The Highbinders

by Matt Braun

  Sloan chortled drunkenly. “How perceptive of them. Anything else?”

  “Oh, gobs and gobs!” Vivian marveled. “Especially about your work. They say you’re the only lawyer in California with balls enough to take on the Southern Pacific.”

  “True,” Sloan replied loftily. “To tilt at windmills does indeed require a large set of balls.”

  “Windmills?” Vivian shook her head dumbly. “I dunno about that. But the girls told me how you and some colonel slugged it out toe-to-toe with the railroad. I forget his name.”

  “McQuade,” Sloan grunted. “A major rather than a colonel, and a more pompous ass you’ll never hope to meet.”

  “No kidding?” Vivian looked surprised. “Well, let me tell you, everybody thinks you and him are some team. God, you ought to hear them talk!”

  “Team?” Sloan jerked as though a fly had buzzed his ear. “What tommyrot! We’re barely on speaking terms. I have no use for a self-professed altruist—damnable hypocrite!”

  “Omigosh!” Vivian said, round-eyed. “You mean he’s not on the up and up?”

  “Shall we say”—Sloan’s smile seemed frozen—“Major Thomas McQuade is not all he appears.”

  Vivian hesitated, chose her words with care. “Well, I sure hope he’s not taking those farmers for a ride. Even the sporting crowd’s pulling for them. Everybody wants to see the railroad get its ears pinned back.”

  “I share the sentiment.” Sloan hiccupped and covered his mouth. “As for McQuade, I have no faith in the man. I’ve suspected all along he’s playing a game of his own.”

  “A con game?” Vivian encouraged him. “I don’t understand, Ambrose. How would he gain if the farmers lose?”

  “How indeed?” Sloan answered dully. “McQuade isn’t talking and I’ve somehow misplaced my crystal ball. Perhaps we’ll never know.”

  Vivian almost laughed out loud. She suddenly saw the whole evening as an immense joke on herself. Earlier, fuming at Tallman for screwing in the line of duty, she’d convinced herself that tit-for-tat was only fair. But now, having seduced Ambrose Sloan, she realized it was an exercise in futility. She’d learned nothing of value and she was still pea-green with jealousy.

  A loud snoring sound broke her spell. She looked around and saw that Sloan had drifted off into a sodden sleep. It passed through her mind that she would always remember his tongue with fondness. Yet she nonetheless breathed a sigh of relief.

  Once a night in the line of duty was enough.

  ELEVEN

  Streetlamps flickered like columns of fireflies along Hanford’s main street. Tallman stepped from the café, a cigar clamped between his teeth. For a moment, he stood looking at the saloon, attracted by a sudden burst of laughter. Then his eyes rimmed with disgust and he jammed his hands into his pockets. He walked toward the hotel.

  Before dawn that morning, he’d returned to Hanford on the night train. Sticking to alleyways, he had made his way to the hotel and entered by the firestairs. There, safely in his room, he’d stowed the bum’s costume in his suitcase and caught a couple of hours sleep. Upon awakening, he had bathed and shaved, and donned his regular clothes. He emerged from the hotel in the guise of Alex Fitzhugh.

  The balance of the day had been spent asking questions. As the attorney for the Settlers’ League, he had an open door anywhere in Hanford. Everyone was aware he’d been retained to tackle the railroad, and their interest proved something more than idle curiosity. Wherever he stopped, the townspeople were concerned about the League’s plans; conflict with the Southern Pacific would directly affect the future of the community. By playing on their fears, he’d got them to talk with candor about every aspect of the situation, both past and present. Then he guilefully steered them to the subject of Major Thomas McQuade.

  Everyone knew McQuade had journeyed to Bakers-field and they simply assumed Tallman was marking time until the League leader returned. In the course of conversation, he discovered that McQuade’s trips were a regular occurrence, generally once a month. He explored that further, but no one attached any particular significance to the trips. Nor were they overly helpful regarding the period McQuade had resided in Bakersfield. As far as he could determine, McQuade’s background was a topic of no great interest to anyone. He’d drawn a blank each time the subject was broached.

  Still, there was a general consensus among the towns-people. Whether merchant or banker, saloonkeeper or street-corner loafer, all expressed very much the same opinion. Major McQuade had earned their admiration and respect, and none among them doubted his devotion to the Settlers’ League. Hanford regarded him as one of its leading citizens.

