The Highbinders

by Matt Braun

  “I’ll worry about him tomorrow.”

  Vivian got a sexy look in her eyes. He laughed and scooped her up in his arms and carried her to bed. Soon they were naked, and she shed her ladylike airs with the blue serge suit. All thought of tomorrow was suspended the moment they joined.

  Neither of them heard the courthouse clock strike four.

  Tallman emerged from the hotel around eleven. A bright morning sun blazed down on the square and the sidewalks were crowded with shoppers. He crossed the street and mounted the steps to the courthouse. Inside, he proceeded along a central corridor to the county clerk’s office. He passed himself off as a land speculator and slipped the county clerk a swift fifty dollars. Several minutes later he was seated in the storage room and spread out before him was a musty ledger. He began reading.

  The ledger was a record of all land sales in Kern County over the past year. Tallman reasoned that the court battle with the Southern Pacific had begun last year, and therefore any connection to Harlan Ordway’s land company would have occurred within the same time span. He had no idea what form the connection might take; whether or not it even existed was a matter of pure conjecture. Yet he was no great believer in coincidence, and he was spurred on by the thought of McQuade’s trip to Bakers-field. His search now was for the connecting thread.

  Line by line, Tallman went through the ledger. He paused only when he found an entry dealing with the Kern County Land & Development Company and then jotted down the particulars of every purchase and sale on a notepad. The process was tedious and time consuming, for recorded there were location and sales price, title search and survey lines, and the date of transfer. By the number of entries, it soon became obvious that Ordway’s company monopolized land sales in Kern County. The amount of money involved was staggering, totaling upwards of two million dollars in one year alone. Harlan Ordway was clearly no piker.

  Whatever Tallman expected to find, he was somewhat puzzled by what he finally uncovered. A large map of Kern County was tacked to the storage room wall. By comparing entries in the ledger to grids on the map, he was able to determine the exact location of each purchase and sale. The transactions covered the compass, spread throughout the whole of Kern County. Ever so slowly, however, a pattern began to take shape. Ordway’s company had bought a great deal of land and resold it for a handsome profit. Yet, as verified by the transfer dates, abutting parcels of land had been systematically purchased along a strip located in the southeastern quadrant of the county. And once purchased, none of these parcels had been resold. The company now owned a corridor of land, plainly obvious on the map, stretching southeastward on a beeline from Bakers-field. The land was in the opposite direction from Los Angeles and other populous areas, and clearly had no connection with the Southern Pacific railway line. All of which left Tallman scratching his head.

  Why would Harlan Ordway methodically buy and hold land running due southeast? A strip of land that seemingly went nowhere.

  On the stroke of one, Vivian strolled out of the hotel. She wore an ivory gown of tucked linen, with vermillion lacevelvet trim across the bodice and shoulders. She carried a dainty parasol and atop her head was a bowed straw hat ablaze with roses. She looked ravishing.

  Heads craned as she snapped open her parasol and walked toward the northeast corner of the square. Several men tipped their hats and women stared daggers as she passed by at a leisurely pace. Oblivious to it all, she turned the corner onto a side street. Halfway down the block she paused and made a small production of closing her parasol. Then she entered the Kern County Land & Development Company.

  In the outer office, a girl seated at a reception desk gave her an envious once-over. Vivian tucked the parasol under her arm and smiled graciously.

  “Good afternoon. I would like to speak with Mr. Harlan Ordway.”

  “May I tell him who’s calling?”

  “Mrs. Varina Thorn.”

  “One moment.”

  The girl rapped lightly on the door of a private office and entered. A few seconds passed, then the door opened and she reappeared. She stood aside and gestured with a sweeping motion.

  “Won’t you come this way, Mrs. Thorn?”

  Harlan Ordway rose from behind his desk as Vivian moved through the door. He was handsome, though somewhat heavyset, with prominent cheekbones and a mane of dark hair. Vivian had the immediate impression of a man with hard eyes and a winning smile, someone at once impenetrable and cunning. He offered her a chair and resumed his seat.

  “How may I help you, Mrs. Thorn?”

