“I don’t recall us ever having any adventures,” Smoke said. “Do you, Salty?”
“Well, there was that time in Dakota Territory we run into them no-good—” the old-timer began. He stopped short as Smoke gave him a stern look. Then Salty went on, “Nope, nope, can’t think of a derned thing. Life was always plumb peaceful whenever the two of us was together.”
“You don’t expect me to believe that!” Stansfield burst out. “Why, Smoke Jensen is known all across the West—no, all across the entire country—for the exciting life he’s led. There are bound to have been all sorts of occasions on which the two of you faced danger.”
Salty shook his head stubbornly and said, “Not so’s you could speak of.”
With exasperation showing on his face, Stansfield said, “Well, then, what about that other man you mentioned back in Sacramento? The gunfighter you claimed was a friend of yours. What was his name?
“Frank Morgan,” Salty said. “But if you want to know anything about him, you’d best go hunt him up and ask him your own self. He ain’t one to flap his gums, and I don’t reckon he’d want me doin’ that, neither.”
“You westerners are so laconic it’s disgusting.” Stansfield shook his head and turned away, leaving Smoke and Salty to get on with the job of switching out the teams.
Under his breath, Salty said, “You’re gettin’ on that young fella’s nerves, Smoke.”
“And he’s getting on mine. I didn’t want him to come along in the first place.”
Smoke didn’t eavesdrop on purpose, but he could still hear as Stansfield went over to Frank Colbert, who was walking back and forth and clapping his hands together lightly to try to get warm.
“Mr. Colbert,” the reporter said. “If I might have a word with you . . . ?”
“What do you want?” Colbert snapped.
“I’ve been thinking about it, and there’s something vaguely familiar about your name, as if I’ve seen it somewhere. Might I ask, what line of work are you in?”
“You can ask, but you won’t get an answer. It’s none of your damn business.”
“I’m sorry. I meant no offense—”
“I’m not offended. You don’t matter enough for me to be offended, mister. Go peddle your papers somewhere else.”
With that, Colbert turned away and walked over to join Alma Lewiston. They had been talking together quietly all morning as they rode in the stagecoach, confirming Smoke’s hunch that a friendship—if not more—had sprung up between them.
Stansfield stood there for a moment with a look of defeat on his face, but then he squared his narrow shoulders and approached Jerome Kellerman. Smoke saw that and felt a moment of fleeting admiration for the reporter. Stansfield was determined to get a story, even though everyone kept turning him away.
His determination counted for little with Kellerman, though, who curtly informed Stansfield that he had no comment about the trip they were on or anything else.
Brad Buckner approached Smoke and said, “I’d be happy to help you and Mr. Stevens, Mr. Jensen, if there’s anything I can do.”
“Ever hitched up a stagecoach team before?” Smoke asked in apparent seriousness.
Brad stared at him for a second and then laughed. “No.”
“Then the best way for you to help is to keep an eye on your ma and do anything that she needs done.”
“She doesn’t need anything. She’s busy talking to your son.”
That made Smoke look around. The boy was right. Louis was walking with Melanie Buckner, their shoes kicking up little white puffs from the thin layer of snow on the ground. The two of them were laughing and talking.
Denny stood near the stagecoach, watching Louis and Melanie and looking faintly disgusted.
Smoke told Brad, “Why don’t you watch what Salty and I do, then, and you’ll learn something about how to handle horses.”
“I’d like that! I want to drive a stagecoach one day.”
Salty said, “You may not get a chance to do that, sonny. By the time you’re old enough, I reckon all the stagecoaches will be gone.”
“Maybe not. I mean, there aren’t many around anymore these days, but we’re riding through the mountains in one, anyway, aren’t we?”
“The boy’s got a point,” Smoke said with a grin.
* * *
After Stansfield’s futile attempt to interview Colbert, he and Alma had walked around to the other side of the coach and drawn away from it a short distance. As they stood at the base of a wooded slope, Alma said, “You were kind of rough on that reporter, weren’t you?”
