Death Deals a Hand

by Janet Dawson

  Doug had always been an avid skier, and he was good at it. He’d hit the slopes every chance he got while he was in high school and college, at Loveland, Winter Park or Howelsen Hill near Steamboat Springs. When the National Ski Patrol was founded in 1938, Doug joined the Rocky Mountain Branch.

  Then came Pearl Harbor, some six months after Doug’s graduation from the university. After the start of the new year, he joined the Army and volunteered for the Tenth Mountain Division. Troops were trained for winter survival and skiing at Camp Hale, which was built in 1942, located in a region of abundant snow north of Tennessee Pass, some 9,300 feet above sea level near the old mining town of Leadville.

  After two years of training, the Division had been ordered to Italy early in 1945, spearheading the U.S. Army’s advance into northern Italy. There Doug and his fellow troops faced the Gothic Line, also known as the Green Line, Germany’s supposedly impreg­nable chain of defense. The line was made up of fortifications—machine guns, bunkers, artillery posts—built along the rugged peaks of the northern Apennine Mountains. In February of that year, the Tenth scaled a cliff at a place called Riva Ridge, attacking German positions. After four days of Axis counterattacks and heavy fighting, the division had prevailed, helping Allied forces move northward. Later that spring, with tough combat in rugged terrain, the Tenth breached the Gothic Line and captured the Po River Valley, which helped liberate the northern part of Italy.

  As a result, the Tenth Mountain Division had the highest casualty rate of any U.S. division in the Mediterranean. Nearly a thousand of the ski troopers were killed, and four thousand had been wounded.

  Including Doug Cleary.

  Her cousin raised the coffee cup to his lips. A scar was visible on the wrist of his right hand, just below the cuff of his blue shirt. The legacy of shrapnel and barbed wire, the scar snaked all the way up his arm to his shoulder, where an inch or so showed above the shirt’s collar, on the right side of his neck.

  Just as Uncle Sean never talked about his experiences in World War I, Doug never talked about World War II. After mustering out of the Army, he disappeared, evidently roaming the country, according to Aunt Hazel and Teresa.

  “It’s the war,” Aunt Hazel said. Jill had heard her say it more than once.

  Uncle Sean’s opinion was harsher. Jill remembered her uncle’s mouth turned down in a frown as he shook his head, and she could hear his voice, saying, “I came home from the first war and got a job. I had a family to support. No, Doug is just using the war as an excuse to be a ski bum. I don’t know what’s going to become of that boy. Nothing good, I imagine.”

  Jill banished the voices and images from the past and focused on the present. The train entered another tunnel. When they exited at the other end, a passenger at a nearby table asked, “Where are we now, Miss McLeod?”

  Jill looked out the window. “We’re getting close to Pinecliffe.” She pointed at a structure built on the opposite side of the canyon wall. “That’s a mining flume, for transporting water. It was built by the Pactolus Hydraulic Mining Company. The company used the water for hydraulic mining, which causes a lot of damage to the land. Later the flume was used to move logs to a sawmill down in the valley.”

  “You’re very knowledgeable,” Doug said.

  “I’ve read a lot about mining in the Old West, and railroading, too. Even geography. I get lots of questions from passengers, and I have to be able to answer them.” Jill nodded as Mr. Clark asked her if she wanted more coffee. He poured, then replenished Doug’s cup.

  Three tunnels later, the CZ reached the tiny village of Pinecliffe. Nearby was Pactolus Lake, which had been used for ice production and ice skating.

  “We used to go there in the winter.” Jill sipped her coffee, looking out at the pine trees and the snow-covered ground. “I tried very hard to be Sonja Henie but I never was much good at ice skating. I kept falling down. It was the same whenever I tried skiing. I once told Mom my idea of a winter sport is a rousing game of Scrabble in front of a roaring fire.”

  Doug laughed. “It’s never too late. We must be getting close to Rollinsville. I have fond memories of that town, from my younger days.”

