The Highbinders

by Matt Braun

“Miss Valentine,” Tallman said evenly, “is one of our top undercover agents.”

  “A woman?” Blackburn arched one eyebrow and looked down his nose. “I never heard of a female Pinkerton.”

  “Nor have most people,” Tallman reported succinctly. “Which makes Miss Valentine doubly valuable in the field. She’s our best kept secret.”

  “It won’t do,” Blackburn said shortly. “The job’s too dangerous for a woman.”

  “Looks are deceiving,” Vivian interrupted with a devilish smile. “I’m really a very dangerous lady, Mr. Blackburn.”

  “Maybe you are,” Blackburn said, a note of irritation in his tone. “But that’s neither here nor there. We requested Tallman and another operative—a male operative!”

  “Quite understandable,” Tallman interjected smoothly. “However, Allan Pinkerton permits me to choose my own partners. I assure you he trusts my judgment in such matters.”

  Blackburn looked annoyed. “You don’t seem to get the point. In my judgment, a woman isn’t suitable. And I speak for the Southern Pacific Railway.”

  “Then I suggest you wire Pinkerton and request another team.”

  “What’s that?” Blackburn screwed up his face in a tight knot. “Are you refusing the assignment?”

  “No,” Tallman said simply. “I’m merely saying I either work with Miss Valentine or I don’t work.”

  “Preposterous!” Blackburn fixed him with a baleful look. “How dare you try to bullyrag me!”

  Tallman’s genial features toughened. “All I’ve done is offer you an option—take it or leave it.”

  “Are you in the habit of dictating terms to a client?”

  “Not terms,” Tallman said quietly. “Let’s call it a condition. You take me, then you take my partner too. And at the moment, that happens to be Miss Valentine.”

  There was a long pause of weighing and appraisal while the two men examined one another. A pained expression fell over Blackburn’s face and his jaws worked as though he was grinding his teeth. At last, he took a deep breath and released it slowly.

  “Very well,” he said with a kind of smothered wrath. “Your condition is accepted. But I want it understood that you—and you alone—will be held accountable in the event anything goes wrong.”

  “I’m always accountable.” Tallman motioned with an idle gesture. “Have a chair, Mr. Blackburn. I believe you planned to brief us on the case. Suppose we get to it?”

  Blackburn seated himself opposite Vivian. She exchanged a quick glance with Tallman and he gave her a hidden wink. Then he lowered himself into a chair and turned his gaze on Blackburn. The silence thickened.

  “The situation,” Blackburn said at length, “involves an organized conspiracy whose aim is to defraud the Southern Pacific Railroad.”

  Tallman stopped him with an upraised palm. “We’re already aware of the squatter problem and the Settlers’ League. Your letter to Pinkerton was fairly clear on that score. What we need are specifics about the alleged conspiracy.”

  “Alleged?” Blackburn repeated churlishly. “Wrecked trains and blown bridges aren’t alleged. Those are cold, hard facts.”

  “Hard facts and hard evidence aren’t necessarily one and the same. To build a case—even to start our investigation—we need specific details.”

  “Such as?”

  “Who are the leaders of the Settlers’ League?”

  “Insofar as we can determine, it’s controlled by one man. His name is Major Thomas McQuade. I understand he’s a former army officer.”

  “Was he responsible for organizing the League?”

  “I have no idea,” Blackburn said solemnly. “He’s a squatter himself, and he’s been the guiding force behind the League’s legal efforts. So we can assume he’s also the ringleader behind the conspiracy.”

  “I never assume anything,” Tallman said with a measured smile. “Exactly how many squatters are there?”

  “Forty-three,” Blackburn said crisply. “By that I mean there are forty-three families, each occupying a quarter-section of land.”

  “According to your letter, the land in question is located in the San Joaquin Valley.”

  “That’s correct.”

  Blackburn pulled a small map from his inside jacket pocket. He unfolded it and spread it between them. Marks indicating railroad tracks bisected the state, from San Francisco to Los Angeles. His finger traced a southerly route to Fresno, then skipped lower to the town of Hanford. Located halfway down the map, the town was on the eastern edge of the San Joaquin Valley. Somewhat farther east lay the Sierra Nevada Range.

