A High Sierra Christmas

2018·1.47 MB·english

by  Johnstone

A HIGH SIERRA CHRISTMAS
WILLIAM W. JOHNSTONE
with
J.A. JOHNSTONE
KENSINGTON BOOKS
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
BOOK ONE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
BOOK TWO
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
BOOK THREE
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
Notes
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018

Copyright © 2018 by J.A. Johnstone

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any
form or by any means without the prior written consent of the
Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

Library of Congress Card Catalogue Number: 2018932837
ISBN: 978-0-7860-4213-5
ISBN-10: 1-4967-1407-5
First Kensington Hardcover Edition: July 2018
Wide eyed, the little boy tipped his head far back to peer up at the
gaudily painted vehicle looming over him in the Museum of
Transportation.
“Whoa,” he said in an awed voice that matched his gaze. “Is that a
real stagecoach?”
“They probably just made it to look like one,” the boy’s mother
said. “I’m not sure there are any real stagecoaches around
anymore.”
A tall, straight-backed man with silvery hair and a neatly clipped
mustache approached them.
“Beg your pardon, ma’am,” he said as he gave the woman a polite
nod and reached up to pinch the brim of the brown felt cowboy hat
he wore. “I couldn’t help overhearing what the little fella asked. Son,
that sure is a real stagecoach.”
“You mean people used to ride it in the Old West?” the boy asked
as his eyes got big.
“They did.”
Ignoring the somewhat disapproving frown the woman gave him,
the older man stepped closer to the stagecoach, which was painted
bright red with brass fittings and a gleaming brass rail around the
top. On the side, above the door and the windows, in gold paint were
the words WELLS FARGO & CO. OVERLAND STAGE. The rear
wheels were bigger than the front wheels, but both sets were taller
than the little boy, who wore a straw cowboy hat and a fringed vest
from some playset.
The man rested a fingertip on the side of the stage, just below the
back window on this side, and said, “See this? It’s been painted over
a heap of times, so you can’t hardly make it out anymore, but
somebody scratched something into the wood here.”
“I don’t know,” the boy said, frowning. “I can see something there,
but I can’t make it out. . . .”
“All right to give the lad a hand, ma’am?”
The woman sighed, tired from a day of sightseeing and eager to
get back to the motel.
“Sure, go ahead,” she said.
From behind, the man took hold of the little boy under the arms
and lifted him so his face was close to the stagecoach.
“I see it!” the boy said. “It looks like somebody’s initials.... B.B. . . .
December . . . 1901.” He turned his head to look at the man. “That
was sixty years ago.”
With only a slight grunt of effort, the man set the little boy on the
floor again.
“It sure was,” he said. “I happen to know that the fella who
scratched those letters on there was riding in the coach when it was
caught in a blizzard in Donner Pass back in oh-one.”
“Wait, wait, wait.” Another man approached, holding up his hands.
This one was chubby, with dark curly hair. A pair of glasses kept
slipping down his nose. “Don’t fill the boy’s head with nonsense.”
“What are you talkin’ about, mister?” the older man said as he
looked around.
“No stagecoach would have been traveling through Donner Pass,
at Christmastime or any other time of the year, in 1901. The Central
Pacific Railroad was completed long before that and had been taken
over by the Southern Pacific by then. There would have been no
reason for a stagecoach to go through there.”
“You know that for a fact, do you?”
“Yes, I do. I have a doctorate in history, and I wrote my thesis on
the development and expansion of the American railroad system.”
“So you’re a college professor.”
“That’s right, I am.”
“I reckon you set me straight, then.” Clearly dismissive, the older
man turned back to the boy. “Like I was saying, that stagecoach was
on its way through the Sierra Nevadas that December when it
started to snow—”
“No, you’re wrong—”
“I’m telling the story here, amigo, not you.” The older man’s voice
had taken on a flinty tone that made the professor step back
nervously. “You’re welcome to listen while I talk to the boy. Could be
you’ll learn something.”
The woman said, “We have to go—”
“No!” the boy said. “I want to hear the story. Does it have cowboys
in it?”
“A bunch of ’em,” the older man told him with a smile. “And one of
’em was called Smoke. It all starts in San Francisco. . . .”
BOOK ONE
CHAPTER 1
San Francisco, December 1901

“G
ive me all your money and valuables, mister, and be quick about
it!”
“No, I don’t believe I will,” Smoke Jensen said as he shook his
head.
“I mean it!” the would-be robber said, jabbing the gun in his hand
toward Smoke.
He had stepped out of an alley a moment earlier and threatened
Smoke with the old, small-caliber revolver. Smoke was on his way to
an appointment and had taken a shortcut along a smaller street,
which at the moment was practically deserted.
A few people were walking along the cobblestones in the next
block, but they were unaware of the drama playing out here . . . or
ignoring it because they didn’t want to get involved. It was hard to tell
with big-city folks.
The thief wore a threadbare suit over a grimy, collarless shirt.
Smoke couldn’t see the soles of the man’s shoes, but he would have
bet they had holes in them. The man’s dark hair was lank and
tangled, his face gaunt, his eyes hollow.
“Opium?” Smoke asked.
“What?” The man looked and sounded confused as he responded
to Smoke’s question.
“That’s why you’ve resorted to robbing people on the streets? So
you can afford to go down to Chinatown and visit one of the opium
dens?”
“That ain’t none o’ your business. Just gimme your damn money!”
“No.” Smoke’s voice was flat and hard now, with no compromise in
it. “And you’d better not try to shoot that old relic. It’ll likely blow up in
your hand if you do.”