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.
Next to her stood a man Smoke didn’t know, although something about him seemed vaguely familiar. Smoke wondered if he had seen the man in the hotel, or maybe on the train.
Although he wasn’t happy about whatever new developments these people represented, Smoke was happy to see that Salty appeared ready to go.
As the carriage came to a stop, Smoke swung down from it and strode over to the two old-timers.
“I hope you haven’t gone and opened a ticket office, Fred,” he said. He glanced back at Denny, who was climbing down from the carriage, and remembered her mocking comment about selling tickets.
“I swear to you, Smoke, I didn’t do anything of the sort,” Davis replied as he held up his hands, palms out. He nodded toward Stansfield. “It was all this fella’s doin’.” A slightly shamefaced look came over Davis’s rugged countenance. “Although maybe I did talk a mite too freely when he came around here yesterday afternoon asking questions.”
“You followed me here, didn’t you, Mr. Stansfield?” Smoke said. “In fact, I suspect you’ve been on my trail all the way from San Francisco. Not to brag on my own skills, but a fella’s doing pretty good when he can keep me from realizing that I’m being followed.”
Stansfield said, “I take that as a high compliment from a man of your caliber, Mr. Jensen . . . no witticism or comment on your reputation as a gunman intended. It’s true I’ve been hoping for a chance to speak with you again before you set out on this historic journey.”
“So you can ask me if you can come along and write about the trip,” Smoke said. “I read that story of yours, too. The answer is no.”
By this time, the others had gotten out of the carriage and followed Smoke over to the stagecoach. Stansfield looked past him at them and said, “It appears you’ve already taken on some extra passengers.”
“All we’ve got room for. And it’s none of your business who else goes on this trip.”
“On the contrary. I’ve looked into it, and a stagecoach of this size can carry nine people in relative comfort, three on each seat and three more on the bench in the middle.” Stansfield made a show of counting, pointing out each of them including Alma Lewiston and the man Smoke didn’t know. “I believe there are exactly nine of us, not counting our intrepid driver.”
Salty spoke up, frowning and blustering, “Are you callin’ me old, mister?”
“Not at all, sir. Intrepid means courageous, valiant, daring. I believe the word you’re thinking of is decrepit.”
“Oh,” Salty said. “Well, in that case, go on.”
Before Stansfield could say anything else, Smoke turned aside from the reporter and touched a finger to the brim of his hat as he nodded to Alma Lewiston.
“I didn’t expect to see you here today, Mrs. Lewiston.”
“I told you, there’s no good reason for me to go back to San Francisco,” she said. “Gordon can be laid to rest whether I’m there or not. I did my mourning for him a long time ago. I don’t have any more tears to shed. And there’s nothing else to hold me there. So I’ve decided to start a new life somewhere else . . . in Reno.”
“With this fella?” Smoke asked bluntly as he nodded toward the hard-faced man with the drooping black mustache.
“Frank Colbert,” the stranger introduced himself. He didn’t offer to shake hands, and neither did Smoke. “And don’t assume too much, mister, especially when it means you’ll be insulting a lady if you do.”
Smoke inclined his head in acknowledgment of that point and said, “I apologize, Mrs. Lewiston. I meant no offense. You just took me by surprise by showing up here, is all. The two of you want to come along to Reno with us, is that right?”
“Some of my business associates are waiting for me there, and it’s vital that I reach them as soon as possible,” Colbert said. “A great deal of money may depend on it.”
“There are other ways to get there,” Smoke pointed out. “Other routes that the railroad takes.”
“That go all the way around by way of Texas.” Colbert made a slashing gesture with one hand. “I can’t risk not getting there in time.”
“Mister, this whole trip is a risk.”
“Maybe, but I’m willing to chance it.”
Smoke and Colbert stood there, two big, tough men sizing each other up. Smoke didn’t like the looks of the hombre, but despite the fact that he still felt no responsibility for Gordon Lewiston’s death, he did have some sympathy for the man’s widow. He thought it was a little cold-blooded of her to have taken up with Colbert so soon, which she had obviously done . . . but her personal life was none of his business.
He turned his head to look at Salty and asked, “What do you think? Will the extra weight slow us down?”
The old-timer frowned in thought for a moment, then said, “No, I don’t reckon so. I looked over all them horses, and they’s good, strong animals. We got plenty of food. If we run into any patches where there’s ice on the trail instead of snow, havin’ some extra weight in the coach might even come in handy and keep us from slippin’ and slidin’ around as much.”
Smoke heaved a sigh. “All right. Since Salty doesn’t think it’ll be a problem, I suppose it won’t hurt anything. You other folks can come along.”
“Does that include me?” Stansfield asked quickly.
“If we don’t take you, you’ll probably try to follow us, and then you’ll freeze to death somewhere along the way. So yeah, you can come too, mister.” Smoke’s voice hardened. “Just don’t get on my nerves too much, or I’ll pitch you out and leave you in the middle of the Sierra Nevadas.”
He wouldn’t actually do such a thing, of course, but he wouldn’t mind if Stansfield worried some about the possibility. It might make the reporter a little less obnoxious . . . although probably not.
Smoke turned away from the stagecoach, waved an arm at the vehicle, and told the gathering, “Load up your things and climb aboard. I want to get on the trail before anybody else shows up asking for a ride to Reno!”