  “The Settlers’ League,” Blackburn said, tapping the map, “has its headquarters in Hanford. All the squatters occupy land along our right of way north and south of town.”

  Tallman mulled it over a minute. “How did they gain control of the land?”

  “By squatting on it,” Blackburn said indignantly. “So far, our legal efforts haven’t budged them an inch.”

  “Are there squatters in other areas besides Hanford?”

  “Not yet,” Blackburn responded. “We were lax and allowed things to go too far in Hanford. Now we want it stopped before it spreads.”

  Tallman studied him for a long, speculative moment, “Our instructions were to infiltrate the League and gather evidence of a criminal conspiracy. I get the impression you’re suggesting something more.”

  “I am indeed,” Blackburn said crisply. “Once you have the necessary proof, we will then take the initiative. Our plans are to arrange an incident which will force Major McQuade and his League into an open confrontation.”

  “What sort of confrontation?”

  “A couple of our men will proceed to Hanford and physically evict one of the squatter families. We can reasonably expect that McQuade and his people will resort to violence in an effort to reoccupy the farm. At that point, our chances of securing a conspiracy indictment will be greatly enhanced.”

  “Aren’t you concerned about the safety of your men? By provoking violence, you might easily get them killed.”

  “Not these boys!” Blackburn blustered. “They can handle themselves. . . .”

  Tallman’s face took on a sudden hard cast. “You’re talking about professional gunmen.”

  “The best money can buy,” Blackburn chortled. “Besides, we own the sheriff in Kings County. So it’s all cut and dried from start to finish.”

  “I see,” Tallman said tightly. “What you’ve just outlined exceeds my instructions. In fact, the plan itself borders on conspiracy. I’ll have to check with Allan Pinkerton before we proceed further.”

  Blackburn’s eyes suddenly turned angry, commanding. “You are in the employ of the Southern Pacific. Leland Stanford issues the orders here and you will follow them to the letter.”

  “Then trot Stanford down here and let me hear the orders direct.”

  “Mr. Stanford doesn’t deal with detectives. You will report to me and me alone!”

  “I report to Pinkerton and nobody else. He can keep Stanford advised . . . or not . . . as he chooses.”

  “I repeat,” Blackburn said with a withering scowl, “you will take your orders from me and you will report to me.”

  Tallman gave him a satiric look. “See that mirror?”

  Blackburn darted a glance at the wall mirror. “What about it?”

  “Walk over there and kiss yourself good-bye.”

  “Don’t get smart with me.” Blackburn bristled. “You’re hired help and this railroad car happens to be Southern Pacific property.”

  Tallman rose and jerked his thumb toward the door. “We’ll let Pinkerton and Stanford decide who calls the shots.”

  “Try it and you’re in for a rude awakening!”

  “Perhaps.” A strange light came into Tallman’s eyes. “Now, you’d better leave before I lose my temper and do something boorish.”

  Blackburn’s face went black. He muttered an unintelligible oath and jackknifed to his feet. Then he turned with a k
ind of military abruptness and stumped out of the car. The door slammed shut with a jarring thud.

  “Whew!” Vivian let out her breath. “You sure know how to butter up a client.”

  “Listen and learn,” Tallman observed wryly. “What happens when Pinkerton and Stanford exchange telegrams?”

  “Blackburn will run to Stanford,” Vivian said with a look of revelation. “Stanford will wire Pinkerton, then Pinkerton will wire you. And you’ll have your orders in writing!”

  Tallman’s grin was so wide it was almost a laugh. “I think you just earned your detective’s badge.”

  FOUR

  The San Joaquin Valley shimmered beneath a blazing sun. The afternoon sky boiled with clouds drifting westward and the green earth steamed with heat. Huffing smoke and fiery cinders, the train followed a meandering course southward.

  Tallman was seated beside an open window. The interior of the passenger coach was like a blast furnace, and the warm air rushing through the window did little to relieve his discomfort. His shirt was plastered to his skin and a film of sweat glistened on his forehead. Yet the revolver underneath his arm, and the derringer strapped to his wrist, made it impossible for him to remove his coat. He endured, and stared listlessly out at the countryside.

