The Highbinders Read online

  For the past three days Tallman had been traveling in style. The private railroad car was both spacious and luxuriously appointed. The arched ceiling was adorned with marquetry inlaid carvings and the walls were fitted with elaborately filigreed woods. Crystal chandeliers dangled overhead, brocaded draperies flanked the windows, and the floor was covered by an exquisite Oriental carpet. To the front of the car was a kitchen, complete with a retinue of two waiters and a chef. The larder was stuffed with champagne and wine and an exotic variety of gourmet foods. To the rear was a master bedroom, with a commodious featherbed and a private bath. French mirrors, ornate with gilt, were scattered throughout the car, and special attention had been devoted to the bedroom. The experience was not unlike sleeping in a hall of mirrors.

  Today, however, Tallman’s thoughts were not on creature comforts. With dusk rapidly settling over the Sierras, he puffed on his cigar and pondered the vagaries of his profession. He found a certain irony in his latest assignment.

  Some philosopher had once noted that every great fortune starts with a crime. Tallman thought the remark particularly apt when applied to the Southern Pacific Railroad. Along with its sister company, the Central Pacific, the railway line was controlled by a coalition known as the Big Four. In addition to Leland Stanford, president of the line, there were three partners: Charles Crocker, Mark Hopkins and Collis Huntington. Absolute magicians with accounting ledgers, the four men had made their fortunes by defrauding both the public and the federal government. Estimates of their thievery ranged upwards of fifty million dollars.

  Like all robber barons, the Big Four combined politics with business. While building their half of the transcontinental line—the Central Pacific—they were granted nine million acres in federal land and twenty-four million dollars in government bonds. Another seventy million dollars was raised in corporate bond issues and the sale of stock. A separate construction company was then created, with the Big Four as the sole stockholders. Stanford and his partners channeled all funds through the construction company, and completed the railroad at a cost of forty-four million dollars. The balance, split four ways, allowed each man to pocket in excess of twelve million. Yet their chicanery had only just begun.

  Before long, the Southern Pacific was known as the “Octopus” of California. With graft and bribes, the Big Four gained control of the state house and the legislature and a veritable army of lesser politicians. Their immense power allowed them to absorb not only rival railroads but steamships and coal mines, and vast landholdings along the Pacific Slope. Not content to be robber barons, they set out to create a kingdom by the sea. In time, through a mix of political corruption and monopolistic business methods, their goal was realized. The Southern Pacific “Octopus” ruled California.

  All the way from Chicago, Tallman had reflected on the curious alliance of the Big Four and Allan Pinkerton. He knew Pinkerton to be a man of scrupulous honesty and high morals. The agency chief loathed criminals with a sort of religious fervor, and he was an ardent critic of corruption in government. While ambitious, he was devoid of greed and the love of cold power. Yet, by some odd quirk of personality, he admired and openly courted both the robber barons and unsavory politicians. Over the years, he had aligned himself, and the agency, with industrial tycoons, bankers and railroad magnates, and a gaggle of power brokers within the political establishment. To a large extent, he had paradoxically made the Pinkerton Agency the tool of those he found most reprehensible.

  For his own part, Tallman remained somewhat detached, almost an observer. He subscribed to no particular ideology, and he’d never felt compelled to take up the banner in the name of lost causes. In a world largely controlled by rascals, he accepted the fact that principle must sometimes be tempered with pragmatism. He was amused by the antics of the robber barons, and his attitude toward them was one of mild contempt. His personal philosophy revolved around a simple axiom. All men, including the high muckamucks of business and politics, would one day wind up worm pudding. The party stopped at the grave, and in the end, no man inherited more than six feet of earth. So he devoted himself to the here and now, with special emphasis on wine, women and song. For he thought it exceedingly likely that the hereafter would be a very dull place. He savored today and gave short odds on tomorrow.

  “Penny for your thoughts.”

  The voice broke Tallman’s spell. He turned from the window and found Vivian standing beside his chair. She was freshly bathed and gave off a sensual radiation as palpable as musk. Her dress was teal blue, and in the last rays of sunset, she was a vision of loveliness. Tallman wagged his head and grinned.