  With oncoming darkness, Tallman had called it quits. What he’d learned wouldn’t fill a thimble, and he had uncovered nothing of a damaging nature. He ended the day with the feeling that Hanford had bestowed a sort of sainthood on Thomas McQuade. His every instinct told him the exact opposite was true. Some sinister plot was afoot, and McQuade was the linchpin in the whole affair. Yet, for all his efforts, Tallman’s score for the day stood at double-aught zero. He’d taken supper at the café in glum silence.

  Brooding on it now, Tallman passed an alleyway separating the hotel from a hardware store. His mind was in a funk, and for one of the few times in his life, he was taken off guard. A shadowy figure suddenly stepped out of the alley and spoke to him.

  “Mr. Fitzhugh?”

  Tallman reacted on sheer instinct. All in a motion, he spun toward the voice and his hand snaked inside his coat. Then, on the verge of drawing the Colt, something stayed his hand. He peered closer at the figure, still partially hidden in the darkened alley. He saw what appeared to be a man, dressed in trousers and a loose-fitting work jacket. The face was obscured by the floppy brim of a battered stetson.

  “Who are you?”

  “Three guesses.” The voice was soft, faintly mocking. “And the first two don’t count.”

  “Viv?”

  “In the flesh.”

  Tallman took the cigar from his mouth, dumbfounded. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “Waiting for you.” Vivian gestured to a horse standing hipshot at the hitch-rack. “Hired myself a nag and rode on down this afternoon. The train seemed a little risky, too open.”

  “Why?”

  Vivian crooked a finger, wiggled it. “Want to join me in the alley? Or maybe you could sneak me into your room.”

  “No maybe about it.”

  Tallman moved into the alley and led the way to the rear of the hotel. There they went up the firestairs and entered a door opening onto the second floor hall. A few moments later they were safely in his room. He lit a lamp and turned, inspecting her outfit. His sour look dissolved into a smile.

  “Where’d you get the spiffy duds?”

  “You like it?” Vivian struck a pose. “Straight off the rack of Fresno’s leading pawn shop. I think it hides the merchandise rather well, don’t you?”

  “Not bad,” Tallman acknowledged. “You’ve got a definite flair for disguise.”

  “I had a good teacher.”

  Vivian tossed the stetson aside and stepped into his arms. She kissed him soundly on the mouth, her hands locked behind his head. When she wiggled closer, he uttered a low chuckle and broke her hold. She protested, but he sat her down in a chair and moved to the bed. He stuck the cigar in his mouth and seated himself.

  “All right, let’s have it,” he said firmly. “What happened in Fresno?”

  “Some welcome!” Vivian looked hurt. “I blistered my butt getting here and all you want to do is talk shop. Thanks a lot.”

  “Business first, fun and games later.”

  “What makes you think anything happened?”

  “You don’t lurk around in dark alleys for nothing.”

  “Good point.” Vivian nodded, then smiled a little. “Last night I got Ambrose Sloan drunk as a hootowl. For what it’s worth, he gave me the lowdown on McQuade.”

  “Fast work,” Tallman said, obviously ple
ased. “How’d you manage all that in one night?”

  Vivian’s cheeks colored. “He took me home with him.”

  “Uh-huh.” Tallman puffed smoke and bobbed his head. “Go on, don’t stop there. What convinced him to talk?”

  Vivian wrestled with herself for a moment, then shrugged. “I’ll give you the same answer you gave me. Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies.”

  Tallman admired the tip of his cigar. “No sacrifice too great when duty calls. Would that about cover it?”

  “Like I said,” Vivian paused, looked him straight in the eye. “I had a good teacher.”

  “Touché!” Tallman laughed. “We’re even and no harm done. So tell me what you found out?”

  “Nothing.”

  “I thought you said Sloan talked.”

  “He did and he didn’t.”

  “Try to be more specific.”

  Vivian briefed him on her evening with Ambrose Sloan. She repeated, almost verbatim, the lawyer’s drunken allegations about McQuade. She was careful to note that Sloan possessed no proof and neither had he evidenced any knowledge of McQuade’s motives. She skipped the seduction and offered no explanation of how she’d conned Sloan into talking. Her account was straightforward and brisk, very businesslike.

