railroad depot. ?You take care of it like I would, and there?ll be a bonus in it for you when I get back. Otherwise
? He let the rest of it hang unspoken in the air. The hostler nodded solemnly and assured him the chestnut could sleep in his own bunk if the horse damn well felt like it.
?Good.? Longarm left his saddle and bridle at the livery and carried the rest of his gear out into the street.
There was not a hell of a lot to see in Meade Park. It was a small town, a former mining camp gone once al ready to ruin, and now hanging on as the southern terminus of the narrow-gauge railroad that fed into Thunderbird Canyon. Even though the nearby mines Longarm could see were tumbledown and apparently abandoned, there was a stamp mill and refinery raising noise and smoke at the side of a brisk-running creek. Longarm guessed that silver ore from Thunderbird Canyon was hauled here for processing at the facilities already established when Meade Park was actively mining. That would be the reason for the railroad, he gathered.
Normal procedure would be for him to check in with the local law before going on to Thunderbird Canyon.
But he decided against that. The White Hood Gang was known for its swift and cleverly-planned strikes and ghostlike getaways. They were probably the most successful outfit operating in the past half dozen years, and he wanted to take them.
Damn, but he wanted to take them down.
Whoever they were, they were awfully good.
Far from the busiest robbery gang, they were without doubt the best. If anything failed to match up with their expectations they turned quietly away and disappeared. They had learned that much from Waldo Stone, who also tipped them to this job.
Stone?s capture by Smiley several months back had been pure luck. Smiley had been fortunate enough to be in the vicinity when the White Hoods took more than $35,000 out of a bank in southern Utah. The only reason Stone had gotten inside Smiley?s manacles was because the fleeing robber?s horse took a spill, and Smiley was able to reach him before the rest of his crowd could come back to rescue him. Stone was bitter now because the outfit had not shot it out with Smiley. But one hell of a big posse was behind Smiley and riding hard at the time.
Now, by damn, Longarm had a chance at the rest of the crowd. He was not going to risk it by tipping the local law in Meade Park to the possibility of an ambush when the job came down.
No, sir, he was not.
The damned White Hoods were reputed to have their ears pressed to every wall. Their information was always good, their planning impeccable, and their execution faultless.
One whisper of warning reaching the wrong ear, and the bunch would disappear into the mountains without Longarm ever knowing who they were or where they had been.
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 con ductor 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 re finery. 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
