by Matt Braun
Vivian greeted him with a kiss and a look of avid curiosity. The suite was large and handsomely appointed, and she quickly sat him down on the sofa. Then she demanded a full accounting of his clandestine mission to Bakersfield. He touched briefly on the burglary, and spread the documents before her on a coffee table. The most damaging of the lot was a batch of letters addressed to Harlan Ordway and bearing the signature of key officials of the Santa Fe Railroad. The correspondence was incontrovertible proof that Ordway had conspired to open a new transcontinental route. A survey map indicated that Bakers-field was to be the terminus for the line. There was also a contract in which the Santa Fe agreed to purchase right-of-way across Ordway’s land. The price was a thousand dollars per acre.
“So much for Ordway,” Tallman concluded. “We’ve got him by the short hairs and no way he’ll wiggle out of an indictment.”
“Where do we go from here?”
“I wired Blackburn,” Tallman said quietly. “Sheriff Wilcox and his thugs are due here any minute.”
“I see.” Vivian’s voice was barely audible. “Then you’re going to stick to Blackburn’s plan?”
“Yes and no.” Tallman kept his tone light. “I’ll figure some way to burst McQuade’s balloon. But I won’t let the settlers take the fall with him.”
“What about me?” Vivian protested. “I haven’t heard anything about my part.”
Tallman laughed indulgently. “I go, you stay. Your job’s to hole up in this suite and guard the evidence. That way I’ll know it’s safe and sound.”
Vivian lifted her chin defiantly. “Why do I have to sit on my duff while you have all the fun?”
“Because I’m still calling the shots, that’s why.”
A knock stifled her objection before it began. Tallman stuffed the documents under the sofa cushion and walked to the door. In the hallway, Sheriff Isaac Wilcox was flanked by two men. Tallman admitted them and there was a quick round of introductions. One of the men was named Luther Crow and the other was Earl Hart.
Tallman felt a chill settle over him. Crow was whipcord lean, with angular features and a cold tinsel glitter to his stare. Hart was short and chunky, with a blank expression and opaque, lusterless eyes. Both men looked tough as whang leather, and he sensed he was in the presence of assassins. Neither of them paid any attention to Vivian, and that merely heightened his concern. He motioned them to chairs and took a seat on the sofa.
“Well, Sheriff.” He smiled without warmth. “We meet under better circumstances. Last time you were bound and determined to charge me with murder.”
“Blackburn should’ve told me,” Wilcox said with a hangdog look. “I only found out you was operatin’ undercover when Crow gave me the lowdown. Helluva way to run a railroad!”
“So who’s in charge?” Tallman inquired. “Blackburn led me to believe you were handling things.”
“Oh, I am,” Wilcox said, stealing a glance at Crow. “I got it laid out pretty as you please.”
“Suppose you lay it out for me.”
Wilcox bobbed his head. “There’s two parts to it, and they’ve got to come off like clockwork. Your job’s to get all them farmers in one place at one time. Shouldn’t be too hard, what with you being their lawyer. Work up some phony excuse to call a League meetin’.”
“Do you have a specific time in mind?”
“Somewheres along about noontime.”
“Why so early?”
“That’s the other part.” Wilcox gestured at the two men. “These gents go to work the minute you’ve got them dirt-kickers together. They’re gonna take possession of Wally Branden’s farm.”
“Very clever, Sheriff.” Tallman’s expression was sphinxlike. “I create a diversion while you serve the eviction papers. Afterwards, Crow and Hart occupy the farm all nice and legal. What then?”
Wilcox gave him the fish-eye. “I don’t get your drift.”
“Let me rephrase it,” Tallman said evenly. “What purpose does it serve to evict only one farmer?”
“Not your concern.” Wilcox spoke like his jaws were wired shut. “We’re all on the railroad’s payroll and orders are orders. We do what we’re told.”
“Indeed we do.” Tallman nodded thoughtfully. “But why noontime, Sheriff? Why not sometime after dark? Wouldn’t that increase the element of surprise?”
“Looky here now—”
“Button your lip!” Crow cut him short. “You done told him all he needs to know and that’s that.”
Tallman turned his head just far enough to rivet Crow with a look. “Perhaps I should address my questions to you.”
