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-necked 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.”
“Miss Valentine,” Tallman said evenly, “is one of our top undercover agents.”
“A woman?” Blackburn arched one eyebrow and looked down his nose. “I never heard of a female Pinkerton.”
“Nor have most people,” Tallman reported succinctly. “Which makes Miss Valentine doubly valuable in the field. She’s our best kept secret.”
“It won’t do,” Blackburn said shortly. “The job’s too dangerous for a woman.”
“Looks are deceiving,” Vivian interrupted with a devilish smile. “I’m really a very dangerous lady, Mr. Blackburn.”
“Maybe you are,” Blackburn said, a note of irritation in his tone. “But that’s neither here nor there. We requested Tallman and another operative—a male operative!”
“Quite understandable,” Tallman interjected smoothly. “However, Allan Pinkerton permits me to choose my own partners. I assure you he trusts my judgment in such matters.”
Blackburn looked annoyed. “You don’t seem to get the point. In my judgment, a woman isn’t suitable. And I speak for the Southern Pacific Railway.”
“Then I suggest you wire Pinkerton and request another team.”
“What’s that?” Blackburn screwed up his face in a tight knot. “Are you refusing the assignment?”
“No,” Tallman said simply. “I’m merely saying I either work with Miss Valentine or I don’t work.”
“Preposterous!” Blackburn fixed him with a baleful look. “How dare you try to bullyrag me!”
Tallman’s genial features toughened. “All I’ve done is offer you an option—take it or leave it.”
“Are you in the habit of dictating terms to a client?”
“Not terms,” Tallman said quietly. “Let’s call it a condition. You take me, then you take my partner too. And at the moment, that happens to be Miss Valentine.”
There was a long pause of weighing and appraisal while the two men examined one another. A pained expression fell over Blackburn’s face and his jaws worked as though he was grinding his teeth. At last, he took a deep breath and released it slowly.
“Very well,” he said with a kind of smothered wrath. “Your condition is accepted. But I want it understood that you—and you alone—will be held accountable in the event anything goes wrong.”
“I’m always accountable.” Tallman motioned with an idle gesture. “Have a chair, Mr. Blackburn. I believe you planned to brief us on the case. Suppose we get to it?”
Blackburn seated himself opposite Vivian. She exchanged a quick glance with Tallman and he gave her a hidden wink. Then he lowered himself into a chair and turned his gaze on Blackburn. The silence thickened.
“The situation,” Blackburn said at length, “involves an organized conspiracy whose aim is to defraud the Southern Pacific Railroad.”
Tallman stopped him with an upraised palm. “We’re already aware of the squatter problem and the Settlers’ League. Your letter to Pinkerton was fairly clear on that score. What we need are specifics about the alleged conspiracy.”
“Alleged?” Blackburn repeated churlishly. “Wrecked trains and blown bridges aren’t alleged. Those are cold, hard facts.”
“Hard facts and hard evidence aren’t necessarily one and the same. To build a case—even to start our investigation—we need specific details.”
“Such as?”
“Who are the leaders of the Settlers’ League?”
“Insofar as we can determine, it’s controlled by one man. His name is Major Thomas McQuade. I understand he’s a former army officer.”
“Was he responsible for organizing the League?”
“I have no idea,” Blackburn said solemnly. “He’s a squatter himself, and he’s been the guiding force behind the League’s legal efforts. So we can assume he’s also the ringleader behind the conspiracy.”
“I never assume anything,” Tallman said with a measured smile. “Exactly how many squatters are there?”
“Forty-three,” Blackburn said crisply. “By that I mean there are forty-three families, each occupying a quarter-section of land.”
“According to your letter, the land in question is located in the San Joaquin Valley.”
“That’s correct.”
Blackburn pulled a small map from his inside jacket pocket. He unfolded it and spread it between them. Marks indicating railroad tracks bisected the state, from San Francisco to Los Angeles. His finger traced a southerly route to Fresno, then skipped lower to the town of Hanford. Located halfway down the map, the town was on the eastern edge of the San Joaquin Valley. Somewhat farther east lay the Sierra Nevada Range.
“The Settlers’ League,” Blackburn said, tapping the map, “has its headquarters in Hanford. All the squatters occupy land along our right of way north and south of town.”
Tallman mulled it over a minute. “How did they gain control of the land?”
“By squatting on it,” Blackburn said indignantly. “So far, our legal efforts haven’t budged them an inch.”
“Are there squatters in other areas besides Hanford?”
“Not yet,” Blackburn responded. “We were lax and allowed things to go too far in Hanford. Now we want it stopped before it spreads.”
Tallman studied him for a long, speculative moment, “Our instructions were to infiltrate the League and gather evidence of a criminal conspiracy. I get the impression you’re suggesting something more.”
“I am indeed,” Blackburn said crisply. “Once you have the necessary proof, we will then take the initiative. Our plans are to arrange an incident which will force Major McQuade and his League into an open confrontation.”
“What sort of confrontation?”
“A couple of our men will proceed to Hanford and physically evict one of the squatter families. We can reasonably expect that McQuade and his people will resort to violence in an effort to reoccupy the farm. At that point, our chances of securing a conspiracy indictment will be greatly enhanced.”
“Aren’t you concerned about the safety of your men? By provoking violence, you might easily get them killed.”
“Not these boys!” Blackburn blustered. “They can handle themselves. . . .”
Tallman’s face took on a sudden hard cast. “You’re talking about professional gunmen.”
“The best money can buy,” Blackburn chortled. “Besides, we own the sheriff in Kings County. So it’s all cut and dried from start to finish.”
“I see,” Tallman said tightly. “What you’ve just outlined exceeds my instructions. In fact, the plan itself borders on conspiracy. I’ll have to check with Allan Pinkerton before we proceed further.”
Blackburn’s eyes suddenly turned angry, commanding. “You are in the employ of the Southern Pacific. Leland Stanford issues the orders here and you will follow them to the letter.”
“Then trot Stanford down here and let me hear the orders direct.”
“Mr. Stanford doesn’t deal with detectives. You will report to me and me alone!”
“I report to Pinkerton and nobody else. He can keep Stanford advised . . . or not . . . as he chooses.”
“I repeat,” Blackburn said with a withering scowl, “you will take your orders from me and you will report to me.”
Tallman gave him a satiric look. “See that mirror?”
Blackburn darted a glance at the wall mirror. “What about it?”
“Walk over there and kiss yourself good-bye.”
“Don’t get smart with me.” Blackburn bristled. “You’re hired help and this railroad car happens to be Southern Pacific property.”
Tallman rose and jerked his thumb toward the door. “We’ll let Pinkerton and Stanford decide who calls the shots.”
“Try it and you’re in for a rude awakening!”
“Perhaps.” A strange light came into Tallman’s eyes. “Now, you’d better leave before I lose my temper and do something boorish.”
Blackburn’s face went black. He muttered an unintelligible oath and jackknifed to his feet. Then he turned with a kind of military abruptness and stumped out of the car. The door slammed shut with a jarring thud.
“Whew!” Vivian let out her breath. “You sure know how to butter up a client.”
“Listen and learn,” Tallman observed wryly. “What happens when Pinkerton and Stanford exchange telegrams?”
“Blackburn will run to Stanford,” Vivian said with a look of revelation. “Stanford will wire Pinkerton, then Pinkerton will wire you. And you’ll have your orders in writing!”
Tallman’s grin was so wide it was almost a laugh. “I think you just earned your detective’s badge.”