  “All in all,” she concluded, “it was pretty much a washout. A lot of supposition but no hard facts.”

  Tallman scratched his jaw thoughtfully. “What was your immediate reaction, Viv? Did you believe him—or not?”

  “Well, yes.” Vivian blinked with surprise. “I hadn’t really stopped to think about it. But looking back, I suppose I did believe him. Why do you ask?”

  “I trust your judgment,” Tallman said simply. “If you’re convinced there’s no collusion between McQuade and Sloan, then we’ll lay that theory to rest. Any second thoughts?”

  “No,” Vivian said calmly. “Ambrose Sloan has nothing but contempt for McQuade. I’m sure of that much, anyway.”

  “Good girl.” Tallman hesitated, considering. “It occurs to me that your night wasn’t entirely wasted. Sloan told us a great deal more than meets the eye.”

  “Oh?” Vivian sounded doubtful. “Such as?”

  “For one thing, he confirmed our own suspicions. He branded McQuade a hypocrite and accused him of playing an underhanded game. Considering that he’s worked with McQuade, it’s a telling argument. I tend to buy it.”

  “So do I,” Vivian conceded. “What else?”

  Tallman flicked the ash off his cigar. “I’m intrigued by a comment Sloan made. The one about ‘tilting at windmills.’ In so many words, he was saying the fight with the Southern Pacific was hopeless from the outset. I think it’s safe to conclude he probably told McQuade the same thing. See my point?”

  “Of course!” Vivian stiffened, sat erect. “If McQuade knew that from the beginning, then he’s just been stringing the farmers along. All his fire and brimstone preaching was a lie from start to finish. No wonder Sloan called him a hypocrite!”

  “Exactly,” Tallman affirmed. “So we come again to the crux of the matter—McQuade’s motive.”

  Vivian eyed him quizzically. “Why do I get the feeling you know something I don’t?”

  Tallman laughed a short, mirthless laugh. “The Major took a little sojourn down to Bakersfield yesterday. I slipped into a disguise of my own . . . and tailed him.”

  Vivian laughed and clapped her hands together like an exuberant child. “So tell me what happened. Where’d he lead you?”

  “To the Kern County Land and Development Company.”

  “The what?”

  “Suppose we back up and let me explain.”

  Tallman covered his surveillance of McQuade quickly and without elaboration. His remarks centered mostly on McQuade’s determined effort to move unobserved through downtown Bakersfield. The League leader’s secretive manner, he noted, spoke for itself. There was something very fishy about the visit to the Kern County Land and Development Company.

  “In short,” he observed, “a man with legitimate business doesn’t worry about a tail. So we have to ask ourselves the obvious question. Why was McQuade trying to hide his tracks?”

  “I’ll hazard a guess,” Vivian said cautiously. “Your investigation today established that he makes these trips once a month. Wouldn’t it follow that his dealings with the land company began before he moved to Hanford?”

  “Very good!” Tallman nodded gravely. “And by following that line of reasoning, we come to the heart of the matter. Is it possible the land company sent McQuade to Hanford?”

  “Wait a minute!” Vivian’s gaze sharpened. “Are you saying he was sent here to create trouble? I suppose it’s possible, but where’s the logic? What value would the farms here have to a land company in Bakersfield? The Southern Pacific already holds prior claim—by court order.”

  “Quite right,” Tallman said, almost dreamily. “Which leads me to believe the farmers here are merely pawns in a larger game. Something no one—not even the railroad—would suspect.”

  Vivian considered the thought. “You leapfrogged way too far for me. What larger game?”

  Tallman threw up his hands and rolled his eyes. “We won’t know that until we’ve done some spade work on the land company. So we’re going to shift the operation to Bakersfield.”

  “Won’t that tip our hand to McQuade?”

  Quickly, Tallman outlined the plan he’d formulated. The time factor was critical, and he readily admitted there was no margin for error. Vivian listened, thoroughly engrossed by the audacity of the scheme. When he finished, there was a devilish glint in her eye. She laughed and tossed her head.

  “I love it! How fast do we move?”

