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 the 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.
Andrews scraped his bowl clean, paid the counterwoman, and said to Stevenson, “I’d better get back to work. Nice talking to you. Maybe I’ll see you around town.”
“Maybe so,” Stevenson said.
He turned his attention to the last of his stew as the bank teller put on the derby and left the café.
Carl Andrews would be seeing him again, all right, he reflected with a faint smile, but it wouldn’t be around town.
It wouldn’t be a pleasant visit, either.
The Sierra Nevadas
Snow had begun to fall again by the time the stagecoach stopped that afternoon, but it was very light, just a flake swirling down here and there, every now and then. That wouldn’t add a significant amount to the thin layer of white already covering the ground.
But it was a start, Smoke thought as he and Salty switched the teams again. They had reached a crucial point in the journey.
The railroad route was about half a mile to the north, Smoke knew. The main trail, the former wagon road, ran straight ahead, climbing part of the way up a long, fairly gentle slope. Thick growths of snow-mantled pines and firs stretched for a long distance on either side.
As the slope grew steeper, the road curved into a switchback that rose for several miles into the mountains. Then there were more straightaways, more ridges, and finally the climb to Donner Pass itself.
In contrast to the main trail, which was fairly wide and had been packed down rock hard by thousands of iron-rimmed wheels when this was still the Dutch Flats Wagon Road, a smaller trail angled off through the trees to the right. After years of disuse, this path was nothing more than a pair of shallow ruts that were still visible if a person knew where to look. The trees crowded in closely on both sides.
“There she be,” Salty said. “The McCulley Cutoff. Reckon we can get through that way, Smoke?”
“We wouldn’t be here if I didn’t believe it was possible,” Smoke replied. “You can still see the trail all right, can’t you?”
“Sure. My eyes are as good as ever. I’m a mite worried that the trees and the underbrush might’ve grown in too close, though.”
“There’s an ax in the boot, isn’t there?”
“Yep. I made sure Fred put one in, and a shovel, too. You never know when you might need somethin’ like that.”
Smoke nodded and said, “Then we’ll chop our way through if we need to. That might slow us down some, but we’ll do the best we can.”
As before, the passengers had climbed out of the stage to move around while the teams were switched. Frank Colbert was close enough to listen to the conversation between Smoke and Salty. He asked, “How long does it take to go around the cutoff to Reno?”
“In the old days, in good weather, it’d take three, maybe four days from here to Reno,” Salty said. “We don’t know what the conditions’ll be like along the trail these days, o’ course, so it ain’t easy to predict how long. If the weather slows us down, or if the trail’s in such bad shape it’ll take work to make it passable, that could add a day or two.”
“Four days would put us into Reno on Christmas Eve,” Smoke said. “That’s what we’re shooting for.”
Colbert nodded. He pointed at the main trail and asked, “How long if we went that way?”
“We can’t,” Salty said. “The pass is blocked. That’s why the train ain’t runnin’.”
“Yes, but if we could get through on that road, how long would it take?”
“Used to make it in two days,” Salty said with a shrug.
“So you’re talking about half the time.”
“Yeah, but there ain’t no use in worryin’ about it, ’cause it can’t be done.”
“A stagecoach isn’t like a train,” Colbert insisted. “It doesn’t have to follow the rails. It doesn’t have to stick right on a trail, either, if there’s another way through.”
Colbert’s sudden interest in the subject puzzled Smoke. He knew the man was anxious to get to Reno—all of them were—but Salty was right: this discussion was pointless.
“Let’s finish swapping those teams,” he said. “We can still make a good number of miles before dark.”
Colbert pointed along the dimly marked cutoff. “Any stage stations left through there?” he asked.
“No, they’ve long since been abandoned,” Smoke told him. “But don’t worry. We’ve brought along plenty of supplies. We won’t run out of food.”
Louis added from where he stood beside the coach’s open door, “Unless we get stranded for a long time. Then we’ll have to worry about turning out like the Donner Party.”
