by Matt Braun
The mayor was a sorry sight under the dim kerosene light.
“What we are doing,” Tallman broke in, “is implicating you in murder, robbery, and mail tampering. Put simply mister, you’re in deep shit.”
“Who the hell are you?” Westfall asked, his voice slightly bolder.
“Ashley Tallman. Pinkerton Agency.”
“Pinkertons!” His voice sagged with his shoulders. No criminal ever wanted to hear those words.
“Listen up, Westfall. We’ve got several agents in your operation,” he lied.
“Operation!”
“I said listen, partner. We’ve got enough on you, Traber, Jarrott, and the others to send the bunch of you dancing through the trapdoor.”
As Tallman provided the mayor with details, the politician’s chubby pink lips sagged with his jowls and heavy eyelids. While the Pinkerton deftly manipulated the mayor into thinking that all was lost, Oldham sat behind his desk glaring at Westfall.
“But you can’t take the law into your own hands. Let’s take this up with the sheriff,” Westfall whined. “He’s the law. You’re not.”
“Westfall, he’s as crooked as you.” With that, Tallman drew his Colt and put the large bore muzzle right on the tip of the mayor’s red-veined nose. “Sheriff’s not going to hear about anything. And I’m tired of wasting time with you. I’ve been short on sleep lately and I’m a might cranky. So start talking or say goodbye.”
“I’m no good to you dead!” Westfall pleaded in a quaking voice. His forehead was damp with cold sweat. “You—you—ca—can’t get away with this,” he stammered.
“It’s easy, mister,” Tallman said as he thumbed back the hammer on the Colt. “I’ll shoot you right here and now and we’ll crate you up and ship you out on the morning freighter. All compliments of Wells Fargo. Now . . . You’ve got ten seconds.”
Westfall promptly assessed Tallman’s determination and willingness to send him on his final journey to Hell. In ten minutes the hog-jowled Tucson mayor had outlined what he knew about Traber’s activities. He explained that, although he had no specific knowledge of the stage robberies, he had assumed that Traber had a hand in it. From the brief sketch given by the frightened politician, they discovered that the ring’s operations extended well beyond stage robbery and vice-district extortion. Westfall claimed to have knowledge of fraudulent contracts with the Army and Indian reservation agents and of crooked land deals.
When Westfall was done squealing on his associates, Oldham and Tallman bound the man to a chair, gagged him with a dustrag, and skidded the hulk into the closet with Harkins, the latter being no small task.
“How are you fixed for sleep?” Tallman asked Oldham. “Can you watch these two jackals tonight?”
Oldham smiled and nodded as he lifted a short-barreled twelve-gauge from behind his desk, cracked it, and dropped in two loads of buckshot.
“Shoot the bastards if you have to,” Tallman said loudly for the benefit of the duo in the closet. “They are both killers just the same as if they personally shot your guards.”
“I’d fancy an excuse to send these bums to Hell. One of them for each of Wes Herman’s nuts. Hardly a fair trade, but it would be a start!”
“I’ll be back before sunrise, Perry,” Tallman went on. “I want to brief my partner and think through a couple of details on a plan I’ve got cooking. Send your night clerk out to round up four of your best men. Have them here by six.”
Oldham nodded.
“I think we’ll send out a shipment on the nine o’clock stage that Pearl and her bunch will find very costly,” Tallman said with a wry smile as he ran his fingers through his sandy-colored hair. Then the detective seated his Stetson and headed into the chilly night air.
SIXTEEN
As Tallman made his way to the Wells Fargo office, the sky was threatening rain. Low gray scud swirled overhead, blocking any sign of the rising sun.
“Gentlemen,” Tallman said as he entered the office and found Perry Oldham and four other men milling about with coffee cups hanging from their fingers. Then a trace of a thin smile appeared on his lips. “Looks like a nice day for a funeral.”
“Damned if it ain’t,” one of the men chortled, while the others vented nervous laughter.
Oldham quickly but proudly introduced the four express guards. Two were dressed as whiskey drummers, one wore a storekeeper’s get-up, and the tallest of the bunch looked like any Wells Fargo guard or driver. “All of them capable . . . and every one of them a friend of Wes Herman.”
“I’m hopin’ we cut somebody’s nuts today,” the tallest of the bunch grunted.