  “Immediately,” Tallman said briskly. “You ride on back to Fresno—”

  “Tonight?” Vivian wailed. “Have a heart, lover. All work and no play makes Viv a dull girl.”

  “You’ll live,” Tallman said with a wry chuckle. “Keep it warm till we get to Bakersfield. We’ll make up for lost time then.”

  Tallman stood and crossed the room. He lifted her out of her chair, embracing her with a crushing bear hug and a long kiss. Then he jammed her stetson on her head and hustled her out the door. The hallway was deserted and he led her swiftly down the rear firestairs. She was still sulking as they moved along the darkened alley. On the street, they walked straight to the hitch-rack. Vivian’s horse snorted and eyed them warily.

  “Fitzhugh!”

  A rough shout stopped them cold. Tallman saw Floyd Hull, the farmer he’d whipped, step off the boardwalk fronting the saloon. Hull lurched toward them, clearly tanked to the gills and spoiling for trouble. Tallman scanned the street and spotted no one else about. He muttered a warning to Vivian and she tugged her hat lower. Then Hull halted before them with a look of drunken rage.

  “Awright, put your dukes up, hotshot! I’m gonna clean your plow!”

  “You’re crocked,” Tallman said reasonably. “Go sleep it off and try me when you’re sober.”

  “Son of a bitch!” Hull snarled. “I ain’t waitin’ no longer. You’re due to get your ashes hauled and tonight’s the night.”

  “Tell you what,” Tallman said, stalling him. “Let me see my friend off and then we’ll talk about it. Fair enough?”

  Hull laughed a wild, braying laugh. “Whyn’t I just stomp the both of you? C’mon, let ’er rip, shorty!”

  Hull shoved Vivian and she slammed up against the horse. Her hat was dislodged and auburn curls spilled down over her forehead. In the glow of the streetlamp, her features were distinct, her beauty all too apparent. She tried to recover, but Hull was gawking at her now. His expression was one of stupid disbelief.

  “Gawddamn, you ain’t no—”

  Tallman’s fist lashed out in a shadowy blur. The blow caught Hull flush on the jaw and his knees buckled. Tallman spun him around and delivered a short, chopping right cross to the chin. Hull staggered backwards and went down on the seat of his pants in the
alleyway. He shook off the effect of the punch, eyes glazed with hatred, and let go a murderous oath. His hand dipped inside his coat and came out with a bulldog revolver.

  Vivian shot him. Her tiny derringer was extended arm’s length and the sharp report split the night. Hull’s left eye disappeared, almost as though he had winked. The slug blew out the back of his skull in a misty halo of brains and bone matter. His bowels voided in death and he slumped to the ground without a sound. His hand still clutched the revolver.

  Without a word, Tallman lifted her bodily and hoisted her into the saddle. Vivian tucked the derringer into her coat pocket as he handed her the reins and backed the horse into the street. Stepping aside, he swatted the horse across the rump and Vivian bent low over the saddlehorn. She thundered northward out of town as a knot of men burst through the saloon door. Tallman gestured violently at the fleeing horse and rider. Then he turned toward the men with a leather-lunged cry of alarm.

  “After him! Somebody stop him! He murdered Floyd Hull!”

  TWELVE

  Acrowd of townspeople stood bunched together outside the marshal’s office. Word of the killing had spread like wildfire, and as dawn lighted the horizon the crowd steadily increased in size. There was a ghoulish aspect to their vigil, mingled with dark mutterings. No official announcement had yet cleared Alex Fitzhugh of murder.

  The door of the jailhouse was locked and barred. Marshal Daniel Garland stood with his hands clasped behind his back. He was a man of immense girth, with sad eyes and graying hair and a soup-strainer mustache. A Colt Peacemaker was bucked on his hip, cinched tight under a belly that spilled over his gunbelt. He was staring out the window with a troubled expression, his gaze fixed on the crowd.

  Tallman was seated in a chair before the desk. His Colt 41 was centered perfectly on the desktop, and beside it five cartridges were aligned like soldiers on parade. Last night, with Floyd Hull not yet cold, the marshal had been summoned to the scene of the shooting. After hearing Tallman’s story, he’d ordered the body removed by the undertaker. Then he had disarmed Tallman and marched him off to the city jail.