“I don’t have any use for those scavengers,” Colbert said. “Always prying into other people’s business and trying to make hay out of somebody else’s bad luck.”
“I suppose that’s true. Speaking of other people’s business . . . you’ve never told me what line of work you’re in, either, Frank.”
“That’s because there’s no need for you to know that.”
“Maybe not, but I just thought that since we’re traveling together—”
“We’re not traveling together,” Colbert interrupted her. “Oh, we’re on the same stagecoach, heading for the same place . . . and I don’t mind spending some time with you. I’ll admit, I was surprised when you knocked on the door of my hotel room last night, but it turned out to be a pleasant surprise. None of that really means anything, though.”
She looked at him for a long moment, then said, “God, you really are a cold-blooded, hard-hearted bastard, aren’t you?”
“You’d do well to remember that. And if you decide to have anything to do with me, remember that it’s your own choice, too.”
“I’ll remember,” she said softly.
“Then we understand each other.” Colbert batted his hands together some more. “Damn, it’s chilly out here.”
“Yeah, it is,” Alma said.
* * *
“It must have been difficult for you, raising a child by yourself,” Louis said to Melanie Buckner as they walked around on the other side of the coach.
“It has been trying, at times,” she admitted. “But Bradley is a wonderful boy. He’s very good-natured and friendly. He’s just enthusiastic and curious about things.”
“Most boys are.”
For a moment, Melanie lightly rested gloved fingertips on Louis’s forearm. “I’m sure you were, too,” she said, “when you were young.”
“Well, I was certainly curious, I suppose, but there was a limit to how much actual enthusiasm I could muster. You see, my health wasn’t very good.”
“Oh, no! I’m so sorry. You must have gotten better. You look fine now.” A warm flush spread across Melanie’s cheeks. “I mean . . . you look healthy. . . .”
“My condition is one that’s not readily apparent. I have a weak heart.”
“That’s terrible! I mean, are you . . . in any danger?”
He smiled. “Some would say that we’re all in danger from one thing or another, especially our hearts. But as long as I’m careful and don’t exert myself too much, I’ll be fine for now and perhaps for a long time to come.”
“That’s good to know. Although it must be difficult at times to stay calm and, ah, not get too worked up about anything. . . .”
“Yes, very difficult,” Louis said. “But I’ve managed so far.”
“If you need any help, I’ve worked as a nurse in the past,” Melanie said.
“You have?”
“Oh, yes. I’ve been a nurse and a seamstress, and I worked in a restaurant.... Actually, I’ve done any number of jobs to support Bradley and myself since my husband passed away.”
“I’m sorry,” Louis murmured. “I don’t mean to bring up bad memories.”
“That’s all right. It’s been several years. Tom’s death was shocking. He was working on a ranch when he was thrown from a horse and broke his neck. Bradley and I were living there, too, and I’ll never forget what it was like when the other men brought his body in. It was
a complete accident, they said. Tom was a wonderful horseman. But they were working in a wooded area, and his horse almost stepped on a rattlesnake and panicked.” She shook her head. “He never had a chance.”
“Life is like that,” Louis said. “Sometimes it strikes without warning.”
“And it’s unfair, too, when it comes to things like my husband’s death and your affliction.”
Somehow while they were walking, his right arm had gotten linked with her left. He reached over with his left hand and patted her arm, saying reassuringly, “Don’t worry about me. I may not be the healthiest Jensen, but I’m still a Jensen.”
“And that makes a difference?”
“It certainly does.”
She smiled at him. “I’m glad you have such a wonderful family.”
Louis glanced toward the stagecoach and saw Denny standing beside it, glaring at him. He just grinned back at her, well aware that it would make her more infuriated. He knew he ought to be ashamed of himself for deliberately annoying his sister, but he wasn’t.
Really, it was none of her affair if he was interested in Melanie Buckner. And it wasn’t as if anything serious would ever come from such a mild, innocent flirtation. He was just passing the time, that’s all.
