Longarm on the Thunderbird Run

Longarm crept forward.

There was nothing ahead. Nothing at all he could hear except the faint soughing of the breeze winding its way past rocks and through the branches of an occasional juniper or cedar with its roots clinging to bare stone.

Longarm cursed softly to himself. The gunman had gained ground on him here. But he had had no choice. To go bursting fast and stubbornly around such bends would be perfectly safe every time but one. And that one unsafe time could be fatal. He jammed the Thunderer back into its leather and pressed forward.

The ledge they were following was probably a game trail, but no human had ever improved it. It widened and narrowed without plan or pattern, sloped down toward a dizzying drop here, then leveled out as smooth and wide as a city road not a handful of rods further up.

The gunman had to be somewhere ahead of him on the trail, though. There was nowhere else for him to go. Not unless he was willing to climb up or down, and in the darkness it would not be possible for anyone to do that without dislodging the loose stones on the steep hillside. Longarm would certainly hear if the gunman tried to leave the trail and make his way up the slope or down it.

A sliver of moonglow appeared to the southeast, and Longarm smiled silently to himself. As soon as the moon broke free of the peaks there would be light enough for him to make up lost time on the ambusher. A thought came to him as he moved cautiously through the night.

He hadn’t ever had time to lock Donald James Potter into his cell. The man was free for the moment if he chose to be, and he had the hood and gold coins still in his pocket. For a prisoner, poor Donald could have himself quite a night of it until Longarm got back. Still, the halfwit had nowhere to go. Not any more than the White Hoods did. He could run, but he couldn’t hide. He would be back in custody soon enough. Longarm was not worried about Potter.

For that matter, he realized, he would not have been worried about Potter anyway. The man hadn’t sense enough to think up trouble on his own. If anything, Longarm rather liked the simple fellow—his eating habits aside —and felt regret about having to jail him. Potter was no threat to anyone in Thunderbird Canyon.

The man ahead on this trail was another story entirely. A man who would shoot from ambush out of the night was a menace. Why he would do that was not secret, of course. Longarm was the one who was keeping the train from running. With the federal deputy dead, the mine owners would want the train moving again as quickly as possibly. And there would be a hundred hiding places available once that train moved. So Longarm’s life was in danger until the rest of Billy Vail’s boys got here. Or until the rest of the White Hoods were behind bars. It was as simple as that.

Longarm stopped and cursed under his breath again.

The ledge continued on in the direction it had been following, but here a game trail angled off above it.

He was high on the mountain now, well above timberline. Up at this elevation a game trail would have been carved over hundreds of years by bighorn sheep or possibly by the shaggy white goats that somehow made their living high above the levels where the runtiest, hardiest of trees could survive.

The question now was whether the gunman had stayed with the ledge or moved onto the trail. And whether the gunman knew this country well.

Longarm made his decision. A White Hood, come here within the past month or so as Donald Potter seemed to have done, would almost certainly have little or no knowledge of the high country surrounding the mining camp. The gunman therefore almost certainly would have followed the trail instead of the ledge. Longarm’s reasoning was simple enough. And he had to assume that the gunman would reach the same conclusion. A natural ledge can peter out without warning at any time, or any whim of nature. A game trail, on the other hand, has to go somewhere. So, Longarm decided, a sensible ambusher trying to get away in unknown country would naturally choose to follow the game trail instead of the ledge.

Longarm’s fingers brushed briefly but reassuringly over the grips of his Colt. Then, slowly, careful of his footing, he began to mount the trail carved here by countless hard hoofs. He had to be closing on the son of a bitch now. Had to be.

Chapter Thirty-Four

“Marshal? Wake up, Marshal, please.”

Henry’s eyes opened, gummy with too much sleep that was not at all restful, and he sat up. He had been sitting at the Meade Park town marshal’s desk when he drifted off, and he had slept badly, with his mouth open so that now it was annoyingly dry. He licked his lips with a tongue that held no moisture and swallowed several times, trying to work up some saliva.

“What is it? The train? Did you get through finally?”

“Whoa, Marshal.” the deputy said patiently. “There’s a message for you, that’s all.”

“A message. Thank goodness.” Henry jumped up, reaching for his derby and adjusting his spectacles, but the deputy stopped him.

“It ain’t a message from Thunderbird,” the man said. “Sorry, but we still haven’t been able to raise anybody up there.”

“But if it isn’t

?”

“It’s from your boss in Denver,” the local deputy said.

“Oh.” The momentary excitement faded, and Henry felt the anxiety return.

Whatever could be happening up there? He was all too fearful already that he knew what was happening—had happened—at the other end of the useless narrow-gauge rails. That was what was worrying him, damnit.

Henry left the small office and turned down the block toward the railroad depot. It was dark. He had no idea what time it was or how long he had been sleeping, but there was a feel in the air of late night. Meade Park seemed to have gone to bed, leaving only a few lights showing in private homes and in the hotel. One of the two saloons in town had even closed for the night. Unlike a mining community, which Meade Park no longer really was, the town closed its doors early.

There were no night lamps burning on the railroad platform at this hour, but light showed at the windows of the telegrapher’s office. Henry had prevailed on the man to stay at his post overnight, sleeping on a cot beside his sending key if he had to, so there would be no possibility of a message from Thunderbird Canyon being missed.

Frankly, Henry was having visions of an entire town under siege. Many explanations were possible, of course. Nearly all of them involved mayhem and destruction in one form or another.

He shivered in the cool night air and tugged the lapels of his coat close over his chest.

The telegrapher greeted him pleasantly enough when he entered the office.

“For you, Marshal.” The man handed him a single sheet of paper with the message scratched out in a spidery hand.

WHAT IS STATUS THERE QUERY HAS LONG REPORTED YET QUERY AM SENDING REQUEST ADDITIONAL INFORMATION FROM STONE VIA JOHNSTON COMMA FORT SMITH STOP ALSO DISPATCHING ADDITIONAL DEPUTIES YOUR ASSISTANCE STOP VAIL

Henry felt relief wash through him at the thought that the regular deputies were on their way. And apparently Billy Vail had gotten through to Longarm also or there would not have been that question about him showing up.

Thank goodness. He would not have to face the White Hoods alone.

“I need to send a reply.” he told the telegraph operator.

“Write it out now if you want to. Marshal, but we gotta relay through Soda Springs to get down to the Union Pacific an‘ the Western Union operators. There’s no night man on at Soda Springs now. He signed off twenty, thirty minutes ago. So whatever you send, it won’t go out till tomorra morning when he comes on again. Me, I’d like to go home now too, Marshal.”