by Matt Braun
Shortly after the supper hour, men began streaming into the Palace. Soon it was three deep at the bar and more pushing through the door every minute. A bevy of girls circulated around the room, pausing here and there to hustle drinks. All heaving breasts and ruby-lipped smiles, they worked the crowd like sideshow carnies at top form.
Vivian was decked out in a peek-a-boo gown, bright with spangles. The dress was cut low on top and high on the bottom, and fashioned from hardly enough material to pad a crutch. Everything she had was enticingly displayed and drew appreciative stares as she drifted along the bar. Thus far, though she had concentrated on railroad men, she’d heard nothing of interest. Then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw a couple of uptown types enter the door. One was short and rotund, conservatively dressed. The other was thin and sleek, something of a dandy. She motioned to the nearest bartender.
“Who’re the swells, over by the door?”
“The fat one’s a banker, Benjamin Canby. His pal is a big shot lawyer, Ambrose Sloan.”
“Just my speed.” Vivian laughed. “I’m partial to the gentry.”
A girl appeared at Vivian’s elbow. She was busty and coarse, with a mop of blond, curly hair and freckles on her nose. She planted her hands on her hips.
“Steer clear!” she said with a feisty scowl. “Canby’s mine and I don’t like competition.”
“Okay by me,” Vivian told her. “I’ll latch on to his chum.”
“No soap,” the girl said hotly. “Where one goes, the other goes. I’ve got ’em both staked out.”
Vivian gave her a dirty look. “Why be greedy? We’ll split the tab even-steven.”
“I’m warning you—stay away or I’ll scratch your goddamn eyes out!”
“C’mon, be a sport. Share the wealth.”
“Kiss my ass and buzz off!”
Vivian laughed in her face. “You dumb bitch. Now listen close and pay attention.” She lowered her voice to a vicious whisper. “You mess with me and I’ll cut your tits off and stuff ’em up your nose. Get the idea?”
The girl’s eyes veiled with caution. She suddenly looked slow and stupid and bewildered. After a moment, she turned and walked away with a faintly stricken expression. Vivian dismissed her without another thought and sauntered toward the front of the room. Approaching the two men, she stuck out her chest and seemed to jiggle all over. Then she gave them a brilliant smile.
“Mr. Canby, Mr. Sloan.” She held out her arms. “I’m Sally Randolph. Welcome to the Palace!”
SIX
The Settlers’ League meeting was scheduled for seven o’clock. As dusk cloaked the land, wagons began trundling into Hanford. The farmers arrived three or four to a wagon, unaccompanied by women or children. Tonight was not a social affair, evidenced by the fact that the men were armed with pistols and shotguns. All of them appeared somber and somehow troubled.
Major Thomas McQuade entered the hotel a few minutes before seven. The League meetings were held in a large room normally rented out for balls and other social occasions. Tallman rose from a chair as McQuade crossed the lobby. Over drinks the night before the Major had outlined the details of the League’s protracted court battle. Tonight Tallman would be introduced to the members and allowed to attend a general planning session. McQuade would then put forth a motion that the League retain his services as a lawyer. It promised to be a busy and enlightening evening.
McQuade greeted him with a warm handshake. Standing off to one side, they conversed quietly as the farmers trooped through the lobby. A few of the men stopped by and McQuade performed introductions. The others merely nodded and proceeded on into the meeting room. The grapevine had worked overtime with word of the saloon brawl; by now, practically everyone in Kings County was aware that Floyd Hull had been soundly whipped in a dustup with the new lawyer. The general feeling was that Hull, who was something of a bully, had at last gotten his comeuppance. The incident had transformed Tallman into a celebrity of sorts, and the farmers inspected him with open curiosity as they walked past. He returned their stares with a look of genial interest.
“Good turnout,” McQuade remarked. “Your little fracas last night apparently made the rounds. Everybody wants a gander at the man who licked Floyd Hull.”
“Where is Hull?” Tallman inquired. “I thought he was a member of the League.”
“Oh, he won’t show.” McQuade laughed. “You humiliated him, and he wouldn’t make a public spectacle of himself tonight.”
“No hard feelings on my part,” Tallman said easily. “I’m willing to let bygones be bygones.”
