by Matt Braun
Tallman resolved it would be a short one.
NINETEEN
Funeral services were held next morning. By nine o’clock the street outside the Methodist church was swamped with people. All of Hanford turned out in a public show of support for the League.
The church was filled to capacity with an overflow spilling out onto the steps. Four coffins, draped with sprays of wild flowers, were aligned before the altar. The wives and children of the slain farmers were seated in pews down front. Behind them were McQuade and the remaining members of the League. Tallman sat beside Angela Pryor.
The preacher delivered a stirring eulogy. Attired in a hammertail coat, he praised the deceased as good Christians and devoted family men, struck down in the prime of life. The one consolation, almost a miracle he noted, was that more men had not died. The five other farmers wounded in yesterday’s shootout would apparently survive their wounds. He then raised his fist to heaven and beseeched the Lord God Jehovah to smite the Southern Pacific Railroad. His eye-for-an-eye invocation reflected the general mood of the crowd.
League members, six to a coffin, acted as pallbearers. The mourners fell in behind, their faces tear-streaked and their sobs loud in the still morning air. Outside the church the cortege proceeded to a cemetery on the edge of town. Angela, weepy-eyed in her black crepe dress, clung to Tallman’s arm. At graveside, the coffins were lowered on to planks laid across freshly dug holes. Onlookers were packed row upon row, with immediate family huddled forlornly around the coffins. The preacher opened his Bible and began reading in a sepulchral voice.
“The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures. He leadeth . . .”
Tallman scarcely heard the words. His eyes were empty and cold in the bright sunlight. He was aware of Angela sniffling at his side and he supported her with an arm around her shoulder. Yet his mind was fixed on Major Thomas McQuade. Overnight he had devoted considerable thought to the problem. He saw only one recourse, and while it was extreme, there seemed no alternative. Arrest and imprisonment, in his view, was not fitting retribution for a Judas. At last, determined to exact harsher punishment, he decided to wait until after the graveside services. He wanted a public spectacle that would capture headlines. And an open admission of guilt.
“. . . with the certainty that we shall all meet again at the Resurrection, through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.”
The prayer ended with a leaden moment of silence. Then the pallbearers moved forward to lower the coffins into the ground. Tallman stepped out of the crowd and halted before the graves. He motioned the pallbearers aside and turned. His voice rang out across the cemetery.
“We have unfinished business here! Before we lay these men to rest, I think everyone should know the true identity of their murderer. Sheriff Wilcox and those railroad goons were merely the instrument of their death. The man who actually got them killed stands here among you today. His name is Thomas McQuade!”
A gruff buzz of outrage swept through the crowd. All eyes turned to McQuade, and several farmers, as though to protect him, quickly joined ranks. His features were set in a grim scowl.
“Have you lost your mind, Fitzhugh?”
“We’ll soon find out.” Tallman gave him a sardonic smile. “Does the name Harlan Ordway ring any bells, Major?”
A fleeting look of puzzlement crossed McQuade’s face, then his expression became flat and guarded. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Do you deny that you are in Ordway’s employ?”
“I most certainly do!”
“Do you deny that Ordway sent you to Hanford?”
“You’re off your rocker!”
“Isn’t it true you were ordered here to organize the Settlers’ League and foster hostility with the railroad?”
“That’s a lie!” McQuade’s eyes burned with intensity. “And you’re a scurrilous liar, Fitzhugh!”
Tallman regarded him with a level gaze. “I suppose it’s also a lie that you were responsible for the Southern Pacific bombings?”
“Every word of it!” McQuade shouted. “All a pack of lies!”
“Come, come, Major.” Tallman’s voice was alive with contempt. “The blood of these dead men is on your hands. Are you asking us to believe otherwise?”
“I’m not asking,” McQuade said, his eyes garnet with rage. “I’m telling you to back off or suffer the consequences. I will not tolerate your false accusations any further!”
