Longarm on the Thunderbird Run

Chapter Ten

Feeling considerably refreshed after an hour of sleep, Longarm washed the last cobwebs out of his brain with cold water from the pitcher left in his room, and went down to the bar.

Russable was already there and several drinks ahead of him. Longarm ordered a bottle of rye whiskey and a huge steak—some of Morey Fahnwell’s beef, no doubt—and was feeling practically human by the time he had a couple drinks in him and the meal to keep them company.

The salesman leaned forward and winked when Longarm pushed his plate away. “Now I think you should come with me, and I’ll show you some of the sights of Thunderbird Canyon,” he suggested.

“Hell, Jonas, I didn’t think this camp would have any sights worth seeing.”

“Just one. But it’s a humdinger. Matter of fact, this particular sight is the reason I always make my weekend layover here. I make the circuit every two weeks, you know, and every time I’m on the road I make it a point to stop here for the whole weekend.”

“Now what kind of sight would it be that a man’d want to see every other week?”

Russable snorted. “This little ol‘ mining camp, Custis, has the finest, classiest, best quality house of ill repute between Kansas City and San Francisco.”

“You sound like a man who’s tested them all to decide on that, too.”

Russable grinned at him and winked again. “I won’t say I’ve hit them all, Custis, but I’ve done my best.”

Longarm had to force a smile in response. Two minutes earlier the salesman had been bragging about what a fine and understanding wife he had. Of course, it was Russable’s business what he wanted to do. But Longarm’s opinion was that it was not very damned respectful of his own wife for the man to tell both tales to a total stranger in practically the same breath.

“Best liquor and hottest damn tamales in the business, Custis,” Russable went on, unaware of Longarm’s shift of opinion about him. “Mexican whores, most of them, shipped up from someplace down south. And can they wiggle? Let me tell you.” He leaned closer and poked Longarm in the ribs, which was not one of the tall deputy’s favorite gestures anyway. “Hot as these girls are, I’d swear they must stuff chili peppers up their pussies between customers.”

“It sounds interesting,” Longarm lied, “but there are some folks I need to see. Check a few things out. You know.” He had given the salesman only a vague cover story as his reason for being in Thunderbird Canyon, so there was no reason for him to elaborate. If Longarm just left it alone now, Russable would be able to come up with a reasonable business explanation without Longarm’s help.

“That’s a shame, Custis. Kinda adds to the fun to have a friend along, if you know what I mean. Pick girls and then swap back an‘ forth for the seconds. See who can get which one to holler the loudest. Like that.” The man snickered.

Longarm looked away before he rolled his eyes. The man’s gullibility was incredible. A whore, any whore, will moan and squeal the loudest for whoever pays the most. Hell, anybody dry behind the ears ought to understand that.

“Yeah, well, I’m sorry, but I expect I’ve got to pass, Jonas.”

“Whatever you say, Custis. Maybe tomorrow night.”

“Sure. Maybe tomorrow night.” By tomorrow night Longarm expected to be busy guarding an unspecified number of White Hood Gang members, of course. But if the innocent lie would get this drummer off his back, it was worthwhile.

Russable collected his hat and left, neglecting to pay for the drinks he had had before Longarm joined him. The amount for them was added to Longarm’s bill, which did not please him a whole hell of a lot.

Longarm gave the salesman time to get wherever he was going, then paid the tab and walked out onto the narrow, sloping street.

The mountain air was crisp and chilly, and the sun had long since disappeared somewhere off toward Oregon. Thunderbird Canyon was ablaze with lights, though, including the mines high on the slopes to either side. Apparently the silver veins they were following were rich enough to justify having shifts work around the clock.

Longarm got directions from one of the many miners crowding the streets and walked down to the sheriff’s office.

The sheriff’s office was housed on the top floor of a building that also served as the county courthouse and city hall. It was an unusual combination, but probably no one wanted to waste too much space and energy on the construction of separate county and municipal facilities. In a camp like this one, whatever was built today could well be abandoned tomorrow. As soon as the ore played out the whole shooting match would pull stakes and go away. This time next year Thunderbird Canyon could be a ghost town. Ten years and it would be hard to find the foundations where buildings once had stood.

An unshaven deputy sheriff whose red-rimmed eyes and scarlet-veined nose gave him an undesirable character reference was busy putting another drunk into a cell when Longarm entered the small, unkempt office at the top of the stairs.

“Be with you in a minute, mister.” The deputy unlocked the prisoner’s cuffs and ducked as the drunk threw a slow, sloppy, looping punch toward him. The deputy thumped the drunk on the back of the head and shoved him sprawling onto the cell floor. The man landed facedown and began to groan softly. The deputy ignored the drunk’s problems and closed and locked the cell door on him.

“Now,” he said, blinking as if trying to recall if he recognized the tall visitor. “What c’n I do you for?” He cackled at his own originality.

“I wanted to have a word with the sheriff,” Longarm said politely.

“The sherf’s busy. You c’n talk to me. I’m his chief deppity.” The man tossed the cell keys onto a desk that occupied most of the floor space in the place, slouched into the chair behind it, and propped his boots up on its surface.

Chief deputy? Longarm thought. The chief deputy here appeared to be a man Billy Vail would hesitate to hire to sweep out the cells, much less to fill them.

“My business is with the sheriff himself,” Longarm explained gently. “Where might I find him?”

The chief deputy’s face twisted into a scowl, and he dropped his boots to the floor with a loud thump and sat upright so he could glare at Longarm better. “Don’t you be getting smartass with me, you son of a bitch, or I’ll—”

The man’s eyes went wide, and there was a sudden pallor underneath the unshaven beard stubble on his cheeks. All of a sudden he was no longer sitting at the sheriff’s desk.

Almost before he had time to register that the visitor was moving, the chief deputy was being hauled upright by a strong hand clenched into the front of his shirt, and he was hanging suspended from the visitor’s fist. They were nose to nose. The visitor did not look so mild and polite anymore.

“Smartass?” Longarm asked in a voice that remained deceptively calm and even. “It’s smartass for somebody to ask to see the sheriff? No, Chief Deputy, I’ll tell you what’s smartass. Smartass is the way I’m going to take that badge off your vest and plant it four fingers deep inside your left nostril if you give me any shit. Smartass is what I get when I’m tired and I’ve got work to do and there’s some asshole wanting to play the bigshot with me. And smart is what your ass is going to do when I get done kicking it. Just for the hell of it. Now I ask you again, friend, where might I find the sheriff of this county?”

Throughout, Longarm’s voice was controlled and soft, never rising a decibel, even when he lifted the chief deputy, shook him vigorously, and deposited him back into his chair.

The chief deputy cringed like a whipped dog and licked at suddenly dry lips. “I

you c’n find the sherf at Jessie’s place. Most likely.”