Crow’s lips barely moved. “You got all the answers you’re gonna get.”
“Not quite.” Tallman’s gaze was pale and very direct. “Unless I’m wrong, Blackburn sent you here to provoke a showdown. That’s why you’ve rigged it to happen during daylight. You don’t want those farmers storming the Bran-den place in the dark. Correct?”
“So what?” Crow’s mouth zigzagged in a cruel grimace. “A few dead sodbusters ought to convince everybody we mean business.”
“Wrong,” Tallman said deliberately. “I won’t be a party to the death of innocent people. Especially when they’ve been tricked into breaking the law.”
Crow barked a sharp, short laugh. “Then stay the hell away, Mr. Detective. We’ll sucker ’em out to the farm and you arrange to make yourself scarce. That way you don’t get your hands dirty.”
“No,” Tallman said, steel underlying his quiet tone. “There’s to be no killing. I won’t allow it to happen.”
“Yeah?” Crow said viciously. “How do you plan to stop it?”
Tallman’s eyes hardened to slate gray. “I could refuse to call the League meeting. Then you’d have no crowd and no showdown.” He paused, and his voice dropped. “Or maybe I’ll just stop you.”
“What makes you think you could punch my ticket?”
“Try me and see.”
There was a moment of calculation while Crow studied him. Tallman stared him straight in the eye, challenging him with a look of undisguised hostility. At last, his jawline set in a scowl, the gunman shrugged.
“I’ll meet you halfway,” he said grudgingly. “If them farmers don’t start trouble, then there won’t be none. How’s that sound?”
“Try fooling me,” Tallman warned him, “and the joke’s on you. Any attempt to antagonize those farmers and I’ll personally take a hand. Understood?”
“Don’t push it,” Crow said with a corrosive glare. “I heard you the first time.”
“Well, now!” Wilcox laughed nervously and bounded to his feet. “I reckon we’re all set to go. You do your part and we’ll do ours, Mr. Tallman. A little teamwork and everybody comes out smellin’ like roses.”
Tallman showed them to the door. The three men trooped out and disappeared down the hall. When he turned back into the room, he looked abstracted, lost in thought. Vivian finally broke the silence.
“You don’t trust him, do you?”
“No,” Tallman said hollowly. “He’s been hired to kill and any pretext will do. I’d say it’s a toss-up as to whether he keeps his word.”
“But he backed off,” Vivian insisted. “Won’t he remember your threat tomorrow?”
“Crow doesn’t scare,” Tallman told her. “Cold-blooded killers always believe they’ve been invested with a sort of bullet-proof immortality. He pretended to compromise only because he needs me to call a League meeting. What happens when push comes to shove is anybody’s guess.”
“So how do you avoid bloodshed?”
“I’ll do my damnedest to hold those farmers in check.”
“Lots of luck,” Vivian said, anguish in her eyes. “And if Crow starts the trouble himself?”
“Then I’ll stop him.”
“How?”
Tallman smiled. “In Crow’s own inimitable lingo . . . I’ll punch his ticket.”
“You say that like you’re bullet proof yourself!”
> “On the contrary,” Tallman said with a broad wink. “I have no desire to shuffle off this mortal coil. Don’t be a worrywart.”
“Who, me?” Vivian deadpanned. “Why should I worry?”
“Why indeed?”
“Just do me a favor, lover.”
“Anything.”
“Shoot first and take damn good aim!”
“I thought you knew.” Tallman leaned down and kissed the vee between her breasts. “I always hit the mark.”
Vivian melted in his arms. She hugged him tightly around the neck and buried her face in his shoulder. A tear rolled down her cheek like a dewdrop on pale satin.
The Hanford hotel swarmed with farmers. Some thirty League members were already in the ballroom and more were arriving by the minute. There was a pent-up air of excitement in the room and all eyes were fixed on the speaker’s table. The murmur of conversation subsided as Major McQuade brought the meeting to order.
