A Rocky Mountain Christmas

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Sugarloaf Ranch

The Denver Pacific, the Denver and Rio Grande, the Kansas Pacific, the Colorado Central, the Burlington, Rock Island, and Missouri Pacific railroads had all laid tracks into Colorado. Those railroads linked the state with the rest of the nation’s economy, bringing in the nation’s manufactured goods and shipping out Colorado’s minerals and cattle.

One of those taking advantage of the network of railroads was Kirby Jensen, known by everyone as Smoke Jensen. Since marrying his wife Sally and settling down, he had built one of the most successful ranches in Colorado. His ranch, Sugarloaf, was located near the town of Big Rock, just west of the south end of the Mosquito Range. Big Rock would be the first stop on the Denver and Pacific Railroad after the train had traversed Trout Creek Pass coming north and west, and the last stop before climbing the pass when going east and south. And, because that train could carry his cattle to the eastern markets, Smoke Jensen had become a very wealthy man.

At the moment, Smoke and his friend, Duff MacAllister, also a cattleman who owned a ranch in Wyoming, were in the parlor, decorating a Christmas tree. The tree was strung with red and green ribbons as well as brightly painted ornaments.

Underneath the tree was an exquisitely, hand-carved crèche. Duff picked up one of the sheep and examined it closely. “Whoever did this, did mighty fine job.”

“That whole thing was carved by Preacher,” Smoke said.

“An artist, was he?”

“Yes, he was an artist,” Smoke agreed. “But he was much more than that.”

“Aye? Well, I’ll tell you lad, sure ’n if ’twas only for his art he was known, he would have a well-deserved reputation. I’ve never seen finer work done.”

The smell of freshly baked pastries wafted into the parlor from the kitchen. “What is that wonderful aroma?” Duff asked, looking toward the kitchen.

“If I don’t miss my guess, that would be Sally’s bear claws. Come, let’s go try out a couple.”

“Aye, ’tis a good idea.” Duff followed him willingly and eagerly into the kitchen.

Both of the men grabbed a bear claw from the table where several of the pastries lay.

“Smoke!” Sally scolded. “You aren’t supposed to eat any of those now.”

“Well, now, surely you’ll want Duff and me to try them out, just to make certain they are good enough to serve at Christmas, won’t you?” Smoke teased as he took a bite.

Sally smiled. “And how is it?”

“I’m not sure I can tell with just one. It’ll take at least two, I think, before I’ll know whether or not they are any good.” Smoke finished the first one, then reached for a second. Duff followed suit.

“Uh-huh,” Sally said with a condescending smile. “If you and Duff don’t quit eating those bear claws, there won’t be any left for Christmas.”

“Sure there will be.” Smoke he took a bite of the second pastry, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “It’s a few more days till Christmas. All you have to do is make a couple dozen more.”

“I’ve already made two dozen. This isn’t a bakery, you know.”

“Just be glad Pearlie and Cal decided to spend Christmas in Denver. Otherwise you’d have to make about three dozen more. With them gone, you probably don’t need more than another one or two dozen. Although, you could make three dozen more, just to be safe.”

Sally laughed. “You’re impossible.”

“Of course I’m impossible. You wouldn’t love me any other way. You know that,” Smoke teased. Looking through the kitchen window, he saw a rider approaching. “Looks like we have another telegram. Here’s Eddie again.”

“Oh, Smoke, take a bear claw out to him,” Sally said. “Bless his heart, having to ride out here in the middle of the night when it is this cold.”

“It’s only nine o’clock. It isn’t the middle of the night. Besides, I thought you said we weren’t going to have enough.”

“You know I’m going to make some more.”

Laughing, Smoke put on his coat, then grabbed one of the pastries and went outside to meet Eddie, the fifteen-year-old telegraph messenger.

“Another telegram?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Hope there’s no trouble with Matt getting here.”

“No, sir. He’s just tellin’ you he’s gettin’ on the train, is all,” Eddie said. “‘Course, that don’t mean there ain’t goin’ to be no trouble.”

“Why, what do you mean?”

“We’re gettin’ reports from all over about snow. I know it ain’t started snowin’ here yet, but it’s acomin’ down just real heavy in the mountains, they say. I’m surprised they even let the train leave.”

“Eddie, would you like to come inside and warm up a bit before you start back to town?” Smoke invited.

“No, sir. Thank you very much. If I come in and get warm, it’ll be that much harder to come back outside again.”

Smoke chuckled. “Young man, you are wise beyond your years.” He gave the boy a dollar and the pastry.

“Thank you!” the boy said with a broad grin. “There can’t nobody make bear claws as good as Miz Sally can.”

“Well, if you’re going, you’d better get on back into town before you freeze to death,” Smoke pushed. “It’s really cold, and I have a feeling it’s going to get a lot colder before this night is out.”

“Yes, sir, I do believe it is goin’ to do just that,” Eddie agreed as he turned his horse and started back into the night.

Smoke looked toward the mountains, thinking of the train traveling through Trout Creek Pass. It had snowed quite a bit in the last several days, and he could see the white, almost luminescent, snow-capped mountain peaks against the dark sky.

Once back inside the house, he opened the yellow envelope and read the message aloud. “In Pueblo boarding train nine p.m. Arrive Big Rock six a.m. tomorrow.”

“What time does that mean Sally will have to get up to go meet him?” Duff asked.

