Longarm on the Thunderbird Run

It was a damned interesting thought, Longarm reflected.

But it might be something of a challenge trying to get hard information out of a man like this. Certainly bullying would just make the poor devil sull up like a cranky old steer. Bullying was something Donald James Potter would have had all too often in the past. Likely he would deal with it by simple withdrawal into himself. Perhaps, though, they could have a friendly chat over breakfast.

“Do you need anything, Donald?”

Potter shook his head. His hair was too-long uncut, and greasy from being long unwashed as well. If he had been wearing a hat he must have lost it. He concentrated happily on the pretty stone in his palm

Longarm shrugged and went to sit at the desk that once had belonged to Paul Markham while he waited for the breakfasts to be delivered.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

No man can exist as an invisible entity. Someone had to know something about Donald James Potter. How long he had been in Thunderbird Canyon. What he did here. Who he associated with. Someone had to have seen him, had to have had contact with him. Longarm had to find whoever that might be because unfortunately, poor Potter himself was incapable of giving that information.

Longarm did not believe Potter was lying to him or trying to hide anything. It was just that the poor soul had not the mental capacity to remember what he had for his last meal, much less any information that would help lead Longarm to the man or men who had put Potter up to the bombing of the bank, where men of the community had died during the night. Exactly how many men was still in doubt, as no one was yet sure if all the bodies had been recovered, and searchers were still hauling wreckage away from the ruins of the building.

It was something of a wonder, really, that Potter was able to recall anything about the affair, but the explosion had made some impression on the fuzz and fog that was his feeble brain.

He freely told Longarm what little he knew. There had been a loud, loud noise and a marvelous burst of flame. He’d found the bright flame in the night very pretty, apparently. Almost as pretty as his pebble. That was probably the reason he was able to recall something about having been there and seen it all. Potter dimly remembered something about a smaller flame too. He may have been the one to light the fuse that set off the explosion. He was not really sure about that, though.

Longarm shuddered when he thought about the dim, dark shadows that were Donald James Potter’s thought processes. But there was nothing he could do to help the man nor, it seemed, to get much more in the way of information out of him.

He left Potter safely, and quite contentedly now, locked inside the jail cell and went out to see if anyone else in town could add to the little he knew about the White Hood prisoner.

The saloons and whorehouses would be his best bet for information, he suspected. Potter was earthy and direct in his appetites. If he had been in town any length of time at all he surely would have shown up in public somewhere.

“A halfwit named Potter, you say?” The barman shook his head. “No, I don’t remember nobody like that lately. But say, Marshal, surely you ain’t serious about stopping the train from running. I mean, I’m down to my next to last barrel of beer, Marshal, and I just can’t

”

Longarm ignored the complaint and turned away. This was the third saloon he had visited, and so far the proprietors and employees of the town’s drinking establishments seemed much more concerned about their own affairs than they were about being helpful, damn them.

He went back outside and tried the next place.

“Donald James Potter? Sure I know him. Good worker too, let me tell you, Marshal.”

“You know him?”

“Jeez, I just said that, didn’t I? He swamped for me here off an‘ on for, oh, three, four weeks it’s been now. Showed up here one night all wore out and hungry

I think he walked in on the tracks ’cause he couldn’t afford the price of a ticket

and I gave him a job. Sort of, anyhow. I mean, he didn’t want much. But he’d come in here late ‘most every night, and I’d feed him a dinner of whatever was handy, and after I’d close he’d sweep up an’ empty the cuspidors an‘ like that, and I’d give him some nickels outa the till. Hard worker, Donald is. Had to be showed what was wanted every time, but once he got it straight what he was to do he’d stay at it until I told him to quit. Surely he ain’t in any trouble, Marshal.”

“Considerable trouble, I’m afraid,” Longarm said.

The bartender frowned. “That’s a shame now. I’m sorry t‘ hear it.”

“Yeah. You say he’s been here three or four weeks?”

“Something like that, but I wouldn’t swear to it.”

“You’ve been a big help.”

“Yeah?” The bartender smiled. “Gee, Marshal, I’m glad.”

“But I’m afraid you’ll have to find a new swamper from now on.”

“Or go back to doing it my own self, damnit. That’s the way it usually works with the mines paying good wages to anybody with a strong back, damnit.”

Longarm bought a half-dollar’s worth of cheroots from the barman and was about to order a beer when Blaisdell came puffing through the door.

“Finally,” the young security guard said. “I been looking for you, Marshal.”

“What is it this time, Tim? Find another White Hood suspect?”

“No, sir, but we found Miss Jessie’s body.”

“Body?”

“Yes, sir.” Blaisdell bent over and gulped for air.

“If she’s dead, Tim, I expect she’ll wait while you get your breath back. You want a beer or something?”

“No, sir. I don’t drink.”

The bartender winked at Longarm and uncorked a quart bottle of root beer. “Two?”

“One,” Longarm told him.

The barman poured one root beer and one rootless variety for Longarm. Blaisdell gulped down his soft drink while Longarm sipped at his beer.

“Now tell me,” Longarm said when Blaisdell had his wind back.

“That woman you was looking for, Marshal. One of the boys working in the sorting shack at the Arrabie found her. She was beat to death an‘ thrown on the tailings dump. The guy doing the sorting at the Arrabie seen her when he went to throw out some chunks of no-pay that were too big to go through the crusher. He tossed this one rock out the window, like, and seen it thump inta this woman laying right there on the slope. Shook him up bad, it did.”

“She was already dead, though?”

“Yes, sir. We’re sure about that ‘cause she was cold as a trout when he ran down to see if he’d hurt her. I guess she’d been dead most o’ the night for her to be so cooled off already.”

“Has the body been moved?” Longarm asked.

“Yes, sir. Some of the boys from the Arrabie are bringing her down now. I come ahead to see if I could find you.”

“Then I guess we’d better go take a look.” Longarm drained off the last of his beer and paid for both drinks. “I might be back to ask some more about Potter,” he told the barman.

“I’ll be here, Marshal. If I happen to be sleepin‘ it’s just upstairs, and somebody can fetch me down for you.”

“All right, thanks.”

Jessie’s body was already being carried into the sawdust-packed icehouse when Longarm and Blaisdell got there. She was definitely not pretty to look at now. Blaisdell had said she was beaten to death, but Longarm was not prepared for the extent of damage that had been done to the once attractive woman. Her face was not recognizable as the woman Longarm had known, and only her hair and jewelry identified her.

She was no longer wearing the gown Longarm had last seen her in either. The fancy but fragile garment had been exchanged for a sturdy but plain riding habit, and she had on a pair of tall, tightly laced logger’s boots that looked to be several sizes too big for her.

“Was anything found with the body?” Longarm asked.