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 know 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.