The Highbinders

by Matt Braun

  For the next hour or so, the marshal had questioned the saloon crowd. All of them substantiated that a rider had indeed flogged his horse out of town. Yet no one had actually witnessed the shooting, which left only Tallman’s word as to who had fired the fatal shot. Finally, the marshal had shooed everyone out and barred the door. He’d then informed Tallman that no formal charges would be pressed. In the next breath, he had allowed that a night spent in protective custody would benefit all concerned. The dead man had friends in town, and it took only a few hotheads to turn a crowd into an ugly mob. Daniel Garland wanted no part of a lynching bee.

  For his part, Tallman considered the precaution unnecessary. His story was airtight—particularly with no eyewitnesses—and the physical evidence supported his version of the shooting. So he smoked quietly and stared off into some thoughtful distance. His mind was on Vivian, and their plan to shift the investigation to Bakersfield. By now she was in Fresno, already engaged in putting together her new disguise. She would expect him there by early evening, which was when they’d arranged to meet at the train depot. But he still had things to do and people to see before he could depart Hanford. High on the list was a credible cover story for Major McQuade. He decided it was time to part company with the marshal.

  “How much longer do you plan on holding me?”

  Garland turned from the window. “What’s your rush?”

  “No rush,” Tallman replied with a vague wave of his hand. “But as you have no doubt noted . . . it’s daylight.”

  “What I note,” Garland said grimly, “is that crowd outside. It’s not gettin’ any smaller.”

  “Perhaps they’re waiting for you to make some sort of announcement.”

  “Got any suggestions?”

  “You might inform them I’ve been cleared.”

  “Then what?”

  “Then you release me and we all get on with our business. Major McQuade’s due back in town on the noon train, and it’s important I meet with him.”

  “That a fact?” Garland motioned out the window. “Some folks in that crowd might try to stop you. Maybe you wouldn’t never make your meeting.”

  “I’ll take my chances,” Tallman said coolly. “Assuming, of course, you’re willing to return my gun.”

  “One dead man’s enough. I’d sooner let things lay a while longer.”

  “And if I insist?”

  “Don’t,” Garland said stolidly. “Just hold your water till I say otherwise. The noon train’s generally late anyway.”

  Tallman’s protest was cut short. There was a buzz of excitement outside and Garland turned to the window. His features screwed up in a tight scowl and he cursed under his breath. A moment later three hard raps sounded at the door.

  “We got new trouble,” Garland mumbled. “Our no-account sheriff just dealt himself a hand.”

  “What’s the problem?”

  “Isaac Wilcox and me don’t exactly see eye-to-eye. He’s a flunky for the Southern Pacific.”

  “No joke?”

  “Gospel fact,” Garland warned, moving toward the door. “Watch your step. He’s tricky as they come.”

  “I certainly will, Marshal.”

  Tallman’s naiveté was all pretense. He recalled the meeting with Otis Blackburn, general superintendent of the Southern Pacific. At the time, Blackburn had bluntly stated that the sheriff was a political lackey for the railroad. Apparently the Southern Pacific owned most of the courthouse crowd in Kings County. The killing of Floyd Hull suddenly took on a new and threatening dimension. Tallman cautioned himself to play it close to the vest.

  Garland unbarred the door and stepped aside. Sheriff Isaac Wilcox stormed into the office with a look of towering wrath. He whirled around as Garland once more barred the door. His tone was hard, cutting.

  “You got some gall, Garland!”

  “Don’t work yourself into a swivet, Sheriff.”

  “I got reason! There was a killing last night and I only heard about it ten minutes ago. How d’you explain that?”

  “Happened in town,” Garland said tonelessly. “Not your bailiwick.”

  “Like hell!” Wilcox roared. “Murder’s a capital offense. That makes it county business—my business.”

  “Not unless somebody prefers charges.”

  Garland crossed the room and took a seat behind his desk. The chair creaked ominously under his weight and he leaned back with his hands folded over his belly. Then he nodded toward Tallman.

  “This here’s Alex Fitzhugh. He’s the only witness to the shooting and his story suits me just fine. I don’t see no reason to hold him.”

  “I’ll decide that!” Wilcox snapped. “But not till I’ve heard it firsthand for myself.”

