Longarm on the Thunderbird Run

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Longarm knocked on the door, the rap polite but firm, and took a step to the side. He really did not expect any trouble here, not this visit anyway, but a man never knew when some idiot with more brass than good sense might take a notion to slam a door into a man’s face and come out with unpleasant intent. There was no point in taking chances, so he stepped aside to where a suddenly swinging door would pivot harmlessly away from him.

“Just a minute,” a voice called from inside the sprawl­ing, handsome house. It was a woman’s voice.

Longarm removed his Stetson and stood, hat in hand, patiently waiting. He looked around the spread. Hell of a nice place, really. The outbuildings were as handsome as the house, everything large and nicely planned and kept in a state of fine repair. Well, they’d said at Snake Creek that Morey Fahnwell was the honcho of this country and damn near everything that adjoined it. God-awful rich was the way they’d actually put it. Longarm could believe it from looking at the Fahnwell headquarters.

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