Crossfire

by Matt Braun

  FIVE DAYS TO KILL A MAN

  She scrambled at her clothing, coming up with her derringer.

  “Vivian!” Tallman shouted as he reached for the small gun she pointed at Traber. He firmly grasped her hand and she moved the gun away. “We need him alive.”

  Vivian loosened her grip and let Tallman take the derringer. She wanted to encircle him with her arms and cry for two hours, but she bit her lip and held strong.

  “Jesus Christ, Viv,” Tallman said as he looked down. Her whole body from her knees to her face was criss-crossed with red welts. Catching his eyes, she looked down too. She cradled her breast and examined the two small burns.

  “I’m sorry, Viv,” Tallman said.

  “I’ll heal. Just be glad you got here when you did. He was about to get rough.”

  “Traber,” Tallman said as he looked toward the man, and Vivian began to dress. “You better pray you hang. Cause if you don’t, I’m going to show you how it can take five days to kill a man.”

  ST. MARTIN’S PAPERBACKS TITLES

  BY MATT BRAUN

  Black Fox

  Outlaw Kingdom

  Lords of the Land

  Cimarron Jordan

  Bloody Hand

  Noble Outlaw

  Texas Empire

  The Savage Land

  Rio Hondo

  The Gamblers

  Doc Holliday

  You Know My Name

  The Brannocks

  The Last Stand

  Rio Grande

  Gentleman Rogue

  The Kincaids

  El Paso

  Indian Territory

  Bloodsport

  Shadow Killers

  Buck Colter

  Kinch Riley

  Deathwalk

  Hickok & Cody

  The Wild Ones

  Hangman’s Creek

  Jury of Six

  The Spoilers

  Manhunter

  The Warlords

  Deadwood

  The Judas Tree

  Black Gold

  The Highbinders

  Crossfire

  CROSSFIRE

  MATT BRAUN

  NOTE: If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  Previously published as Ash Tallman: Crossfire by Tom Lord (a pseudonym for Matt Braun).

  CROSSFIRE

  Copyright © 1984 by Avon Books.

  Cover photograph © Hulton Archive/Getty Images

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 84-90793

  ISBN: 0-312-99785-X

  EAN: 80312-99785-3

  Printed in the United States of America

  Avon Books edition / April 1984

  St. Martin’s Paperbacks edition / September 2004

  St. Martin’s Paperbacks are published by St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  CROSSFIRE

  ONE

  Iron rails creaked and popped as a short train, drawn by a No. 4 Baldwin, swayed and rattled toward the distant depot, leaving a trail of hot cinders and black smoke. A brassy sun floated high in the cloudless sky, its strident rays outlining the tall dark pines that carpeted the purple ridges of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. Nestled in the mile-high folds, Santa Fe, the territorial capital of New Mexico, appeared out of place as the buff-white walls of the town’s adobe buildings shimmered in waves of heat.

  As their compartment car shuddered along the steel ribbons, Ash Tallman and Vivian Valentine sat quietly, lulled by the clickety-click of steel on steel and the rhythmic sound of chugging pistons.

  “Another half hour,” Tallman noted as he stretched his long legs and yawned. “And we’ll be on our way to the hotel.”

  “Back to work,” Vivian said, frowning and pouting in jest. “I won’t have you to myself any longer.”

  Tallman raised one eyebrow and allowed a thin smile.

  Vivian liked that gesture. It somehow fit the tall and handsome Pinkerton detective. His rugged and angular features were dominated by a determined jaw and steel-gray eyes, which seemed to mirror his unique character.

  “Oh, we might get together from time to time,” Tallman added. “We’ll wrap this one up and take our good old time on the trip back to Chicago.”

  Vivian studied him for a moment, and then rose from her seat. She settled beside him on the plush, velvet-covered couch that folded out to provide narrow sleeping accommodations.

  “This is better,” she purred. “You’re right. It shouldn’t be much work to catch a few stagecoach robbers.”

