A High Sierra Christmas

by William W. Johnstone, J.A. Johnstone

Genres: General Fiction; Historical Fiction; Westerns

Synopsis

It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas in the High Sierras. But Smoke Jensen and his children, Louis and Denise, won't let a little snow stop them from heading to Reno for the holidays. There are two ways for them to get there: the long way, going around the Sierra Nevada Mountains, or the short way, going right through them. Smoke decides to take a gamble. They'll follow the trail that, decades earlier, brought the legendary Donner Party to a gruesome, tragic end....

And so the journey begins. The Jensens share a stagecoach with a stranger who's planning to rob a bank. Smoke wants to stop him, as well as his notorious gang of outlaws. But he's outgunned and outnumbered. And when a blizzard traps them in the mountains, he's out of luck too. Like the Donner Party before them, the Jensens will be forced to do whatever it takes to survive. This time, they're hoping history doesn't repeat itself. But sometimes, the ghosts of the past just won't stay buried....

Release date: October 30, 2018

Publisher: Pinnacle Books

Print pages: 351

Sample

San Francisco, December 1901

“Give 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.”

The man turned the gun’s barrel away from Smoke to stare at the weapon. When he did that, Smoke’s left hand came up and closed around the cylinder. He shoved the barrel skyward, just in case the gun went off.

At the same time, Smoke’s right fist crashed into the robber’s face and sent him flying backward. Smoke was a medium-sized man, but his shoulders were broad as an ax handle and the muscles that coated his torso were thick enough to make his clothes bulge if the garments weren’t made properly.

Smoke had pulled his punch a little. The robber looked to be on the frail side, and Smoke didn’t want to hit him too hard and break his neck.

For many years he had been in the habit of killing or at least seriously injuring anybody who pointed a gun at him, but this time it seemed like enough just to disarm the varmint and knock him down. Smoke expected to see him scramble up and flee as quick as his legs would carry him away from here.

The man got up all right, but instead of running away, he charged at Smoke again with a wolfish snarl on his face. His hand darted under his coat and came out clutching a short-bladed but still dangerous knife.

That made things different. Smoke twisted aside as the man slashed at him with the blade. The knife was probably more of a threat than the popgun the man had been waving around.

Smoke tossed the revolver aside, grabbed the man’s arm with both hands while the man was off balance, and shoved down on it while bringing his knee up.

The man’s forearm snapped with a sharp crack. He screeched in pain and dropped the knife. When Smoke let go of him, he fell to his knees in the street and stayed there, whimpering as he cradled his broken arm against his body.

Smoke picked up the gun, took hold of the would-be robber’s coat collar, hauled him to his feet, and marched him stumbling along the cobblestones until he found a police officer.

The blue-uniformed man glared at him and demanded, “Here now! What’ve you done to this poor fellow?”

“This poor fella, as you call him, tried to rob me,” Smoke said. With his free hand, he held out the gun and the knife. “He pulled this gun on me and demanded all my money and valuables, and when I took it away from him he tried to cut me open with the knife. I’d had about enough of it by then.” Smoke shoved the would-be robber toward the officer. “His arm’s broken, so he’ll need some medical attention before you lock him up.”

“Wait just a blasted minute! I’m supposed to take your word for all this?”

“It’s true, it’s true!” the thief wailed. “Lock me up, do anything you want, just keep that crazy cowboy away from me!”

“Sounds like a confession to me,” Smoke said. He started to turn away.

“Hold on,” the officer said. “At least tell me your name and where to find you, so I can fill out a report.”

“The name’s Smoke Jensen, and my son and daughter and I are staying at the Palace Hotel.”

The policeman’s eyebrows rose. The Palace was the city’s oldest, most luxurious, and most expensive hotel. The man standing in front of him wasn’t dressed fancy—Smoke wore a simple brown tweed suit and a darker brown flat-crowned hat—but if he could afford to stay at the Palace, he had to have plenty of money.

Not only that, but the name was familiar. The officer recalled where he had seen it and blurted out, “I thought Smoke Jensen was just a character in the dime novels!”

