The Highbinders

by Matt Braun

  A moment passed, then Tallman shrugged. “String him along somehow. All I can do is dig deeper, and that’ll take time.”

  “Where will you dig that you haven’t already dug?”

  “Frankly”—Tallman rocked his head from side to side—“I wish to hell I knew.”

  “Oh, great.” Vivian regarded him with brash impudence. “You’re some comfort in my hour of trial.”

  “Don’t make it sound like a melodrama.”

  “Why not? I’m facing a fate worse than death—tonight.”

  “Tonight?”

  “I’m having dinner with Harland and his hard-on. He insisted and I couldn’t weasel out of it. You might say we’re too well-acquainted—after two days.”

  “So we’re back to square one.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “The basics,” Tallman observed wryly. “Tonight, I start tailing Ordway.”

  A short while after ten that evening, a hansom cab halted in front of the hotel. Harlan Ordway hopped out with the randy enthusiasm of a young goat. Then he assisted Vivian down as though she were some priceless objet d’art. His grin was jack-o-lantern wide.

  Vivian took his arm and they strolled into the hotel. A bellman scampered toward the elevator as they crossed the lobby. Ordway looked proud as punch, and his chest was swelled out like a pouter pigeon. He doffed his hat and bowed her into the elevator. The door closed and the bellman rotated the control lever. The elevator lumbered upward.

  Ordway had every reason to expect a favorable conclusion to the evening. Vivian wore a velvet grown, her shoulders bare and the décolletage dipping low to reveal the vee of her breasts. He’d wined her and dined her at the town’s swankiest restaurant, and not once had their conversation touched on business matters. All evening she had flirted with him outrageously, her voice intimate and her eyes provocative. He had no doubt that tonight was his night.

  On the third floor, Ordway escorted her to the door of her suite. She removed the key from her beaded evening bag and his pulsebeat quickened. She unlocked the door and turned to face him so abruptly he was taken off guard. She went up on tiptoe and kissed him lightly on the cheek.

  “I had a marvelous time, Harland. Simply marvelous!”

  Ordway gave her a bewildered look. “Aren’t you going to invite me in for a nightcap?”

  “Naughty boy,” Vivian said with a teasing lilt. “You have more on your mind than a nightcap.”

  “I thought—” Ordway faltered, then went on lamely. “Well, after tonight, I thought we were . . . that is to say . . . the attraction was mutual.”

  “You are a goose!” Vivian cocked her head with a seductive little smile. “I’m attracted to you more than I dare let myself admit.”

  “I don’t understand.” Ordway looked abjectly uncomfortable. “We’re both adults and—”

  “Hush, now!” Vivian eyes shone with a clear virginal light. “All in good time, Harlan. Don’t rush me and spoil it . . . pretty please?”

  Ordway appeared on the verge of saying something, but evidently changed is mind. Vivian waited, watching him with a look of coquettish amusement. Then she kissed her fingers and touched them to his lips.

  “Adieu for now . . . darling man.”

  The door closed and Ordway stood alone in the hallway. He threw up his hands in exasperation and limped toward the elevator. His balls ached like frozen stones.

  Outside the hotel, Ordway appeared indecisive. There were no cabs about and the street was empty. He finally crossed the square and stumped off toward the south side of town. His expression was vaguely disoriented.

  Tallman stepped from the doorway of a darkened store. He was somewhat puzzled by the direction Ordway had taken. The south side of town was considered the wrong side of the tracks, the sporting district. The thought occurred that Ordway was frustrated, hurting for a woman, and meant to let off steam at a local cathouse. Yet his impression of Ordway was not that of a man who consorted with whores. He followed along half a block behind.

  Ordway went directly to a saloon on the south side. Low-class and seedy, the joint was frequented by the town’s rougher element. On the street, Tallman paused and watched through a dirt-specked window. He saw a slender, shifty-eyed man move from behind the bar and greet Ordway. They exchanged a few words, and then the man signaled a second bartender and tossed his apron on the counter. His causal air of authority left little doubt that he owned the dive. He nodded to Ordway and led the way to a back room. The door opened and closed in a glare of lamplight.