  “Might not be that easy,” Tallman said as he fished a thin cheroot from his jacket pocket. “From what Allan Pinkerton told me, these highwaymen are not your garden-variety thieves. But we’ll know more before the day’s out.”

  “Hell,” Vivian sighed. “They don’t stand a chance with us.”

  Tallman’s eyes twinkled at her self-assured words. She was a spitfire, a one-of-a-kind woman who threw all convention to the wind, especially when it came to the pleasures of the forbidden fruit. Though he’d laid his eyes on her nude form many times in the past several months, he was still taken aback by the sight of her statuesque frame, full breasts, and lissome legs. She carried herself erect, in the manner of a great lady. And when she smiled, she could sap the chill from a January blizzard.

  “They probably don’t,” he said as he scratched a sulphurhead on his bootheel. “Of course,” he added, drawing on the cigar and allowing a serious tone. “They’ve killed two drivers already . . . in cold blood.”

  “The wages of sin is death,” she said, her eyes lighting up the compartment.

  Tallman shook his head. He mused that this bright and articulate woman had a never-ending supply of good humor and bawdy wit. And she seemed unaffected by life’s imponderables. Gas-bag politicians, fevered-brow Bible thumpers, hardened thieves, drunks and bums, greedy robber barons, and the mass of people living lives of quiet desperation were all, from her perspective on life, as much a part of the scheme of things as the wind, the sand, and the stars. She usually shrugged her shoulders at the bizarre. They didn’t know it then, but the days ahead would push Vivian to her limits.

  A shrill hoot from the Baldwin’s whistle signaled the end of their journey from Chicago.

  Tallman stood and stretched as the train began to slow down. “Say so long to the good life for a while,” he said as he put his palm on the compartment ceiling to steady himself against the bucking and surging of the decelerating train.

  “Nothing wrong with a little adventure. The Grim Reaper will turn us into worm food soon enough. Grab it while you can.”

  “You’ll get no argument from me,” the detective replied as he shrugged into his shoulder rig, snatched his .41 Colt New Line from the small shelf next to the seat, and stuffed it into the wet-molded leather hideout rig. “I’d have made a piss-poor hardware drummer.”

  As Vivian fixed her hair and straightened her clothing, Tallman put on his gray suit-jacket and then retrieved his dead cigar.

  “All set?” he asked as the train finally groaned to a halt.

  “Santa Fe! San . . . ta Feee!” the porter chanted as he walked the car passageway.

  On the station platform they hired a small Mexican boy to carry their bags, and then strolled toward the Plaza de Armas with the
ease of lifelong residents. Two blocks after a left on San Francisco Street they arrived at the Santo Domingo Hotel. When they stopped at the desk, the boy set down the bags and thrust his dirty hand forward. Tallman dropped four bits into the outstretched mitt and the kid made a dash for the door, hoping for another run or two.

  After Tallman signed the register and paid for one day in advance, they were shown to the room.

  “Lunch?” Tallman asked, after the desk clerk had left the room. “I know just the place, and Mr. Oldham will not get here for several hours.”

  “Lead the way, professor.”

  Tallman led Vivian to a Mexican restaurant he’d frequented on earlier trips to Santa Fe. For two hours they sampled small plates of spicy delicacies and consumed two bottles of a local white wine. During that time Tallman outlined the case, based on the scanty details he’d gotten from Allan Pinkerton the day before their departure from Chicago. Later that afternoon they were to meet with Perry Oldham, Wells Fargo division superintendent for the Arizona Territory. “It sounds to me that we’re dealing with a Judas,” Tallman went on after a sip of the fruity wine. “When something goes off this slick time after time, you have to assume inside information.”

  “Who’s to say it isn’t this Oldham?”

  “We can’t. But Pinkerton went high up in Wells Fargo for assurances.”

  “Calculated risk.”

  Tallman nodded.

  “And that’s all we have to go on?”

  “Until this afternoon,” he said as he raised his glass.

