A Rocky Mountain Christmas

CHAPTER TWELVE

Big Rock

Cephas Prouty had on woolen long johns under his clothes, and a wool-lined sheepskin over his clothes. He had a scarf around his neck, a stocking cap over his head, and heavy gloves on his hands. Thus attired, he set out in a handcar for the purpose of inspecting Trout Creek Pass. For the first eight miles the track was relatively flat and pushing the hand pump up and down was easy. But it got harder when he started up the long grade that would take him to the top of the pass.

Prouty was used to it, though, as he made the trip several times a week. And tonight, he didn’t even mind the pumping. The extra exertion helped keep him warm in the subzero temperatures.

It took him an hour and a half to reach the summit. He set the brake on the car, then stepped down to have a look around. He checked the track, then examined the cut on either side. If he found any reason why the train couldn’t make it through, he’d wire the station at Buena Vista, warn them the pass wasn’t safe, and have them hold the train there.

Prouty walked along the track from its most elevated point to where it started back down on the west side. He turned around and walked up to the summit, continuing on to where it started back down on the east approach. Occasionally he would stick a ruler into the snow to measure its depth. Nowhere did he find the snow over two inches deep, and even then it wasn’t accumulating on the rails. He didn’t see any reason why the trains couldn’t continue to come through the pass.

It wasn’t only during the snow season that he would come up to check. He made frequent trips during other seasons as well, to ensure the rails were whole and unobstructed. On a clear night in the summer. he could look one way and see the lights of Buena Vista or look the other way and see the lights of Big Rock.

Tonight, though, the night was so overcast that when he looked out to either side of the pass he saw nothing but darkness.

His inspection done, Prouty got on his handcar and started back toward Big Rock. His trip up the grade to the top of the pass had been difficult, requiring hard pumping. Going back down was easy. No pumping was required until he reached the flat. In fact, he had to apply the brake to keep from going too fast. He was certain that he was doing at least forty miles per hour on the way down. He began pumping when he hit the flats, making his total trip down the mountain in less than an hour. He coasted into the station at about nine-thirty, moving the cart onto a side track before going inside.

“Well, Cephas, I see you made it back,” the stationmaster said. “I figured you would be turned into an icicle by now.”

“I damn near am one,” Prouty replied as he stood shivering by the stove. “You got ’ny coffee, Phil?”

“Yes, stay there by the stove and warm yourself. I’ll get it.”

“Thanks.”

“What about the pass?” Phil asked as he handed Prouty the cup.

Prouty took a welcome sip before answering. “I think it’s all right.”

“You think?” Phil chuckled. “That’s not very reassuring. What do you mean you think? Don’t you know? You were just up there, weren’t you?”

“It’s open now, but the next train isn’t due through there until midnight. I believe that the pass will still be open, but I can’t guarantee it.”

“Should I stop the train at Buena Vista?”

“The next train through is a freight train, isn’t it, Phil?”

“Yes.”

“No, don’t stop it. I think we should let the freight come on through. The Red Cliff Special isn’t due through the pass until about five in the morning. When the freight pulls in here just after midnight, the engineer will have a more up-to-the-minute look at it, and a better idea as to the condition of the pass. We can get a report from him and make our decision about the passenger train then.”

“Good idea,” Phil agreed.

Prouty smiled. “You’re a good station manager, Phil, offering a track inspector a hot cup of coffee after he’s been out in the cold.”

“Oh, I can do better than that. How about a cruller to go with your coffee?”

“Phil, you are indeed a gentleman,” Prouty said gratefully.

On board the Red Cliff Special

On the other side of the Mosquito Range from where Phil and Prouty were having their discussion the Red Cliff Special was rumbling through the cold night. Matt kept repositioning himself, trying to get as comfortable as he could in the backseat. He had been on a train for over two days and was getting a little tired of the travel. The night before he had been in a Pullman car and had been able to sleep. But there were no Pullman cars on this run, so he had to make himself as comfortable as he could in the seat.

Fortunately, he had the seat to himself and was able to stretch out somewhat. He wadded up his coat and placed it against the cold window to use as a pillow. The kerosene lamps inside the car had been turned way down so that, while the car was illuminated just enough to allow someone to move about, it wasn’t too bright to keep anyone from sleeping.

Falling into a fitful sleep, Matt dreamed.

An early snow moved in just before nightfall of the sixth day and the single blanket Matt had brought with him did little to push away the cold. It was also tiring to hold the blanket around him while walking. He considered cutting a hole in the middle but decided against it because he thought it would be less warm at night, that way.