“How about proof?” Tallman fished a slip of paper from his inside coat pocket. “I have here a letter from the Santa Fe Railroad to Harlan Ordway. It proves beyond question that a conspiracy existed to establish a new transcontinental route. Does that refresh your memory, Major?”
McQuade went rock still. “I’m warning you for the last time.”
“Save your breath,” Tallman said, his jaw set in a hard line. “This letter proves the Settlers’ League was organized for one purpose and one purpose only. The goal was to divert attention from the Santa Fe by turning the spotlight on the League. And that’s why you were sent to Hanford.”
“It proves nothing!” McQuade’s mouth clamped in a bloodless slit. “Not where I’m concerned anyway. I’ve had no dealings with Ordway or the Santa Fe!”
“On the contrary.” Tallman pretended to read the letter. “It says here, and I quote directly, ‘Advise McQuade to intensify his efforts. We dare not proceed until he has the Settlers’ League embroiled in an all out war with the Southern Pacific.’ I’d call that proof positive, in black and white. Would you care to comment, Major?”
A vein pulsed in McQuade’s forehead. His face was rigid and his eyes blazed with fury. An instant slipped past while they stared at one another. Then his hand snaked inside his coat.
Tallman seemed to move not at all. The Colt appeared out of nowhere and he fired as McQuade’s pistol cleared leather. McQuade stood perfectly still, a great bloodburst spattered across the breast of his coat. His mouth worked in soundless amazement and he triggered a shot into the dirt. Then his eyes rolled back in his head and his knees buckled. He fell dead.
Silence descended on the graveyard. The farmers stared at the body with looks of stunned shock. No one spoke, and none of them seemed able to comprehend the suddenness of McQuade’s death. Then Tallman holstered his Colt and the movement broke their spell. He held the letter aloft.
“Use this in your fight with the Southern Pacific! It clears you of any part in the conspiracy and it proves you had no hand in the sabotage. I suggest you make it available to newspapers throughout the state. Let the press tell your side of the story for a change!”
“Hold on!” one of the farmers said. “You sound like you ain’t gonna stick around. If the Major was everything you claim, then our fat’s not out of the fire yet. We’ll need your help more’n ever!”
“No,” Tallman assured him. “All you need is this letter and somebody to get the newshounds together. I’ll leave it with Angela Pryor. She knows all the details and she’s got a way with words—and she’s certain to draw a crowd.”
The comment drew smiles and nods of approval. Tallman quit while he was ahead, and gave Angela the high sign. She took his arm and they made their way out of the cemetery. The crowd milled around in some confusion, watching as they turned at the church and walked toward town. A moment later they disappeared from view.
On Main Street, Tallman stopped in front of the hotel. He handed Angela the letter and waited while she slowly read it. She appeared surprised and somewhat taken aback. Then she smiled an upside down smile.
“There’s no mention of McQuade in here.”
“I improvised.” Tallman’s expression was stoic. “After yesterday, I figured the punishment ought to fit the crime.”
“So you tricked him . . . and killed him.”
“I gave him a chance to kill me. You might say he committed suicide by trying.”
“Who are you?” Angela asked in a small voice. “I kn
ow you’re not a lawyer. Are you a lawman of some kind?”
“Who I am isn’t all that important. So let’s just say I’m a fellow passing through. Here today and gone tomorrow.”
“No,” Angela corrected him. “You’ll be gone today, won’t you?”
Tallman smiled. “Not without fond memories.”
“Will I ever see you again?”
“Who knows when our paths might cross?”
Angela caught his eye for an instant, looked quickly away. “I hate to see you leave without a proper good-bye. Maybe I could come up to your room and help you . . . pack.”
“A tempting offer.”
“One good turn deserves another. And we’re all in your debt.”
“Are you speaking for the League or yourself?”
“I’ll let you decide when we get upstairs.”
