Longarm on the Thunderbird Run

“That would give us three chances at being there ahead of the robbers and being able to stop them.”

“Three outside chances,” Henry said, openly admitting what Billy Vail had been reluctant to state so bluntly. “Why, hell, boss, one of those long shots might pay off.”

“I won’t order you to go, Henry. You know that.”

“If I remember correctly, boss, I went and volunteered.”

The job applicant seated in front of Billy Vail’s desk looked sourly from one man to the other. Billy Vail noticed the sudden change of expression and realized that before sundown the man would be making the rounds of Denver’s saloons, bitching and moaning about what an unfair son of a bitch Billy Vail was. Probably a stupid, unfair son of a bitch after enough liquor passed the man’s lips. No matter. Vail could live with an awful lot of that sort of thing. What he could not comfortably live with was the idea that a gang could hold up a mail car and him not be able to do anything about it even with advance knowledge of the gang’s plan.

“Look here, Henry. Get those wires off right away. Warning messages to Markham and Long plus duplicates of this message from this Johnston fellow down at Fort Smith. And I suggest you carry along the Waldo Stone file. It could come in handy if you and Longarm both get to Thunderbird Canyon ahead of the gang. I

can’t think of anything else. You just have time enough to pack and get out to the depot for the Julesburg run as it is. If I think of anything else, I’ll wire ahead and catch you at Cheyenne. You can check the telegraph office there. The U.P. always has a fairly lengthy stop there.”

“All right. Wish me luck, boss.”

“I do, Henry. I damn sure do.” But he was saying it to Henry’s back as the slender clerk bolted for the door.

Billy Vail waited for a moment, then with another sigh turned back to the glowering interviewee. Both men knew by now, of course, that they were only going through the motions, but Vail would do what courtesy required. Even though his thoughts were many miles away in an isolated canyon deep in the mountains of Idaho.

Chapter Three

Longarm stood at the parlor window, his teacup forgotten on the low table nearby, and watched the Fahnwell crew ride in.

He had no trouble picking out the boss. Fahnwell was tall and well-muscled—no running to fat in this one— with a touch of steel gray in his hair and mustache. He had no foreman, Eugenie had said. Longarm could see why. This man needed no one else to boss his hands, and probably would not have accepted a foreman’s advice or assistance if there had been such a position among the crew.

Morey Fahnwell was a rarity in“ this country, a genuine old-timer. According to what his wife had said during the afternoon of tea and mild flirtation, Fahnwell had come to the country before there was an Idaho or a Utah or a Wyoming—back when men came here not to raise cows but to trap beaver.

Of course, he had been past the prime days of the beaver trade. The European market for the furs had already fallen to pieces, and the old-time mountain men were drifting away to look for more profitable work.

That had not stopped Fahnwell from trying to live out a dream, however, and when he failed as a trapper—as he had to—he made the most of his limited experience in the mountains. He began by guiding parties of emigrants moving west to Oregon and California and Washington, taking his pay in cash when the clients had it, in sure-footed livestock when they did not.

Over a period of years he accumulated a hell of a sizeable herd of cattle, and horses too. He grazed them everywhere there was grass within a week’s riding distance, treated and traded with the Bannocks when that was possible, and fought with them when it was necessary.

His riding crew, Longarm saw, still reflected that readiness to reach for their rifles. The men were hard, Not gunslicks, certainly, but tough and damned well competent. Longarm could see it in the way the men carried themselves. There was an easy assurance about them. Whatever came their way, they had seen it already and had handled it before. Fahnwell had that same air about him. The man had seen the elephant. If the critter ever scared him in the past, he had long since gotten over his fears. Now he—and his men—knew they could cope with whatever came to them.

Longarm smiled to himself. From everything he saw and everything he had heard, he suspected he was going to like Morey Fahnwell. Pity each of them might have to bare his teeth and growl at the other.

“Is that Morey?” Eugenie asked from behind him. She had gone to the kitchen to see to dinner. No hired cooks on this spread. Everyone pulled his or her own weight—the owner’s forty-years-younger bride included.

“Yes.” Longarm turned and smiled at her. “Handsome man, your husband.”

“Handsome is as handsome does, Mr. Long.” She returned the smile brightly. “Morey is indeed a handsome man.”

“And a fortunate one,” he complimented.

She laughed—as sure of herself as her husband was of himself—and bent to pick up the tea tray. “Morey will be in as soon as he washes up, Mr. Long. Will you join him in a whiskey? He can’t abide tea, you know. Which is part of the reason it’s been such a pleasure for me to have your company this afternoon.”

“A whiskey would be nice, ma’am. Rye if you have it.”

“Of course. Rye is Morey’s favorite too. He claims bourbon is for

well, never mind what he says bourbon is for. I couldn’t possibly repeat it.”

Longarm laughed.

Eugenie Fahnwell poured two generous glasses of rye whiskey from a bottle of venerable age and outstanding experience, Longarm noted from the label. She set the first on a coaster beside a heavy, leather-covered armchair and ottoman that were probably even older than the whiskey and handed the other to Longarm.

The drinks were served just in time for Morey Fahnwell’s arrival from the back of the house. The man bent to kiss his pretty wife and give her a playful squeeze—which Longarm pretended not to notice—then turned to their guest with a smile and an extended hand. “How d’you do, sir. I saw the horse outside. Livery mount from Snake Creek if I’m not mistaken, which makes you a stranger to the country. And that, of course, means that you’ve no table of your own handy. I hope Eugenie has invited you to dinner, sir.”

Longarm grinned and shook the man’s hand. “You do get right down to things, I see.” He paused. “If the invitation stands later on, sir, I would be proud to have supper with you and the lady. Although with apologies. I didn’t know it was your birthday, and of course if you would rather be alone

”

Fahnwell threw his head back and laughed. “The private celebratin‘ will come later.” He winked at Longarm and put an arm affectionately over Eugenie’s shoulders.

“My name is Long, Mr. Fahnwell. Custis Long of Denver.”

“Of Denver, eh? It’s a long way to come on business unstated, sir.”

Damnit, Longarm did like this man—and Eugenie, too. Still, he was not much given to lying, and nothing would be gained by pretending to be something other than what he was.

“I’m a deputy United States marshal, Mr. Fahnwell, and I’ve been asked to sit down with you and discuss recent oversights.”

Longarm expected anger. Perhaps even rage from this proud and capable old man. Instead he got laughter.

Once again Morey Fahnwell threw his head back and roared with laughter. He laughed hard, then settled himself into his favorite armchair and raised his glass of rye in a silent salute to his guest. He drank off half the generous measure with pleasure, then smiled at Longarm. “Oversights,” he said, mouthing the word as carefully as he had tasted the whiskey. “An interestingly delicate phrasing, Mr. Long. For Eugenie’s benefit, sir?”

“Uh

yes, as a matter of fact.”

Fahnwell chuckled and asked his wife to see to their supper. “Set the table for three please, Eugenie. We’ll be in shortly.”