  Vivian placed her hands demurely in her lap, knees together. “I wish to make some investments, Mr. Ordway. I understand your firm deals exclusively in land.”

  “I see.” Ordway’s voice was bland as butter. “Will it be a coventure . . . with Mr. Thorn?”

  “I fear not,” Vivian said with a melancholy smile. “I am recently widowed, Mr. Ordway. My husband passed away early last month.”

  “A shame,” Ordway intoned. “Allow me to offer my condolences.”

  “You’re very kind.”

  Ordway modestly dismissed it with a wave of his hand. “Are you a resident of Kern County, Mrs. Thorn?

  “Not yet,” Vivian remarked. “However, I plan to move here after settling my affairs in San Francisco.”

  “Do you?” Ordway’s smile was cryptic. “May I ask why you chose Bakersfield?”

  “San Francisco is too—” Vivian lifted one hand in a fluttering gesture. “Oh, how shall I say it? San Francisco is too fast, Mr. Ordway. A widow finds herself at the mercy of unscrupulous charlatans. I prefer to invest in a more bucolic atmosphere.”

  “Very wise.” Ordway fixed her with an eloquent look. “What size investment were you considering?”

  “To start,” Vivian said matter-of-factly, “I think something on the order of fifty thousand dollars. Depending on the return, I might consider doubling that at some later time.”

  “A substantial sum!” Ordway beamed a fraudulent smile. “I daresay Mr. Thorn left a sizable estate?”

  “Roger was a dear, sweet man.” Vivian smiled disarmingly. “Of course, a woman in my position must exercise caution. I wouldn’t dream of investing without first inspecting the land. Please don’t be offended, Mr. Ordway. It’s simply that I fell so vulnerable . . . without Roger.”

  Ordway wasn’t at all offended. “I commend your caution, Mrs. Thorn. In fact, I will personally attend to your investment program myself. Suppose we have a look at some land parcels tomorrow. Would that be convenient?”

  “Tomorrow would be perfect, Mr. Ordway.”

  “Excellent!” Ordway’s gaze turned bold, openly suggestive. “Perhaps you would have dinner with me tonight, Mrs. Thorn? I’d be very pleased to show you around our fair city.”

  “I . . .” Vivian hesitated, her eyes flirtatious. “Ask me another time, Mr. Ordway. After we’re better . . . acquainted.”

  “I’ll do that very thing!”

  “Until tomorrow, then.” Vivian stood. “Shall we say tenish or so? I’m never at my best early in the morning.”

  “Consider me at your service—day or night.”

  Ordway escorted her to the door. Vivian wig-wagged her hips as she crossed the outer office and stepped outside. On the street, she opened her parasol and turned uptown. She was laughing inwardly, delighted with her performance. It was like old times, only better.

  Harlan Ordway was all chump and she’d conned him cross-eyed.

  Later, in Vivian’s suite, they swapped information. Tallman outlined what he’d unearthed at the courthouse and she reenacted the scene with Ordway. After some reflection, Tallman decided to revise the plan. While she kept Ordway occupied, he would investigate the strip of land southeast of town. When time allowed, he would also shadow Ordway and see where that led. One way or another, they were certain to establish the connection to the Southern Pacific. His conviction was stronger than ever that the link existed.

  “Sounds good,” Vivian
said, when he’d finished talking. “So when do I get my reward?”

  “What reward?”

  “Well, honestly, lover!” Vivian gave him a sassy grin. “I’m not doing this for the money, or for the greater glory of the Pinkerton Agency. Not on your tintype!”

  “What’d you have in mind?”

  “In a word”—Vivian eyed him with a hungry look—“you.”

  Tallman stripped her on the spot. Then she lay on the sofa and watched while he shucked his clothes. A pinpoint of fire danced in her eyes as he stepped out of his shorts and his shaft protruded outward like a battering ram. She reached for it, her mouth opened wide, but he caught her wrist and turned her onto her stomach. She quickly positioned herself on the sofa, her arms on the backrest and her knees planted on the cushion. She presented her rump to him and looked over her shoulder. His hand went between her legs and he found her already wet and warm. He slowly caressed the soft, moist nub within the curly swell of her mound. Her head sagged sideways and her breathing quickened.