And the time for this brief stop was over. “Everybody back on board!” Smoke called. “We’re ready to roll.”
CHAPTER 25
Reno, Nevada
The blizzard that had closed Donner Pass in the Sierra Nevadas hadn’t made it as far as Reno. In fact, the weather was chilly but otherwise fairly nice there, with no snow and weak, wintery sunshine washing over the settlement.
The storm clouds were visible over the mountains to the west, though, and a storm of a different kind was brewing here, too. Folks just didn’t know it yet, Deke Mahoney reflected as he walked along the street with Warren Hopgood and Magnus Stevenson.
“Are you sure that telegrapher back in Staghorn didn’t say nothin’ about which bank it is that’s expectin’ the money shipment?” Mahoney asked Stevenson, and not for the first time, either.
“I told you, Deke, he didn’t,” Stevenson replied. “I didn’t know there were two banks in Reno. I couldn’t very well go up to him and ask him for more details, either.”
“I know, I know.” Mahoney rubbed his angular jaw and frowned in thought. “We got to figure it out. There ain’t enough of us to hit both banks at once.”
“That never works, anyway,” Hopgood pointed out. “You remember what happened to the Daltons over there in Coffeyville.”
Mahoney grimaced. Every rider of the owlhoot trail knew the story of the ferocious gun battle that had resulted in the death or capture of all the members of the Dalton gang. All because they had tried to rob both banks in Coffeyville, Kansas, at the same time.
“What we need is an inside man,” Mahoney said. He came to a stop opposite one of Reno’s banks and stared at it with a frown creasing his forehead. “It’s near noontime. The tellers will be goin’ out for lunch pretty soon. I’m gonna follow one of ’em and strike up a conversation with the fella.”
“And just ask him if a big money shipment is coming in between now and Christmas?” Hopgood said with a dour expression. “What the hell kind of an idea is that?”
“Hold on, hold on,” Stevenson said. “There might be something to what Deke says. Why don’t you let me be the one to give it a try, though?”
“You don’t reckon I can do it?” Mahoney demanded.
“It’s not that, Deke. You’ve got to admit, though, I’m more of a smooth talker than you are.”
“Magnus is right,” Hopgood said. “And now that I think about it, he might find out something useful. It’s worth a try.”
“Yeah,” Mahoney said grudgingly. “I reckon it is.”
“Why don’t you boys go on back down to the saloon where we left Otis and Jim Bob, and I’ll find you there later?” Stevenson suggested.
“Just be careful,” Hopgood cautioned. “You’re trying to find out information, not letting anything slip about our plans.”
A grin stretched across Stevenson’s face. “Don’t worry, I know what I’m doing. I’ll wait right here until I see one of the tellers come out of the bank.”
The day before, after arriving in Reno, he and Hopgood had scouted both banks, going inside and lingering long enough to get good looks at all the people who worked in each establishment. Stevenson would recognize any of the tellers when they left the bank.
If he didn’t have any luck today, they still had a couple of days. He could try the plan with another teller, or at the other bank.
But maybe fortune would smile on his first try. That had been known to happen.
Mahoney and Hopgood walked off toward the Silver Queen Saloon, which they had quickly settled upon as their headquarters while they were in Reno. The whiskey was decent there, the card games seemed honest, and the girls who worked the upstairs rooms were attractive, at least for soiled doves.
Stevenson loitered in front of the hardware store across from the bank until he spotted a familiar face. The man who emerged from the building had a long, narrow face with a derby perched on top of his head. He wore a brown tweed suit that had seen better days but was still respectable.
The last time Stevenson had seen the man, he’d been behind one of the tellers’ windows in the bank. Now he tracked the man from across the street as the bank employee walked purposefully to the east.
In the next block, he turned in at a stone building with a red tile roof. RED TOP CAFÉ—GOOD EATS read the sign on the awning over the boardwalk.