  “Perry Oldham’s my name,” the man said when Tallman opened the hotel-room door. “Are you Stephen Barlow of the Chicago Barlows?”

  “Sure am,” Tallman said as he waved the heavyset man into the room. “Did you keep an eye over your shoulder?” Tallman asked after he closed the door.

  “Yes, sir! Made damn certain I had no shadow.”

  “Ash Tallman,” the detective said as he extended his hand and offered a smile. “And this is Vivian Valentine,” he said, turning. “My partner.”

  Oldham shook Tallman’s hand with a grip that suggested that his bulk was mostly muscle and then turned and nodded toward Vivian. “Dangerous work for a woman, isn’t it?”

  “At times, Mr. Oldham,” Vivian replied. “But I’ve been able to hold my own.”

  “Well I surely do hope you’ll watch your step on this case. These bastards have killed four of my best men, two of them personal friends.”

  “Four?” Tallman injected. “Pinkerton told us two.”

  “They killed a guard and a driver the day before last, just outside Elroy. Our noon stage to Gila Bend and Yuma. We lost thirty-two thousand in gold and silver.” The Wells Fargo man got red-faced at the mention of it. “So, like I said, watch your step.”

  “Let’s sit down and cover the details,” Tallman suggested, feeling less concerned about the likelihood that Oldham was, himself, the traitor. The silent rage that had glowed in his cheeks was real. “Whiskey? I had them send up a bottle of the good stuff,” Tallman asked, pointing to a fresh bottle of Bull’s Head Sourmash.

  “I was hopin’ you’d ask, Mr. Tallman. All that dust left a lizard in my throat.”

  “Hang your coat and lid, and I’ll pour.”

  “Let me get it, Mr. Oldham,” Vivian insisted as the Wells Fargo superintendent took off his coat and bowler, revealing a small sidearm sheathed in leather.

  When they’d settled in with their drinks, Oldham began his tale, providing dates, places, and a brief description of each holdup. To date, he explained, they’d lost $280,000. “I’ll leave my written reports so that you can go over them tonight.”

  “I’m curious, though,” Tallman said. “What about your guards and drivers? Why weren’t they able to protect the shipments?”

  “They tried, Mr. Tallman,” the beefy Oldham replied stiffly, as he slugged the last of his sourmash. “And they’re mostly dead.”

  “Sounds like inside information,” Tallman suggested. “Is there any possibility one of your local company men could be working with the gang?”

  “Everybody’s been checked and rechecked. They’re friends and long-time employees,” Oldham insisted as he twirled the end of his black handlebar mustache. Then he released a windy sigh. “But everything points to it. We’ve tried phantom shipments, rerouted shipments, and hidden shipments. They only hit when there’s gold, and they always know right where it is.”

  “Seems pretty clear, Mr. Oldham,” Vivian added. “You’ve got a fox in the chicken coop.”

  “Whatever I’ve got, I’ve got to have these depredations against Wells Fargo stopped.”

  Vivian poured more whiskey for the two men without asking whether or not they wanted a refill.

  “Any suspects?” Tallman asked.

  “Nothing solid, but we have our own Wells Fargo detectives nosing around Tucson and the outlying towns. One of them, Bert Hollins, picked up on a hard case named Doc Stroud. He’s a scarfaced bum who always has a lot of gold coin to splash around in Red Rock gaming dives and whorehouses. But that’s all Hollins has . . . that and hearsay that he holes up somewhere in the Picacho Mountains.”

  “Anything else on Stroud’s description?” Vivian asked, already assuming that she would set out after him.

  “Hollins said he figured Stroud was the type who’d shoot his own mother for two bits. Stands six feet. Muscular build and thick through the shoulders. Has a long scar on his left cheek. Red-brown hair. Hollins says you’ll spot the mean eyes first.”

  “Hollins knows about us?”

  “No. Of course not,” Oldham came back. “No one does.”

  “Let’s keep it that way,” Vivian said, her voice sounding concern. “It’s our understanding that only you are to know.”