“I suspect Floyd wouldn’t. He’s been known to hold a grudge, and he never forgets a slight. You’d do well to watch yourself whenever he’s around.”
“You think he might want a rematch?”
“Not on the up and up,” McQuade noted. “He’ll bide his time and wait till you drop your guard. Then he’ll jump you without warning and try to make quick work of it. I suggest you avoid allowing him any sort of edge.”
“I’ll keep my eyes open.”
McQuade nodded and glanced past him. “On a more pleasant note, Angela Pryor just arrived. She’s our recording secretary.”
Tallman turned toward the door and registered a quick look of surprise. Somehow he’d expected an older woman, dowdy and careworn. Angela Pryor was a blond tawny cat of a girl, with bold hazel eyes and an impudent smile. While she was no orthodox beauty, her features were delicately structured and she seemed to radiate an aura of vivacity. Her ripe breasts and firm buttocks filled her gingham dress with spectacular effect, and she moved with uncommon grace for one so well endowed. All in all, she was a stunner.
“Very attractive,” Tallman commented as she crossed the lobby. “Is her husband a member of the League?”
“No more,” McQuade said softly. “She’s a widow. Her man died last year and she took over the farm. Has to use hired help, but she’s making a go of it.”
“I wouldn’t doubt it for a moment.”
“Don’t fool yourself,” McQuade advised. “Angela doesn’t trade on her looks. She’s sharp as a tack.”
“You’ll get no argument there, Major.”
Angela Pryor halted and McQuade introduced them. She fixed Tallman with a strange, inquisitive look and their eyes locked for an instant. Something unspoken passed between them, almost as though he were reading her mind. The message he got was part invitation and part challenge. He thought it quite likely her husband had died from overexertion, probably late at night. He moved his chin in an imperceptible nod.
“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Pryor.”
“Thank you,” Angela said with an animated smile. “I must say I’ve been looking forward to it myself. Anyone who beats the tar out of Floyd Hull is worth knowing.”
Tallman brushed aside the compliment. “In the scheme of things, it was a rather minor event. The battle you folks are waging against the Southern Pacific seems to me a larger arena—and far more perilous.”
“Spoken like a true gladiator. I do believe we’ve found ourselves an attorney equal to the task. Wouldn’t you agree, Major McQuade?”
“All in good time,” McQuade replied. “Suppose we get things underway and see where it leads? Then we’ll let Mr. Fitzhugh decide for himself.”
McQuade led the way into the meeting room. Chairs had been arranged in rows, and some forty men were already seated. Up front, three chairs had been placed behind a long wooden table. After Angela Pryor and Tallman were seated, McQuade moved to the center of the table. He rapped the tabletop sharply with his knuckles.
“Meeting will come to order!”
Conversation subsided and he stood for a moment gazing out at the farmers. Then he squared himself up in a lordly stance. “We’re here to talk about the Octopus. You men are armed because the Southern Pacific is a law unto itself. None of us knows when we’ll return home to find ourselves confronted by process servers and railroad thugs. I propose we set about changing t
hat—tonight!”
A buzz of excitement swept through the crowd and McQuade quickly went on with his tirade. Tallman, though he appeared absorbed, actually listened with only half an ear. Some inner recess of his mind was separated, studying the speaker rather than the words. Major Thomas Mc-Quade was clearly accustomed to having his own way, and it seemed unlikely he would be thwarted tonight. His attitude toward the farmers was one of amiable sufferance, the hallmark of a firebrand skilled in the use of demagogy. Any lingering doubt Tallman might have had was now dispelled. The Settlers’ League was the instrument of one man, and none dared oppose him.
Tallman’s preoccupation was suddenly broken. Mc-Quade turned and leveled a finger directly at him. “Alex Fitzhugh! He’s new to town, but I don’t need to tell you boys he’s a fighter. And by God that’s what we need in our corner—a fighter!”
There was a moment of stark silence. Then one of the farmers meekly raised his hand. “What about Ambrose Sloan? You aim to fire him, Major?”
“No, I do not,” McQuade said sternly. “However, as we all know, Ambrose Sloan goes strictly by the book. He’s one of those citified, civilized, fancy-Dan lawyers. A good legal mind but no guts!”
“So what’re you aimin’ to do?”