“The one we’re after doesn’t have any nuts,” Tallman said as he stared at the tall guard. “The one we want has tits. And we want her alive.”
“Tits!” the guard shot back.
“Tits.” Tallman confirmed. “Her name’s Pearl Bowen. And she’s the most deadly of the bunch.”
“Was it her who gutshot Wes and took target practice on his nuts?”
Tallman gave the express guard an affirmative nod.
“Dogshit!” he wheezed.
“I gather Perry’s briefed you boys on what you’re here for,” Tallman went on in a serious tone. “That pisswillie tied up in the back room has been selling you out. I’m damn near positive that he squawked the night before last about the nine o’clock stage this morning. You were scheduled to carry thirty-one thousand in gold and silver. It’s the kind of thing they couldn’t pass up.”
Tallman continued to brief the men on what he expected of them. He finally explained that he wanted three of them to leave the Wells Fargo office as inconspicuously as possible and ride to the relay station on the outskirts of Pantano. “Just on the outside chance they got someone watching here in Tucson.”
After the men had left, Tallman told Oldham he wanted him to continue to stand watch on the mayor and the express clerk.
An hour and a half after the three riders had departed, the stage rumbled to a stop in front of the Tucson depot. The team stood quietly as the driver, the large, vocal express guard, and Tallman threw aboard five empty bags and an empty oak-and-brass strongbox.
“You ride shotgun,” Tallman said to the tall, mean-looking guard he’d held back. “I’ll go inside.”
At exactly nine, the stage pulled away with its one passenger, the driver and the guard. The air was still and the black-bottomed clouds cast an eerie darkness on the barren countryside. The high-wheel coach jolted and swayed over the rutted road as the team snorted and strained against collars, chains, and the iron hitch. Tallman pondered the likelihood of getting himself and the four express guards out alive. Pearl and her gang would have the edge, even though they had surprise on their side. He looked out the window, shook his head, and settled back in the leather seat. He wanted Pearl alive, and he knew that might be costly.
In just under two hours, the driver hauled the horses up at the Pantano way station. Inside, the stationkeeper and the three guards were just finishing fried eggs, chili, and coffee.
“See you boys made it,” Tallman said after he walked into the spartan cabin. He poured coffee into a tin cup and sat at the long wooden table just as the stationkeeper got up to go outside to change the team.
“Listen in!” he started. “Here’s how we’re going to organize this turkey shoot. You,” he said, pointing to the tall guard who’d ridden shotgun on the way from Tucson. “You’ll be on top with the driver. I’ll be inside with you three.” He paused, pointing at each one of them, allowing his eyes to caution each man about the potential danger in the ambush. “Now, get this straight. I want the woman alive. I don’t give a shit if the other three die screaming. But we need the bitch to get the higher-ups to the gallows.”
The men listened carefully, taken with Tallman’s direct and serious tone.
“Don’t any of you take any chances! Doc Stroud, Jake, and Kirk would each one shoot their own brothers for six bits. Don’t under any circumstances let one of the
se nasty belly-crawlers get the edge on you.”
Tallman slowly turned his head, again looking into the eyes of each man. “You all carrying shotguns and Colts like Perry asked?”
They nodded.
“Double-O-buck?”
Their heads bobbed again.
“We don’t know where we’ll get it. But you can bet your ass they’ll pick a spot that will make it tough on us.”
“What about the cunt?” the tall guard grunted. “Who takes her?”
“I’ll get to her,” Tallman said, as he paused to nip the end off a thin cigar. “But first, I want to explain how I expect them to hit us.”
Tallman went on with a detailed explanation of how the gang had pulled the holdup a week before. Then, after he’d given a description of Pearl, he asked the driver and the four others each to repeat what he’d said.
“Good,” he said as he scratched a match on the tabletop and lit the cheroot. “We leave in ten minutes.”
In just over an hour, they had passed Mescal without incident and started into the north edge of the Whetstone Mountains. Though the rain had held off, the air felt damp. They climbed a straight trail that Mother Nature had carved into the barren foothills. The drop-offs on the left were becoming more severe as the horses’ slow and steady trot took them east.
Tallman was becoming more at ease as he watched the men. None looked overly apprehensive or offered nervous babble. Each was quiet and keen-eyed.
