by Matt Braun
A tantalizing picture formed in Tallman’s mind. As he approached the hotel, he became intrigued by a vision of Angela Pryor with her legs spread wide. Major McQuade stepped out the door and halted in his path.
“There you are, Alex,” McQuade greeted him. “I just stopped by to invite you to lunch.”
“Thanks anyway, Major,” Tallman responded. “I went down early to beat the crowd. The blue plate special’s not bad—meat loaf.”
“Join me for a cup of coffee, then.”
“Another time,” Tallman begged off. “I’m on my way to see Angela Pryor.”
“Of course,” McQuade said with a bland expression. “She’s going to show you her . . . contract.”
Tallman caught an inflection in the words. “Are you trying to tell me something, Major?”
“No, no,” McQuade said, too quickly. “Although there are times when I regret I’m a happily married man.”
“Mrs. Pryor being one of those times?”
“Exactly,” McQuade affirmed. “To put it mildly, Angela’s very easy on the eyes. I’m amazed she’s remained a widow this long.”
“How do you account for it?”
“Good common sense,” McQuade said forcefully. “She’s a woman of property and she can afford to be choosy. She’ll make an excellent match for somebody with aspirations.”
“Hmmm.” Tallman smiled, shook his head. “You’re not the local marriage broker, are you, Major?”
“God forbid!” McQuade chortled. “A man could do worse, though. I suspect Angela knows how to keep the home fires burning.”
“Well . . .” Tallman hesitated, shrugged. “Where duty’s concerned, I’m all business, Major. The fewer complications the better, that’s my motto.”
“Commendable,” McQuade noted dryly. “I’ll be interested to hear if Angela has other ideas.”
“A gentleman never tells. Having served as a Union officer, I’m certain you’ll agree it’s the only honorable way.”
“What makes you think I was a Union man?”
“Your accent,” Tallman said easily. “I’d place it somewhere in the midwest. Minnesota or perhaps Illinois.”
“Close,” McQuade admitted. “I commanded a battalion of Ohio volunteers.”
“What brought you to California?”
“What else?” McQuade laughed. “The land of opportunity! At the time, of course, I wasn’t aware it was owned lock, stock and barrel by the Southern Pacific.”
Tallman grinned. “Maybe we’ll still find a way to upset their applecart.”
“That’s the spirit. You go on out to Angela’s and study that contract. Let me know what you turn up.”
“You can count on it, Major.”
McQuade directed him to the local livery stable. There, after dickering briefly on price, Tallman hired a horse and buggy. A short while later he turned north out of town onto a farm road. He was pondering yet another aspect in the overall riddle.
For a farmer, Thomas McQuade spent a lot of time in town. And there was no dirt beneath his fingernails. It made for interesting speculation.
A swollen ball of orange dipped westward toward the horizon. The river was molten with sunlight, and to the east, the Sierra Nevadas were bathed in a spectral glow. The tranquil scene belied the violent nature of those who inhabited the land.
Tallman was frankly surprised by the countryside. The eastern quadrant of valley was watered by swift-running mountain streams. Everywhere he looked a latticework of irrigation ditches fanned out from the Kings River and lesser tributaries. The settlers had clearly invested years of back-breaking labor in channeling water to their fields. The results were apparent in the ripe summer abundance of produce. Wheat and barley, sugar beets and all manner of vegetables covered the land as far as the eye could see. Here and there small herds of cattle grazed placidly on fenced grassland. The whole was a picture of hard-earned prosperity, and permanence.
All across the valley was a sense of people who had traveled far and planted their roots deep. Angela Pryor’s farm was typical of those Tallman passed on his drive northward. The main house was a one-story structure, neatly whitewashed with green shutters and a long porch on the front. Flowers bordered the house in a wild profusion of colors, and a stone walkway skirted the edge of a manicured lawn. Out behind there was a large red barn, flanked by a stock tank and an open-sided machinery shed. There was nothing about the farm to suggest squatters, or anarchists. It looked fit for a country squire.