Tallman and Angela Pryor were seated at the table. Before dawn, once more in the guise of Alex Fitzhugh, he’d rousted McQuade out of bed. Talking fast, he had spun a wild tale about his trip to Sacramento. McQuade swallowed it whole and quickly agreed to call an emergency meeting. Messengers were dispatched, with instructions to have everyone in town by high noon. Now, on the edge of their seats, the crowd waited to hear what their lawyer had unearthed. McQuade kept his remarks short, and turned the floor over to Tallman. There was hushed silence as he rose to his feet.
“Good news!” He shook his fist in the air. “We’ve got the straight dope on the octopus—at last!”
“Whooeee!”
“Atta boy, Alex!” Wally Branden yelled. “We knew you’d do it!”
“Gawddamn, let the man talk!”
“Yeah, everybody pipe down!”
Tallman stilled them with upraised hands. “I’m sorry my trip took so long. But I think you’ll agree it was worth the wait. I now have proof positive that the land grants were transferred to the Southern Pacific only one week—one week—before you were served with eviction notices. You’ve been hoodwinked!
“Praise the Lord!” Iver Kneutson whooped. “We’re saved, boys! Saved!”
“Not only that,” Tallman went on quickly, “I’ve located an informant in San Francisco. He wants money, but he’s willing to testify that there was collusion between the railroad and the district court judge. Think of it!”
The crowd roared and Tallman beamed proudly. Everything he’d said was a pack of lies, and inside he pitied them for their gullible acceptance. Yet his greater concern was that a prolonged meeting would lead to hard questions. Timing was crucial, and he wondered how soon the sheriff would act. He put the thought aside and got on with his windy performance.
“Now here’s the way—”
A shrill scream echoed through the room. Everyone turned in unison and Wally Branden jackknifed to his feet. His wife stood framed in the doorway. Her hair was disheveled and one sleeve of her gingham dress was ripped at the shoulder. She rushed forward, her voice choked with terror.
“Wally! Oh God, Wally! They’ve taken our farm!”
Branden grabbed her by the arms. “What’re you talkin’ about, Ellie? Who’s taken the farm?”
“The railroad!” Ellie Branden wailed. “Sheriff Wilcox evicted us! Threw me and the kids out of our own house. Just like we was trash, Wally!”
For a moment, the crowd appeared thunderstruck. Then the farmers leaped from their chairs and a guttural roar reverberated through the room. McQuade silenced them with a sharp command and hurried around the speaker’s table. He halted before Ellie Branden.
“Pay attention!” he demanded. “Was Wilcox alone?”
Ellie Branden shook her head. “He’s got two men with him. Told me they represented the railroad and they’d come to repossess our farm. They’re out there right now—in my house!”
McQuade silently blessed the gods. The opportunity he’d waited for was at hand, and he seized it. His face blazing with rage, he turned on the crowd.
“You heard her! Wilcox and those railroad stooges manhandled Ellie and her children. They’ve invaded our homes and our land, evicted one of our own! Are you gonna let them get away with it?”
His goad instantly transformed the farmers from a crowd into a mob. The room shook with a collective uproar that was part fury and part bloodlust. The men surged around him, their faces contorted and their voices crying vengeance. McQuade led them storming out the door.
Tallman left Angela Pryor to look after the Branden woman. Then he hurried along in the wake of the crowd. He thought it ironic that the railroad’s move played directly into the hands of McQuade and Harlan Ordway. The farmers were mobilized and on the warpath, the very thing McQuade had been unable to accomplish over the past year. He wondered how he could stop men who were now hellbent on getting themselves killed. And somehow, as though predestined, he knew how it would end.
He would be forced to kill Luther Crow.
The day was bright as new brass, without a cloud in the sky. Sheriff Isaac Wilcox, shaded from the sun, stood on the farmhouse porch. He was flanked by Crow on one side and Hart on the other, both men cradling double-barreled shotguns in their arms. The hammers were earred back to full-cock.
McQuade and the farmers halted their wagons on the road. Climbing down, they bunched together in a tight phalanx and walked toward the house. Wally Branden and Iver Kneutson were in the front rank, matching McQuade stride for stride. Tallman eased off to one side, and took up a vantage point on the edge of the crowd. A few yards from the porch, McQuade threw up his arm. The farmers stopped in a shoulder-to-shoulder wedge.
“Wilcox!” McQuade thundered. “You’ve overstepped your bounds. Take your thugs and get the hell out of here!”