  To the west, the Coastal Range screened the ocean from view. Eastward, some thirty miles distant, the towering spires of the Sierra Nevada Range jutted skyward. From there, the waters of several tributaries flowed into the central basin of the San Joaquin Valley. The Kings River, which paralleled the railroad tracks, was one such stream. Snow melt-off coursed downward from the mountains throughout the spring and early summer, and provided a natural irrigation system the year round. The end product was a land lush with vegetation and boundless graze.

  Wearied with the scenery, Tallman’s thoughts were on Vivian and the next step in their assignment. Hardly to his surprise, he’d received a telegram late yesterday from Allan Pinkerton. The message was concise and bluntly stated: He was to consider any order from Otis Blackburn a direct order from Leland Stanford, and conduct himself accordingly. After the telegram, and another session with Blackburn, Tallman had played the good soldier. The plan hatched in the offices of the Southern Pacific would be followed to the letter.

  The field operation was an altogether different matter. Tallman brooked interference from no one with regard to an undercover investigation. Once more Blackburn had been shown the door, and told to await developments. The balance of the evening, with Vivian a rapt listener, Tallman had worked out his own approach to the assignment. It bore his usual mark of chicanery and craft.

  After a final night with Vivian, Tallman had boarded the morning southbound. His destination was Hanford, where he personally planned to infiltrate the Settlers’ League. His cover story, though a complete fabrication, was both plausible and convincing. Vivian was to follow him by a day, and establish herself in Fresno. Located just north of the Kings County line, Fresno was the major trade center of the eastern basin. Once there, Vivian was to pose as a vagabond saloon girl and obtain employment in one of the town’s dives. By keeping her ears open, she was certain to uncover the latest gossip about the squatters’ vendetta with the Southern Pacific. When the time seemed opportune, Tallman would contact her directly. Until then she was to take no action on her own.

  Late that afternoon, with the sun retreating slowly westward, the train pulled into Hanford. Tallman collected his luggage and emerged from the coach onto the depot platform. He walked to the end of the station house, rounding the corner, and then stopped. Ahead lay the town’s main thoroughfare, with the business district stretching some three blocks upstreet. He dropped his bag and lit a cigar, scrutinizing the scene with a look of mild wonder. Hanford was something more than he’d expected.

  The town was a tableau of thriving commerce. Shops and business establishments were ranked along a dusty street wide enough to accommodate three wagons abreast. On one side was a livery stable and a saloon, bank and billiard hall, hardware store and hotel. On the opposite side was a blacksmith and a butcher shop, newspaper and general emporium, pharmacy and restaurant. In addition, wedged in among the other buildings, were a barber shop, doctor’s office and a large grocery store. The boardwalks were crowded with people and farm wagons lined the street. The county courthouse, which dominated the far end of town, was flanked by a church and a schoolhouse of modest proportions. A residential area fanned outward from the downtown district with homes bracketed by whitewashed picket fences. Hanford looked as though it had been built to last.

  Hefting his bag, Tallman walked up the street. He was somehow bothered by the look of permanence and bustling trade. From his talks with Otis Blackburn, he’d formed the impression that Hanford was a jerkwater burg on the fringe of nowhere. Instead, he’d found a prosperous community laid out with an eye to the future. Quite obviously, the town fathers had organized Hanford with visions of growth and the promise of expanding agriculture throughout the countryside. None of which gibed with illegal squatters and a Settlers’ League pitted in a do-or-die fight against the railroad. All in all, the situation appeared to merit closer investigation. Hanford looked like anything but a hotbed of anarchists.

  Tallman proceeded directly to the hotel. He entered the lobby and crossed to the registration desk. The clerk was a rumpled man, balding and potbellied, with wire-rimmed glasses perched on the tip of his nose. He rose from a battered rolltop desk and moved to the counter. He gave Tallman a slow once-over, noting the spiffy attire and the leather suitcase. He nodded with bored affability.

  “Afternoon.”

  “Good afternoon,” Tallman said breezily. “I want to engage your best room. Preferably one with a private bath and a good view.”

  “I take it you’re a city feller?”