  Jill consulted her watch. It was just after ten. The California Zephyr had left Denver at 8:40 a.m. Rollinsville, a small mountain town, was about an hour and a half from Denver. The CZ didn’t stop there, though she did recall that there had been a big accident back in 1935, on this route, near Moffat Tunnel just up the mountain. A train consist of coal cars had coasted down the rails, gaining speed, despite the efforts of a steam locomotive crew to outrun the cars. The whole train had piled up at the curve in Rollinsville, with thirty-two out of thirty-nine cars destroyed.

  “Why do you have good memories of Rollinsville?” she asked. “As towns go, there’s not much to it.”

  He grinned. “Oh, that town was wide open in the twenties and thirties. Did you know it was the distilling center of Colorado back in the Prohibition days?”

  “No, I didn’t.” She smiled back. “I was young and led a sheltered life. Besides, you weren’t old enough to drink during Prohibition.”

  Now Doug laughed. “True. I wasn’t. But when did age, or Prohibition, stop anyone from getting a drink? I spent my share of time in Rollinsville. It was still quite a place in the thirties, when I was in college. We used to drive up there and listen to music at the Stage Stop. And there was the gambling.”

  Yes, there was the gambling. Doug liked to play poker. He’d done so ever since he’d learned how at the friendly family games around a dining room table, at the home of this or that uncle, where betting a quarter made a player a big spender. Jill, too, had learned to play the game. Her father figured there was nothing wrong with an informal game of poker between friends and relatives on a Saturday night. Her mother didn’t approve of her older daughter gambling, but Jill enjoyed the games. She limited her bets and it was a big day if she won a couple of dollars.

  But Doug gambled a lot. That was another source of friction between father and son. Uncle Sean had once called Doug a wastrel.

  “Gambling,” Jill said. “So it was you.”

  “What do you mean?” Doug asked.

  “Mr. Nathan, the porter on the Silver Falls, told me that a new passenger who boarded in Denver asked him whether there was a card game aboard the train.”

  “Yes, that was me. The porter in my car told me to ask the porter here in the observation car. So I did.” Doug glanced over Jill’s shoulder, toward the counter where Mr. Clark was polishing glasses. “He said there was a game yesterday in the drawing room, and there will be again today, around two o’clock. I told him I want in. I like to gamble and I’m good at it. That’s how I paid a lot of my expenses in college, including all that skiing I did.”

  Jill nodded. “Mr. Fontana is the passenger traveling in the drawing room. He and his business associate, Mr. Geddes, were playing poker yesterday. I’m sure they’ll be happy to have another player.”

  “They might not be happy after I’m done with them,” Doug said, with a touch of bravado. “Fontana, did you say?”

  Jill nodded. “Victor Fontana. He’s from Chicago. Do you know him?”

  Doug tilted his head to one side. “I’ve heard the name, but I don’t recall where, or in what context. I don’t think I’ve ever met him.” Now he shrugged. “Oh, well. Maybe it will come to me. You say he’s from Chicago. That’s a big city, as you and I both know.”

  “Yes, it is. I’ve explored it during my layovers.” The train had left Rollinsville and was approaching another small town, this one called Tolland. Jill took a last sip of coffee and pushed away her cup. “I need to go up to the Vista-Dome. We’re getting close to the Moffat Tunnel and passengers always have questions about that.”

  “I’ll go with you,” Doug said.

  They stood and left the lounge, heading up the steps to the rear lounge on the dome-observation car. Jill paused.

  “I should warn you that your father is on the t
rain. He’s going to Nevada to see Teresa.”

  Doug stopped and stepped to one side as an older woman came down the stairs from the Vista-Dome. His expression had been open and easygoing, and now it was guarded. “Where on the train? Coach, or the sleepers?”

  “He’s in a bedroom on the Silver Quail. That’s the car ahead of yours. I just thought you’d like to know.”

  “Forewarned is forearmed,” he said.

  Armed for what, Jill wondered.

  Chapter Six

  Up in the Vista-Dome, there was only one passenger seat available, on the aisle near the back. The window seat was occupied by Miss Larch, who had turned to look at the scenery outside. The sun caught the highlights in her blond hair, falling loosely on the shoulders of her green dress. As Jill walked up the aisle, Miss Larch shifted on the seat and glanced up, smoothing back a strand of hair with her left hand. “Hello, Miss McLeod.”