“Here’s the way I see it,” McQuade announced. “Sloan lost the case because he wasn’t willing to fight fire with fire. The Southern Pacific should have been charged with every form of collusion known to man. But Sloan played by gentlemen’s rules—and lost—and now we’re forced to await the decision of the Supreme Court. I say we stop waiting and start fighting—now!”
“Amen to that!” someone shouted. “Where do we start, Major?”
“We start by hiring Alex Fitzhugh. We’ll appoint him co-counsel with Sloan, for the simple reason we can’t afford to dismiss the attorney of record. But Alex won’t have anything to do with Sloan or the Supreme Court. Instead, we’ll turn him loose and let him explore ways to take the fight to the Southern Pacific. Injunctions, nuisance suits, conspiracy charges—anything that hits them where it hurts. Anything that’ll make the Octopus squirm!”
Another farmer spoke out. “We’re with you till hell freezes over, Major. But I reckon we’re all wonderin’ the same thing. What’s Mr. Fitzhugh got to say for hisself? We’d like to hear his ideas.”
“Let’s ask him.” McQuade turned with an expansive gesture. “Alex, the floor’s all yours. What’s your opinion thus far?”
Tallman replied politely. “Gentlemen, I commend your spirit and everything you stand for. However, if I may be permitted to say so, you’ve got the cart before the horse.”
McQuade’s brow puckered in a frown. “Would you care to spell that out?”
“Of course,” Tallman said lightly. “Before we can talk about legal action, I need to examine the case in its entirety. Otherwise, I’d be operating totally in the dark. So what I need to hear is your version—a layman’s view—of the Southern Pacific’s misdeeds. Then I can determine how to hit them where it hurts most. Do you see my point?”
“You asked for it,” McQuade said with a graveled chuckle. “We can quote you chapter and verse without end.” He turned back to the crowd. “All right, boys, who wants the first shot?”
“I do!” A rawboned farmer with a toothy grin jumped to his feet. “I was one of the first to settle hereabouts. Hanford weren’t no more than a whistlestop when I come west. Hadn’t even built the depot—”
“No speeches, Wally,” McQuade interrupted. “Get to the point.”
“Well, anyway,” Wally Branden went on, “I bought my land fair and square. The railroad was askin’ two dollars an acre and that’s what I paid—cash money!”
Tallman raised an uncertain eyebrow. “Was there any record that money had exchanged hands?”
“Yessir, there was,” Branden said morosely. “I got a sales contract signed personal by some bigwig with the Southern Pacific. Hell, ever’ man in this room got one! Didn’t we, boys?”
There was a gruff murmur of agreement from the crowd. Tallman quieted them with an upraised palm. “One moment, gentlemen! If you obtained a valid contract, then the sale would have been judged legal and binding. What happened to convince the court otherwise?”
“A loophole!” Branden said in an aggrieved tone. “Leastways that’s what Ambrose Sloan called it. The contract read that we’d get our deeds once the railroad got title to the government land grants. Only it didn’t work that way.”
“Wally, lemme tell it!” another farmer broke in. “Mr. Fitzhugh, my name is Iver Kneutson and I’ll make it short and simple. Once the railroad got title, we was notified the price had gone up to a hundred dollars an acre. Gawd-damn piece of paper told us to pay up or vacate our farms in thirty days.”
“Sonsabitches!” Branden shouted, biting off the words. “After we’d cleared the fields and built houses and barns. All them improvements, and then they tell us to pay up or get out!”
Tallman shook his head with just the right touch of amazement. “What was your response?”
“Told ’em to go to hell!” Kneutson said. “Then we wrote our congressman and sent along a copy of the sales contract. Later, we found out he was a Southern Pacific man, bought and paid for. Next thing you know the railroad filed an eviction suit in federal district court.”
“I see.” Tallman pulled at his earlobe, thoughtful. “And that’s when you retained Ambrose Sloan—to defend you?”
“For a fact.” Kneutson shifted his quid of tobacco to the off cheek. “Only Sloan never told us the straight of it. Turned out the railroad owns the judge. A federal judge!”
Tallman looked dubious. “How can you be sure?”
“Cause we lost,” Branden croaked indignantly. “That buttermouth pissant of a judge ruled our sales contracts was invalid. He said the Southern Pacific had legal right to set a price based on fair market value of the land. Jesus Christ! There would’t’ve been no market value unless we’d settled here and built up our farms.”
