C. C. Phillips
C. C. Phillips
“What I really need is a different horse. When we reach that settlement yonder, I fully intend to trade you off for a mount with manners.” The bay gelding flicked a could-care-less ear and snorted in response. Preston Diamond had been remonstrating the animal ever since a rather rough landing in the sage had followed an unsolicited fit of bucking. What Preston disliked the most about this particular horse was the streak of meanness or maybe devilry that caused the animal to pitch, or at least try to pitch his rider at the least opportune and most unexpected moments. Diamond had applied the spurs, whacked hell out of him with the reins and rode the horse to a lather but in a day or two the beast seemed driven to pull the stunt again. In other aspects the seven or eight year old gelding possessed the attributes any cowboy could ask for: Tough, cattle wise, a fellow could rope and shoot off him, he worked hard and took it all in stride. The horse could keep up a steady pace all day long and still had the energy to throw his rider at dusk. The winning feature which kept Diamond from actually carrying out his threat of selling the bay was the smooth, ground-eating stride. No matter what gait you coaxed out of him the ride was always the same. “You could drink whiskey from a cup at full gallop and never spill a drop,” had been the promise of the horse-trader who had taken Diamond's money. Well, Preston Diamond didn't often drink and ride and only occasionally did he pose as a cowboy, but the horse was smooth.
The pair —horse and rider— were passing through low scrub brush, sage interspersed with silver berry and the odd patch of aspen poplars. The fading, dual rutted wagon track had wound down from heavy timber higher up on the slope; probably a firewood trail. Before leaving the upper elevation Preston Diamond had glimpsed a town site in the far distance. Features were obscure but he espied a water tower confirming the settlement as a rail-road whistle-stop; a cluster of ubiquitous, inevitably clapboard-sided buildings stood amid tall, probably cottonwood trees, growing along a watercourse. Now, though the town lay obfuscated by the undulating swells of grassland, he could make out a well used trail perhaps a mile and a half or two across the prairie. The wagon track would intercept this route sooner or later, he presumed. No tell-tale dust cloud indicated traffic anywhere.
As the trail passed near a dense clump of buffalo berry the bay suddenly snorted in alarm. This was the second trait Diamond appreciated in the horse. Always on the alert, he had keen senses of hearing and smell as well as incredible eye-sight. Preston slept well in his lonely camp-sites since coming into possession of this equine guard dog. Unfortunately, today's circumstances did not allow sufficient forewarning.
“Hold it right there mister!” a gruff voice rasped as a rather rough looking stranger stepped onto the trail not fifteen feet ahead. The fellow hadn't been in presence of a mirror for quite some time. A week's growth of whiskers going gray along the cheeks suggested he wasn't a kid anymore. Unkempt hair and ragged clothing made a statement of a hurting economy. Wild, crazy eyes gave Diamond no reason to believe the hold-up was a bluff. Furthermore, the authoritative double barrels on the Greener clutched in shaking hands indicated that the man was currently in charge of this little gathering even though he may not be totally in control of his own mental faculties. From the corner of his eye Preston detected a flash of blue colour, a slight movement back in the brush. There were more than one in this party.
“Damn it.” Preston Diamond cursed under his breath as he drew rein.
“I'll be needing that pony of your'n,” grizzly-face croaked. “So you just step down and don't be reaching for no iron 'cause this scattergun ain't gonna miss from here. It'll blow ya in half I can promise ya. I'd show ya, but don't want the pony to gallop off without I can catch him.”
Unpredictably, but often enough at times like this (pausing for a breather, tarrying briefly to study the countryside or when some other distraction took the rider's fancy), the gelding grew bored and performed that little trick of his. He went straight up this time, rearing on powerful hind legs. The Greener belched streaks of orange flame and black smoke from both barrels with the double charge of lead buckshot catching the plunging horse in the throat. The animal went over sideways with Preston Diamond kicking free of the stirrups clawing a Colt from its holster as he fell. More shots erupted from the cover of the scrub. Landing heavily on his left side behind the kicking, dying gelding, Diamond didn't allow time for his breath to be knocked out. He hammered three shots at the blue streak moving in the bush on his left, rolled nearer his prostrate pony for protection, and poked a hole in the forehead of the former shotgun man who accordingly aborted an attempt to draw his own pistol. Dead on his feet, he dropped to the trail without a flinch.
The thrashing of the gelding subsided. A low, ominous groan issued from the patch of buffalo berry. Preston wheezed, sucking little puffs of oxygen back into his starving lungs.
Stillness crept over the scene. A fly buzzed about, then lit on on the blood soaked neck of the unfortunate mount. A raven squawked in the distance.
Remaining beside his dead horse, the subject of the imprudent hold-up assessed the situation. Probably there were no more miscreants hidden nearby. But the best teacher, experience, had proven to Preston Diamond that it does not pay to bet your life on probability.
The stirrup on the ground side of the dead horse had pulled free of the collapsing gelding as the rider had left the seat. Nine times out of ten — well, for sure three out of four, this being the fourth— that stirrup will be buckled underneath the dead animal and it is a hell of thing to remove the saddle when that happens. It's worse if your foot happens to be stuck in there as well.