“Not hardly,” Smoke said. He was well aware of the lurid, yellow-backed yarns that portrayed him variously as an outlaw, a lawman, and the West’s fastest and most-feared gunfighter. All of those things had been true at one time or another, but the fevered scribblings of the so-called authors who cranked out those dubious tomes barely scratched the surface.

These days he was a rancher. His Sugarloaf spread back in Colorado was one of the most successful and lucrative west of the Mississippi, not to mention the wealth that had come from the gold claim he had found as a young man. He could well afford to stay at the Palace Hotel. More than likely, he could have booked an entire floor and not missed the money.

Instead he had a suite, with rooms for himself; his son, Louis Arthur; and his daughter, Denise Nicole. He was on his way to meet the twins now, and he didn’t want to be delayed.

“Is it all right for me to go on to the hotel?” he asked the policeman.

“Why, sure it is, Mr. Jensen,” the officer said. He took hold of the thief’s uninjured arm. “I’ll tend to this miscreant. I’m sorry you ran into trouble here in our fair city.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Smoke said. “For some reason, I tend to run into trouble just about everywhere I go.”

Smoke had been to one of the banks in San Francisco where he had an account, to deal with some business regarding one of his investments. He had money in several different banks here and in Denver and Chicago, and over the years he had invested in numerous enterprises that had made him even more wealthy.

None of which affected the way he lived his life one bit. He had his ranch, his friends, his brothers and nephews, his children, and most of all his beloved wife, Sally, who at the moment was back on the Sugarloaf. Those were the only things that really mattered to him, not numbers written in some bank ledger.

From the bank, he had headed for the building where he was supposed to meet Louis Arthur and Denise Nicole. He hoped the encounter with the opium addict who had tried to rob him hadn’t delayed him too much.

Of course, the twins were perfectly capable of taking care of themselves, especially Denny. She was a beautiful, genteel young woman—when she wanted to be—but as she had proved by strapping on a gun and going after a gang of outlaws who had raided the ranch, she wasn’t shy about standing up for herself and her family, either.1

When Smoke walked into the office, which smelled vaguely of carbolic acid, he saw Denny waiting in one of the armchairs, but there was no sign of Louis.

“Where’s your brother?” he asked.

Denny wore a dark blue traveling outfit with a hat of the same color perched on upswept blond curls. A pair of fawn gloves lay in her lap. She looked at Smoke and said, “He’s already in with the doctor. He didn’t want me to go with him, of course.” She blew out a breath. “I don’t know why. It’s not like we’ve ever been that shy around each other.”

“Yeah, but you’re not kids anymore.” Smoke took off his hat and sat down in the chair next to Denny’s. “And even though he won’t admit it, I think your brother feels like he’s letting down the name Jensen by not being as tough as the rest of us. What he doesn’t understand is that he’s just as tough in other ways. How do you think Luke or Matt or I would have handled it if we’d had a bad heart and couldn’t do all the things we’ve done?”

“I suppose,” Denny said.

In truth, if Smoke or his brothers had been physically impaired like Louis, likely none of them would have lived to adulthood. Luke never would have made it through the war, let alone become a bounty hunter, and Matt probably wouldn’t have survived the outlaw attack that had left his birth family dead. Smoke never would have headed west with his father after the war to clash with Indians and badmen and meet the old mountain man called Preacher who had taught him everything he knew about handling a gun.

And he never would have met and fallen in love with the beautiful young schoolteacher Sally Reynolds, so Denise Nicole and Louis Arthur wouldn’t even be here.

Smoke was musing on those weighty thoughts when a door opened and a thick-bodied man with a beard stepped out. Pince-nez perched on his nose. He looked a little like President Theodore Roosevelt, who had taken office a few months earlier—and whom Smoke had met when he was a Montana rancher. Teddy was a good man for an easterner.

“Mr. Jensen?” the bearded man said.

Smoke got to his feet. “That’s right.”

“I am Dr. Hugo Katzendorf. If you would come back to my office, please.”

Dr. Katzendorf had only a faint accent to indicate his Prussian origins. He was a heart specialist, reputedly one of the best in the country.

