Longarm on the Thunderbird Run

Longarm on the Thunderbird Run

Tabor Evans

Copyright Š 1988 by Jove Publications, Inc.

Chapter One

Longarm knocked on the door, the rap polite but firm, and took a step to the side. He really did not expect any trouble here, not this visit anyway, but a man never knew when some idiot with more brass than good sense might take a notion to slam a door into a man’s face and come out with unpleasant intent. There was no point in taking chances, so he stepped aside to where a suddenly swinging door would pivot harmlessly away from him.

“Just a minute,” a voice called from inside the sprawling, handsome house. It was a woman’s voice.

Longarm removed his Stetson and stood, hat in hand, patiently waiting. He looked around the spread. Hell of a nice place, really. The outbuildings were as handsome as the house, everything large and nicely planned and kept in a state of fine repair. Well, they’d said at Snake Creek that Morey Fahnwell was the honcho of this country and damn near everything that adjoined it. God-awful rich was the way they’d actually put it. Longarm could believe it from looking at the Fahnwell headquarters.

On the other hand, Longarm had met many a wealthy old-timer who was content to live in a hole in the ground and walk around dressed like he couldn’t afford a pot to spit in nor chew to work up the spit if someone would loan him the cuspidor. Fahnwell sure wasn’t in that category.

“I’m coming,” the harried-sounding female called again. “Really. Be right with you.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Longarm called back.

He looked around again, admiring the sound breeding he could see in the saddle horses being held in one of the many tightly built corrals and pens that surrounded the headquarters. The beeve he had seen on the ride in were every bit as fine-blooded as the Fahnwell horses. It was an impressive outfit.

But then it had every right to be, when you considered that all the grazing that put meat on the bones of those excellent horses and stocky, wide-bodied steers was coming to Fahnwell for nothing.

That was what brought Deputy United States Marshal Custis Long to the gentleman’s door. The man had been grazing his beeve all to hell and gone across chunks of Wyoming, Utah, and Idaho—from Bear Lake to Green River and who knew how far from north to south—and he hadn’t ever given in to the notion that the government was entitled to collect any grazing fees on all that government land.

Longarm’s orders were to give Morey Fahnwell a not particularly subtle reminder about the oversight.

He heard a rapid-fire tock-a-tock approach of footsteps from the other side of the door, and the thing was pulled open by a breathless, harried-looking young woman. Her hair was coming down in rather fetching wisps from what was supposed to be a demure bun, and her cheeks were flushed. Perspiration showed on her forehead.

Those things probably should have been regarded as faults, but damned if Longarm could fault the pretty thing any other way.

My oh my, but she was something to look at.

Not a day over twenty, he would have wagered. Fresh and young and lovely. Slim as a reed except for a most appealing swell of breast and hip. Just about right for an armful. Light brown hair. Large, clear brown eyes. Mmmm.

Longarm smiled and stood tall. He had good enough reason to believe that he was not considered homely by very many available women. He was something over six feet tall, with a horseman’s lean build and good shoulders. He had brown hair and a sweep of mustache against a face deeply tanned by years in the open. His eyes were brown, a touch darker than this girl’s, and he affected clothing a cut above that worn by the cowboys this girl would mostly see.

“I’m sorry to take so long,” she said, trying to control her breathing. Longarm did not mind her present condition, actually. The heaving for breath caused her chest to rise and fall and seemed to emphasize her considerable attributes.

“I have a pie in the oven, you see. It’s a special pie. A birthday treat. And I am such a terrible cook at the best of times. And it was starting to burn. And then you knocked. And

”

He grinned at her. “Calm down. It’s all right, miss. Did you get to that pie in time? I wouldn’t want to ruin a birthday present.”

“What? Oh, yes. It’s on the rack now. I think it’s all right.” She fluttered her hands nervously, then took a deep breath and held it for a moment before puffing out her cheeks and exhaling slowly. When she had done that she seemed to feel better. She smiled at him.

My oh my, but she was a pretty one.

“Shall we start over?” she said graciously.

Longarm laughed. He made a shallow bow in her direction. “My name is Long, miss. And this, I take it, is the Fahnwell place?”

“That’s right. I am Eugenie Fahnwell.” She opened the door wider and stepped aside so he could come in.

“Then I’d guess it’s your father I need to see, Miss Fahnwell.”

Eugenie laughed gaily.

“Did I say something untoward, miss?”

“No,” she said, still laughing. “You certainly aren’t from around here, though, are you?”

“I’m from Denver,” he admitted.

Smiling, Eugenie Fahnwell explained. “My father, Mr. Long, is in San Francisco to the best of my knowledge. He is in business there. My husband will return with the rest of the men around sundown.”

She seemed to thoroughly enjoy the look on Longarm’s face.

“I shouldn’t do that to perfectly innocent strangers. I do know better, Mr. Long. Truly I do. But sometimes I simply can’t resist. And you really should have seen the utterly horrified expression you got. It was priceless. My apologies for enjoying your discomfort, sir.” She giggled a bit, sounding not at all apologetic.

Longarm smiled at her. “I had heard that your husband was an elderly gentleman,” he confessed.

“Oh, I shouldn’t say elderly, Mr. Long. He is only sixty-four. And in an excellent state of health.” She said that with a certain hint of relish that was enough to make Longarm feel damned well jealous of any sixty-four-year-old man—hell, face it, of anyone, any age—who could woo, win, and so obviously satisfy a filly like this one.

“I didn’t mean

”

Mrs. Eugenie Fahnwell laughed again. “Of course you didn’t. Forgive me for being such a tease.”

Longarm was feeling damn well flustered. This self-possessed young woman was more than just an armful. There was a hell of a lot of female person hiding behind those pretty eyes and that dimpled smile.

“Come along, Mr. Long. You can help me decide if that pie looks nice enough for the table, and we can have a cup of tea while we wait for Morey.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Longarm said meekly. He trailed behind Mrs. Fahnwell while she strode briskly toward the back of the house, not at all breathless any longer and very much in control of the situation.

Chapter Two

United States Marshal William Vail stopped in midsentence and looked toward his office door as his clerk barged in without pausing to knock first.

Vail was busy, interviewing a job applicant, and Henry knew it. Even if no one had been in with the marshal, though, it was most unlike Henry to enter without permission.

“Yes, Henry?”

The clerk, whose meek appearance belied his courage, pushed his spectacles higher on the bridge of his nose in a nervous gesture, coughed politely into his fist, and then approached Vail’s desk with a hurried apology. “I’m sorry to bust in on you like this, boss, but I thought you’d want to see this right away.” He held out a flimsy sheet of yellow paper for Vail to take. “A messenger just now brought it.”

The marshal for the Justice Department, Denver District, took the telegraph message form and shot a glance toward the visitor who wanted to become one of his deputies. “If you would excuse me for a moment?”

“Sure.” The man made a show of peering at his fingernails, at a framed certificate on the office wall, and at almost everything else except Billy Vail and Henry.