“I’d say about four-dark-thirty in the morning would get her there on time,” Smoke teased.

“What? Not on your life, gentlemen. I’ll have you know I will be warm in bed when you two go to town to meet him.”

“Is that the way it’s going to be? And here, I thought that being it is so close to Christmas, you’d have a little more compassion in your heart,” Smoke teased some more. “All right, if that’s the way it is, you can stay home. But there’s no sense in Duff and me both going to pick him up. I’ll go by myself.”

“I’ll be for goin’ with you, lad,” Duff offered. “I’d be glad to.”

“Did you hear that, Sally? He’s not only going to go with me, he’ll be glad to go. That’s what he said. He would be glad to go.”

“I heard.”

“Well, I think you should know it’s good to see that I can count on some people,” Smoke said pointedly.

“Try not to wake me when you leave,” Sally taunted.

“What do you mean, don’t wake you? Aren’t you even going to get up to make coffee for us?”

“Nope.”

“You are one cruel woman, do you know that?”

“So I’ve been told,” Sally replied with a laugh.

“Eddie said there’s been a lot of snow up in the mountains. I hope the train has no trouble getting through the pass,” Smoke said.

“Don’t they keep the tracks clear?” Duff asked.

“Well, yes, when they can.”

Sally walked over to the window and looked up toward the mountains. “I don’t know, Smoke, it looks like there might be a big storm brewing.”

“Could be,” Smoke agreed. “Sally, what was that poem about snow that Preacher liked so much? You remember, he was always asking you to say it to him. It was by . . . some poet. I can’t remember.”

“Ralph Waldo Emerson. ‘The Snow-Storm.’”

“Yes, that’s the one. Can you still say it?”

“Of course.”

“Say it for us. Listen to this, Duff. I swear, you could hear this poem in the middle of the summer and start shivering.”

Sally began to recite the poem, speaking with elegance, flair, and with all the proper emphasis.

“Announced by all the trumpets of the sky

Arrives the snow, and, driving o’er the fields

Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air

Hides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven,

And veils the farm-house at garden’s end.

The sled and traveller stopped, the courier’s feet

Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit

Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed

In a tumultuous privacy of storm.”

“That was beautiful, Sally. You have quite a way with words,” Duff said.

“Thank you, but I only spoke the words. Emerson wrote them, and it was a loss to literature when he died.”

Smoke chuckled. “Until I married Sally, I had never heard of him. One of the advantages of marrying a schoolteacher is that you get an education.”

“I like to say I didn’t educate him, I trained him.” Sally grinned.

“Whoa, now. I wouldn’t go that far,” Smoke protested.

Sally and Duff laughed.

“I will say this, though. What Preacher didn’t teach me, Sally did.”

“Who is Preacher? You mentioned him before. He was the one who carved the crèche, I believe.”

“Yes,” Smoke said. “Preacher didn’t exactly raise me, but he almost did.”

“He gave you your name, too,” Sally pointed out.

“That’s right. I was called Kirby until Preacher changed it to Smoke. Did you know that he killed a bear with just a knife when he was only 14 years old?”

“Och, ’twould take quite a man to do such a thing.”

“You’ve got that right. He was quite a man. You probably wouldn’t like him, though. He fought against the English at the Battle of New Orleans. He was just a boy, then.”

“I’ve no real love for the English, laddie, I can tell you that for sure,” Duff declared.

“But you are English,” Smoke argued.

“I’m a Scotsman, lad. We may be part of Great Britain, but there be no love lost between the Scots and the English, that I can tell you. ’Twill be another hundred years or more before the Scotts forgive the English for Flodden, and then forgiven it will be, but never will it be forgotten.”

“Flodden? Yes,” Sally said. “I think I once read a poem about Flodden.”

Duff cleared his throat and began to speak.

“From Flodden ridge,

The Scots beheld the English host

Leave Barmoor Wood, their evening post

And headful watched them as they crossed

The Till by Twizell Bridge.

High sight it is, and haughty, while

They dive into the deep defile;

Beneath the cavern’d cliff they fall,

Beneath the castle’s airy wall.

By rock, by oak, by Hawthorn tree,

Troop after troop are disappearing;

Troop after troop their banners rearing

Upon the eastern bank you see.”

“Yes!” Sally said. “That is the poem.”

“There’s a song about the battle called ‘The Flowers of the Forest’,” Duff said. “If you’d like, I’ll play a wee bit of it on m’ pipes.”

“I would love for you to,” Sally said.

Duff went into his room then returned a moment later with his bagpipes. After filling the bag with air, he began playing the piece, the melody, with its poignant strains, re-creating the tragedy of the terrible event. When he finished, the last note lingered as a haunting echo.

“That was beautiful, Duff. Sad, but beautiful,” Sally commented.

“Thank you,” Duff acknowledged with a nod of his head.

“Uh-oh,” Smoke remarked.

“What?” Sally asked.

“Look out the window.”

Outside the snow was falling thick and fast. Huge, heavy snowflakes were quickly covering the ground.

“This can’t be good,” Sally said.

“Maybe, maybe not,” Smoke said. “Just because it is snowing here, doesn’t mean it is snowing in the pass.”

“But it probably is, right?” Sally asked.

Smoke was silent for a moment, before he answered. He nodded. “Yeah, it probably is.”