But moments later, Tallman’s senses were piqued when the driver snapped the reins as they began to climb a steeper grade. The horses snorted and pulled harder, but the coach slowed. Then he heard Doc’s voice.
“Hold that team, Mister—or die!”
The driver halted as they’d planned. As before, Jake and Kirk came from behind. At once, Tallman saw Pearl up on a rock to his left, her Winchester sighted on the guard. Then Kirk opened the door.
“Hoodoo! What the—”
The twelve-gauge cradled by the guard next to Tallman exploded, sending sixteen lead balls into Kirk’s chest and face. The outlaw bucked backward in a red mist of bone and meat and thumped to the ground just as Pearl fired on the guard. The tall express guard was jolted from the seat by the impact of Pearl’s forty-four rifle slug. When he hit the ground head-first, he was dead, half his brain hanging from the gap in his skull.
The air was instantly thick with shotgun explosions, pistol fire, and the sounds of spooked horses. The men scrambled, firing as they emerged from the high-wheeled coach. One of the guards stitched three forty-five pistol slugs up Jake’s vest, each one causing the stage robber to dance backward until his legs turned to rubber, and he fell in a twisted, twitching heap.
Doc was still firing his pistol when the stage driver, struggling with the reins in his left hand, fired both barrels of his shotgun with the other hand. Most of the pellets kicked up the hardpan dirt behind Doc and to his left, but two stray lead bullets caught his left arm, spinning him to the ground.
As Doc scrambled for cover, Pearl loosed two more shots at the driver. Both missed as the stage lurched and jolted at the frantic beckon of the terror-stricken horses.
Pearl, seeing that she’d been outfoxed and outgunned, ducked and sprinted for her horse. Tallman saw her disappear and, after calling for the men to cease firing, he scrambled up the rocks toward the spot he’d last seen her. As he got to the top, he saw Doc and Pearl racing away in a full gallop. Seeing she was going to get away, Tallman took a careful bead on her horse and fired. He saw a spot of red appear on the meaty part of the horse’s shoulder, but Pearl was out of pistol range before he could shoot again. Encouraged by the fact that Pearl’s horse was hit and by the realization that Doc was trailing a bum arm, he sprinted for Jake’s dappled gray, mounted, and kicked the horse after the outlaws.
Pearl pulled up to Doc, who was squirting blood out of his lower arm. His wrist was shattered.
“You all right?” Pearl shouted over the sounds of the frantic horses.
He shook his head, his white face wrinkled with pain and fear.
They held the pace for several minutes, but Pearl’s horse slowed despite her savage kicking.
“Over there,” she shouted when she spotted a trail which led to a small ridge. She had a plan.
When they cleared the ridge, Pearl dismounted and slapped a fresh round into her Winchester. Doc grunted as he slid from his sticky saddle, stumbled, and went down on his ass.
Pearl fell prone on the crest of the ridge and aimed her rifle at the oncoming rider.
Tallman heard the whine of the slow and heavy slug as it passed. Just as he heard the rifle’s report he reined his horse left, then right, while he scanned the ground ahead. Seeing the ridge, he made a zigzag dash toward a grove of scrubby evergreens.
Doc, who had crawled over the ridge twenty feet to Pearl’s left, shouted toward the rider. “Hoodoo Dunn! You son-of-a-bitch!”
Tallman leaped from the chestnut, snatching Jake’s Winchester as he went. But he still couldn’t see the pair of stage robbers.
“Doc!” Tallman shouted, hoping to enrage the killer. “What are you doin’ up there? Pearl makin’ you eat pussy? Or is she just kickin’ you around like usual!”
“Fuck you!” Doc shouted as he popped up and fired three wild shots through the small pine trees.
Tallman leveled the Winchester on a firm branch and shouted again. “Hey Doc! Pearl told me you couldn’t get it up! That true?”
Doc popped up again, but before he could fire, Tallman’s rifle bucked and the top of Doc’s head erupted in a red and gray mist.
Then, an instant later, he caught sight of Pearl’s Stetson and rifle. Before he had time to blink a puff of gunsmoke appeared. He heard Jake’s dappled gray squeal. He turned in time to see it lurch up on its hind legs and flip on its back. The ground shook when the beautiful horse hit.