As the snow continued to fall it got more and more difficult to walk. At first, it was just slick, and he slipped and fell a couple times, once barking his shin on a rock so hard the pain stayed with him for quite a while.

The snow got deeper and he quit worrying about it being slick, concerning himself only with the work it took just to get through it. His breathing came in heaving gasps, sending out clouds of vapor before him. Once he saw a wolf tracking him and wished he had his father’s rifle.

He found a stout limb about as thick as three fingers and trimmed off the smaller branches with his knife. Using the limb as a cane helped him negotiate the deepening snowdrifts.

Just before dark he sensed, more than heard, something behind him. Turning quickly, he saw that the wolf, crouching low, had sneaked up right behind him. With a shout, and holding the club in both hands, he swung at the wolf and had the satisfaction of hearing a solid pop as he hit it in the head. The wolf yelped once, then turned and ran away, trailing little bits of blood behind it.

Matt felt a sense of power and elation over that little encounter. He was sure the wolf would give him no further trouble.

As the sun set he found an overhanging rock ledge and got under it, then wrapped up in the blanket. When night came, he looked up into the dark sky and watched huge, white flakes tumble down. If it weren’t for the fact that he was probably going to die in these mountains, he would think the snowfall was beautiful.

“Here, try some of this.”

Opening his eyes, Matt saw that he was no longer outside under a rock, but inside on a bed. How did I get here? he wondered. A man was sitting on the bed beside him, holding a cup. Matt took the cup and raised it to his mouth, but jerked it away when it burned his lips.

The man laughed. “Oh. Maybe I should have told you it was hot.”

Matt tried again, this time sipping it through extended lips. It was hot and bracing and good. “What is it?”

“Broth, made from beaver,” the man said.

“Don’t know that I’ve ever tasted beaver, before,” Matt said calmly.

The man laughed again.

“What’s so funny ?”

“I’ll say this for you, boy, you do have sand. I found you damn near dead out on the trail, and now you are telling me that you don’t think you’ve ever eaten beaver before.”

“I don’t think I have,” Matt answered as calmly as before. “Who are you?”

“The name is Jensen. Smoke Jensen.”

Matt was awakened when the train ran over a rough section of track. He sat up and rubbed his eyes, bringing himself back from dreaming about the first time he ever met Smoke, or, more accurately, about the time Smoke had saved his life. Not surprised by the dream, he was sure the cold and snow had triggered an old memory. In addition, Smoke had been on his mind as he thought about spending Christmas with his friend and mentor.

It was dark in the passenger car, and pleasantly warm. According to the schedule he had read at the Pueblo depot, they weren’t due into Buena Vista until two in the morning. That was a few hours away, so Matt repositioned himself in the seat and went back to sleep.

On board the Freight Number 7

Several miles ahead of the Red Cliff Special, a freight train was approaching the top of the pass.

“Better take it easy through here, Joe,” the fireman said. “That snow is comin’ down pretty good now.”

“Yeah,” the engineer said. “But it looks clear ahead. Look out your side. If you see anything, sing out.”

The engine, which was pulling a string of ten freight cars, slowed until it was barely moving. Finally it reached the crest, topped it, then started down the other side.

“All right!” Joe cried. “Let’s get out of here!” He opened the throttle, and aided by the fact that it was going downhill, the train reached fifty miles an hour. He started slowing it down three miles before they reached Big Rock, where they would have to take on water.

Big Rock station

Phil heard Freight Number 7 approaching, put on his heavy coat, and walked out to the water tank. He needed to talk to the engineer about the pass. He glanced up where a fire was kept burning in the large, cast-iron stove in the vertical shaft just below the tank to keep the water from freezing. When the train ground to a stop, the fireman climbed out to swing the huge water spout over to replenish the water in the tender.

The engineer leaned out the window of the cab and looked down toward the station manager. “What are you doing out here in the cold, Phil?”

“The Special will be coming through the pass about five in the morning. What do you think? Will they have any trouble?”

“We didn’t have any trouble,” Joe said. “The track and the pass are clear.”

“There’s a lot of snow higher up, though,” the fireman added. “If it don’t come down, I don’t see no trouble.”

“What do you mean if it doesn’t come down? Is that likely?”

“I don’t think so,” Joe answered. “I saw it too, and it looks like it’s pretty solidly packed.”

“All right, thanks,” Phil said. “I’ll send the word on back.”

The fireman finished filling the tank, then swung the spout back. “Merry Christmas, Phil,” he called out.

Phil smiled back at him. “Merry Christmas to you, Tony. And you, too, Joe.” He started back toward the warmth of the depot, even as Joe opened the throttle and Freight Number 7, with ten cars of lumber, continued on its journey.