Years earlier, when Louis was a small child and Sally’s parents had taken him to Europe to seek the finest medical attention for him, Katzendorf was one of the doctors who had seen him.

Now, having immigrated to America and established a practice in San Francisco, Katzendorf had written to Louis and asked for the chance to examine him again after almost two decades, to compare his condition now to what it had been back then. Such knowledge might prove vital to physicians who specialized in treating heart problems.

Denny started to get up, but Smoke motioned her back into her chair. She glared at him. Denny hated being left out of anything, from a party to a fight. But she sighed and stayed where she was.

When Smoke and Katzendorf walked into the physician’s office, they found Louis there, buttoning up his shirt after the examination. He had the same fair hair and slender build as his sister. He smiled and said, “Tell my father the good news, Doctor.”

“I’m always ready to hear good news,” Smoke said.

Katzendorf hooked his thumbs in his vest over his ample belly and frowned.

“Your son has a rather dry sense of humor, Mr. Jensen. The news is not . . . good.” He held up a pudgy hand to forestall any response from Smoke and went on, “But neither is it entirely bad. Louis’s heart is indeed stronger than it was when he was a child. But I fear it is also enlarged, and the valves in it are weak. He will always be in danger of it failing.”

Louis laughed and said, “The good doctor doesn’t understand. I fully expected to have dropped dead before now. I’m living on borrowed time, so I consider every day a blessing.”

Smoke’s hand tightened on the hat he held. Even though he had known it was too much to expect, he had hoped Katzendorf would declare that Louis was cured. The youngster’s color was so much better than it had been, and he seemed stronger all the time.

From what Katzendorf had said, though, it sounded like there was only so much improvement that could ever take place.

“What’s it look like over the long run, Doc?” Smoke asked.

Katzendorf spread thick fingers.

“Who can say? My experience and expertise tells me that the young man’s life expectancy will be shortened, but by how much? That is impossible to predict. If he takes good care of himself, leads a healthy life, and avoids undue exertion and excitement, he may live another twenty to thirty years.”

“See?” Louis grinned. “Not that bad.”

Smoke was in his early fifties now. The doctor was saying he didn’t think Louis would make it to that age. That angered Smoke, but some enemies couldn’t be fought with fists or guns, or even outwitted. A bad ticker was one of them.

Louis went on, “This leaves me more convinced than ever that my future lies in the law. I’m thinking that next year I may try to attend Harvard.”

“Your mother won’t like you leaving home again,” Smoke cautioned.

“Well, Denny will still be there on the ranch. If you’re not careful, Father, she’ll take over running the Sugarloaf from you. She’ll be giving the orders before you know it.”

“That’ll be the day,” Smoke said, but deep down, the prospect didn’t displease him that much. One of these days, Denny might well be running the ranch, and Louis would be handling its business affairs.

When that happened, he could just sit back in a rocking chair and enjoy his old age. Yeah, Smoke Jensen in a rocking chair . . .

Nope, he thought. He just couldn’t see it.

Staghorn, Nevada

Two men rode down the main street of the bustling settlement, which served as the supply center for the mines that lay to the northwest and the ranches spreading across the range southeast of there.

Having both in such close proximity meant that clashes between the pick-and-shovel men and the cowboys were inevitable, but it also ensured that Staghorn was a busy, profitable place, with a lot of cash flowing into the merchants’ coffers.

Because of that, the First Bank of Staghorn—which was the only bank in Staghorn, actually—usually had a decent amount of money in its safe.

The two strangers on horseback rode all the way from one end of Main Street to the other. Then, satisfied with what they had seen, they turned their horses and moved back along the street at a leisurely pace until they reached the hitch rail in front of the hardware store next to the bank. They swung down from their saddles and looped the reins around the rail, where three more horses were tied at the moment.

One of the men was a tall, rawboned hombre with a prominent nose and Adam’s apple and straw-colored hair sticking out from under a battered old hat. He looked around the town again and commented quietly, “I figured we might see some o’ them new-fangled horseless carriages here, but it looks like they ain’t made it this far yet.”

The other man grunted and said, “Good. From what I hear, they stink up the air something fierce.”