Stevenson crossed the street and went inside as well.
Delicious smells filled the air in the place, and the warmth from the kitchen was pleasant as well. Stevenson spotted his quarry sitting on a leather-topped stool at the counter. The stool to the man’s right was empty, although the café was starting to get busy because of the time of day, so Stevenson slid onto it and rested his elbows on the counter.
A stout woman with graying brown hair gave him a friendly smile and asked, “What will you be having today, sir?”
Stevenson pretended to study the menu chalked on a board on the wall behind the counter and said, “I don’t know.” He looked over at the man to his left. “What’s good here, friend?”
“You can’t go wrong with the Irish stew,” the bank teller replied. He had taken off his derby, revealing thinning brown hair. “That’s what I’m having.”
“Sounds good to me,” Stevenson said with a nod. “And coffee.”
“Right away,” the woman said.
Stevenson looked at the teller again and said, “I’m much obliged to you for the advice. I’m new in town and haven’t been in here before.”
“It’s a good place to eat. And they’re quick about it, which is good because my boss doesn’t allow me a great deal of time for lunch.”
“Slave driver, eh?”
The teller laughed. “Oh, I wouldn’t go that far!” He looked around quickly, and Stevenson guessed he didn’t want it getting back to the bank president that he’d been complaining.
Stevenson turned on the stool and extended his hand. “Bob Stevens,” he introduced himself, using a fake name he had used in the past.
The teller shook with him. “Carl Andrews.”
“Pleased to meet you, Carl. What is it you do?”
“I work down at the bank. I’m one of the tellers. How about you?”
“I’ve been driving a freight wagon. Looking for something else right now. The railroads have been putting most of the freight lines out of business.”
“Yes, I suppose that’s one of the prices we pay for progress. Something new comes along, and somebody else gets put out of business.”
Stevenson chuckled. “Don’t worry about me. I’m the sort who always lands on his feet. Reckon your job is nice and steady, though. A growing town always needs a bank.”
“Reno has two, in fact,” Andrews commented. “Ours is t
he biggest, though.”
“Is that a fact? Still and all, the banking business must be pretty slow this time of year. I don’t imagine anybody would have any big deals brewing at Christmas.”
“Ha! You’d think so, wouldn’t you?”
That response was intriguing, and just what Stevenson wanted to hear. He was playing Andrews like an expert angler plays a fish. Now he just needed to pull him in.
Before he could do that, though, the woman came through the swinging door from the kitchen carrying two bowls of stew. She set them in front of Stevenson and Andrews and then picked up a coffeepot to add some to Andrews’s cup and fill one for Stevenson.
The bank teller picked up his spoon, grinned, and said, “Smells great, just like always, Mrs. O’Leary.”
“Go on with you, Carl,” she said to him, then added to Stevenson, “Enjoy your lunch, sir.”
“I intend to,” he assured her.
The two men ate in silence for a few minutes, but the hum and buzz of conversation in the café continued around them. When Stevenson judged that enough time had passed, he resumed, “You were saying something about how it’s busier at the bank than a person might expect?”
“Well, yes, but I can’t really be specific, you know? Such matters are confidential. Have to protect the bank’s customers, of course.”
“Of course,” Stevenson agreed. “I know if I had money in your bank—and I very well might, one of these days—I wouldn’t want it being talked about. So let’s change the subject. Are you a family man, Carl?”
A grin spread across Andrews’s face. “Indeed I am. I have a very lovely wife named Rebecca and a daughter named Sadie. How about you, Bob?”
“My late wife and I had two sons. One’s in the army, and the other rides for a spread up in Montana.” That would deflect any further questions about his mythical offspring, Stevenson thought. And the bank teller wouldn’t be too curious about a dead wife.
They continued eating. The Irish stew really was good, Stevenson found, and the coffee wasn’t bad, either. He had accomplished his goals by following the bank teller in here, and he had gotten a good meal out of the deal, too.
A High Sierra Christmas Page 18