  “Are you enjoying the view?” Jill asked.

  “I certainly am.” A smile lightened Miss Larch’s face. “I’ve had my face pressed to the window since we started climbing into these mountains. I had no idea this part of the country was so beautiful.”

  Doug leaned closer to Jill, whispering in her ear. “Introduce us.”

  Jill took a step forward, so that she was even with the row ahead of Miss Larch. Then she turned and faced her cousin. A slow smile spread across Doug’s face as he looked down at the young woman in the green dress. “Miss Larch, this is Mr. Douglas Cleary. Mr. Cleary, this is Miss Pamela Larch.”

  Miss Larch returned Doug’s smile and held out her small, slender hand. “I am pleased to meet you, Mr. Cleary.”

  He took her hand in his. “The pleasure is all mine, Miss Larch. Is this seat taken?”

  “Oh, no,” she said, her smile widening. “By all means, please sit down. Where are you going, Mr. Cleary?”

  Jill watched, bemused, as Doug settled into the seat and ­inclined his head toward Miss Larch. “I’m going to Portola, California. It’s a small town in the Sierra Nevada mountains.”

  “Do you live there?” she asked.

  “I’ll be visiting a friend. And you, Miss Larch? Where are you headed?”

  “I’m planning to explore San Francisco.” Miss Larch settled back into her seat. “As you may have guessed, I’m from the South. Jackson, Mississippi.”

  “Yes, I did guess that, hearing your accent,” Doug said. “You’ll enjoy San Francisco. It’s quite a town.”

  Pamela Larch glanced up at Jill. “Oh, yes, I’ve been hearing all about it, from some of the other passengers as well as our Zephyr­ette.”

  “How long will be you be staying in San Francisco?” Doug asked.

  “I don’t really know. I thought I’d look up a college friend who lives there now. I suppose I can stay with her until she kicks me out.” A flicker of something passed over Miss Larch’s face, then she brightened and addressed Jill. “Now, Miss McLeod, I heard someone say we are going to travel under the Continental Divide.”

  “Yes, we are,” Jill said as the train crossed South Boulder Creek. The Continental Divide was visible now as the train curved on its approach to the tunnel. The bare tops of the mountains, towering far above the tree line, were covered with snow, as they were year round. “In a few minutes, we’ll be approaching the East Portal of the Moffat Tunnel. It’s named for David Moffat, the president of the Denver, Northwestern and Pacific Railroad. He was the one who first proposed building the tunnel, which actually takes us through the Continental Divide.”

  “This is my first time in Colorado,” Miss Larch said, with a deprecating little smile. “And I’ve never been anywhere near the Continental Divide. Just what exactly is it?”

  Jill launched into the explanation she’d made many times, as other passengers turned to listen. “The Continental Divide separates watersheds. It extends from the Bering Strait, which is up by Alaska, all the way to the Strait of Magellen, which is near Tierra del Fuego, at the southern tip of South America. East of the divide, the creeks and rivers ultimately drain to the Atlantic Ocean, ­including the Gulf of Mexico and the Caribbean. For example, the South Platte River, which we crossed when we left Denver, joins the North Platte in Nebraska. It becomes the Platte, and joins the Missouri, which flows into the Mississippi. West of the divide, the rivers drain to the Pacific Ocean. Soon we’ll be traveling along the Colorado River, for over two hundred miles, and that river drains into the Pacific.”

  Two of the children she’d seen board the train in Denver, Robby and his younger sister Patty, were in seats across the aisle. The boy asked, “How did the trains get over the divide before they built the tunnel?”

  “Over Rollins Pass,” Jill said, “on a route the railroaders called ‘Over the Hill.’ That route was about thirty miles long and it took two and a half hours to get over that stretch—when the weather was good. There were lots of switchbacks and it’s a steep grade. It was really dangerous to keep the line open in the winter. As you can imagine, there’s a lot of snow up here in the winter months, and avalanches were always a concern. So the route was impassable for about two months out of the year. Trains would get stranded up there because of the weather.”

  “When did they build the tunnel?” a woman asked.

