Longarm on the Thunderbird Run

“Snide, huh?”

Morey grinned. “What I’m telling you, my friend, is that it’d be time well spent if you switched your saddle and gear to my ugly plug an‘ take it on the road to Meade Park. This youngun will put you there in plenty of time to catch the afternoon upbound, and you’ll be layin’ in position there long before your robber boys come to pay their call.”

“It occurs to me,” Longarm said, already reaching to unstrap the cinch of his McClellan from the livery horse, “that I’m becoming just as glad that I didn’t have to shoot you yesterday.”

Fahnwell laughed and began stripping his gear from the chestnut.

“I’ll bring him back first chance I get. No guarantees when that will be.” He pulled the cavalry saddle off the rented horse and smoothed his blanket over the back of the young chestnut.

“No hurry. If he don’t come back at all, I’ll understand. I’m not one to begrudge a friend a loan.”

Longarm was in a hurry, but he couldn’t help stopping what he was doing and turning to give Morey Fahnwell a stare and a laugh. “You old son of a bitch. D’you realize that this horse is probably worth more than the grazing fee you’ve been pissing and moaning about all this time?”

Morey grinned right back at him, quite unabashed. “Principle, son. If a man don’t have principles, he don’t have nothing.”

Longarm clapped the man on the shoulder, switched his Spanish-bitted bridle to the tough chestnut and swung into the saddle. He reached down to shake Morey’s hand. “Thanks. I’ll get back when I can.”

Fahnwell nodded and took a puff on the cheroot Longarm had given him. “Eugenie’ll have supper on the table when you get there. And mind you, we’ll be expecting you t‘ stay the night.”

Longarm touched the brim of his Stetson in silent salute to the old man who was every bit as tough and rugged as this young horse of his. Then he touched his spurs to the flanks of the chestnut and put the horse into a lope toward the north.

This was going to be a long and tiresome ride.

Chapter Seven

The sturdy chestnut—moving that afternoon and on through the night and following morning in the steady walk, trot, and lope rhythm of the long-distance cavalry march—put Longarm in Meade Park with hours to spare. The livery mount from Snake Creek, he was sure, would have died of exhaustion miles to the south, but the chestnut could have gone on another ten or fifteen miles if it had had to.

Tired as he was, the first thing Longarm did when he reached the town was find the livery.

“I need a stall,” he told the hostler. “I want a box stall, and I want it bedded a good two feet deep with fresh straw.”

“Are you crazy, mister? I don’t—”

“You will this time,” Longarm informed the man. He handed the fellow a five dollar half eagle. It was enough to pop the man’s eyes and shut his mouth.

“Like I said,” Longarm went on, “I want a box stall bedded two feet deep. And I want your bottle of whiskey. I expect you’ve got one tucked away someplace?”

“Ayuh, I might.”

“Then drag it out here and get to forking fresh straw into that stall.”

While the hostler cleaned and rebedded the best stall in the barn, Longarm poured half the bottle of whiskey into a bucket of water and used the alcohol and water mixture to give Morey Fahnwell’s grand chestnut a thorough wash and rubdown, paying particular attention to the stout animal’s legs and feet. Then he swabbed out its nostrils and mouth with the whiskey mix, but would not allow the horse to drink yet.

Part of the remainder of the liquor went into a thick mash of barley and bran for the chestnut to eat. A swallow or two went into Longarm’s empty belly. There had been neither time nor place for him to eat since he left Snake Creek. But that could come later.

“What time is the train to Thunderbird Canyon?” he asked the hostler while he tended the horse.

“ ‘Nuther hour,” the man said.

“I’ll be gone a day, maybe two. Until I get back, mister, I expect this little horse to be treated like a house pet. You understand me? The thing wants to sit in your lap and have you read to it of an evening, then that’s what it gets. Right?”

“Well, I don’t

”

“Five dollars a day for that kind of babying,” Longarm said gently. “I’ll pay it gladly. On the other hand, if I decide I’m not satisfied, I’ll pull your tongue out and tie it around your neck like a kerchief. Do we understand each other?”

“Uh

yeah.”

“Thank you, sir. That’s mighty kind of you.”

Longarm thoroughly bathed and rubbed the chestnut, saw that it ate greedily of the fortified mash, and only then allowed it a drink, the drinking water slightly fortified with the last of the whiskey.

“This horse has done a hell of a piece of work,” Longarm told the hostler when he was ready to leave for the railroad depot. “You take care of it like I would, and there’ll be a bonus in it for you when I get back. Otherwise

” He let the rest of it hang unspoken in the air. The hostler nodded solemnly and assured him the chestnut could sleep in his own bunk if the horse damn well felt like it.

“Good.” Longarm left his saddle and bridle at the livery and carried the rest of his gear out into the street.

There was not a hell of a lot to see in Meade Park. It was a small town, a former mining camp gone once already to ruin, and now hanging on as the southern terminus of the narrow-gauge railroad that fed into Thunderbird Canyon. Even though the nearby mines Longarm could see were tumbledown and apparently abandoned, there was a stamp mill and refinery raising noise and smoke at the side of a brisk-running creek. Longarm guessed that silver ore from Thunderbird Canyon was hauled here for processing at the facilities already established when Meade Park was actively mining. That would be the reason for the railroad, he gathered.

Normal procedure would be for him to check in with the local law before going on to Thunderbird Canyon.

But he decided against that. The White Hood Gang was known for its swift and cleverly-planned strikes and ghostlike getaways. They were probably the most successful outfit operating in the past half dozen years, and he wanted to take them.

Damn, but he wanted to take them down.

Whoever they were, they were awfully good.

Far from the busiest robbery gang, they were without doubt the best. If anything failed to match up with their expectations they turned quietly away and disappeared. They had learned that much from Waldo Stone, who also tipped them to this job.

Stone’s capture by Smiley several months back had been pure luck. Smiley had been fortunate enough to be in the vicinity when the White Hoods took more than $35,000 out of a bank in southern Utah. The only reason Stone had gotten inside Smiley’s manacles was because the fleeing robber’s horse took a spill, and Smiley was able to reach him before the rest of his crowd could come back to rescue him. Stone was bitter now because the outfit had not shot it out with Smiley. But one hell of a big posse was behind Smiley and riding hard at the time.

Now, by damn, Longarm had a chance at the rest of the crowd. He was not going to risk it by tipping the local law in Meade Park to the possibility of an ambush when the job came down.

No, sir, he was not.

The damned White Hoods were reputed to have their ears pressed to every wall. Their information was always good, their planning impeccable, and their execution faultless.

One whisper of warning reaching the wrong ear, and the bunch would disappear into the mountains without Longarm ever knowing who they were or where they had been.