A High Sierra Christmas

CHAPTER 40

Stevenson stood up straighter as he spotted the wagon coming along the street toward the bank. It was just an unassuming buckboard with two men on the seat. The one handling the reins of the two-horse team had a rifle leaning beside him, while the other man rode with a shotgun across his lap. In the back of the buckboard was a plain-looking wooden trunk with leather straps around it.

Every instinct in Magnus Stevenson’s body told him there were four hundred thousand dollars in cash inside that trunk.

He nodded to Mitchell, said curtly, “Buckboard coming up the street,” and moved along the boardwalk until he could look along the alley between the bank and the dress shop. He took off his hat and ran a finger around inside the brim. Either Deke Mahoney or Warren Hopgood would be watching from the rear corner of the bank, and they couldn’t fail to see the signal.

Minutes now. Mere minutes until they were all rich.

Earlier, Stevenson had seen two groups of well-dressed businessmen enter the bank at different times, and none of them had come back out. At the center of each group had been an older man with an arrogant, imperious air about him. Those had to be the two mining tycoons, there to conclude their deal.

They would be in for a surprise.

The buckboard came to a stop in front of the bank. The two men on the seat climbed down but made no move to unload the trunk. Several of the men Stevenson had noticed earlier emerged from the building, however, and converged on the vehicle. Flunkies who worked for Cameron Coolidge and Thomas Nickerson, Stevenson thought. Mitchell moved up beside him as they watched the men lift the trunk from the buckboard and carry it into the bank.

Mitchell said quietly, “Maybe we ought to have grabbed the loot while it was still out here.”

“We couldn’t do that without attracting a lot of attention,” Stevenson said. “The idea is to take over the bank and make sure nobody can give the alarm while we load the trunk again and drive off. If things go as planned, we’ll be out of town before anybody knows what’s happened except the people in the bank.”

Mitchell hadn’t sheathed his knife, although he’d put away the figurine he’d been carving. He ran the ball of his thumb along the blade and said, “There’s one way of makin’ sure ever’body in there stays nice an’ quiet. You can’t go to hollerin’ when your throat’s cut.”

“You’d murder more than a dozen people?”

“For that kind of money,” Mitchell said, “I’d kill a whole heap more than a dozen.”

Stevenson realized suddenly that he felt the same way. This was the big payoff, the sort of job that not many who rode the owlhoot trail ever got to pull, and nothing was going to stop them from getting away with that fortune in cash.

* * *

“All right, here we go,” Deke Mahoney said to Warren Hopgood after seeing the signal from Stevenson across the street. The two outlaws moved along the rear of the brick bank building toward a sturdy-looking door that was kept locked unless something had to be taken in or out that way.

Today was going to be different, though, if Carl Andrews had done what he was supposed to.

If the door was locked, Mahoney and Hopgood would have no choice but to back away and leave the area, collecting Stevenson, Mitchell, and Harmon along the way.

But as they were leaving town, they would stop at the Andrews house and take the teller’s wife and daughter with them. Andrews would never see them alive again. That would be poor payment for the time the gang had spent here in Reno, but better than nothing, Mahoney supposed.

It wasn’t going to come to that, he discovered as he tried the doorknob and felt it turn. He nodded to Hopgood, and both men pulled up bandannas over the lower halves of their faces. They drew their guns and Mahoney eased the door open.

Just inside was a short hall with a door on the left-hand side. Mahoney was surprised to see Carl Andrews standing in front of the door, as if he was waiting for them.

“I can’t let you go through with this,” he said in a quiet but desperate tone. “Please, just turn around and leave now, and I’ll never say anything about what you tried to do. Rebecca and Sadie and I will act like we don’t know anything about it.”

Mahoney ignored the plea and rasped, “Where’s the money?”

The way Andrews’s eyes darted toward the door was all the answer Mahoney and Hopgood needed. As they moved in that direction, Andrews exclaimed, “That’s Mr. Hopkins’s private office—”

Mahoney didn’t need to hear anything else. He slammed the gun in his hand against the teller’s head. Andrews went down like a sack of rocks.