  Tallman steeled himself for a grilling. The sheriff clearly had no idea he was a Pinkerton, working under-cover for the railroad. His association with the Settlers’ League, insofar as Wilcox was concerned, immediately placed him in the enemy camp. He found a certain irony in the situation.

  Wilcox perched on the edge of the desk. He put his hands on his knees and gave Tallman a straight hard look. His tone was curt and inquisitorial.

  “You’re the new lawyer for the Settlers’ League?”

  “Quite so, Sheriff.”

  “I understand you hit town less’n a week ago?”

  “Correct.”

  “Fast operator, aren’t you?” Wilcox’s brow furrowed. “Or maybe McQuade imported you from somewheres?”

  “No,” Tallman said with a blank stare. “But, then, that’s hardly germane to the matter at hand. Wouldn’t you agree, Sheriff?”

  “Don’t get smart!” Wilcox paused, and the timbre of his voice changed. “Wasn’t Floyd Hull a member of the League?”

  “I fail to see the connection.”

  “You and Hull had a run-in, didn’t you?”

  “A slight altercation.” Tallman regarded him evenly. “Nothing of consequence.”

  “Oh, no?” Wilcox said scornfully. “I heard you whaled the shit outta him.”

  “Then I presume you also heard it was a case of self-defense. Hull was drunk and picked a fight.”

  “Was he drunk last night?”

  Tallman sensed a trap. “Not drunk, but not sober either. He was navigating at about half-speed.”

  “Do tell?” Wilcox said with a clenched smile. “I stopped off at the saloon on my way over here. The barkeep says Hull was drunker’n a fiddler’s bitch. How d’you explain that?”

  “I wouldn’t try.” Tallman puffed his cigar and blew a perfect smoke ring toward the ceiling. “Hull was coherent and operating under his own faculties. In barroom vernacular, he was neither sloshed nor ossified.”

  “He was drunk enough though, wasn’t he?”

  “Your meaning eludes me, Sheriff.”

  “The hell it does. Floyd Hull had a reputation for never forgetting an insult. He braced you last night and tried to even the score. Do you deny it?”

  “You aren’t serious,” Tallman said with a leer of disbelief. “Are you actually implying that I shot Hull?”

  “If not you”—Wilcox squinted querulously—“then who?”

  “I really couldn’t say.” A smile shadowed Tallman’s lips. “The man who killed him was a total stranger.”

  “Why would a stranger shoot him?”

  “The man accosted me on the street and was in the process of robbing me at gunpoint. Hull appeared out of the alley and attempted to intervene. The robber shot him dead, then jumped on a horse and galloped away. I was lucky to escape with my life.”

  “Christ on a crutch!” Wilcox’s voice rose suddenly. “Are you telling me Floyd Hull got himself killed trying to rescue you from a robber?”

  “Precisely,” Tallman said with dungeon calm. “In the end, he displayed pure and unalloyed true grit. He deserves a medal.”

  “Hogshit!” Wilcox exploded. “You’re lying through your teeth!”

  “No, he’s not,” Garland interjected. “I disarmed him
right after the shooting. His gun was fully loaded and it hadn’t been fired. Have a look for yourself.”

  Wilcox took the Colt off the desk. He smelled the muzzle and flicked a glance at the five unfired cartridges. Then he thumbed the hammer and let off the trigger. His eyes swung back to Tallman.

  “A hair-trigger,” he said accusingly. “And it’s been honed by a professional. Why would a lawyer carry a gun like that?”

  “Why not?” Tallman smiled vacantly. “We live in a violent world, Sheriff. A wise man arms himself with only the very best.”

  Wilcox’s gaze went stony. “If you’re so experienced, why’d you let the robber get away? You could’ve blasted him to ribbons while he was busy killin’ Hull.”

  “It all happened so fast,” Tallman said earnestly. “Besides, I haven’t fired a gun in anger since the war. I’m afraid I’ve lost the killer instinct.”

  “Balls,” Wilcox said with a lightning frown. “You’ve got guilt written all over you.”

  “Stop badgering him,” Garland leaned forward, elbows on the desk. “He’s clean and we both know it. So just leave it be.”