  “Try a dime a dozen and you might get your money’s worth.”

  “Thanks a lot.” Vivian gave him a pouty look and settled into a nearby chair. “You could have lied a little and said you were mooning over me.”

  “No need to lie,” Tallman mugged, hands outstretched. “You already know I’m yours to command.”

  “Won’t that be the day.” Vivian looked at him with impudent eyes. “No secrets between partners . . . remember?”

  Tallman took a long draw on his cigar. “In the simplest possible terms . . . I was thinking we’ve been hired by a batch of crooks to put the quietus on a pack of hooligans.”

  “Well, shut my mouth!” Vivian’s eyes got wide and round. “Once you unload, you do call a spade a spade, don’t you?”

  “The only difference between the Southern Pacific and the Settler’s League is that our employers, wise men that they are, have the law on their side.”

  “And we’re the hired mercenaries—correct?”

  “You’ll earn your detective’s badge yet.” Tallman watched her with an indulgent smile.

  Vivian was a spitfire of a woman, and uniquely desirable. She was statuesque, with magnificent breasts, a tiny waist and long, lissome legs. She had extraordinary green eyes, exquisite features, and a cloud of auburn hair worn in the upswept fashion. She carried herself erect and proud, and when she smiled it was like sunrise on autumn leaves, somehow warm and sultry. She was bright and articulate, and as mentally acute as a faro dealer. Moreover, she was a woman of good-humored irony, and possessed a bawdy wit that saw the world in its proper perspective. He thought she was made-to-order for the detective business.

  Over the past month, while her training was underway, they had entered into a torrid sexual liaison. He’d always thought his own approach to lovemaking uninhibited, without strictures or taboos. Yet he’d found in Vivian a creature of wild and explosive passion. She gloried in her sexuality, and her tastes ran the gamut from bizarre to outrageous. She was a woman who loved to make love, tempestuous and hot-blooded, a student of erotica. For her, nothing carnal was beyond experiment or invention. And for him, she was a never-ending source of delight. He sometimes thought he’d met his match.

  A short while after sundown, dinner was announced. With the waiters in attendance, Tallman and Vivian were seated at a candlelit table. Before them was a glittering array of silver and crystal and bone-white china, all meticulously arranged on a fine linen tablecloth. Wine was served with each course, and the chef sent out turtle soup, followed by a savory court bouillon and roast squab basted with honey. The pièce de résistance was a dark brown daube glacée. After fruit and cheese, coffee was served in delicate demitasse cups. Then, cradled in a silver ice bucket, a bottle of vintage champagne was brought to the table.

  Tallman complimented the chef on his artistry, and dismissed the staff for the night. Soon the clattering in the kitchen ceased, and the men made their way to a Pullman car up forward. Once they were gone, Tallman locked the door to the private car and returned to the table. He broke out a fresh panatela and lit up in a wreath of smoke. Across the table, Vivian watched him with the languorous smile of one surfeited by rich food and heady wines. He raised his glass in a toast.

  “Here’s to the life of the gentry.”

  “I’ll second that.” Vivian sipped, then hoisted her glass higher. “A
girl travels in style when she travels with Ash Tallman.”

  “I assure you, the pleasure’s all mine.”

  “I don’t believe a word of it,” Vivian said brightly. “But you’re a sweetheart to say so.”

  “Are you questioning my word? The word of a gentleman and a scholar—and a Pinkerton dick!”

  “Ummm!” Vivian leaned forward and her low-cut gown dipped lower. “You’ve just said the magic word!”

  “Careful Viv!” Tallman stared at the vee of her breasts. “You’re about to spill out of that dress.”

  Vivian moistened her lower lip and a vixen look touched her eyes. “Why don’t you help me?”

  “Help you what?”

  “Help me”—she vamped him with a warm beguiling grin—“out of my dress, of course.”