Mahoney opened the door and strode into the bank president’s office. Hopgood was right behind him. They leveled their guns at the five men standing next to a table where a trunk sat. The trunk’s lid was raised, and inside, visible to the outlaws, were bundles and bundles of greenbacks. The sight was almost enough to make Deke Mahoney stare.

But he couldn’t afford to do that, because two of them in the room were armed guards, and they were trying to bring their weapons to bear. They froze as they found themselves staring down gun barrels.

“All right, boys,” Mahoney drawled. “Get rid of all that iron you’re packin’. We’re here to ruin Christmas.”

* * *

“Look at those two crossing the street,” Luke said quietly to Ace and Matt as they approached the bank. “They have mighty intent looks on their faces, like they’re after something.”

“And there’s another one on the boardwalk over there by the dress shop,” Matt said. “He’s a gunman if I’ve ever seen one.”

Luke drew in a sharp breath. “You’re right about that. I recognize him. That’s Otis Harmon. As cold-blooded a snake as you’ll ever find. I’ve seen reward dodgers on him. There’s probably paper out on those other two, as well.”

“What are we going to do?” Ace asked.

Luke increased his pace. “What I always do when I see a wanted fugitive with a reward on his head.” He moved his hand toward the old, long-barreled Remington revolver he still carried after all these years. “Harmon! Elevate!”

“Watch the other two,” Matt snapped at Ace. They turned toward the men crossing the street toward the bank.

Otis Harmon whirled around toward Luke. The man’s face twisted as his hand flashed toward the gun on his hip. Luke pulled the Remington and cocked the .44 as the barrel came up. The crash of guns came so close together that they sounded like one shot, but Luke’s was a fraction of a second earlier.

The bullet slammed into Harmon’s chest and knocked him back just enough that his arm jerked and his shot went high in the air. Luke fired again and then again, driving Harmon off his feet with the smashing lead so the outlaw couldn’t get off another shot.

The other two men had stopped and turned at Luke’s challenge of Harmon. The older, stocky one looked startled, but that reaction lasted only a split second before he clawed for his gun. The younger man, a cocky grin on his face, was holding a knife in his left hand. He tossed it in the air, caught it by the blade, and whipped it in a vicious throw toward Ace, who flung himself forward off his feet as he was drawing. The knife missed him by inches.

Ace’s Colt roared and bucked as he landed in the street. The bullet caught the knife thrower in the belly and doubled him over. He collapsed, clutching at himself as blood welled between his fingers.

The older man was faster than he looked but was no match for Matt’s speed. Matt called, “Drop it!” as he pointed his gun at the outlaw. For a second it looked like the man was going to, but then he said something that sounded like, “So close,” and tried to raise his gun and fire it.

Matt fired first, his bullet knocking the man off his feet. He lay there in the street and writhed for a second, then lay still.

“Is that all of them?” Ace asked as he pushed himself up on one knee. “Is it over?”

It wasn’t.

* * *

Inside the bank president’s office, the sudden and unexpected sound of gunfire from somewhere outside distracted Mahoney and Hopgood just enough that the hired guards decided to make a play. They had already been forced at gunpoint to put their rifle and shotgun aside, but they still had their handguns. Both men drew.

Mahoney and Hopgood fired and couldn’t miss at such close range. Bullets ripped through flesh and sprayed blood in the air. Some of the flying crimson splattered on the money in the open trunk.

Snarling, Hopgood turned toward the banker and the two mine owners, and it was obvious from his face that he intended to cut them down, too, in his anger over the robbery being thwarted.

But Mahoney yelled, “Come on, let’s get outta here!” With his free hand, he grabbed several bundles of cash from the trunk and then darted toward the door. With some reluctance, Hopgood followed him.

As they emerged into the hall, someone lunged at them. Carl Andrews had regained consciousness. With blood dripping from the cut on his head where Mahoney had pistol-whipped him, he tackled the outlaw and tried to hold him.