“Unfortunately,” Tallman said, consulting his pocket-watch, “time grows short. I have to catch the ten o’clock northbound.”
“Well, then,” Angela replied with a sudden sad grin, “shall we call it one for the road? A momento of your stopover in Hanford.”
“How long a momento do you have in mind?”
“We’ll never know till we try.”
Angela hugged his arm to her breast and they entered the hotel. Upstairs she waited until the door was closed and then stretched herself out across the bed. She lifted her skirts and showed him why it wouldn’t take long. Her momento was bare.
Tallman made his train with only seconds to spare.
TWENTY
Ablistering midday sun beat down on Chicago’s Loop district. The noon hour was drawing to a close and Washington Street was crowded with office workers returning from lunch. A hansom cab pulled to curbside and stopped.
Tallman stepped down from the cab. He was attired in a powder gray single-breasted suit, with a charcoal gray tie and a matching pocket handkerchief. The brim of his fedora was sloped at a roguish curve and added a certain panache to his appearance. He looked rested and relaxed, and his expression was one of high good humor. He slipped the driver a ten spot and entered the office building at a brisk stride.
Upstairs, Tallman walked directly to the door of the Pinkerton Agency. The receptionist looked up as he moved into the outer office. Her eyes went big and round, and her mouth ovaled in a silent gasp. He swept his fedora off with an eloquent gesture.
“Good afternoon, Myrna.”
“Mr. Tallman!”
“Were you expecting someone else?”
“No, it’s just—” Myrna stammered, then went on in a rush. “You were reported missing almost a week ago. Mr. Pinkerton’s absolutely beside himself!”
Tallman smiled. “I was delayed en route.”
“Watch yourself,” Myrna whispered softly. “He’s hopping mad.”
“I appreciate the tip. And allow me to say you’ve never looked more ravishing.”
Myrna’s Kewpie-doll features turned scarlet. “Anytime you have a free evening . . .”
“I’ll treasure the thought.”
Tallman gave her a sly wink and hooked his fedora on a halltree. Before she could move, he swiftly crossed the room. He opened the door to Pinkerton’s office and walked in with an air of hearty good cheer.
“The prodigal returns! How are you, boss?”
Pinkerton’s look could have drawn blood. He slowly replaced his pen in an inkwell and pushed a stack of papers aside. Then he waited while Tallman approached the desk and seated himself in an armchair. Neither of them offered to shake hands.
“You might have wired me,” Pinkerton said stiffly. “I’ve had agents turning California upside down searching for you.”
“I’m flattered you went to so much trouble.”
“Where have you been?”
“Chinatown.”
“Chinatown?” Pinkerton eyed him narrowly. “Is that some sort of joke?”
“Like the fly walking across the mirror said”—Tallman paused and spread his hands—“it all depends on how you look at it.”
“Your humor escapes me.”
“Nobody’s perfect.”
“Very amusing,” Pinkerton grunted. “I want some answers, Ash. And I won’t be fobbed off with wisecracks!”
“Fire away.”
“Why did you leave California?” Pinkerton demanded. “Your orders were to report to Otis Blackburn.”
“I have nothing to say to Blackburn.”
“Well, he had a great deal to say about you.”
Tallman chuckled. “I wouldn’t be at all surprised.”
“I received a five-page telegram from Blackburn. Among other things, he accuses you of purposely aborting your assignment.”
“No truth to it, boss.”
“Indeed?” Pinkerton huffed. “I understand you killed a man by the name of McQuade?”
“Guilty as charged.”
“May I inquire the reason?”
“A personal idiosyncrasy,” Tallman said genially. “When someone points a gun at me, I have an overpowering urge to shoot first. It’s a hard habit to break.”
Pinkerton stared at him. “I am reliably informed that you goaded the man into pulling his gun.”
“Don’t believe everything Blackburn says.”
“He also informs that McQuade was the key witness in the case.”
“I won’t deny that.”
