Longarm on the Thunderbird Run

“Not till your back is turned, Morey,” Longarm said cheerfully.

Fahnwell made a sour face. “You’ll go with me at least, won’t you? So them red-tape sons of bitches will know I was forced inta this?”

“Yeah, I can do that for you, Morey.”

The old rancher grunted and grumbled some more. “Some damn friend you turn out t’be.” But he left the bank and walked with Longarm down the street to the courthouse.

“Just think, Morey,” Longarm twitted him, “you’re gonna have a warm feeling in your heart when this is done. Civic duty performed and all that.”

“Damn you, boy, you better shut your mouth or I’ll sull up like an old cow. Turn right around an‘ go home. Do somethin’ decent with this here cash money. Like get drunk on it or blow it on foofaraw for Eugenie or something sensible like that.”

He was just blowing smoke, and Longarm knew it. Longarm was stone-cold positive that once Morey Fahnwell could be convinced to give his word on a subject, that statement was worth more than many men’s signed, sworn, and sealed contracts. The likable old curmudgeon was solid proud, right down to the core, and there wouldn’t be any way Longarm could force him not to make the payment now that he had said he would pay the hated fees.

They climbed the steps of the native quarry-stone courthouse building, and Longarm held the door open for the rancher to enter.

“Huh! ‘Bout time I got some service outta the damn government.”

Longarm chuckled and followed him inside.

“Quick as I get this misery over with, boy, we’ll go have us a drink.”

“Whose treat?” Longarm demanded.

“Boy, you don’t give a man a damned inch, do you. All right, damnit, I’ll even go that.” Fahnwell was trying to look and sound ferocious, but there was a sparkle of rough pleasure in his eyes. He was enjoying Longarm’s company as much as the tall deputy was enjoying his.

They were passing the county sheriff’s office on their way to the curving staircase that led to the second floor. A young man inside who looked more like a store clerk than a deputy looked up and noticed them. Longarm nodded to him and went on by.

As they reached the foot of the staircase a voice behind them called out, “Excuse me.”

Both men stopped and turned.

“Excuse me, please? Would you happen to be a Marshal Long?” It was the young deputy asking.

Longarm nodded. “I would.”

The young man looked relieved. “Good. A message came for you last night, Marshal. Urgent. Sheriff Tate left word that we was to be looking for you.”

“Urgent, you say?”

“That’s right, Marshal.”

Longarm gave Morey Fahnwell a look of apology and returned down the wide hallway to the sheriff’s small office. Fahnwell mounted the stairs by himself to pay off the grazing fee obligation.

“The message is right here, Marshal,” the local deputy said, digging through a stack of papers. “Right here someplace. Sure hope I haven’t lost it.”

Longarm curbed his impatience and pulled out a cheroot. Rushing the boy likely would not accomplish anything but to make him even more fumble-fingered.

“Take your time,” he said, not meaning a word of it.

Billy Vail was not a man to mark a message urgent if there were not real need for urgency.

While the young deputy continued to shuffle through the papers, Longarm reflected that it was a damn good thing he had not had to ride for Fort Washakie this morning instead of Snake Creek. Billy never would have thought to look for him there.

“Ah. Here ‘tis,” the deputy said finally. He pulled out a pair of yellow message slips pinned together and handed them to the federal officer.

Chapter Six

Longarm extended his hand to Morey Fahnwell. “I’ll have to hit you up for that drink another time.”

“I understand,” Morey said.

Longarm reached for the reins of his rented horse.

“Wait a second, boy.”

“What is it, Morey? I haven’t much time according to these telegrams.”

“I know that, damnit. I’m not holding you here for the hell of it. You ever been to Thunderbird Canyon, Longarm?”

He shook his head.

“Well, I have. I sell beef there. Standing order each an‘ every month of the year, so I know something about that country.”

Longarm quit fidgeting and paid attention. If Morey had something to say, perhaps he should listen to his advice. A man could get into too much of a hurry for his own good. “All right,” Longarm said, “go ahead.”

“First thing, you leave that nag be. I know that horse. It’s a fair animal, but it ain’t what you’re needing today, my friend.”

“But I don’t—”

Fahnwell cut him off with an upraised hand. “Now you just hear me out for a minute here.”

Longarm smiled at the old fellow and took out another cheroot, offering one to Morey as well.

“Thanks.” Fahnwell bit off the twisted tip of the smoke and bent to the match Longarm held in cupped hands. “Mmm. Not bad. I’ll have to see if Sam can’t stock some of these for me.”

“Morey!” Longarm groaned, becoming exasperated again.

“Calm down, sonny boy. Calm down.” Fahnwell winked at him, then continued. “The thing is, that there message of yours says the robbery’s to take place Friday afternoon, mmm?”

Longarm nodded.

“This here’s Wednesday. Doesn’t give you a whole hell of a lot o‘ time to get there an’ get yourself set.”

“I know that, Morey. That’s why

”

“Damnit, boy, you hush and listen to me. Like I told you, I do business in Thunderbird Canyon regular. Supply eatin‘ beef to the silver mines in that canyon an’ to the butchershop, hotel, an‘ several outfits like that. So I know what I’m telling you. The only way into that canyon is by the railroad.”

“The only way?”

“Did I say only? What I meant to say was o-n-l-y only. Used to be a pack trail. One hair raisin‘ son of a bitch it was, too. Hung onto a lip o’ rock high on the canyon wall. Except it ain’t there anymore. When they built the railroad, they had to go in over that same trail. It’s the onliest way there is. O‘ course, once you’re back in there you can reach the plateau up above the trail, climb up inta the mountains some, like that. But the onliest way in or out is by that train now that the trail is under steel rails. Which is part o’ what I’m trying to tell you.

“That narrow-gauge line—and believe me, Longarm, it’s the narrowest damn dinky little narrow-gauge thing I ever seen—don’t run but twice a day. Once up, once down. South end, which is where you’ll have to pick it up, is at Meade Park. That’s about seventy-five miles north from here. You know the town?”

“I’ve heard of it. Never been there.”

“All right then. You got to get to Meade Park, and you got to do that before the afternoon upbound heads into the canyon. Otherwise you won’t be going in at all before the train that’s supposed t‘ be robbed. Now you see what I’m tryin’ to tell you?”

“I’m commencing to,” Longarm acknowledged.

“Exactly. You got seventy-five miles to go and”— Morey pulled out his watch and checked the time —“an‘ just under twenty-four hours to make the ride.”

“Ouch,” Longarm said.

“Ouch? You damn well betcha. That livery horse there won’t begin to make that distance in less’n a day.”

Longarm frowned. “That may well be, Morey, but I got to try. If I kill the son of a bitch I got to try. The White Hood outfit is a bad one. We’ve nibbled at the fringes of them, but this is the first chance we’ve ever had to really pin them to the wall. If there’s any way at all—”

“Will you quit interrupting me, please?”

“Sorry.”

“The point I been trying to get across to you, son, is that that livery nag you’re on won’t come close to making it to Meade Park in time. But this hammerheaded little snide of mine, well, it’d get you there with time t‘ spare.”

Longarm looked at Morey Fahnwell’s personal mount.

Hammerheaded little snide, the man had called it? Every horse on the Fahnwell ranch was about as good a quality mount as a man could ever hope to see. And this “snide” that Morey chose for himself was the best of the best. The horse was young, not more than five if that, and sleek as an otter. It had muscles that looked like rippling steel cable under a glossy chestnut hide, and its eyes were large and intelligent. It had wide flaring nostrils able to scoop in wind by the bucketful and a chest like a beer keg.