  Tallman was to think some time afterward that life took funny turns. A curious blend of luck and coincidence, rather than hard-nosed detective work, had led him here tonight. He crossed the street and moved into a shadowed doorway.

  Late that night, Tallman and Vivian sat talking in her suite. He’d tailed Ordway home, after leaving the saloon, and then returned to the hotel. He was somewhat mystified by the turn of events, not at all sure what it meant. But his mood was almost euphoric.

  “One thing’s for certain,” he said with a slow grin. “Ordway wasn’t there to drown his sorrows. He was there on business.”

  “What sort of business?”

  “Lowdown and dirty,” Tallman told her. “That saloon-keeper looked like he’d cut your throat and never turn a hair. Very strange company for a man with Ordway’s spotless reputation.”

  “God, I hope you’re right,” Vivian sighed. “We’re certainly due for a break.”

  “Long overdue,” Tallman added. “But I think we’re finally on to something. Ordway wouldn’t meet with a character like that unless it was important. So important they had their heads together for over an hour.”

  “Okay, chief,” Vivian responded brightly. “Where do we go from here?”

  Tallman rocked back on the sofa with a great belly laugh. “Starting tomorrow, I’ll stick to that saloonkeeper like glue. Your job’s to diddle Ordway along and keep him occupied.”

  Vivian groaned. “His pants are on fire now. How do you suggest I cool him down?”

  “You’ll outfox him somehow.”

  “Not forever,” Vivian said fiercely. “You’d better wrap things up fast—damned fast!”

  Tallman’s features took on a distant, prophetic look. He stared off into space, silent a moment. Then a ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

  “Don’t worry, Viv. I intend to do just that.”

  FIFTEEN

  Alate afternoon sun filtered through the grimy window. The saloon appeared to be a hangout for grifters and hustlers, and those on the lower rung of the sporting crowd. The men lining the bar took their whiskey neat and amused themselves swapping dirty stories. None of them looked like they were hunting honest work.

  Tallman sat alone at a table toward the rear. His disguise was that of a grungy drifter with a taste for the sauce. He wore an oversized jacket and baggy trousers, topped off by a battered slouch hat. His face was covered by a matted beard, which was plastered on with spirit gum and gave him the look of a tumbleweed with eyes. Before him on the crude table were a shot glass and a bottle of rotgut. A roll-your-own dangled from his lip, trailing wisps of smoke.

  Earlier, not long after noon, Tallman had wandered into the saloon. His unsavory appearance fitted perfectly with the dive’s clientele, and he was soon lost in the crowd. He staked out one of the back tables and ordered a bottle, paying from a crumpled wad of greenbacks. He spoke to no one, playing the part of a surly loner, and no one spoke to him. He evidenced no interest in the conversation or dirty stories, and seldom looked up from the table. His attention seemed fixed on the bottle, and some inward dialogue known only to himself. Yet his eyes were alert, and watchful.

  By eavesdropping, he’d learned that the saloon-keeper’s name was Jack Porter. Upon closer examination, he had also discovered that Porter seemed born to the role of a cutthroat. The shifty eyes were sunk deep within a gargoyle face, complete with hooked nose and a downturned mouth. The saloon crowd treated h
im with wary respect, though he was slender and hardly more than average height. Considering the rough nature of the crowd, it was a telling comment. Jack Porter was apparently an ugly customer when crossed, perhaps a stone-cold killer. Quite clearly, no one crossed him in his own joint.

  Toward sundown, Tallman got the break he’d waited for all afternoon. The door swung open and a thick-shouldered bruiser entered the saloon. He was swarthy, with splayed cheekbones and sleek, glistening hair. He wore rough work clothes and mule-eared boots; the bulge of a pistol was obvious beneath his coat. He walked to the rear of the bar and stopped, waiting with a sort of brutish patience. Porter gave the other bartender the high sign and they huddled in a brief conversation. Then the saloonkeeper untied his apron and moved along the counter. He stepped past the end of the bar and nodded to the bruiser.

  “Cobb.”

  “Hullo, Jack.”

