A High Sierra Christmas

Under gray skies, the westbound train chugged up the steep grade toward Donner Pass. At the controls of the big Baldwin locomotive was the engineer, Clete Patterson.

Huge clouds of steam billowed out into the cold air, which also caused a chill to go through Patterson. The locomotive’s cab was partially enclosed, but air still whipped through it.

The fireman, Alvie Forrester, leaned on his shovel and looked out at the pine-covered slopes going by.

“Never thought I’d see the pass this clear in December!” he called to Patterson, raising his voice to be heard over the locomotive’s booming rumble. “Why, there ain’t but a dustin’ of snow on the ground, and here it is, comin’ up on Christmas!”

The florid-faced engineer waved a gauntleted hand at the sky. “Yeah, but just look at those clouds!” he replied. “They’ve got plenty of snow in ’em, mark my words!”

“You been sayin’ the same thing since the middle of November, Clete, and there ain’t been a heavy snowfall yet!”

“Give it time!” Under his breath, Patterson muttered, “Good weather can’t hold. Not at this time of year.”

It never had, not in his experience, and he’d been making this run over the summit for nearly ten years. The snowsheds and the so-called Chinese walls and the tunnels built by the Central Pacific kept the snow off the tracks for the most part, but it always piled up in drifts many feet deep on both sides of the right-of-way. Every now and then, there was a blizzard bad enough to shut down the road, although it hadn’t happened in several years.

Alvie was right, though, Patterson thought. This much bare ground in the Sierra Nevadas in December was just . . . unnatural, somehow.

It made Patterson wonder if when the snow finally started falling, it would ever stop.

Forrester’s sudden shout cut into his reverie. The fireman yelled, “Holy hell, Clete! Look up there!”

Forrester was leaning out the window on the other side of the cab, pointing at something up ahead. Thinking there must be some sort of obstacle on the tracks, Patterson quickly stuck his head out on his side and peered at the iron rails as they cut through the rugged, rocky approach to the pass.

They were clear as far as he could see, going between cutbanks, along narrow ridges, and through stands of trees.

“I don’t see anything!” he called to Forrester. “What’s wrong?”

“I saw him! By jumpin’ jiminy, I finally saw him, Clete. It was the Donner Devil!”

A feeling of disgust welled up inside Patterson. “Not that again,” he said. “There’s no such thing.”

Forrester stared at him. “You didn’t see it?”

“I didn’t see anything except the tracks, and they look clear all the way to the summit.”

“But he was there, I tell you!” Forrester smacked the side of his fist against the cab wall. “A big, hairy critter scamperin’ across the tracks!”

“You saw a bear.” If you saw anything, Patterson added to himself.

“This wasn’t no bear, I’m dang sure of that! I’ve seen enough bears to know how they lumber along. This thing was kinda crouched over, but he was runnin’ on two legs, sure enough! Like he was part man and part animal!”

“People have been saying they’ve seen something like that up here for years,” Patterson said patiently, “but they never really seem to get a good look at it. Think about all the trains that have passed along this route, to say nothing of all the wagons and stagecoaches and fellas on horseback. If there really was anything that strange in these parts, don’t you think more folks would have seen it by now? Or even shot and killed it?”

“The thing is canny,” Forrester insisted. “It knows how to hide, and it don’t let itself be seen except ever’ now and then. You don’t have to believe me if you don’t want to, Clete, but I know what I saw!” A shiver ran through the fireman that had nothing to do with the temperature. “I don’t mind tellin’ you, it kind of spooked me, too.”

“You’d be better off worrying about the weather,” Patterson said. “One of these days, that sky is going to open up and dump snow on these mountains like you’ve never seen before. And when that happens, that Donner Devil of yours is liable to be up to his neck in the white stuff!”

* * *

Smoke sat in an armchair in the Palm Court of the Palace Hotel, waiting for his children to come down from the suite so they could go to dinner. The lounge was sumptuously furnished with potted palms, comfortable chairs and divans, and marble-topped tables. Seven stories of white-railed balconies rose around it.

Until the previous year, this area had been the hotel’s grand entrance, where horse-drawn carriages could drive in off the street for guests to disembark, then turn around and depart. It had been remodeled into this luxurious lounge.

Smoke had his right ankle cocked on his left knee, and he held his Stetson on his right knee. He alertly observed all the comings and goings of the hotel’s wealthy guests. It wasn’t that rich folks interested him all that much; he was just in the habit of taking note of everything going on around him.

That caution was a big part of the reason he had stayed alive as long as he had, while living a very adventurous and perilous life.

Because of that instinctive wariness, he realized the man crossing the Palm Court was looking for him well before the hombre reached him. Smoke had a small pistol in his pocket, and his hand wasn’t far from it as the stranger came up to him, holding a derby hat. The man’s dark hair was parted in the middle, and he had a thin mustache that curled up slightly at the ends.