  Holding her hips, he spread her thighs wide apart and drove his cock into her with a swift, stabbing thrust. Her eyes popped open and her head arched back and she emitted a keening wail from her throat. For a moment, the whole of his rod sunk deep inside her, their bodies were fused together, groin to buttocks. Then he leaned forward, moved his hands up the supple curve of her belly and took hold of her full, satiny breasts. He humped, pulling out and plunging in, massaging her nipples as his thrusts gained speed. Her hips moved with instinctual harmony, pumping backwards and forwards, timed with perfect rhythm to the beat of his stroke. He waited until her spine stiffened and her mouth hung open, and then, with all the power of his hard-muscled frame, he rammed inward and drove her across the threshold. His manhood throbbed and quivered and exploded with sharp, jolting eruptions. Her mouth opened in a mindless, shuddering cry.

  FOURTEEN

  Mr. Wexler?”

  “Yes.”

  “Edmund Scott.” Tallman extended his hand. “I’d appreciate some advice—on investments.”

  “By all means.”

  Jonathon Wexler was on the sundown side of fifty, overweight and balding and parsimonious by nature. As president of the First National Bank he had few equals in the Bakersfield power structure. He was pleasant, but quietly arrogant, and no one called him John. His office, which was done in lush leather and darkly paneled wood, bespoke his position in the business community. He motioned Tallman to a wingback armchair.

  “How may I be of service, Mr. Scott?”

  “I’ve inquired around,” Tallman said, lighting a long cigar. “I’m told you’re the man who knows everything about anything in Bakersfield.”

  “Hardly that,” Wexler said with a smug look. “People tend to overrate the attributes of a banker.”

  “You’re too modest, Mr. Wexler.”

  “Not at all, Mr. Scott. In my own small way, I merely serve the public interest. I believe you mentioned investments?”

  Tallman’s manner was one of bluff assurance. Yet, with some finesse, he was playing on Wexler’s high-and-mighty self-importance. He leaned forward now with a conspiratorial grin.

  “I trust our conversation will be treated with the utmost confidence.”

  “A banker,” Wexler said pompously, “approaches his work somewhat like a priest. Anything you say will never leave this office.”

  “Splendid,” Tallman said heartily. “Were my plans known, I fear it would drive prices straight through the roof.”

  Wexler scrutinized him closely. “Am I to assume you’re a speculator, Mr. Scott?”

  “I prefer to think of myself as an entrepreneur. When opportunity knocks, I sometimes reply with venture capital.”

  “Uh-huh.” Wexler looked interested. “May I ask what you consider venture capital?”

  “A quarter of a million, perhaps more.”

  Wexler coughed, clearly surprised. “Not a trifling sum, Mr. Scott. What attracted you to Bakersfield?”

  “I’m from Nevada,” Tallman explained, “where I’ve prospered in real estate and mining and other enterprises. But now I want to diversify into other areas. Something with the potential of unusually high short-term yields.”

  “And you believe Bakersfield offers such potential?”

  “Oh, my, yes!” Tallman nodded soberly. “I’ve traveled the San Joaquin Valley from north to south and Bakers-field strikes me as the town of the future. The diversity I seek is apparent everywhere, Mr. Wexler.”

  “A shrewd observation,” Wexler said unctuously. “What type of investments were you considering?”

  “There’s where I need advice.” Tallman paused, blew a plume of smoke into the air. “I’ve looked at several mining operations, both silver and borax. Which would you recommend as the most profitable?”

  “For the short term, I would definitely suggest silver.”

  “Good,” Tallman said, pleased. “That confirms my own estimate. Now, with diversity in mind, I’m also interested in a land venture. Kern County has a thriving citrus industry, and that’s one possibility. But I’m not averse to speculation on raw land. Which seems to you the better prospect?”

  “No question,” Wexler said positively. “Buy raw land and turn it over for a quick profit! Then reinvest—buy and sell—and you won’t go wrong. We’re in the midst of an agricultural boom.”

  “Where would I look for prime farm land?”