Brad had already climbed back into the coach. He asked, “What’s the Donner Party, Louis?”
“Yes,” Denny said dryly, “why don’t you explain about the Donner Party to the child, Louis?”
“It’s nothing you have to be concerned about,” Louis told Brad. “Just some people who tried to travel through the mountains when they shouldn’t have and got into trouble. But that won’t happen to us.”
“It’s dangerous, though, isn’t it,” the youngster persisted, “traveling through here in the winter in a stagecoach, like we’re doing?”
“You’ll be fine,” Louis said, looking now like he wished he hadn’t brought up the subject. “We all will.” He looked at Melanie and mouthed the word Sorry.
“Are we about ready to go?” Kellerman asked. The white-haired man had the same air of impatience he had displayed ever since the journey began early that morning.
“Just a few more minutes,” Smoke said. He had the last of the fresh horses and was leading it to the front of the coach to be harnessed into the team.
Of course, these animals were only reasonably fresh, as compared to the ones that had been moved to the back of the stagecoach. A few hours of rest wasn’t enough to refresh either team, especially when the horses not actually pulling the stagecoach had to keep moving behind it. This was a makeshift, less than ideal arrangement but the best Smoke could manage.
He hoped resting overnight, once they had stopped, would be enough to put some spring back in the horses’ steps.
Salty climbed to the driver’s box, making the coach sag a little to one side on its thoroughbraces, while Smoke backed the last of the horses into its place. Everyone else was back in the coach now except for Colbert, who stood nearby.
Smoke glanced at the man and frowned as he finished up the task. “Help you with something, Mr. Colbert?” he asked.
“I’m just trying to make sure I’ve got everything straight in my head. Going this way”—he pointed along the McCulley Cutoff—“we’ll get to Reno on Christmas Eve at the earliest, and that’s if we don’t run into any major problems.”
“Yep, that’s right,” Salty said from the box.
Colbert pointed at the main trail. “But that route might get us there two days earlier.”
“I don’t think you were listening,” Smoke said. “The pass is closed.”
“The pass is closed for the train,” Colbert said. “Because an avalanche tore up the snowsheds and piled up tons of snow on the tracks. Back in Sacramento, that’s what they told us the telegram from the hotel at the summit said.”
Smoke gave a little shake of his head. “I don’t get your point, mister.”
“This road doesn’t follow the same exact route as the train tracks, does it?”
Salty said, “It’s pretty close, especially up yonder in the pass. The mountains come in close enough on the sides that there ain’t much room for the old wagon road and the railroad right-of-way to be apart.”
“But you don’t know the road itself is blocked just because the train tracks are. And if you could get through that way, it would cut two days off the trip, at the very least.”
Salty sounded like he was getting a little exasperated as he said, “Mister, you just ain’t listenin’. I been through these parts durin’ the winter, and Smoke has, too. The only way we’re gettin’ to Reno, whether before Christmas Day or not, is by takin’ the cutoff.” He waved a hand toward the peaks. “They’s a storm still ragin’ up there. Even if the road ain’t completely blocked, you can’t drive through a blizzard. It’s too dang risky.”
Smoke said, “I think you need to get back in the coach now, Mr. Colbert. It’s time we were rolling again.”
“I was just curious.” Colbert reached for the door, which one of the other passengers had pulled closed after climbing into the stagecoach. He fumbled with the latch for a second and then said, “This seems to be stuck.”
Smoke stepped past him and said, “Let me take a look at it.”
As he reached up to take hold of the door latch, some instinct warned him, but the alarm came too late. Smoke started to twist around. As he did, from the corner of his eye he caught a flicker of movement as Colbert struck at him with a gun the man had produced from somewhere.
The next instant, the blow slammed into the side of Smoke’s head with terrific force. The impact drove him against the side of the stagecoach and made bright red explosions go off inside his skull. He grabbed at the door, only vaguely aware that he needed to hold himself up and stay on his feet, but his hand slipped and he fell, landing with his face in the cold snow.
The last thing he knew was the roar of a gunshot.