“You’re a mite confused,” Wilcox said harshly. “I’m here on official business and I’ve got a court order that says it’s legal.”
“Damn your court order!” McQuade bellowed. “We won’t be rawhided off our land by the Southern Pacific or anybody else. You’ve got ten seconds to move out or else we’ll move you!”
“Go ahead and try,” Wilcox countered. “As sheriff, I’m sworn to uphold the law. I mean to do just that, Major.”
Crow and Hart lowered the muzzles of their shotguns. The bores looked like mine shafts at close range, and the crowd froze in a stilled tableau. An oppressive sense of violence settled over the farmyard and everyone seemed to hold their breath. Tallman abruptly took a step away from the farmers and faced them with upraised palms.
“Hold it!” he called out. “The railroad wants you to use force. Open your eyes and take a look. It’s a setup, a trap! These men were sent here to kill you.”
“Stay out of it!” McQuade gave him a dirty look. “We’re here and we won’t back down!”
“Listen to me!” Tallman directed his attention to the farmers. “A piece of land isn’t worth dying over! You’ll only get yourselves—”
“Don’t shoot!”
Crow’s panicky shout rang out across the farmyard. He leveled a forefinger, pointing toward the rear of the crowd. Stunned by the outburst, everyone instinctively turned to look. The instant their eyes left him, Crow triggered both barrels on his shotgun.
A hailstorm of buckshot whistled into the crowd. Wally Branden and Iver Kneutson were knocked off their feet. Several other farmers doubled over and dropped to the ground. Of those in the front rank, only McQuade went unscathed. A single ball plucked at his sleeve and struck a farmer behind him.
All thought suspended, Tallman acted on reflex alone. His arm moved and the Colt appeared in his hand. He drew a bead on Crow and fired two quick shots. The slugs impacted beneath the breastbone and jerked the gunman off the porch like a haywire puppet. His arms flailed in a nerveless dance and the shotgun slipped from his grasp. He pitched raglike on the ground.
McQuade and the sheriff pulled their pistols almost simultaneously. A split second before either of them cleared leather, Hart let loos
e with his scattergun. Behind twin sheets of flame, the barrels vomited a double load of buckshot. The blast winnowed the ranks of the farmers like a giant scythe. Three men were hurled backward, splattered with blood and gore, and collapsed without a sound. Another farmer clutched his throat, a crimson fountain spurting through his fingers, and staggered a few steps before he slumped face down in the dirt. McQuade, by some miraculous fluke, was again untouched.
Isaac Wilcox lost his nerve in the clutch. He thumbed off a hurried snap-shot and saw it kick up a puff of dust at McQuade’s feet. His hand shook violently as he fought to align the sights for a second shot. McQuade coolly extended his pistol at arm’s length and fired. The slug splintered Wilcox’s collarbone and slammed him up against the side of the house. McQuade took deliberate aim and shot him in the heart. The sheriff slumped to his knees and toppled over like a felled tree.
A step away, Hart tossed the shotgun aside and clawed at a pistol stuck in his waistband. His eyes swung to Tallman as he brought the six-gun out and thumbed the hammer. Tallman sighted over the top of the barrel and the Colt spat twice in a staccato roar. The explosive bullets blew a gaping hole in Hart’s shirtfront. He hit the porch and somersaulted, landing with his head crooked at an odd angle. His opaque eyes stared sightlessly.
Tallman lowered the Colt. A haze of gunsmoke hung over the farmyard, and all around him was carnage and death. The bloodbath he’d tried to avoid was evident wherever he looked. He counted nine farmers down, many of them already dead and others grievously wounded. Added to the sheriff and the two gunmen, it gave the scene the look of a battlefield. Yet the stench of voided bowels, mixed with the sweet smell of blood, conjured forth another image entirely. He was reminded of a slaughterhouse. A killing ground slippery with offal.
Then, slowly, his gaze shifted to McQuade. At the very forefront of the fight, the major hadn’t suffered so much as a scratch. Tallman idly wondered if he led a charmed life. But the thought was fleeting; no man lived beyond his appointed time, McQuade included. Nor was he unkillable. Instead, this was something more on the order of a reprieve. A stay of execution.
