in the blanket. When night came, he looked up into the dark sky and watched huge, white flakes tumble down. If it weren’t for the fact that he was probably going to die in these mountains, he would think the snowfall was beautiful.

  “Here, try some of this.”

  Opening his eyes, Matt saw that he was no longer outside under a rock, but inside on a bed. How did I get here? he wondered. A man was sitting on the bed beside him, holding a cup. Matt took the cup and raised it to his mouth, but jerked it away when it burned his lips.

  The man laughed. “Oh. Maybe I should have told you it was hot.”

  Matt tried again, this time sipping it through extended lips. It was hot and bracing and good. “What is it?”

  “Broth, made from beaver,” the man said.

  “Don’t know that I’ve ever tasted beaver, before,” Matt said calmly.

  The man laughed again.

  “What’s so funny ?”


  “I’ll say this for you, boy, you do have sand. I found you damn near dead out on the trail, and now you are telling me that you don’t think you’ve ever eaten beaver before.”

  “I don’t think I have,” Matt answered as calmly as before. “Who are you?”

  “The name is Jensen. Smoke Jensen.”

  Matt was awakened when the train ran over a rough section of track. He sat up and rubbed his eyes, bringing himself back from dreaming about the first time he ever met Smoke, or, more accurately, about the time Smoke had saved his life. Not surprised by the dream, he was sure the cold and snow had triggered an old memory. In addition, Smoke had been on his mind as he thought about spending Christmas with his friend and mentor.

  It was dark in the passenger car, and pleasantly warm. According to the schedule he had read at the Pueblo depot, they weren’t due into Buena Vista until two in the morning. That was a few hours away, so Matt repositioned himself in the seat and went back to sleep.

  On board the Freight Number 7

  Several miles ahead of the Red Cliff Special, a freight train was approaching the top of the pass.

  “Better take it easy through here, Joe,” the fireman said. “That snow is comin’ down pretty good now.”

  “Yeah,” the engineer said. “But it looks clear ahead. Look out your side. If you see anything, sing out.”

  The engine, which was pulling a string of ten freight cars, slowed until it was barely moving. Finally it reached the crest, topped it, then started down the other side.

  “All right!” Joe cried. “Let’s get out of here!” He opened the throttle, and aided by the fact that it was going downhill, the train reached fifty miles an hour. He started slowing it down three miles before they reached Big Rock, where they would have to take on water.

  Big Rock station

  Phil heard Freight Number 7 approaching, put on his heavy coat, and walked out to the water tank. He needed to talk to the engineer about the pass. He glanced up where a fire was kept burning in the large, cast-iron stove in the vertical shaft just below the tank to keep the water from freezing. When the train ground to a stop, the fireman climbed out to swing the huge water spout over to replenish the water in the tender.