He was shorter and stockier than his companion, with a face like a bulldog. His name was Warren Hopgood. The rawboned man was Deke Mahoney.

They had come here to rob the First Bank of Staghorn.

Mahoney glanced at a bench on the boardwalk in front of the hardware store. A man sat there reading a newspaper, or at least pretending to read a newspaper. He gave Mahoney an almost unnoticeable nod. That meant there were no lawmen or anybody else who appeared too threatening in the bank. Magnus Stevenson was the gang’s lookout and horse holder, and he was good at his job.

A glance across the street told Mahoney that Otis Harmon was in position as well, leaning casually against one of the posts supporting the awning over the boardwalk. Harmon was the fastest gun in the bunch and the coldest nerved, as well. He wouldn’t hesitate to shoot down anyone who caused a problem—man, woman, or child.

The bank sat on a corner, and on the other side of the cross street, the fifth member of the gang sat on the steps leading up to the boardwalk. Dark curly hair spilled out from under his thumbed-back hat, and he wore a friendly grin as he whittled on a piece of wood with a Bowie knife. Jim Bob Mitchell was an expert with the knife, and not just when it came to whittling.

Satisfied that everybody was in place, Mahoney nodded to Hopgood and led the way into the bank.

Two tellers stood behind a windowed counter helping customers. One teller had two customers in line, the other just one. Three more customers stood at a raised table filling out deposit or withdrawal slips.

A fat man in a suit sat behind a desk to one side, looking through some papers. Another desk was empty. The safe stood behind the desks. Its door was closed.

Mahoney’s experienced gaze took in all of that in one quick scan around the room. He noted that four of the customers were men and the other two were women but didn’t really pay attention to any details beyond that.

So, nine people in the bank and none of them looked particularly dangerous. Mahoney nodded to himself, satisfied that he and Hopgood could proceed.

He hauled the Colt from the holster on his right hip and clicked back the hammer. The ominous, metallic sound made silence drop like a curtain.

“Everybody stand still,” Mahoney ordered in a loud, clear voice. He didn’t shout. Yelling sometimes spooked folks into doing something stupid. “We ain’t here to hurt anybody. We just want the money.”

Hopgood had his gun out, too. The women gasped as he swung the weapon toward them.

Mahoney covered the tellers as he told the customers, “All of you move over there to the side, out of the way. Do it now if you don’t want to get shot.”

“See here,” the fat man at the desk began.

“I ain’t forgot about you, tubby,” Mahoney said. “Stand up, slow and easy, and come over here with the customers.”

“I’ll do no such thing!” the man blustered. “You can’t come in here and—”

Mahoney pointed the Colt at the man’s face, which was turning red with anger. Staring down the barrel of the gun made the banker gulp and shut up, though. He tried to keep his hands raised, but he couldn’t lift his bulk out of the chair without putting his hands on the desk and pushing.

Mahoney let him get away with that. He stepped back and tracked the banker with the Colt as the man crossed the room to join the customers.

Everybody except the tellers was grouped now under Hopgood’s gun. Only a minute or so had passed since the two outlaws entered the bank. Things were moving along nicely.

Mahoney approached the counter and took a canvas bag from under his coat. It had the name of a bank in Kansas stamped on it and had come from a previous robbery.

Mahoney tossed the bag onto the counter in front of the teller on his left and said, “Fill it up. All the bills and gold coins from your drawer.”

“Mr. Miller?” the teller asked tentatively as he looked at the banker.

The fat man sighed and nodded. “Do as he says. I don’t want anyone to be hurt.”

The teller scooped loot from the drawer and shoveled it into the bag. It wasn’t long before he said, “That’s all I have.”

“Pass it over to the other fella,” Mahoney ordered.

One of the female customers, a stout, older woman with gray hair under her hat, said, “I just deposited fifty dollars! You can’t have it!”

“Sorry, Grandma,” Mahoney said. “We’re takin’ all of it, includin’ your fifty bucks.”

“No, sir, you are not!” The woman reached into the big handbag she was clutching and pulled out an old percussion revolver.