  Tallman cocked one ribald eye at her and rose from his chair. She uttered a low, gloating laugh and stood as he moved around the table. He held out his arms and she stepped into his embrace. Her hands went behind his neck, pulling his head down, and she kissed him with a fierce, passionate urgency. Her mouth opened and his tongue performed deep, sensual probes. Then his arms tightened, strong and demanding, and she felt his cock harden against her thigh. When at last they parted, her voice was warm and husky.

  “I want you, Ash. I want you now.”

  Tallman swept her off her feet and effortlessly lifted her in his arms. Her eyes gleamed with pleasure and her musical laughter was like wind chimes in a zephyr breeze. Her tongue darted into his ear and a slow, dark smile played across his features as he buried his face in her breasts. She shuddered convulsively, squirming and peppering him with kisses, and their eyes locked in a moment of fiery anticipation. Then he gave her a jolly wink and carried her toward the rear of the car.

  The mirrored walls in the bedroom shimmered with the umber glow of lamplight. He lowered her gently to the floor and they silently watched one another undress. Within moments they were naked and she stood before him with sculptured legs and high full breasts, her body rounded and youthful. She snuggled close in his arms, feeling an almost unbearable excitement as his hand teased her nipples erect. She eagerly sought his mouth, then her hand grasped his cock and she seated herself on the edge of the bed. She held his manhood in both hands, fondled it lovingly, and slowly stroked the underside with the tip of her tongue. He groaned as she took the head into her mouth.

  Watching her in the mirrors, he took her head in his hands and guided her back and forth. Her mouth was slippery and wet, and as she sucked on him her tongue moved in quick little circles. She cupped his balls in her hands, caressed them tenderly, and felt them expand into throbbing stones. His cock was rigid and swollen, and she went down on it, swallowing the whole of him. Her head bobbed faster, up and down, with her tongue wet against the rigid length of his shaft. His back suddenly arched and his hands stopped her with a viselike grip.

  “Blow it or fuck it—your choice!”

  Vivian held him deep in her throat a moment and then let go. She sprawled backwards on the bed and spread her legs wide. He bent down and his hand went to the curly delta between her thighs. His fingers found her vulva and he massaged the tiny rosebud skillfully. She was ready for him, moist and yielding, her damp muff an abundant swell of flesh. He lowered himself onto her and their mouths met in a feverish rush. His cock penetrated quickly and rammed to the hot, wet core.

  A moan escaped her throat and she drove at him in an agonized clash, legs wrapped around his back. His arms went beneath her as he pressed closer still, until her buttocks clove tight to his loins. His stroke quickened, thrusting faster and deeper. Her body was wracked by explosive shudders, and she bucked to meet him, hips moving in frenzied circles. Then he drove his cock violently into her and exploded, his hot jolting eruptions carrying her across the threshold. Her nails clawed his back and she clung to him, screaming as wave after wave of orgasm engulfed her.

  THREE

  The muzzy fog slowly retreated before a bright morning sun. The hills of San Francisco stood sentinel over the curving shore of the bay. There, mast upon mast, vessels from around the world rode at anchor. To the west, the Golden Gate strait was still shrouded in mist.

  Somewhat south of the city, the Southern Pacific railroad yards were located not far from the wharves. A short distance away locomotives huffed and hissed as passenger trains routinely departed the depot. In the yard itself, with several engines constantly in service, the dull whump of freight cars being coupled was not unlike a cannonade. The private car, shunted onto a nearby siding, sat alone amidst the commotion.

  Knotting his tie, Tallman watched through the bedroom window. Late the night before the westbound express had arrived in San Francisco and the private car had been uncoupled without delay. Only minutes afterwards a messenger had appeared with a terse note from Otis Blackburn. Obviously a man of few words, the line’s general superintendent had made no reference to the forthcoming investigation. He had simply informed Tallman to expect him at ten in the morning. The note had been signed with the precise penmanship of a bookkeeper.