“And it gets worse,” Kneutson added furiously. “The railroad’s already started advertising improved land for a hundred an acre. Which means they ain’t got no doubt about whichaway the Supreme Court’s gonna rule. So we either got to pony up or get out—lose everything!”
“The overriding factor,” McQuade pointed out, “comes down to simple mathematics. At those prices, we’re talking about sixteen thousand dollars for a quarter-section of land. None of us here could beg, borrow or steal that amount of money. The railroad knows it and the price was purposely set skyhigh. In collusion with judges and government officials, the whole affair was rigged to steal our land. To impoverish us by legal edict!”
Tallman pondered on it a moment. Their story had the ring of truth, and he read no guile in their emotional statements. Yet, even for the Southern Pacific, a conspiracy so vast and elaborate was difficult to credit. Then, too, there were the train bombings and blown bridges to consider. Honest settlers, however great the provocation, did not resort to sabotage and terror. Some essential piece of the puzzle was yet to be revealed, and only then would the whole truth emerge. He decided to stall.
“Let me suggest a plan,” he ventured. “Any legal action—whether it’s an injunction or charges of collusion—will stem from your original agreement with the Southern Pacific. Before we make a move, I’ll need to analyze one of these sales contracts. Then we can decide on the best course to follow.”
McQuade gave him a quizzical glance. “We’ve already lost too much time. Won’t that just delay matters even further?”
“Only a day or so,” Tallman temporized. “It’s vital, because everything hinges on the wording of the contract. Perhaps someone would be kind enough to provide me with a copy.”
Angela placed a hand on his arm. “I would be most happy to assist you, Mr. Fitzhugh. I have my husband’s original contract in a strongbox at home.”
Her fingers tightened in a quick squeeze, then she removed her hand. Tallman sensed she h
ad more on her mind than legal matters. He kept his tone casual.
“You’re sure it’s not too much trouble, Mrs. Pryor?”
“Goodness, no!” Angela’s eyes crinkled with a smile. “Anything for the cause, Mr. Fitzhugh.”
“Fine,” Tallman said affably. “Would sometime tomorrow be convenient?”
“Perfect,” Angela agreed. “I’ll give you directions to my place. Shall we say early afternoon?”
“By all means, Mrs. Pryor.”
McQuade fixed them with a curious look. He seemed on the verge of saying something, then appeared to change his mind. He turned back to the crowd.
“Meeting adjourned till further notice.”
SEVEN
Tallman emerged from the café. A noon-hour lull had settled over Hanford, and the town seemed somnolent beneath a warm sun. He lit a cigar and stood for a moment surveying the empty street. Then he walked toward the hotel.
The League meeting still occupied his mind. Despite himself, he was impressed by the arguments put forth by the settlers. Their outrage was genuine, seemingly grounded in the anger of men who believed themselves in the right. Far from the squatters he’d expected, they gave the appearance of law-abiding farmers, hard working and forthright. None of them looked capable of blowing a bridge or derailing a train.
Still, there was no question that acts of violence had been directed at the Southern Pacific. Which led inevitably to speculation about the leader of the Settlers’ League. Major Thomas McQuade scarcely looked the part of a farmer. His cut of dress and overbearing manner marked him as a man with only limited experience behind a plow. Nor was he the sort whose ambitions centered on a quarter-section of land and the yearly harvest. In sum and substance, he seemed an unlikely champion of common settlers. His motives would definitely stand for investigation.
Strolling along the boardwalk, Tallman told himself he’d played into luck with Angela Pryor. She struck him as a young widow with hot pants and a pronounced interest in the opposite sex. His appointment with her this afternoon would provide the perfect setting for a bit of probing. Flattery, mixed with discreet interrogation, would shed even more light on the innerworkings of the Settlers’ League. There was, moreover, every chance she might afford some insight into the motives of Major Thomas McQuade. In the capacity of recording secretary, her knowledge of the League and its leader was undoubtedly extensive. All in all, she was a valuable source of information, and one to be cultivated in every way possible. If she wanted her weeds plowed, Tallman thought it would be no great effort to oblige her. A woman with a stiff cock in her hand was generally the best of talkers. Once her legs parted all her secrets were laid bare.