The sight was so surprising that Hopgood didn’t react immediately. But as the woman dropped her bag, held the heavy revolver with both hands, and pulled the trigger, he thrust his gun toward her and fired.

The shots blended together in one thunderous boom that shook the bank’s front windows. Hopgood howled as the lead ball fired by the woman ripped a furrow across the outside of his upper left arm.

The woman stepped back against the wall and her eyes rolled up in their sockets as blood welled from the bullet hole in her chest. Her legs went out from under her, and she sat down hard.

“You killed her!” the banker cried in shock. He took a step toward Hopgood.

The wounded outlaw’s face was twisted in pain. The graze wasn’t serious, but it hurt like hell. Furious because of that, and with gunfire having already broken out, Hopgood turned toward the banker and fired twice more.

The fat man grunted and doubled up as the slugs drove into his ample belly. Both hands clutched his stomach. Crimson welled between the fingers. He fell to his knees and then pitched over onto his side.

“Well, hell!” Deke Mahoney said. So much for any money that was left in the safe. There wouldn’t be time for that now. He gestured with his Colt toward the second teller and yelled, “Empty your drawer! Now!”

Stunned by the deafening shots, the stink of powder smoke, and the brutal violence, the man didn’t react quickly enough to suit Mahoney. He stood there gaping.

Mahoney lost patience and shot him just above the right eye, the bullet’s impact snapping the luckless teller’s head back. He collapsed.

“Get the money!” Mahoney shouted at the other teller, who instantly leaped to obey, grabbing greenbacks and handfuls of gold eagles and double eagles from the drawer and stuffing them into the bag.

After a moment, Mahoney said, “That’s enough!” and leaned over the counter to grab the bag. Even in this frenzied moment, he could tell it had a nice heft to it, but even so, because of that stubborn old woman and her unexpected hogleg, the gang wasn’t going to clear as much from this job as he’d hoped.

Waving his gun at the remaining customers and teller to keep them cowed, Mahoney told Hopgood, “Let’s go!” and headed for the doors.

Hopgood snarled and looked like he wanted to shoot somebody else, but he followed Mahoney.

As they burst out on the boardwalk, Mahoney saw that Magnus Stevenson was up on his feet and had moved to the hitch rail to grab the reins of the gang’s mounts.

Across the street, shots blasted from Otis Harmon’s gun as he ventilated a couple of men who were running toward the bank, drawn by the gunfire.

On this side of the street, in the next block, a middle-aged man with a lawman’s badge pinned to his vest rushed along the boardwalk. Jim Bob Mitchell tossed aside the piece of wood he’d been whittling on, rose lithely, and plunged the Bowie into the star packer’s chest.

The lawman came to an abrupt stop as his eyes widened in shock and pain. Mitchell pulled the knife out and stabbed him twice more, the deadly blows coming almost too fast for the eyes to follow. The lawman’s knees buckled.

Mahoney howled and sprayed lead around the street, being careful not to hit his partners. The wild shots made everybody on the boardwalks dive for cover. Harmon and Mitchell sprinted to the horses and leaped into their saddles.

Hopgood had holstered his gun and tried to mount as well, but he couldn’t raise his wounded left arm to grasp the saddle horn as he usually did. He had to grab it with his right hand and swing up awkwardly. Stevenson gave him a shove to help him.

Mahoney made it onto his horse. Stevenson was the last man to hit the leather. All five outlaws yanked their mounts around and drove the spurs to them. The animals leaped away from the hitch rail and thundered along the street at a dead run.

Mahoney, Harmon, Stevenson, and Mitchell kept up a steady fire, pouring lead into the buildings as they galloped past. That would keep everybody’s head down and give the outlaws a better chance to get away.

They rode out of Staghorn headed for the foothills of the Sierra Nevada Mountains to the west. They knew that rugged country quite well and were confident they could give the slip to any pursuit.

Once they were clear of the settlement, Mahoney looked at Hopgood and called over the swift rataplan of hoofbeats, “You all right, Warren?”

“Yeah, I will be,” Hopgood replied. “Arm just hurts like blazes, is all. But it’s not serious.” He grimaced. “We didn’t get as much as we should have—again!”