  “You’re one to talk.” Wilcox glared owlishly. “Why the hell didn’t you raise a posse and go after this phantom robber?”

  “Too dark to track,” Garland bristled. “And he wasn’t no phantom. A dozen men saw him ride out of town.”

  “Maybe so,” Wilcox replied angrily. “But that doesn’t excuse dereliction of duty. You should’ve squeezed your lardass into a saddle and gave it a try.”

  “That’s enough!” Garland slammed a meaty fist into the desktop. “Only reason you’re here is because Fitzhugh works for the League, and I’ve had it. I’d advise you to waltz out the same way you come in.”

  Wilcox’s jawline tightened. “You tryin’ to threaten me?”

  “I’ll do more’n that,” Garland said with cold menace. “You make tracks or I’ll spread the word you’ve been ordered to persecute the League’s lawyer. Folks would tend to believe it, too. Especially since they know you hocked your soul to the Southern Pacific.”

  “No truth to it!” Wilcox’s eyes blazed. “I uphold the law fair and square. You got no call to say otherwise.”

  “Quit squawkin’,” Garland said, motioning toward the door. “On your way out, tell the crowd you’ve questioned Fitzhugh and you’re satisfied he’s in the clear. Don’t forget or I’m liable to give ’em a stemwinder about you and the railroad.”

  Wilcox suddenly looked uncomfortable. He tossed the Colt on the desk with a vicious curse and rose to his feet. Then he stalked across the room and let himself out. The door rattled on its hinges.

  Tallman burst out laughing. “I owe you one, Marshal. You chopped his legs off at the knees.”

  “Forget it,” Garland said crisply. “That was between Wilcox and me. Had nothin’ to do with you.”

  “All the same, I’m in your debt.”

  “Everybody owes somebody, Mr. Fitzhugh. I reckon it’s what makes the world go ’round.”

  “A loud amen to that, Marshal!”

  The noontime regulars jammed the bar. Apart from spirits, a free lunch counter always attracted a crowd. The atmosphere today was convivial but subdued.

  Tallman and Major McQuade were seated at one of the rear tables. After meeting the noon train, Tallman had explained the events of last night. McQuade, who seemed somewhat preoccupied, had accepted his version of the killing. Some sixth sense told Tallman that McQuade’s trip had not gone well. The thought merely reinforced the urgency of shifting the investigation to Bakersfield. Yet now, sipping whiskey, Tallman was wary of the plunge. He decided to test the water.

  “I was wondering,” he ventured, “if you know the date the government passed land title to the Southern Pacific. By any chance was it brought out in court?”

  McQuade shook his head. “What’s so important about the date?”

  “I suspect it would coincide almost exactly with the date the railroad ordered your people to vacate their farms.”

  “Even so, what would that get us?”

  “Perhaps a reversal in the Supreme Court. It would represent prima facie evidence that the Southern Pacific allowed you to go on improving the land when all the while they meant to dispossess you.”

  McQuade examined the notion. “I think it’s got possibilities, Alex.”

  “Indeed it does,” Tallman said confidently. “You asked me to work out a plan and that’s the first step. Somewhere in the state capital we’ll find a record of the transfer. So I’ll have to travel to Sacramento to verify the date.”

  “When will you leave?”

  “Today,” Tallman informed him. “When I finish there, I want to nose around San Francisco a bit. Perhaps I can turn up a link between the railroad and the district court judge. If so, we could charge the Southern Pacific with conspiracy and call for a grand jury investigation. Win or lose, we’d put them on the defensive.”

  “Sounds like a longshot to me.”

  “Nothing ventured, nothing gained,” Tallman said with a laugh. “You wanted action and I aim to please.”

  McQuade gave him an odd, steadfast look. “Don’t show the bastards any mercy, Alex. Get in there and crack heads!”

  Tallman smiled into his whiskey. “I’ll do my damnedest, Major.”

  “How long will you be gone?”

  “A week, more or less.”

  “Bring me Leland Stanford’s head on a platter!”

  “Hell, I’ll even try for an apple in his mouth!”

  Some while later, Tallman boarded the afternoon train. Up the line, Vivian waited for him in Fresno. By nightfall, they would reverse course and be on their way to Bakers-field. Then, at last, the game would begin in earnest.