  “You set to go?”

  “I reckon I am.”

  Tallman was within earshot, and instantly on edge. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Porter and Cobb disappear into the back room. A sudden impulse told him it was time to move. He downed his drink, then hitched back his chair and walked from the saloon. Outside, he crossed the street to a deserted alleyway. There he stripped off the beard and tossed it into a trash barrel. He was still rubbing spirit gum off his face when Porter and Cobb emerged from an alley beside the saloon. Both men carried heavy suitcases, and they turned west onto a sidestreet. He tailed them from some distance behind.

  A short walk brought them to the train depot. Tallman waited outside while the men purchased tickets. When they went through the door to the platform, he entered and paid the fare to San Francisco. Whatever their destination, the ticket covered him to the end of the line. He hung around inside, leery of being spotted even though he’d removed the beard. Presently, the evening north bound arrived and the two men, along with several other passengers, boarded the coaches. He delayed until the very last moment and then hurried across the platform.

  He jumped aboard as the train pulled out of Bakers-field.

  Sometime after midnight the train slowed outside Fresno. Porter and Cobb collected their bags from the overhead rack and walked to the rear of the car. A few moments later the coaches screeched to a halt in front of the station house.

  Tallman was slumped down in a seat beside the window. He waited, watching from beneath the brim of his slouch hat, until they rounded the corner of the depot. Then, as though galvanized, he bounded from his seat and ran for the door. Outside, he moved swiftly to the end of the platform and peeked around the corner. Porter and Cobb were ambling along the sidewalk with no apparent haste. Their general direction was toward the uptown business district.

  So far, Tallman was at a loss to explain their movements. He hadn’t the vaguest notion of where they were headed and even less idea as to why they had detrained in Fresno. To all appearances, they were a couple of weary travelers off in search of a hotel room for the night. Yet some visceral instinct told him their trip was no spur of the moment thing. All he’d seen, and the little he had overheard in the saloon, convinced him the two men were here for a purpose. He thought they’d been ordered here by Harlan Ordway.

  A block from the business district, Porter and Cobb turned on to a sidestreet. When Tallman reached the corner and took a quick look, the men had vanished. He increased his stride, checking the doorways of warehouses and commercial buildings as he went along. Halfway down the block, he paused at the mouth of an alley and cautiously inched his head around the corner of a building. He saw Porter and Cobb emerge on the next street over, briefly silhouetted against the light from a lamppost. Then they wheeled left and disappeared from view.

  Tallman was bewildered by their erratic behavior. But he quickly developed a grudging admiration for their technique. Over the next ten minutes, the men played a very skillful game of cat and mouse. The path they followed was filled with twists and turns, dodging into alleys and rushing along sidestreets, as though wending their way through a maze. Yet, despite their random movements, it slowly became apparent they were doubling back. For every false turn, there was another shift that led southwest, toward the outskirts of town. The chase ended at the Southern Pacific railway yards.

  A pale sickle moon dimly lighted the sky. Visible in the spectral glow was a labyrinth of tracks and switching-gates. Spread out over several acres, the yards were a holding area for railway rolling stock. Line upon line of boxcars, flatbeds and passenger coaches stood like ghostly columns in the still night. There was little activity, for the hour was late and the locomotives used to stage trains generally went into operation shortly before dawn. Across the way, there was a flicker of lantern light as the watchman made his rounds. Otherwise the yards lay cloaked in eerie darkness.

  Hidden in the shadows of a warehouse, Tallman waited at the edge of the yards. A sudden foreboding crept over him as he watched Porter and Cobb cross a stretch of open tracks. He was no longer in doubt as to the purpose of their trip, and the contents of their suitcases abruptly ceased to be a mystery. The moon went behind a cloud and he lost sight of them for a moment. Then the light reappeared and he spotted their dim figures, apparitions in the gloom. Quietly, moving with great stealth, they slipped behind a row of flatbed cars.