Mahoney bristled at this challenge to his leadership. “Frank left me in charge! It was a good job. Ain’t my fault it didn’t pan out just like we expected!”

“Maybe,” Hopgood said. “But Frank’s going to be out of prison soon, and then we’ll see how things pan out!”

Mahoney tried not to glare. He needed to concentrate on making sure they got away clean. A glance over his shoulder told him that the townspeople hadn’t mounted any pursuit yet, and Staghorn was falling farther behind with each passing moment. By the time they got a posse together, it would be too late.

That was satisfying, but Mahoney couldn’t stop thinking about what Hopgood had said. The wounded man was right. Frank Colbert was supposed to be released from prison any day now, and once he got out and returned to the gang, Mahoney’s days of being the leader would be over. He wasn’t sure exactly how he felt about that, but he knew he was going to miss calling the shots.

On the other hand, he wasn’t going to argue too much with Frank taking over again.

Because defying Frank Colbert was just about the quickest way a man could wind up dead.

The Sierra Nevada Mountains

Under gray skies, the westbound train chugged up the steep grade toward Donner Pass. At the controls of the big Baldwin locomotive was the engineer, Clete Patterson.

Huge clouds of steam billowed out into the cold air, which also caused a chill to go through Patterson. The locomotive’s cab was partially enclosed, but air still whipped through it.

The fireman, Alvie Forrester, leaned on his shovel and looked out at the pine-covered slopes going by.

“Never thought I’d see the pass this clear in December!” he called to Patterson, raising his voice to be heard over the locomotive’s booming rumble. “Why, there ain’t but a dustin’ of snow on the ground, and here it is, comin’ up on Christmas!”

The florid-faced engineer waved a gauntleted hand at the sky. “Yeah, but just look at those clouds!” he replied. “They’ve got plenty of snow in ’em, mark my words!”

“You been sayin’ the same thing since the middle of November, Clete, and there ain’t been a heavy snowfall yet!”

“Give it time!” Under his breath, Patterson muttered, “Good weather can’t hold. Not at this time of year.”

It never had, not in his experience, and he’d been making this run over the summit for nearly ten years. The snowsheds and the so-called Chinese walls and the tunnels built by the Central Pacific kept the snow off the tracks for the most part, but it always piled up in drifts many feet deep on both sides of the right-of-way. Every now and then, there was a blizzard bad enough to shut down the road, although it hadn’t happened in several years.

Alvie was right, though, Patterson thought. This much bare ground in the Sierra Nevadas in December was just . . . unnatural, somehow.

It made Patterson wonder if when the snow finally started falling, it would ever stop.

Forrester’s sudden shout cut into his reverie. The fireman yelled, “Holy hell, Clete! Look up there!”

Forrester was leaning out the window on the other side of the cab, pointing at something up ahead. Thinking there must be some sort of obstacle on the tracks, Patterson quickly stuck his head out on his side and peered at the iron rails as they cut through the rugged, rocky approach to the pass.

They were clear as far as he could see, going between cutbanks, along narrow ridges, and through stands of trees.

“I don’t see anything!” he called to Forrester. “What’s wrong?”

“I saw him! By jumpin’ jiminy, I finally saw him, Clete. It was the Donner Devil!”

A feeling of disgust welled up inside Patterson. “Not that again,” he said. “There’s no such thing.”

Forrester stared at him. “You didn’t see it?”

“I didn’t see anything except the tracks, and they look clear all the way to the summit.”

“But he was there, I tell you!” Forrester smacked the side of his fist against the cab wall. “A big, hairy critter scamperin’ across the tracks!”

“You saw a bear.” If you saw anything, Patterson added to himself.

“This wasn’t no bear, I’m dang sure of that! I’ve seen enough bears to know how they lumber along. This thing was kinda crouched over, but he was runnin’ on two legs, sure enough! Like he was part man and part animal!”

“People have been saying they’ve seen something like that up here for years,” Patterson said patiently, “but they never really seem to get a good look at it. Think about all the trains that have passed along this route, to say nothing of all the wagons and stagecoaches and fellas on horseback. . .