Mahoney’s gun roared again, flinging Andrews away from him. Mahoney hurdled over the fallen teller and slammed out the rear door. Hopgood was close behind him.

“What the hell happened?” Hopgood asked. “What could have gone wrong?”

“I dunno, but let’s get to the horses. We can still ride away from here, and we got a little money.” Mahoney holstered his gun and started cramming the bundles of cash inside his coat. “Act like we don’t know what’s goin’ on.”

They turned along an alley and headed for the main street. As they stepped out, Mahoney was distracted by a crowd gathering to his right, in front of the bank. He spotted three motionless shapes lying on the ground and knew those had to be his friends and fellow members of the gang.

He sure had let Frank down, he thought.

And as that was going through his head, he fumbled the last bundle of greenbacks as he tried to stash them inside his coat. They fell on the boardwalk in front of him. He started to bend over and pick them up when a man’s voice, as hard as flint, said, “Leave it right there.”

* * *

Smoke, Chance, and Stansfield were on their way to the train station when the shooting started in front of the bank. Any time guns roared like that, Jensens were usually involved, so Smoke wasn’t surprised when he saw his brothers and his other nephew standing there as a crowd gathered around several bodies.

Then two men stepped out from an alley in front of them, and one of the men dropped what Smoke instantly saw was a bundle of money with a telltale red splash across it.

Somebody had spilled blood on those greenbacks, so whatever was going on, Smoke was sure these two hombres were part of it.

Both strangers had their guns holstered. So did Smoke, who stood facing them squarely, blocking Chance and Stansfield so that they were out of the line of fire. Smoke went on, “If you’ve been waiting for Frank Colbert . . . he’s not going to make it.”

The looks of surprise on the men’s faces told him he had guessed right.

Their draws were fueled by hate and desperation, and they were fast. Faster than most, the kind of speed that meant life or death to men such as these who rode the dark trails.

But Smoke Jensen was faster. His arm was a blur as his Colt seemed to appear in his hand as if by magic. The revolver thundered twice, one bullet going into the chest of each man. The shots drove them back, but something kept them on their feet, snarling and cursing. Smoke triggered twice more.

The planks of the boardwalk vibrated a little as the two bodies came crashing down on them.

“Good Lord,” Peter Stansfield said in an awed voice. “I never even saw him draw. I . . . I never saw anything like it. The legends are true.”

Smoke glanced over his shoulder at the reporter, grunted, shook his head, and started reloading.

“Smoke!” Matt called as he, Luke, and Ace hurried toward them, drawn by the fresh burst of gunfire. “It’s about time you got here. We thought you were going to miss Christmas!”

“No,” Smoke said, “it looks like I got here just in time for the celebration.”

The Summit Hotel, Donner Pass, New Year’s Eve

The big main table in the hotel dining room was full tonight. Not everyone in the Jensen family had been able to spend Christmas together—Louis and Denny had remained at the hotel while Smoke and Stansfield took the handcar to Reno, something that Denny had complained about loud and long—but now they were all together for New Year’s Eve.

Melanie and Brad Buckner were here, too, Melanie sitting next to Louis with her son on her other side. Smoke had invited Salty to join them, of course, and even Peter Stansfield, with the provision that the reporter agreed not to write anything about this family get-together. Stansfield seemed quite taken with Denny, so maybe he could honor his pledge . . . although there was no chance in hell that Denny would ever return his interest, Smoke thought.

Even Alma Lewiston was still on hand, although not at this dinner tonight. Herman Painton, the manager of the hotel, had offered her a job here. She had taken it, with her usual glum assertion that she didn’t have any other choice, but Smoke figured she had more options than she knew about. Both Painton and Juniper Jones had shown an interest in her. Maybe, if she could let go of her tragic past and the mistakes she had made, Alma might be able to fashion a decent life for herself here.

Getting everyone to the Summit Hotel hadn’t been easy. It had involved taking the roundabout route by rail back to Sacramento and then chartering a special train to bring them to Donner Pass. Since the hotel was a short distance west of the avalanche site, the tracks were relatively clear to that point, although it would still be weeks before the entire pass was open again.