“Mr. Jensen?” the man asked. “Kirby Jensen?”

“Not that many folks remember my real name anymore,” Smoke said. “What can I do for you?”

“My name is Peter Stansfield. I’m a journalist.”

Smoke smiled. “An ink-stained wretch, eh?”

Stansfield returned the smile and said, “You’ve read Dr. Samuel Johnson, I see. That phrase is often attributed to him.”

“And I’ve known some newspaper reporters,” Smoke said. “The description generally fits.”

“Indeed it does.” Stansfield gestured with the derby toward another armchair nearby. “Do you mind if I sit down?”

“Nope. I can tell you right now, though, that if you’re planning on interviewing me, I’m not interested. I’ve talked to more than my share of newspapermen over the years.” Smoke added dryly, “It’s been my experience that they don’t pay real close attention to what I say and just write whatever they already had their minds made up on before they ever talked to me.”

“I assure you, sir, I’m not like that,” Stansfield said as he sat down.

“Yep, that’s what most of ’em claim, all right.”

“Speaking of someone having his mind made up.”

Smoke inclined his head in acknowledgment of Stansfield’s point. He said, “Speak your piece, Mr. Stansfield.”

“I am a police reporter, Mr. Jensen. I was at headquarters earlier today when a prisoner was brought in . . . a prisoner with a broken arm. According to the report made by the arresting officer, the man was injured when he attempted to rob you.”

“That’s true, I reckon. A fella tried to hold me up. I took his gun away from him and didn’t figure on hurting him too bad, but then he came at me with a knife. I took that away from him, too.”

“And broke his arm in the process.”

“When you attack somebody, you’re just asking them to fight back,” Smoke said, his voice hardening. “At that point, I figure whatever happens to you is on your own head.”

“I wouldn’t disagree with that. I just thought that perhaps a story about how frontier justice visited the streets of San Francisco. . .” Stansfield’s voice trailed off as he stared across the Palm Court. After a moment he found his tongue again and said, “My word, what a magnificent creature!”

Smoke said, “I’d like it better if you called her a beautiful young woman, Mr. Stansfield, since that happens to be my daughter. Actually, I’d just as soon you didn’t comment on her at all!”

The reporter swallowed hard and said quickly, “My apologies, Mr. Jensen. I assure you, I meant no disrespect. I was just surprised to see such a . . . rare flower.”

Smoke’s flinty gaze told him the reference wasn’t that much better than what he had said before. As Smoke got to his feet, he said, “So long, Mr. Stansfield.”

“Mr. Jensen . . . !”

Smoke ignored the man and walked away from the chairs to meet Denny. He said, “Where’s your brother?”

“He’ll be down in a minute.” Denny nodded toward Stansfield. “Who was that you were talking to?”

“Nobody,” Smoke said. “Here comes Louis.”

The young man joined them, and the three of them walked past the bank of rising rooms toward the hotel’s entrance. The rising rooms were sometimes called elevators and could be raised and lowered on cables so that guests on the upper floors of the hotel didn’t have to walk up and down several flights of stairs.

Smoke had to admit that he didn’t care much for being shut up in a little room that moved, but Denny and Louis had experienced many such modern things in Europe and didn’t seem bothered by them.

Smoke put his hat on as they stepped out of the hotel. It was a cool, dank evening. Here on the coast, winter never set in with a fierce grip like it did inland. The weather had been on Smoke’s mind, and as they walked along the street, he said, “Did either of you have anything else you needed to do here in San Francisco?”

“Not me,” Louis replied. “Now that I’ve seen Dr. Katzendorf, I’m finished here.”

Denny said, “I’ve already picked up the few things Mother asked me to shop for and made some purchases of my own.”

Smoke smiled. “Are we going to need a baggage car on the train just for that?”

“You know me better than that,” Denny replied sharply.

It was true. Smoke did know his daughter better than that. Denny appreciated fine clothes and jewelry and wore them well, but at heart she was just as happy in jeans and boots and a work shirt, sitting a saddle and riding the range.

“First thing tomorrow morning, I’ll see about getting us on the next train to Colorado. We cut this trip a little closer than I’d like. Christmas is only a week away.”

Louis said, “This was when Dr. Katzendorf could see me. And we have plenty of time to get back to the Sugarloaf before Christmas, don’t we?”

“Sure. It’ll only take a couple of days by train.”

The warm yellow glow of lights ahead of them marked the location of the restaurant where they were going to have dinner. The place had a reputation as one of the best in San Francisco. It wouldn’t be able to beat Sally’s cooking, Smoke thought . . . but no restaurant he’d ever found was capable of doing that.

Why, this place probably didn’t even serve bear sign!

A gust of wind ripped along the street just as Smoke, Denny, and Louis reached the restaurant. Smoke felt fingers of ice in it and frowned.

Winter might not be able to take hold of San Francisco, but there was a lot of high country between here and home. And he didn’t like to think about what it might be doing up there.