Angela met Tallman at the door. She was dressed in a gingham gown that clung to her like wet paint. Her hair was upswept in a mass of golden curls and she smelled wonderously fresh, as though she’d just stepped from a lavender-scented bath. Her cheeks were lightly rouged and her hazel eyes shone. An aura of verve and bubbling gaiety seemed to surround her as she opened the screen door. She greeted him with an enchanting smile.
“Welcome to my home, Alex.”
“The pleasure’s all mine, Mrs. Pryor.”
“Please,” she said softly. “Call me Angela. I do hate formality, don’t you?”
“I do indeed . . . Angela.”
She took his hat and hung it on a halltree. Then, with a sort of bustling vitality, she led him into the parlor. The room was handsomely appointed, with several armchairs, a burgandy satin sofa and brightly patterned curtains on the windows. Vases, filled with freshly cut flowers, were scattered about in a rainbow of colors. On a low table, which stood before the sofa, was a china tea service and a decanter of brandy. She waved him away from one of the armchairs and guided him instead to the sofa. She seated herself within arm’s reach and smiled engagingly.
“May I offer you a refreshment? I have imported Oriental tea, fresh off the boat from San Francisco. Or if you prefer, I have a fine Napoleon brandy.”
“Brandy would do nicely, thank you.”
“Oh, good!” Angela exclaimed. “I’m partial to a nip now and then myself. You won’t tell anyone, will you?”
“Consider my lips sealed.”
“I just knew you were a progressive thinker. So many men are stuffy about things like that. Honestly, it’s worth a woman’s reputation to take a single drop!”
Angela set out two glasses, which were delicately overlaid with silver, and expertly poured from the decanter. Watching her, Tallman saw that she was charged with excitement. Her eyes were glittery and her every word was spoken with a slight tremor. There was, moreover, a sense of high-strung expectation in her manner. He thought it had nothing to do with the business of the Settlers’ League.
Instead, the flowers and brandy, along with her vivacious chatter, were intended to create an atmosphere. He smiled inwardly, amused that she’d set the stage for a seduction. He decided to let her make the first move.
Attentive to her small talk, Tallman subtly lavished her with praise. He complimented her on her home and the furnishings, and left no doubt that he considered her a gracious hostess. She responded to the flattery, and by their third brandy the byplay had turned cozy and intimate. Abruptly, as though he’d forgotten the purpose of his visit, he raised the subject of the Southern Pacific contract. His tone implied business before pleasure, and contained a hint of promise. Somewhat reluctantly, she left the room and returned moments later with a sheaf of papers. Her attitude indicated that her own priorities were along more personal lines.
Tallman quickly scanned the contract. The content of the document was framed in the convoluted legalese typically employed by lawyers. For the most part, it was a standard sales agreement and noteworthy only for its obtuse phrasing. Yet one paragraph caught his eye, and he scrutinized it with painstaking care. Once deciphered, the legal jargon was a masterpiece of ambiguity. The paragraph stipulated that the sale would be deemed null and void unless the railroad provided the buyer with a valid deed. Seemingly worded to protect the buyer, the actual intent was something altogether different. By withholding the deed, the Southern Pacific retained the option of canceling the sales agreement.
There was no time limit and the railroad was not obligated to establish justification for its action. Nor was there any legal recourse, or any means of redress, spelled out for the buyer. In short, it was a loophole crafted solely for the benefit of the seller.
Stunned, Tallman’s eyes narrowed as comprehension seeped through. He appeared calm and collected, but the truth whipped through his mind like jackstraws blown in a high wind. With an almost grudging sense of realization, he knew the Southern Pacific had rigged the scheme from the outset. The settlers were gullible and unversed in legal matters, the perfect suckers. One paragraph, innocuous on the face of it, simply overturned all their rights under the agreement. The railroad could dispossess them at will.