Expecting another shot, he rolled to his right, fixing his eyes on the spot where he’d seen Pearl’s hat.
“Damn,” he muttered as he heard her ride off.
SEVENTEEN
Vivian was concerned that Tallman had not returned to Tucson. It was almost eight o’clock. And it didn’t help her spirits any when she saw Judd Hall come through the casino door and walk straight toward Jarrott.
She was just scooping up dealer’s winnings when the ugly tree-stump walked straight to her table.
“Mr. Traber wants to see you,” Hall growled, his deep-set eyes dull with ignorance and meanness.
“Well, I’m working.”
“Jarrott says so!” Hall grunted, his eyes dropping to her fleshy vee. “And Mr. Traber don’t like to wait!”
Vivian looked toward Jarrott, who shrugged and then turned his back to her. Concerned that something had gone wrong with the stagecoach trap, she hesitated at first.
“Like I said, lady, Mr. Traber don’t like to wait.”
Vivian knew she could handle Traber and his oddball sex habits, but she sensed that Judd Hall was inhuman, more dangerous than a coiled diamondback. She’d soon find that she had figured him right.
Hall said nothing as he escorted her to the buckboard, and, likewise, she remained silent on the short ride to Traber’s home.
Once inside, she was somewhat relieved, because it appeared that Traber was simply planning to get his horns shaved.
“Hello, Floyd.”
“Susanna,” Traber said as he approached and put his arm around her. “Meet Cindy.”
“Cindy,” Vivian said as she nodded.
“Cindy’s a little surprise,” Traber said, as the pretty saloon girl stared at Vivian’s bosom. “She knows how to please a woman.”
“Floyd . . . I’m not much for women,” Vivian insisted, recalling the double-ended wooden penis she’d seen in his closet of horrors.
“Now, now, Susanna,” Traber said, like a schoolmaster scolding an errant student. “It won’t hurt a bit. You don’t have to do a thing but enjoy it.”
“Floyd,” Vivian protested
.
“Come with me, girls,” he said after shooting Vivian a brief but commanding eye.
Once in the bedroom, the saloon girl reached for Vivian, and started to breathe more heavily as soon as she began to unbutton Vivian’s dress. Traber undressed quickly, leaving his clothing in a heap, and began to fumble with the strange girl’s stays and buttons. Vivian noticed that Traber’s meat was limp and shriveled. While he disgusted her, she was not distressed with the other woman. Though she preferred men, she had no moral problems with sexual gratification in any form, as long as both parties were willing.
“You have nice tits, Susanna,” the girl said as she fondled them briefly.
Traber jerked Cindy’s dress, corset and petticoats down with one frantic movement. The girl’s small, hard breasts popped free, revealing large dark-brown circles and long, dark nipples.
After she’d stripped Vivian, Cindy fingered the tender slit between Vivian’s legs and lowered her head to suck hard on a nipple.
“The bed, girls,” Traber moaned, his hands sampling their fruit as they walked the five feet.
Traber pushed Vivian back onto the bed and got on himself, pulling the saloon girl into the pile. Then he greedily palmed, sucked, and fingered the two women, all the time his limp cock flopping from thigh to thigh. While Traber acted like a twelve-year-old set free at the candy counter, Vivian lay still, not knowing how to respond. Cindy was kissing her way down from Vivian’s breasts, on a path toward the auburn triangle that covered her womanhood.
Then Traber stood up, as Cindy positioned herself between Vivian’s spread legs, pushed Vivian’s thighs perpendicular to the bed, and lowered her hands to the swelling slit. Vivian shuddered, quickly becoming lost in the experience as Cindy grasped the pink petals, pushed them aside, and pushed her mouth into the moist bog, her tongue stabbing deep into the pulsating flesh. The girl’s tongue expertly snaked in and out of the opening as Vivian began a rhythmic bucking which increased in tempo as the trained tongue of the queer saloon girl thrust deeper and faster. Her eyes closed, Vivian savored the strange experience as waves of pleasure began to flood her loins. On the edge of release, she grasped the girl’s head and held her face in place and made little grunting sounds as she reached the pinnacle of her ecstasy and flooded Cindy’s face with love juice.
