Longarm on the Thunderbird Run

“Try them again,” he said.

“Marshal,” the exasperated telegrapher groaned, “I just tried them ten minutes ago.”

“I know you did. Now try them again.”

“Yes, sir.” The telegrapher rolled his eyes in a gesture of sorely tried patience. But he did as the bespectacled deputy demanded and once again bent to his key.

The man tapped out the transmission code, waited and tried again.

There was no response.

The line remained dead.

“I’m sorry, Marshal. Nothing.”

“Damnit,” Henry snapped.

He went back out onto the platform where the Meade Park town marshal and two deputies were waiting on a bench, obviously not nearly so concerned as Henry was.

“The downrun is half an hour overdue,” Henry said.

“Thirty-four minutes,” the town marshal agreed calmly.

“Something has happened up there, damnit, and I am afraid I know what it is. The White Hoods hit the train yesterday afternoon, and they’ve gotten away somehow.”

“I keep trying to tell you, Marshal,” the local lawman said patiently, “no matter what’s happened up there, there’s no way out except past us.”

“But why is that wire dead? And why hasn’t the train come down this morning? Can you tell me that?”

“Nope.” The local took out a plug of tobacco and gnawed a corner off the disgusting looking thing. “Whatever the reason, though, there’s nobody coming out without he goes past us. An‘ whenever that train does come down, we’ll be right here waitin’.”

“We could send a handcar up the tracks,” Henry said for probably the tenth time.

And for probably the tenth time the local marshal explained with weary patience. “That jus’ wouldn’t be a good idear, Marshal. If the Thunderbird Run is comin‘ down when we’re tryin’ to go up, why, there’s places where there ain’t even anywhere to jump to. A man’d get squashed like a bug if he got caught on those tracks in a damn handcar. No sir, the best thing for us t‘ do is set right here an’ wait. Something or somebody’ll come down outa that canyon sooner or later. I figure t‘ be right here when they do.”

“You have to at least send someone to guard the tracks where the narrows widen out and—”

“I already done that, Marshal. I told you that already.”

“Oh. Yes, I suppose you did.” Henry ran a hand over his face, removed his spectacles and wiped them clean, though they were not dirty, and began to pace back and forth along the platform again.

It was just so damnably frustrating having to wait like this and not know anything.

If only Longarm would show up, Henry would feel better. But apparently the messages sent to Snake Creek had missed him. Now there was no telling where he might be or how long it would take before he bothered reporting in and learned that he was needed here.

Damnit all anyhow, Henry thought unhappily.

He took out his watch and checked the time again. Three and a half minutes since the last time he had looked. He glared up the empty tracks toward Thunderbird Canyon and felt the bile churn inside his stomach.

What could possibly be happening up there?

He turned and strode once again toward the telegraph office. If he couldn’t reach Thunderbird Canyon at least he could still communicate with Denver. Maybe Marshal Vail would have some thoughts about what he should do now. Henry was not honestly very hopeful about that, but the effort itself would give him a sense of purpose now, however temporary.

He did not believe he had ever felt so nervous before.

Chapter Thirty-One

Longarm woke and stretched. Three whole hours of sleep he had gotten. It felt like a considerable luxury, by damn. He was almost human again. Almost. He still had some catching up to do, but there would be time for that later. Right now the afternoon sun was partially obscured by the mountain peaks to the west, and it was time to see that his prisoner had supper.

He dressed quickly and went downstairs to order two dinners sent over to the jail, then snugged his Stetson into place and stepped outside.

The sun had disappeared now, but there would still be several hours of daylight remaining before the cool evening. The air felt good. Up the slopes to either side of the town the mines were in full operation despite the troubles of Thunderbird Canyon. The crushers thumped noisily inside the close confinement of the narrow canyon, the sound a low, dull, heavy thing that penetrated bone-deep and was felt more than heard.

The mining operations were modern and efficient, powered by steam and gravity, and capable of extracting and processing great quantities of raw silver ore daily. Already there was a stockpile of crushed material at the railroad hoppers. If the train continued to sit idle for very long the ore would be piled too deep, and the mines would likely have to suspend production until Longarm gave permission for the train to move again.

That, of course, was tough, but not something Longarm was going to worry about. He had the White Hoods in a bottle now, and that immobile train was the cork that was keeping them confined.

In another few days—hell, four, five days, it didn’t matter—Smiley and Dutch and the rest of the boys would be in Meade Park. As soon as Longarm got the signal that they were in position he would order a handcar for them, and the roundup could begin. In the meantime, if he was able to get a line on the gang himself, why, that would be all right too.

He was feeling pretty good as he stuck a cheroot between his teeth and ambled down the steep streets toward the courthouse.

He climbed the stairs to the top floor of the building and hung his hat on the rack by the door. Donald James Potter was dozing on his cot. He woke when Longarm came in and sat up blinking. He smiled happily at the tall deputy who had put him behind bars, obviously holding no grudge about it. Longarm suspected that the poor halfwit honestly did not realize the trouble he was in.

“Hullo,” Potter said sleepily.

“Hello, Donald. Hungry?”

Potter spent several moments thinking about the question and forming an answer to it. Finally he nodded. “Hungry,” he affirmed.

“Our supper will be here in a few minutes,” Longarm said. “If you promise you won’t try to run, Donald, you can come out here to eat.”

Potter looked puzzled. “Run? For my supper?”

“Never mind.” The man had no idea what he was talking about.

Longarm got the cell keys from the desk and unlocked the barred door so Potter could join him at the desk. Longarm tossed the keys back into the drawer and noticed again the few items that had been taken from Potter’s pockets when he was captured. On an impulse Longarm pulled them out and placed them atop the desk. “Do you remember these, Donald?”

Potter looked at them carefully, then smiled. “My knife. An‘ my money.”

“Who paid you the money, Donald?”

Potter shrugged. “A man.”

“Do you remember his name, Donald?”

Another shrug.

“What about the hood, Donald?”

“Hood?”

“Sure. This.” He pushed the flour-sack hood toward Potter.

“Tha’s just a bit o‘ cloth, y’ know. Hoods are black, Hangmens wear hoods.” He shuddered. “I seen a hanging once. I ‘member that good.” He shuddered again.

Potter frowned for a moment, then his expression cleared as he put the memory of the hanging aside—something that seemed to come easy enough to him—and idly reached forward for the gleaming gold of the five double eagles.

His childlike mind seemed to be attracted to bright, pretty colors, and for several minutes he peered closely at the gold, fondled the coins, played with them. Longarm doubted that they held much value for him beyond their color and shininess, but he liked them well enough.

Footsteps sounded on the stairs beyond the jail door, and Longarm said, “Put those down now, Donald. I think our supper is here.”

Potter smiled and did as he was told. He placed the coins into his palm one by one with slow, deliberate care to form a tiny valuable stack of minted gold. Then he picked up the white hood from the desk, and with infinite attention to what he was doing wrapped the coins inside the cloth and stuffed the small bundle into his pocket.