  “Oh?” Tallman played along. “Why so?”

  “Otherwise you wouldn’t ask for a private bath. There’s no such animal in this neck of the woods.”

  “A pity,” Tallman murmured. “Well, then, perhaps a room close to the lavatory.”

  “No problem there,” the clerk crackled. “Washstand in your room and a johnny-pot under the bed. We empty it twice a day, regular as clockwork.”

  “What more could a man ask? I’ll take it.”

  “How long will you be stayin’?”

  “Now, there’s the question,” Tallman said pleasantly. “Perhaps you could be of some service—a matter of information.”

  “Try me and see.”

  “Alex Fitzhugh,” Tallman stuck out his hand. “Attorney at law.”

  “A lawyer, huh?” The clerk accepted his handshake. “I’m Bob Simpson. I own the joint, all twelve rooms.”

  “Capital!” Tallman beamed. “An entrepreneur and businessman. Doubtless you know everything there is to know about Hanford.”

  “Maybe,” Simpson allowed. “You here to take somebody to court?”

  “Indeed not,” Tallman boomed out jovially. “I’m considering establishing my law practice in your fair city.”

  “No shit?” Simpson appeared bemused. “Whatever gave you a notion like that?”

  “Well, for one thing, Hanford is the county seat. For another, I’ve been told there’s a scarcity of lawyers in these parts.”

  “You was told right,” Simpson acknowledged. “Not that our courthouse ain’t a pretty lively place. But most lawyers figger they can get here quick enough when duty calls. The ones I know operate out of Fresno.”

  “Excellent!” Tallman’s smile broadened. “A burgeoning metropolis like Hanford needs a resident attorney. I do believe I’ll spend a few days exploring the potential.”

  “You could do lots worse, I suppose.”

  “My very thought, Mr. Simpson.”

  Tallman signed the register with a flourish. Simpson insisted on carrying his bag and showed him to an upstairs room with a view of Main Street. A gadfly of sorts, Simpson volunteered a wealth of information about Hanford and its leading citizens. He dwelt at le
ngth on the Settlers’ League and the Southern Pacific, which provided unending fodder for the town’s gossipmill. Tallman expressed a lawyerly interest, but held his questions to a general nature. In response to questions about himself, he paraded out a cover story that involved a law practice back East, followed by a ruinous divorce and the search for a fresh start out West. The hotel owner finally departed with the look of a cat spitting feathers.

  For his part, Tallman was inwardly delighted with the exchange. Simpson was a marathon talker and no great believer in keeping what he knew to himself. By nightfall, word of the newly arrived lawyer would have spread throughout town. Which was precisely what Tallman had intended the moment he’d stepped off the train. In the guise of Alex Fitzhugh, he would scarcely be a stranger to anyone who counted in Hanford.

  Things were cooking along even better than he’d expected.

  Darkness had fallen when Tallman emerged from the hotel. Streetlamps flickered like clusters of candles along the street, and the business district was virtually deserted. Hanford’s lone restaurant was a couple of blocks down and he walked in that direction. Then, on the spur of the moment, he decided to stop off at the saloon. A sociable drink would further establish his presence in town.

  The crowd inside the saloon was a mixed bag of tricks. Townsmen and farmers were bellied up to the bar, talking in low monotones. A couple of drummers, distinguishable by their flashy suits and bowler hats, were seated at a table. Several other men, with the look of prosperity and position, occupied a table toward the rear. All heads turned as Tallman came through the door and approached the bar. There was a momentary lull while everyone in the room subjected him to quick examination. Then the buzz of conversation once more resumed.

  Tallman took a spot at the end of the bar. He ordered rye whiskey and paid when the barkeep filled his glass. After a long sip, he hooked his foot over the brass rail and fished a panatela from inside his suit jacket. He lit the cigar, puffing wads of smoke, all the while aware he was being observed by those nearby. Wary of moving too fast too quickly, he decided to make no overtures himself. Sooner or later one of the locals would succumb to curiosity and strike up a conversation. Until then, it was best to mind saloon etiquette and not butt in unless invited. He sipped his rye and pretended to be immersed in his own thoughts.