  “Practically anywhere,” Wexler replied. “Although you might do well to avoid the southeast part of the county. It’s somewhat arid, not too much in the way of natural irrigation. Otherwise, you’ll find prime land in all directions.”

  Tallman studied his cigar, thoughtful. “I’ll need someone to represent me in the land transactions. Who would you recommend as an agent?”

  “Harlan Ordway,” Wexler said without hesitation. “He owns the largest land company in Kern County.”

  “I take it he’s dependable . . . reliable?”

  “Oh, absolutely!” Wexler assured him. “I’d trust Harlan Ordway with my last nickel. He’s a man of spotless integrity. None better.”

  “How long has he been in business?”

  “Since day one.” Wexler chortled. “Long before Bakersfield was incorporated as a town.”

  Tallman saw no reason to probe further. “I’ll have my bank forward a letter of credit for a quarter million. Once you have it on deposit, we can go from there.”

  “You intend to move quickly, then?”

  “With prudent speed,” Tallman said, climbing to his feet. “I appreciate the advice, Mr. Wexler. You’ve been a great help.”

  “A privilege Mr. Scott.” Wexler shook hands warmly. “We’re always at your service.”

  “Good day.”

  On the street, Tallman crossed the square and walked toward the hotel. For all his guile, he’d conned the banker out of little information. This was his third day in Bakers-field, and he was in a foul mood. He felt he was getting nowhere fast.

  The day before he’d hired a horse and ridden southeast out of town. From the map in the county clerk’s office, he remembered the topography and the general lay of the land. By dead reckoning, he was able to locate those parcels owned by the Kern County Land & Development Company. He had followed the strip of land for some ten miles, and then stopped, completely baffled. The terrain was dusty and dry; as farmland, it was, for the immediate future, practically worthless. He’d returned to town with lots of questions, and no answers.

  Today, he had concentrated his efforts on the townspeople. He’d toured several saloons and gaming dens, passing himself off as a Johnny-come-lately land speculator. By buying drinks, and asking leading questions, he had inevitably worked the subject around to Harlan Ordway. Over the course of the day, he had compiled a fairly detailed dossier. Ordway was one of Bakersfield’s original founders, and a widely respected civic leader. He was considered honest to a fault and known to be a devoted family man. While he played around occasiona
lly, his affairs were not looked upon as a vice. He was apparently without blemish or disreputable habits.

  Tallman’s last stop of the day had been the bank. He’d learned nothing he hadn’t already known; but one remark still stuck in his mind. Wexler had discouraged him from investing in the southeastern section of the county. All of which compounded the central questions. Why would Harlan Ordway buy up mile upon mile of valueless land? It beggared explanation, and led to yet another imponderable. How was it linked to the Southern Pacific?

  Thoroughly perplexed, Tallman entered the hotel and slowly climbed the stairs. On the third floor, Vivian admitted him to her suite. For the past two days she’d toured a good part of Kern County, looking at parcels of land. Her guide was Harlan Ordway, and the experience was quickly exhausting her patience. She was in a peevish mood.

  “Honest to God!” she said, smiling wanly. “A buggy ride with him isn’t one you’re likely to forget.”

  “According to the locals,” Tallman remarked, “he’s an upstanding Christian gentleman.”

  “Oh, he’s upstanding all right.” Vivian laughed and wagged her head. “The bastard’s got a hard-on that stands up like a flag pole. He has to sit on it to hide it.”

  “Got him all hot and bothered, do you?”

  “What else?” Vivian’s eyes flashed with fierce pride. “You told me to put the whammy on him, and I’ve done just that. He’s drooling.”

  Tallman’s expression turned somber, somehow pensive. “Wish to Christ I had something to report. So far I’ve come up empty-handed . . . nothing.”

  “C’mon now!” Vivian arched one eyebrow in question. “Haven’t you got a clue? Maybe an itty-bitty hint? I need encouragement.”

  “Only what I told you,” Tallman said in a musing voice. “We know he bought worthless land, but we don’t know why. I can’t even hazard a guess.”

  “Well, do something.” Vivian looked worried. “He’s bound and determined to talk me out of my drawers. I can’t stall him much longer.”