  Now, scarcely five minutes before the hour, Tallman finished dressing with no apparent haste. He shrugged into a shoulder holster rig and cinched the bottom of the holster to his belt with a leather thong. Crafted by hand, the holster had been wet-molded to a Colt New Line revolver. The front side of the holster was open and the revolver was retained by clip-springs sewn into the leather. The rig was fashioned for concealment and speed, designed to hug the body while affording instant access. A quick pull popped the gun through the springs and into the firing position.

  Tallman’s choice of weapons was dictated by the nature of his work. When operating undercover, it was generally wiser to appear unarmed. The Colt New Line was a stubby five-shot revolver chambered for .41 caliber. The barrel length was three and a half inches and the sheathed trigger was activated by cocking the hammer. Tallman also carried a hideout gun in a spring-loaded sleeve holster. Strapped to his right wrist, muzzle forward, was a Remington derringer, which was chambered for .41 caliber and held two rounds. By pressing his forearm to his side, the spring mechanism was released and snapped the gun forward into his hand. All one motion, the maneuver was literally quicker than the eye.

  Speed alone, however, was not Tallman’s primary concern. When gunplay proved necessary, his one goal was to stop an opponent on the spot. Over a period of time he had worked with a master gunsmith in developing explosive-tipped cartridges. The end product was a fiendish device, employing the basic laws of physics. A hole was drilled into the base of the bullet and a drop of quicksilver was then inserted into the cavity. After the base of the slug was resealed, it was loaded into a standard cartridge casing. Upon being fired, the forward momentum flattened the quicksilver against the rear of the cavity. Upon impact, however, the slug was slowed by the resistance of muscle and flesh and the heavy drop of quicksilver continued onward at the original velocity of the bullet. The collision of quicksilver and lead exploded the slug outward like a firecracker bursting apart.

  The effect was devastating. When struck by an explosive bullet, a man’s innards were literally blown to smithereens. Death was almost instantaneous, and one shot generally stopped the fight immediately. For good reason, then, Tallman loaded the Remington derringer with explosive-tipped cartridges. Vivian also carried a concealed derringer, and it too was loaded with exploding bullets. She readily adhered to Tallman’s philosophy regarding kill-or-get-killed shootouts. Survival was the only thing that counted, and there were no second place winners. So it was better to do the killing swiftly and in the most expedient fashion possible. Explosive slugs eliminated the chance of error.

  Tallman inspected himself in the mirror. His suit jacket fitted perfectly, and there were no telltale bulges to betray either the shoulder holster or the sleeve rig. Satisfied, he walked from the bedroom and moved forward through the car. Vivian was seated in one of the armchairs, buffing her nails. She wore a pleated skirt with a high-necke
d blouse, and her hair shone radiantly in the sunlight. She glanced around as Tallman approached and halted beside her chair.

  “All ready to meet the big nabob?” she asked.

  “I doubt that Blackburn qualifies for the title. People like Leland Stanford rarely soil their hands with the dirty work. That’s left to an intermediary—a go-between.”

  “In other words, a glorified messenger boy.”

  “For the most part,” Tallman affirmed. “Whatever Blackburn says will be exactly what Stanford told him to say. No more, no less.”

  A knock sounded at the door and Vivian smiled. “Well, he’s prompt anyway.”

  “Behave yourself,” Tallman admonished her. “Act demure and ladylike, and let me do the talking.”

  “Demure!” Vivian’s eyes sparkled mischievously. “I lost that quality years ago, along with my virginity.”

  One of the waiters rushed to open the door. Otis Blackburn stepped inside and strode importantly through the car. He was short and stocky, with a stiff bearing and an abrasive expression. He looked like a querulous child sent to perform an unpleasant errand. His gaze touched on Vivian as he removed his hat and stopped. Then his attention shifted to Tallman.

  “Otis Blackburn,” he said with a perfunctory handshake. “I take it you’re Ash Tallman?”

  “At your service.” Tallman let go of his hand and turned slightly. “Allow me to introduce Miss Vivian Valentine.”

  Blackburn examined her with a beady stare. “I understood you were being accompanied by another operative.”