Still another element of the scheme was abundantly clear. The campaign to evict the settlers in Kings County was merely a test case. Should the railroad succeed—with an affirmative ruling by the Supreme Court—a precedent would be established. The next step, quite obviously, would be to dispossess farmers throughout the whole of California. Then the land could be resold, at a vastly inflated price, to a horde of new settlers. The upshot would be millions in added profit for the Southern Pacific.
Tallman felt a sudden loathing for his employer. At the same time, he was nagged by an apparent contradiction. Major Thomas McQuade was no fool, and most certainly realized that the League’s position was indefensible. So why had he led the settlers into a futile battle with the railroad? It was a question worth exploring.
After considering a moment, Tallman laid the contract on the table. Then, almost as though he was thinking out loud, he turned to Angela. “The major was right. We’ll have to fight fire with fire.”
“Do you see some way to force the railroad’s hand?”
“Perhaps,” Tallman said absently. “It all depends on how tough a game the Major wants to play.”
“Don’t worry, then,” Angela assured him. “Tom Mc-Quade has no intention of losing this fight. We all count our lucky stars he moved to Hanford and organized the Settlers’ League.”
“Oh?” Tallman inquired innocently. “I just assumed he was one of the original settlers. When did he move to Hanford?”
“Last year,” Angela confided. “He moved here from Bakersfield shortly after he bought the old Clarkson farm.”
“Clarkson,” Tallman mused. “Was he one of the original land buyers?”
Angela gave him a bright little nod. “Clarkson sold out just after the trouble started. And thank God for that! Without Tom McQuade we might never have gotten ourselves organized.”
“Maybe it was fate,” Tallman observed neutrally. “After all, the Major brought himself a peck of trouble along with a farm. Talk about coincidence.”
“Yes, but he never shirked. He jumped into the fight hammer and tongs, and took over when no one else was willing. We owe him an eternal debt of gratitude.”
“I guess that makes it mutual. The Major’s one of your most ardent admirers. Told me so himself, only this morning.”
A look of catlike eagerness appeared in Angela’s eyes. “And you, Alex? Are you an admirer, too?”
“Nooo,” Tallman said with a waggish grin. “An admirer keeps a respectful distance. I’m finding that increasingly difficult.”
“Are you?” Angela said on an indrawn breath. “What do you suggest we do about it?”
Tallman laughed and stretched out his hand. She took it and scooted across the sofa. He put his arm around her and pulled her into a tight embrace, staring raptly into her eyes. Then he kissed her and her mouth parted and their tongues intertwined in a mating dance. She moaned, squirming closer, and ground herself against the hard knot in his groin. Her breathing suddenly quickened in tempo.
Hastily, fumbling with buttons and stays, they undressed each other. Stark naked, they kissed and caressed, locked tightly together. His hand went to the curly blond patch between her legs and his finger slipped easily into her yielding wetness. She grasped his cock, fondling and stroking until it stood erect and pulsating. Then, disengaging from his embrace, she dropped off the sofa and went to her knees. She spread his legs and lowered her head into his crotch. While she stroked with her hand, she laved his balls with the pink tip of her tongue. His manhood stiffened harder, throbbing and engorged with blood.
Leaning forward, he lifted her to her feet and wedged his knees between her legs. Upright, standing over him, her figure was breathtaking. Full rounded hips tapered to a slim waist and rose to coral-tipped jutting breasts. She stared down at him with smoky eyes, heavy-lidded and smoldering with sensuality. Her mouth was agape and her flat stomach rippled with need as she stood there waiting. He ran his hands up her flanks and cupped her breasts in his palms. Then, ever so gently, he began kneading her nipples between thumb and forefinger. She groaned and her eyes closed and her legs went rubbery. His hands grasped her hips and he lowered her downward. He impaled her with a sharp upward thrust.