  Somewhat unsettled, Tallman swiftly considered the options. His first instinct was to go after them and stop them, somehow abort their mission. Yet he suppressed the urge and forced himself to think it through. Stalking men at night was tricky business. Sounds were magnified, and even pale moonlight increased the odds of being spotted. He might spook the men and end up in a footchase. Once they dropped the suitcases and ran, it would be his word against theirs, with no solid proof of criminal intent. Nor would there be any practical means of linking them to Harlan Ordway. All of which brought him to the only remaining option. However destructive, Porter and Cobb must be allowed to complete their night’s work. The idea was repugnant, but he willed himself to let it happen. He edged deeper into the shadows, and waited.

  Several minutes later a southbound freight train loomed out of the dark. The engine’s headlamp played over the tracks as the train rolled slowly through the yards. In the distance, Tallman saw a flare of matches behind the row of parked flatbeds. Then, almost simultaneously, two explosive fuses sputtered to life between the flatbeds and a nearby row of passenger coaches. Porter and Cobb suddenly materialized out of the dark and took off running across the tracks. Their timing was flawless, coordinated perfectly with the freight train moving through Fresno. Side by side, they approached the train and swung themselves through the open door of a boxcar. The caboose trundled past the yards a moment later.

  Tallman stepped out of the shadows and sprinted hard. He pulled abreast of the caboose, gauging his stride, and hopped aboard. From the steps, he moved onto the rear platform and mounted the steel ladder which led to the roof. Once on top, he took a moment to get a feel for the rocking motion of the train. Then, with some sense of balance, he walked forward as the caboose cleared the outskirts of town. He leaped from car to car, hurrying now as the train began to pick up speed. On his fourth leap, he landed on the roof of the empty boxcar. He went belly down and crawled toward the open door.

  The sky was suddenly lighted by an earsplitting blast. The force of the explosion instantly transformed the railway yards into a tangled mass of steel and wood. A towering ball of fire leaped skyward and the concussion shook the earth. All the rolling stock within a hundred yards of the blast simply disintegrated, littering the ground with charred and mangled wreckage. Flames licked through the ruins, jumping from car to car, and within seconds the railway yards were enveloped in a raging holocaust. As though some diabolic force had scorched the land, there was nothing left but a smoldering pyre of debris. A billowing cloud of smoke rose from the devastation, blotting out the moon.

  Tallman lay flattened out on the roof of the boxcar. He stared at the distant flames, stunned by the cyclonic force
of the explosion. A fleeting thought passed through his mind, and he concluded that some combination of nitro and dynamite had been used in the bombing. Then he heard laughter and shouts from inside the boxcar, and realized the bombers were congratulating one another on a job well done. Their whopping jerked him out of his daze and reminded him that his night’s work was far from complete. He wormed to the other side of the boxcar and found a handhold on the roof. Feet first, he lowered himself over the edge and swung through the open door. He landed on his knees and rolled, drawing the Colt.

  “Don’t move!” he ordered, rising to one knee. “I want you alive!”

  Porter and Cobb were framed in the opposite doorway, their backs to him. A split second elapsed, then both men pulled their guns and spun around. Porter was a hair faster, and Tallman shot him above the belt buckle. He stumbled sideways, clutching at his gut, then keeled over and fell sprawled out on the floor. Cobb got off a hurried snap-shot, which thunked into the far wall. Arm extended, Tallman triggered three blasts in rapid succession. The impact of the slugs drove Cobb backwards through the open door. His hands clawed at empty air and he hung suspended a moment in space. The train rushed past and he slipped from view.

  Tallman stood and walked forward. He stopped and kicked Porter’s gun aside. Then he went down on one knee, the Colt dangling loosely from his hand. Porter’s arms were wrapped around his stomach and his eyes were glazed with pain. He searched Tallman’s face with a glassy stare.

  “You a railroad dick?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “No . . . guess not.”

  “Listen close, Porter.” Tallman’s voice was edged. “How would you like to live?”

  Porter blinked, swallowed hard. “Where’d you get my name?”

  “You’re not listening,” Tallman said flatly. “You’ve got a choice between the boneyard and living to a ripe old age. Which will it be?”

  “I—” Porter’s face twisted in a grimace. “I dunno what you’re talkin’ about.”