  “Construction started in 1923 and finished late in 1927. It opened for rail traffic early in 1928. Unfortunately, David Moffat died in 1911, so he wasn’t able to see his dream become reality.”

  “How far above sea level are we?” Miss Larch asked.

  “The East Portal, where we will enter the tunnel, is 9,197 feet.” As the passengers exclaimed, Jill added, pointing at the mountains, “Contrast that with the ‘Over the Hill’ route, that crosses the Continental Divide at 11,600 feet. James Peak, that mountain over there, is 13,250 feet. The other end of the tunnel, the West Portal, is slightly lower than the east side, just over nine thousand feet.”

  Now other passengers peppered Jill with questions. “How long is the tunnel? And how long does it take to go through it?”

  “The tunnel is over six miles long and it takes the train about fifteen minutes to go through,” Jill said. “That’s a long time to be inside. So we suggest that passengers not move between cars while we’re in the tunnel. There are lots of diesel fumes, despite the ventilation fans.”

  Now the East Portal of the Moffat Tunnel loomed ahead as the California Zephyr moved toward it. A few moments later, the train plunged into the tunnel, where the darkness outside was ­illuminated here and there with lightbulbs. Jill and the passengers talked as the CZ burrowed through the darkness. When the train exited the West Portal, the snow-covered slopes of Winter Park Ski Resort were visible on the south side of the train. Passengers pointed at the skiers, tiny figures speeding down the runs, and the lifts that carried them to the top of the mountains surrounding the resort. At this elevation, the ski season usually lasted through late April, and it looked like there was plenty of snow on the ground today.

  “We’re coming into Winter Park,” Jill said. “The town started as a construction camp during the building of the tunnel.” She glanced back at Doug, whose head was bent toward Miss Larch. “People who like winter sports began coming to the area in the nineteen-thirties. Once the tunnel opened, people could take the train up from Denver, ski for the day, then take the train back.” Jill saw Doug smiling. “You used to do that, didn’t you, Mr. Cleary?”

  “Took the train, or drove,” he said, “when I was in high school and college. They didn’t have a lift until 1935. It was just a rope tow. The resort opened in 1940.” Doug turned to the woman beside him. “Have you ever skied, Miss Larch?”

  “Ski?” Miss Larch laughed. “Oh, my land, no. I’m from Mississippi, remember. The only other time I’ve seen snow was when I was a child visiting some relatives up in Wisconsin. I was very young but I do recall building a snowman. But I’ve never seen snow in this quantity, until now. You’re a skier, Mr. Cleary?”

  Doug nodded. “Indeed, I am.
I was just up here at Winter Park a few days ago. You should try it. I’m sure you could learn.”

  Miss Larch looked doubtful. “Do you think so?”

  “I certainly do,” he said. “I’ve worked as a ski instructor, teaching all sorts of people—men, women, young, old. I could teach you.”

  “Could you?” Miss Larch’s voice took on a teasing tone. She certainly seemed smitten with Doug, Jill thought. And he was working his charm on her. Look at him, leaning a bit closer as he responded to her question.

  Well, she’d leave them to it.

  The train moved past the ski slopes, heading for the small town of Fraser, the same town where Doc Susie lived and practiced medicine. She told the passengers a bit about the pioneering woman physician who had a medical degree from the University of Michigan.

  “She came to Colorado in 1907,” Jill said, “because she’d been diagnosed with tuberculosis. The dry climate here is supposed to help people recover. Doc Susie treated the people in this area, including the workers who built the tunnel. And she’s still here in Fraser, practicing medicine.”

  She answered a number of questions about Doc Susie as the train went through Fraser, and she pointed out the two-story log cabin where Dr. Anderson still lived, located just a short distance from the tracks.

  After Fraser, the train went through a small town called Taber­nash and entered Fraser Canyon, which was seven miles long. This was President Eisenhower’s favorite fishing spot. The Fraser River, cold and clear, was reputed to have large rainbow trout, though the best places to fish were supposedly kept secret by the locals. From here, it was about thirteen miles to the town of ­Granby, where the train would follow the river into town and the passengers would catch their first glimpse of the Colorado River. The train would follow that river for another 238 miles, all the way through western Colorado and into eastern Utah.