  A variation on the Big Con.

  THIRTEEN

  The courthouse clock tolled the hour. On the stroke of three, a hansom cab crossed the square in downtown Bakersfield. The driver reined to a halt in front of a three-story brick hotel, jumped down to the curb and opened the door.

  As Tallman stepped out of the cab his gaze lingered briefly on the deserted square, lighted by a waning moon and sparkling streetlamps. Then he turned and offered his hand to Vivian. She sniffed, ignoring his hand, and allowed the driver to assist her down. Tallman shrugged and pulled out his wallet.

  “How much do we owe you, driver?”

  “I will pay my own fare, thank you!”

  Vivian unsnapped her purse and handed the driver five dollars. She indicated no change was necessary and flounced away. The generous tip was in keeping with her regal manner and her stylish attire. She wore a tailored suit, navy blue serge with a pleated skirt and a jacket trimmed with dark gray bone buttons. Her white shirt-waist had fluffy ruffles at the throat and an exquisite array of feathers decorated her hat. She looked every inch a woman of breeding and expensive tastes.

  The driver scrambled to collect her luggage and hatbox from the top of the cab. Without a backward glance, Vivian swept into the hotel like visiting royalty. She was trailed by the driver and Tallman, who carried his own rather shopworn carpetbag. The click of her heels on the marble floor echoed throughout the dimly lit lobby. A sleepy night clerk bounded to his feet behind the desk and stared wide-eyed at the fashionably dressed lady and her entourage. Vivian nodded with a condescending smile.

  “Mrs. Varina Thorn,” she announced grandly. “I wish to engage a suite.”

  “Yes, ma’am!” The clerk darted a look at Tallman. “How long will you and Mr. Thorn be with us?”

  “This gentleman,” Vivian said with withering sarcasm, “is not Mr. Thorn. We happened to arrive on the same train, and at this hour of the morning, there was only one cab available. I regret to say we were forced to share it.”

  Tallman stepped forward. “The name’s Edmund Scott. A plain old room will do just fine for me.” He cut his eyes at Vivian and gave the clerk a slow wink. “Not that I wouldn’t prefer the suite.”

  “Now really!” Vivian thrus
t her nose into the air. “I have tolerated your boorish humor long enough. Please be so kind as to wait your turn!”

  The clerk looked embarrassed and the cab driver hastily retreated out the door. Tallman grinned and moved aside while Vivian signed the register. A porter was summoned from a back room and the clerk handed him a key.

  “Show Mrs. Thorn to suite three-oh-nine.”

  Vivian walked straight to the elevator. The porter hefted her luggage and hurried along behind. A moment later the cage door closed and Vivian stared icily into space as the elevator disappeared from view. The clerk watched after her in bemused silence. Tallman scribbled his cover name in the ledger.

  “No luck tonight,” he said, chuckling softly. “Thought I had myself a live one and then she turned snooty on me. Guess there’s no figuring women.”

  The clerk produced a key without comment. “You’re on the second floor, Mr. Scott. Would you care to wait for the elevator?”

  “No, thanks. I’ll manage on my own.”

  Tallman crossed the lobby and went up a broad staircase. On the second floor, he found his room and dropped off the carpetbag. Then he took the stairs to the third floor and paused, surveying the hallway. The porter was nowhere in sight and he walked rapidly to the door of suite 309. He knocked once.

  Vivian let him in and closed the door. She twisted the key, then turned with a dazzling smile. “Not bad, huh? How’d you like my Lady Astor act?”

  Tallman thought it had gone very well indeed. Early that evening, he’d stepped off the train in Fresno and found Vivian waiting. Within the hour, they had boarded the southbound, headed for Bakersfield. The ruse was perfectly coordinated, and neither of them had left any loose ends. Vivian would simply disappear from Fresno, written off by Ambrose Sloan and the theater owner as another vagabond saloon girl. As for Tallman, a week or so would pass before McQuade expected him back in Hanford. Thus far, everything had come off according to schedule and he anticipated no problems. Their entrance into the hotel had set the stage for the next phase of the operation.

  “Well, Lady Astor,” he said lightly, “we’re off and running. All you have to do now is vamp Harlan Ordway.”