A gasp parted her lips and her eyes popped open with a wild, feverish look. She straddled him, her knees planted on the sofa, and rammed the head of his cock deep within her moist bog. She pumped up and down, faster and faster, rotating with a rhythmic motion on the downward stroke. He gripped her haunches, guiding her, and bucked upward to meet her in an agonized clash of loins. She lunged and shuddered and her nails raked long welts across his shoulders. He suddenly stood, holding her buttocks firmly in his hands, and drove the whole of himself to her inner depths. Her legs locked around his back and her body jolted with a series of twitching spasms. He exploded within her, and as the scalding rush flooded her insides, she uttered a squeal like a dying rabbit. Then she collapsed, pressed tightly against his chest, and clung to him limp and quivering. He sat down on the sofa, still hard within her dampness, and cradled her in his arms. She buried her face in the hollow of his shoulder, completely drained. Her mouth moved in a low, guttural cry.
Later, when she’d recovered her voice, they talked again of McQuade and the Settlers’ League. She told him everything he wanted to know.
EIGHT
Tallman pulled into Fresno shortly after midnight. The bright lights and general hubbub of the sporting district made it simple to locate. Where Elm Street intersected Broadway, he stepped down from the buggy and tied the horse to a hitching-rail. Then he went looking for Vivian.
Some hours earlier, Tallman had escaped the clutches of Angela Pryor. After their talk, she’d cooked him supper and treated him to more of her fine Napoleon brandy. When she suggested he spend the night, he had begged off and got her to settle for an encore performance in the sack. Their second time around, she had proved herself an accomplished gymnast on a goose-down mattress. Upon leaving, he’d felt a little used and bruised. The widow Pryor was of the rough and tumble lovemaking school.
By a roundabout route, Tallman had then headed for Fresno. Angela’s unwitting disclosures about McQuade and the Settlers’ League had unveiled new facets of the case. With all he’d learned, it was therefore imperative that he brief Vivian immediately. Then, too, it was no less vital that he obtain a report on what she had unearthed in Fresno. An exchange of information might very well suggest some quicker approach to their investigation. There was, moreover, the matter of Ambrose Sloan. He meant to sic Vivian on the lawyer without delay.
Fresno’s sporting district was slowly winding down for the night. Tallman bypassed the sleezier dives and limited his search to those establishments with a touch of class. His third stop was the Palace Variety Theater, and he spotted Vivian the moment he walked through the door. She was seated at a table with two men, one portly and the other trim. By their attire, he pegged them as men of substance and some position in the community. He walked to the bar and took a place directly opposite Vivian’s table. Ordering rye, he casually turned with the glass in hand and put his back to the counter. He sipped and willed Vivian to look in his direction.
To all appearances, a contest was underway at the table. The stout man and the dandy were obviously in a neck-to-n
eck race for Vivian’s favor. She, in turn, was acting the coquette, playing one off against the other with minxish charm. She laughed, quaffing their champagne with gusto, and divided her attention equally between them. At last, her head thrown back in a bawdy howl of merriment, her eyes drifted to the bar. She did a quick double take and her gaze fastened on Tallman. He ducked his chin, acknowledging her look, and cut his eyes sharply toward the door. She flashed a pearly grin in return and instantly went back to the courting ritual with her gentlemen friends. Tallman finished his drink, watching the chorus line onstage with jaded disinterest. Then he sauntered to the door and stepped outside.
An hour or so later the Palace closed for the night. Posted in a doorway across the street, Tallman observed Vivian’s admirers depart as the theater emptied. Shortly afterwards, Vivian emerged with several other girls and bid them a loud good night. Turning uptown, she walked off alone and strolled toward the distant intersection. Tallman hung back a moment, then trailed her from the opposite side of the street. On Broadway, she rounded the corner and went directly to her hotel.
Tallman angled across the street. He moved through the hotel entrance and saw Vivian waiting at the bottom of the stairway. She pressed a finger to her lips and then pointed to the night clerk, who was snoozing peacefully behind the desk. Tallman crossed the lobby and followed her to the second floor landing. There she proceeded along the hall to her room and unlocked the door. Without a word, he slipped inside and halted in the dark. She closed the door and locked it behind her.