“So it’s true!” Pinkerton snorted. “You killed the one man who could have exposed the conspirators. The only man we might reasonably have expected to turn state’s evidence!”
“Not so,” Tallman said equably. “McQuade was no canary. He’d have cut his own tongue out before he turned songbird.”
“Is that why you killed him?”
“I’ve already explained—”
“Please!” Pinkerton interrupted. “I would appreciate a candid answer. Your real reason.”
Tallman’s mouth hardened and he was silent for a time. When at last he spoke, the words were clipped and brittle. “Forget about Blackburn and McQuade being on opposite sides of the fence. For all practical purposes, they were working toward the same end. Both of them were determined to provoke a showdown and somehow use it to fuel the fire. As you know, they finally got their wish. And the upshot was that four good men died needless deaths.”
“Four?” Pinkerton repeated. “The number I heard was seven.”
“The sheriff and those two gunmen don’t count. Whatever they got was less than they deserved.”
“You’re a hard man, Ash.”
“I don’t approve of hired assassins.”
“Nor do I,” Pinkerton said in a resonant voice. “However, to return to McQuade. You killed him because he led those farmers to their deaths. Is that correct?”
“I found it reason enough.” Tallman permitted himself a grim smile. “In fact, if Blackburn had been there that day, I might have killed him too. He was just as culpable as McQuade.”
“Perhaps you’re overly harsh in your judgment of Blackburn.”
“Harsh but not unfair,” Tallman said coolly. “Any man who hires assassins is by definition an assassin himself.”
Pinkerton tried another tack. “I understand you acquired certain evidence on the major conspirator, Harlan Ordway?”
“I wired Blackburn to that effect.”
“May I ask you how you came into possession of the evidence?”
Tallman’s wooden expression cracked with a slight smile. “Let’s just say I obtained it. How doesn’t really matter.”
“Very well.” Pinkerton watched him intently. “What form does this evidence take?”
“Documents,” Tallman replied. “Solid proof that Ordway and the Santa Fe were involved in a covert railroad scheme.”
“Do these documents implicate the Santa Fe in the conspiracy?”
“You mean the bombings and the farmers’ revolt?”
“Yes.”
“Not really,” Tallman commented. “I tend to believe Ordway organized all that on h
is own. Whether or not the Santa Fe was aware of it . . . we’ll probably never know.”
Pinkerton studied him a moment, then finally nodded. “How damaging are the documents? Would public disclosure of their contents stop the Santa Fe from extending track into California?”
“No question about it.”
“And Ordway?” Pinkerton persisted. “Would the documents secure a criminal indictment against him?”
“Indictment and conviction,” Tallman elaborated. “At the very least, he’d spend the rest of his life in prison.”
“Where are these documents now?”
“I have them in safekeeping.”
“Which means you have no intention of surrendering them voluntarily?”
“None at all.”
Pinkerton raised his leonine head and glowered across the desk. “I won’t bore you with threats. You’re aware that I could ruin you professionally. A word dropped here and there and you would be unemployable as a detective.” He paused, let the tension build. “In short, I could quite easily transform you into a pariah. An outcast.”
“Perhaps,” Tallman observed dryly. “But that wouldn’t serve the best interests of your client. And with all due modesty, it would also rob you of my indispensable services. Are you willing to go that far?”
“Confound you, Ash!” Pinkerton let go a wheezy sort of chuckle. “You’re a brazen scoundrel. And one of these days—”
“But not today.”
“No, not today,” Pinkerton conceded. “As an alternative to booting you out, what would you suggest?”
“We negotiate.” Tallman grinned broadly. “I suspect Blackburn’s already authorized you to act on behalf of the Southern Pacific?”
“What are your terms?”
“Quite simple.” Tallman busied himself lighting a cigar. “I’ll surrender the documents and provide a sworn deposition for the grand jury. Ordway goes to prison and the Santa Fe gets left in the lurch.”
“And in return?”