Longarm on the Thunderbird Run

Careful as the bastards were about their identities, he could sit next to one of them at a lunch counter and never know it.

So he was taking no chances this time.

At the rail depot he did not even use his pass to secure a seat on the northbound into the canyon. He pulled out cash and forked over the price of a ticket like any other passenger with business at the silver camp.

He bought his ticket with half an hour to spare and used the time to buy himself a box lunch to carry on the train, a pair of doughnuts that he wolfed down on the spot to take the edge off his hunger, and a cup of coffee strong enough to damn near wake him up.

Lordy, but he couldn’t remember ever being so tired before. Worth it, though. If he could get a crack at the White Hoods, it would all be worth it.

He carried his box lunch and gear to a bench on the platform and slumped down onto it.

The train was already made up and building steam. The outfit—engine, wood car, one passenger coach, and a string of open-topped ore trucks—was the puniest damn thing Longarm had ever seen on actual rails. The locomotive didn’t look much bigger than a toy engine.

That made sense, of course. There was no connecting line within fifty, sixty miles. The whole shebang, engine and all, would have to have been brought in piecemeal on mule packs or freight wagons and assembled here on the spot. And right now Longarm did not give a particular damn what the train looked like—just that the thing would get him up to Thunderbird Canyon ahead of the White Hoods.

Meantime all he wanted was to sleep. He let his eyes sag closed, and he drowsed while he waited for the conductor to call for boarding.

Chapter Eight

The Thunderbird Run, which is what they called the single train that operated on the narrow-gauge line into Thunderbird Canyon, was set up oddly.

There was the toy-box engine at the front, of course, followed by a tender stuffed with locally available wood rather than coal, then a crew car that looked like a miniature version of a caboose. Next came the string of open-topped ore cars, built with hopper sides so the silver ore could be readily unloaded at the Meade Park mill and refinery. Finally, like an afterthought, there was the lone passenger car tucked away at the tail end of the procession.

No diner or sleeper would be needed on the short run of the Thunderbird, naturally, but there was no smoker either. A platform on the back of the narrow passenger coach served that purpose when necessary, although the litter of pipe dottle and cigar butts on the coach floor showed that the one car was normally a smoker until or unless there were ladies present on the journey.

This trip, to Longarm’s considerable disgust, there was a young woman in one of the seats, surrounded by three youngsters with bright eyes, slobbery grins, and loud mouths. With their yammering so close by Longarm could not sleep, and with the woman there he could not smoke. He was glad the trip was only supposed to take a couple hours.

He frowned and settled for going out onto the iron-rail-enclosed platform. In inclement weather the trip would be a torture with that family aboard.

“Howdy.” He nodded to the other occupant of the platform, who had preceded him out of the noise of the coach.

“Hello.” The man smiled and pushed a hand forward. “Jonas Russable,” the man said. “I’m in mining supplies. With Hancock and Morrison, Cincinnati. You?”

“Custis Long,” Longarm introduced himself. He did not particularly want to lie to the open-faced and friendly drummer, so he neglected to state any occupation to the man.

Of course, Longarm realized, as far as he knew this smiling Russable fellow might actually be the leader of the White Hoods. Still, that seemed unlikely.

“Smoke?” Russable offered him a cheap rum crook. Longarm would rather have smoked a used handkerchief.

“No, thanks. I have my own.” Longarm nipped off the tip of one of his cheroots and accepted a light off Russable’s already half-smoked crook. “Thanks.”

“I haven’t seen you in Thunderbird Canyon before, Mr. Long,” Russable said, obviously hinting for further information.

“First trip,” Longarm admitted.

“You, uh, are in mining supplies too, I take it?”

“What? Oh.” Longarm smiled. The fellow was worried about competition, he guessed. Afraid his meal ticket might be cancelled or at least reduced if someone else came in to contest his prices. “No. I’m looking around for, uh, speculations. So to speak.”

Russable’s smile became broader. “Ah. Very good, Mr. Long.” He had nothing to fear from Longarm.

“You know the area, I take it?” Longarm asked, making small talk.

“Oh, yes. Twice a month, I come up here. Regular as a clock.”

“That’s interesting.” It wasn’t. There was little Longarm could think of that would be more boring than having to do something—anything—with the regularity of clockwork.

“Used to frighten me, I must say,” Russable said.

“Really? I hadn’t realized Thunderbird Canyon was that rough a camp.”

Russable laughed like Longarm had just cracked a particularly funny joke.

Longarm raised an eyebrow.

Still laughing, Russable explained, “The camp is entirely pleasant, I assure you. After all, where is anyone to run to if there should be trouble? It’s a small town, really, and everyone knows everyone else. No, sir, you need fear no danger in Thunderbird Canyon. It’s this damnable train ride that used to frighten me so.”

“Really?” Longarm looked around. Russable must be an easily frightened man if this bothered him. The narrow-gauge train was crawling along a ledge a dozen feet or so above a roaring cascade of a mountain white-water stream, but there was hardly anything frightening about that. Not that Longarm could see. The roadbed was wide enough, if barely, the rock was solid, and the foamy water of the river was a safe distance below. Perhaps in springtime during the snow-melt season there might be reason for concern, but certainly not now.

Russable chuckled but did not elaborate. The two men leaned on the railing that surrounded the platform and smoked their cigars in a silence that was companionable rather than strained.

The grade increased slightly, and the tiny locomotive slowed to the strain of the pull, even though the long string of ore cars ahead were running empty. Russable chuckled again for some inexplicable reason. He had finished his vile-smelling rum crook, but remained where he was at the rail.

“Don’t feel like having your eardrums shattered today?” Longarm asked.

Russable grinned. “Something like that.”

The leaping water of the mountain stream fell farther and farther below them as the railbed mounted the side of the steep-walled canyon. Now there was probably more than a hundred feet of drop to the roaring water.

The train slowed again with a clank and a groan, and Longarm was glad he had a hold on the railing, or he might have lost his balance. The grade was quite sharp now, and the mountain river below was looking farther and farther away until it appeared quite small.

Russable’s grin turned sly.

There was more shaking and shuddering along the string of cars, and Russable chuckled.

“What the hell?”

Russable hooked a thumb forward. “Take a look,” he suggested.

Longarm moved to the side of the platform and leaned out to see ahead of the passenger coach.

There was absolutely nothing there save blue sky and the towering rock wall on the opposite side of the narrow gorge of Thunderbird Canyon.

Nothing.

Then Longarm spotted a golden eagle soaring on the gusty wind currents of the canyon air. A good fifty feet beneath the chuffing train. Longarm smiled. So that was it. Russable was afraid of heights. Hell, they didn’t bother Longarm. He had more serious things to concern himself with.

The cars ahead of the passenger coach had already disappeared around a bend in the narrow track. Now the passenger coach too swung round the curve with a lurch.