Longarm on the Thunderbird Run

Jessie came willingly enough with him. She had recovered her composure and now was almost optimistic about it all.

“You’ll be sure to tell the judge how helpful I’ve been?” she had asked over and over again. It seemed that she was finally willing to believe that he would, and that therefore her troubles with the law would only be minor, temporary discomfortures and nothing involving years without makeup or champagne.

“Ever been up here before?” he asked when they reached the top landing.

Jessie gave him a dirty look.

“Of course you haven’t. How silly of me to ask,” Longarm said.

He pushed open the door to the sheriff’s office and took Jessie by the elbow to escort her inside. She was, of course, still handcuffed.

There was no sign of the chief deputy or of Charlie Frye. Those worthy gentlemen should either be guarding the bank vault or sleeping, getting ready to guard the vault when the other went off duty.

The office was occupied, though, by Sheriff Paul Markham and two handsomely-dressed older gentlemen. Markham had a bottle and glasses set out on his desk and was holding forth with a look of importance when Longarm and Jessie walked in on the trio.

“Ah, gentlemen, here is the deputy marshal who conveyed the tip to me.” If he noticed Jessie—and how the hell could he not—he made no mention of her. “Deputy Long, isn’t it?” He blinked owlishly and took a drink. The bottle on the desk this evening had a much finer label than the one Markham had shared the night before, Longarm noted.

With an airy, self-important wave, Markham introduced his guests as major stockholders in the two larger mines in Thunderbird Canyon.

“Yes,” one of them said, “we were just telling Paul how appreciative we are of him and his deputies running off the White Hood Gang like that. Outstanding work, of course. Quite outstanding.”

“It was?” Longarm asked.

“Oh my, yes. Saved our payrolls, didn’t he? Of course he did. Outstanding work, that.” The gentleman—Longarm had not quite caught the slurred name when Markham gave it—was well along toward being in his cups.

Longarm had to smile. Simply had to. And to give appropriate credit to Sheriff Paul Markham. Indeed, defeat had been transformed into a victory of the most sterling quality. Now it wasn’t so much that the whole bunch of them had stood around on the railroad platform with their thumbs up their butts waiting for something that never happened. Now it was that the skill and determination of Sheriff Paul S. Markham so frightened the White Hood Gang that the gang members fled trembling into the distance, while the lives and property of the Thunderbird Canyon mines were secured for all time.

Or something like that.

It was all pure bullshit politics, of course, but hell, Longarm could admire that too when it was so beautifully done. Definitely a case of credit where credit was due. Why, with something like this behind him and the full support and approval of the men who paid out those salvaged payrolls, good old Paul could probably count on reelection for years to come. Or until the ore veins pinched out, whichever came first.

Longarm smiled and touched the brim of his Stetson to Markham in honest admiration of the man’s peculiar abilities.

“Was there something you wanted to see me about, Deputy?” Markham asked importantly, still ignoring Jessie.

“Yes, I need to use two of your cells for some federal prisoners, Sheriff.”

“Really? Found some of those White Hoods, did you? Good work, Long. I shall forward a recommendation to your chief. Good work, man.” Markham had another drink and leaned forward to tilt the bottle over the mine owner’s glasses as well.

Longarm coughed into his fist. “Actually, Sheriff, these prisoners concern another case. You know how that is. You start out looking for one thing and find another.” He shrugged as if in apology.

“Of course, man. How well I understand. Still, good work regardless. Just bring your men in, and I shall be glad to allow you the use of my cells.”

He managed to act like he was in charge of a large prison the way he said it, though in fact there were only three small cells built across the back wall of the office space the sheriff had been given.

“Matter of fact,” Longarm drawled, “this is one of my prisoners here.” He pointed, and this time Markham was forced to concede that there was a madam in his office.

“Really now, Long. Surely you are mistaken here.” He shot a nervous glance toward his two distinguished guests, and Longarm suspected that Markham was struggling with the question of whether he wanted to raise a jurisdictional dispute—one that he did not yet know the ground rules to—in front of those politically powerful gentlemen.

As Longarm had expected, Markham settled for prudence and did not raise the point that whoring was not a federal crime.

“Whatever,” he said smoothly. “No skin off my back, eh?” He tossed the cell keys to Longarm and gave his visitors a smile.

Longarm led Jessie into the cell on the left end of the short row, removed the handcuffs, and helped her to a seat on the bare cot. “I’ll see if we can’t rustle up some comforts later,” he told her.

She nodded, looking unhappy again now that she was actually looking at the world through steel bars. She had been cheerful enough for a while, but now all that belief that things would once again be rosy deserted her and she looked pale and drawn.

“It won’t be so bad,” he said, not really sure if that was the truth or not. “Not bad” for a spectator might be pure hell for the recipient of a prison sentence. It all depended on the viewpoint of the man or woman who happened to be in the jug.

On the other hand, Jessie had come up through the ranks of whoredom to become a madam. Whatever happened to her after Longarm turned her over to the matrons in Denver, she had probably already had worse.

He returned his handcuff key to his pocket and left Jessie in the cell, closing and carefully locking the door on her. She did not look up, and seemed to be in a state of mild shock now that the bars were actually surrounding her.

“Pity,” one of the mine owners said when Longarm rejoined them. “Hate to see a woman in irons. What’d she do?”

“The charge is slavery,” Longarm told him.

“Really? I thought that was all over with. Besides, I haven’t seen a nigra here since last summer.”

“Wasn’t blacks she bought,” Longarm told him. “Mexicans. Girls, as a matter of fact.”

“Really? Not so many of them around town neither. Humph!”

“No, I don’t expect you’d have seen any of them unless you visited a certain house in town.”

“What? Oh. Not I, sir. Not I. Never visited one of those places, sir, nor wallowed in a sty with the hogs. Same difference, sir. Same difference exactly.” He harrumphed loudly again and had a drink of Markham’s whiskey.

Longarm noticed that neither Markham nor the other gentleman made declarations about how far above such dealings they were. And neither pretended never to have seen Jessie before. Neither admitted to it, of course, they simply remained silent on the question.

“We’ll be moving on to our dinner shortly, Long,” Markham said like a man who wanted a subject changed. “Don’t be long about fetching in the other felon, will you? Office might be closed if you tarry.”

“Oh, there won’t be any delay at all, Sheriff,” Longarm said politely.

He was still holding the handcuffs he had removed from Jessie. When Markham reached for his glass, Longarm flipped one of the bracelets over the sheriff’s wrist.

“Here now, what’s this! I’m in no mood for playfulness. Long.”

Longarm smiled and, hauling Markham’s hands behind his back, snapped the other cuff in place.

“Have you lost your senses, man?”

Longarm reached inside his coat and produced a thin sheaf of documents that had been folded to fit a pocket. “Evidence,” he said. “Deed to certain property. Employment agreement. Even, Sheriff, a certain record of payment to a Chief Josephino Nana’a for three captive females. Damned stupid of you to keep such accurate accounts, Sheriff. But I do appreciate it.” To the startled mine owners Longarm added, “It seems the good sheriff here has been feathering his nest with human flesh, gentlemen. The Apaches would steal Mexican women, and the sheriff would buy them. But not to give them their freedom. He bought ‘em and rented them out to any bastard with some loot in his pockets.”