None of that mattered now, Smoke thought as he looked around the table at his family and friends. Their dinner this evening was a belated Christmas feast and New Year’s celebration combined into one.

They weren’t the only ones who had something to be thankful for as one year ended and another began. Back in Reno, Carl Andrews had survived being shot by Deke Mahoney as he and Warren Hopgood tried to escape. The wounded bank teller had spilled the whole plan and then been reunited with his wife and daughter, who had survived their ordeal unscathed. Smoke had spoken to the bank president and asked him not to be too hard on Andrews. The man had been afraid for the lives of his loved ones, after all. No matter how that turned out, all three members of the Andrews family were alive and together.

Amid the eating, drinking, talking, and laughing, Brad said to Smoke, “Mr. Jensen, I was wondering about something.”

“What’s that, Brad?”

“The stagecoach is still out there, isn’t it?”

Smoke nodded. “Without a team of horses, it can’t get up and run off by itself.”

“Are you going to get it, so you can return it to Mr. Davis?”

Smoke folded his napkin, set it beside his plate, and said, “Now that’s a mighty fine idea. Once the weather is better, we’ll take some horses out there and fetch it in. After the damage we did to it, we ought to try to fix it up.”

“And then I’ll drive it back to Sacramento,” Salty spoke up. “Would’ve been nice to take it all the way to Reno, but some things ain’t meant to be, I reckon.”

“What will Mr. Davis do with it?” Brad wanted to know.

“Oh, I expect he’ll keep it, like he’d been doin’ before we came along and borrowed it,” the old-timer told him.

“But he just had it in a barn,” Brad said. “Stagecoaches are part of history. People ought to be able to see them.”

Louis said, “You mean like in a museum?”

“Yeah,” Brad said, nodding excitedly. “That would be a good place for it.”

“I’ll talk to Fred,” Smoke promised. “That old coach is pretty close to his heart, but we might be able to convince him to share it with folks.”

“I’d like that.” Brad grinned. “Especially since my initials are on it.”

Louis laughed and said, “You want people to remember you, is that it?”

Solemnly, Brad said, “I want people to remember what it was like to go through Donner Pass in a stagecoach, in the middle of a blizzard, at Christmastime, with badmen and wolves and the Donner Devil lurking around.”

“I don’t reckon any of us around this table will ever forget, Brad,” Smoke said.

“And none of us ever forgot,” the tall, silver-haired man said as he rested his hand on the stagecoach and lightly traced a fingertip along the faint markings. “I know I never did.”

Some of the visitors to the museum had gathered to listen to him. Among them was the little boy whose question about the stagecoach had started the whole thing. Wide eyed, he gazed up at the silver-haired man and said, “Are . . . are you—”

“Wait, wait, wait,” the professor interrupted. “Seriously, after spinning that ridiculous yarn, you’re not going to claim that you’re really Brad Buckner and that you lived through the whole unbelievable thing?”

“You want to see my driver’s license, mister?” the silver-haired man asked coldly. “You can read the name on it for yourself.”

“I don’t care what your name is,” the professor said, “you can’t expect anybody to believe such a pile of utter hogwash. It’s claptrap! I’ve never read about this in any of the history books, and I know everything there is to know about transportation in the Old West.”

“Mister, you only know what you think you know.” The older man dropped a slow wink to the little boy, who laughed.

The professor blew out a disgusted breath, shook his head, and turned away. “Hogwash,” he muttered again as he stalked off.

The rest of the crowd began to break up. It would soon be closing time for the museum.

The little boy lingered, though, ignoring his mother’s stern look. “Was it true?” he asked. “The story about the Jensens, and the Donner Devil, and how all of you almost froze to death at Christmastime?”

“What do you think?” the silver-haired man said with a smile.

“I think I want it to be true.”

“Then that’s all that matters.” The man touched his chest over his heart. “If it’s true in here.”