  “You might say, Mr. Oldham, that we are placing our lives in your hands,” Tallman said, his eyes conveying the message that a slip on Oldham’s part might be fatal . . . to Oldham himself. “That’s a heavy load to haul around . . . if you get my meanin’?”

  Oldham nodded complete understanding.

  For the next hour the trio discussed further details, including how they were to stay in contact with each other. Tallman explained that he had decided to make no plans for a contact; he simply assured the Wells Fargo man that he’d hear something when there was something to tell. Then they ended their meeting with five minutes of small talk and another sourmash.

  As soon as Oldham departed, Vivian reached for the buttons on her dress and began undoing them. “I’m going to the bathhouse and take a nice long hot bath. I assume we leave in the morning.”

  “You are reading my mind.”

  “How will we approach the problem?” she asked as she tugged the dress down and began undoing the wire hooks on her corset.

  “The only thing we have is Stroud and Red Rock. So we’ll start from there,” he said, his eyes dropping to her milk-white cleavage. “We’ll go in a day apart. You’ll pose as a small-time dancehall queen who’d had a run of bad luck. I’ll play the part of a hard case on the run.”

  “Oooo, that feels good,” she said as she threw the stiff underwear on the bed and massaged her large breasts with a slow circular motion.

  Tallman’s eyes moved to her chest. He’d never met a woman with such unabashed views on the nature and purpose of the human body.

  “I gather we’ll avoid contact until we have reason to communicate,” she went on as she squirmed out of her petticoat. She looked up as she threw it on the bed.

  Tallman was feasting his eyes on Vivian’s almost-nude body.

  “I think I’m reading your mind again,” she said, vamping him with inviting lips and luminescent eyes. “Or maybe your britches,” she added as she came forward and fingered the mound growing out of his gray slacks. “Come to think of it, maybe we’d better communicate now if we’re going to be apart for a spell.”

  “Maybe.”

  With her other hand she pulled Tallman closer and pressed her soft, mo
ist lips to his, at once probing deeply into his mouth with her sinuous tongue. When the kiss ended, she began with his shirt, making a production of the disrobing while he massaged one of her rosy nipples with thumb and finger.

  “Ooo. Good,” she groaned as he twirled the hardening nipple. Her hands quickly found his belt buckle and the buttons on his fly.

  She bent lower, breaking his grasp on her brown, hard nipple. She tugged on his pants and shorts and let them fall as she went to her knees, her face next to his upright cock.

  “God, I love this,” she groaned as she took his rigid member gently in both hands and guided it so that the sensitive tip brushed lightly against both of her cheeks. Then she kissed it playfully, causing a faint sucking sound. She opened wide and took the tip into her mouth.

  Tallman let out a gusty breath as her tongue spiraled over his throbbing glans and hovered at the tip of the head. He buried his strong fingers in her auburn hair and began to churn his hips. She took him deeper with each gyration until she had all of him in her hot, moist mouth. Making odd animal sounds, she cupped his balls and squeezed with one hand as she fingered the base of his turgid shaft with the other. The tempo of his thrusts was increasing as he was becoming overpowered, with the sensation of her artful tongue and hands. Nearing the point of oblivion, he pushed her away, but she held on and sucked his meat in again to the back of her throat.

  Tallman pulled out again, hoisted her aloft, and effortlessly carried her to bed. He quickly removed her panties, garter, and stockings, then kneaded the silken flesh of her inner thighs and gazed at the dew on the auburn hair at the edges of her womanhood. Caught up in the moment, he lowered himself between her legs, closed his lips on the pink petals and worked his tongue, darting in and out of the wet slit.

  Vivian’s hips shuddered. In moments her squeals rose to an eerie shriek as she writhed and grabbed at the fresh sheets. When her juices began streaming, Tallman suddenly rose, positioned her legs over his shoulders and drove his manhood deep into the pink opening. After his quick penetration, he pulled back slowly. Together they moved in a rocking motion, straining their sensitized bodies in perfect union.