A new bullet crease angrily etched in the worn leather of the pommel indicated that the bird in the bush had meant business too. No further groans could be heard from that quarter. Diamond extracted his Winchester carbine form its scabbard on the upper side of the deceased bay. The gun had survived the fall; walnut stocks don't always endure the weight of a horse coming down upon them. He ratcheted a cartridge into the chamber, lay the gun across the saddle and took time to reload his Colt before cautiously getting to his feet.
Though he attuned his listening to the slightest audible discrepancy, no sound reached his ears.
The accomplice lay dead in a puddle of coagulating blood when Preston found him in the berry patch. Two of the three shots had found the mark, either one would have accomplished the same end. This fellow appeared a younger version of the shotgun man; both were total strangers to the rider from whom they had intended to beg a horse.
Shaking his head slowly and pursing his lips, Diamond addressed the air in general, “Wrong place at the wrong time.” He did not specify as to who had been errant in timing and position.
The dead horse for certain could have been somewhere else, for now his owner had been left afoot. However, reason suggested that the interlopers must have at least one mount. In their brief conversation the bewhiskered shotgun man allowed that he needed a horse, he didn't mention needing more than that. Possibly the pair had picketed their animals a short distance away. Their boots, Preston noted, were quite down-at-the-heel but he doubted they had ever done much walking. A brief inspection of the terrain left only one likely spot in the near vicinity: a small aspen grove just below a ridge the horse thieves must have used as a screen to approach the patch of buffalo berry. That is where Diamond found a pair of saddled, bone-weary, sweat soaked mounts. They were better than average quality but were obviously very near exhaustion. Heads down between their knees the two barely acknowledged the approach of the stranger. Preston would have liked to let them rest but the pair would need water before morning and he needed to alert someone in authority about the shooting scrape he had just come through. He loosed the reins from the poplars and led the animals up the low slope to where his own horse lay free of tether. The smell of death brought some life back into the borrowed pair.
Stripping the saddles from the mounts: one a younger black mare with three white socks and the other a mature buckskin gelding, Diamond noted that both shared the same brand: Half-circle C W on-a-rail; left shoulder. He shook his head again though the burned icon meant nothing to him.
After depositing the spare saddles on the ground beside the dead horse, Diamond threw his own rig on the buckskin. Leading the bare-backed mare he took a slow pace cross-country to the main road seen from higher up. Reflecting upon the shooting, he concluded the dead men weren't assassins but were indeed only after his mount. There were people in the world that wanted Preston Diamond dead but he doubted these two were among them; definitely not any longer. A more pertinent issue he must soon address was finding a good horse.
The sun didn't have a whole lot of work left for this day's shift as Preston entered town riding eastward along what appeared to be the middle and probably the main street. The place held the dubious name of Way-cross. Way cross what? No historical data supplied the answer; it was simply Way-cross; always had been.
Diamond had given the dead-on-their-feet horses a sparing drink at a waterhole just outside of the settlement. They wouldn't make it much further than the big red livery barn situated, unfortunately, on the far side of the town. Preston's eyes sought and found an indication of law enforcement: “Sheriff's Office” he read above a decrepit awning shading the door of a paint neglected wooden structure midway along the southern side of the avenue. Diamond hoped this wouldn't take long because he had a growing, gnawing hunger quarrelling with his insides and, more importantly, he really wanted to see that these horses were tended to properly without delay.
Sheriff Moody Dexter left the cordial part out of his welcome when Diamond pushed through the office door and introduced himself as Bradley McBain. That welcome quickly slipped to disappointment or maybe disgust while “McBain” related the news of his hold up about three miles from town. Noting the unease in the sheriff, Diamond concluded his narration. “I've left a bright blue rag tied to an aspen near the place. If you miss it, stay on the wagon trail and your next clue will be riding over my dead horse.”
During the recital the sheriff had taken a considerable load off his feet, though he offered no seat to the newcomer. He seemed to be having trouble rolling a smoke as the tale unfolded. Tobacco fell to the floor and his hand shook as he touched the paper to his lips. “Your description sounds like the Lester brothers. There is, or was, three of 'em.” He jerked a thumb to indicate a closed door behind him. “The third one, Kenny, the youngest, is in there… in my jail. And cons'quently why I am in this dingy damned office this late in the day.”
“The two I met up with appeared as though they could be on the run. They weren't exactly trimmed up and styled for a box social. Their horses were whipped ragged.”
Moody struck a match on his boot heel, lit the cigarette, inhaled, then blew out a cloud of smoke. He spat a sprig of loose tobacco. “Yeah, they were born trouble, all three of 'em. Pulling little thefts here and there; rustlin' a few cows; horse thievin'; always in a small way and never really gittin' caught red-handed. Last week they graduated to bigger tricks and tried to rob the damn rail depot.” He shook his head sadly. “The bloody fools, they haven't the brains to pull off a kiddies' candy store robbery. Stafford, the clerk at the depot, winged Kenny; the other two were cut off from their nags so they swiped a couple of saddled horses tethered in front of the rail office and high-tailed it out of town.”
He sighed, his big belly slipping another notch over the wide nickel-plated buckle and cowhide belt restraining it. “I'll have to go up there in the mornin' and bring 'em in. Meantime you make certain you keep available in case I need to talk to you.”
Preston Diamond fixed the larger man with a withering stare. “You'll go bring them in tonight,” he said evenly.
“Now look here, McBlaine, just who the hell…”
“It's McBain. And you look here: You can't leave a scene like that overnight. Chances of some animal molesting the corpses aside, it's indecent to even consider leaving them out there.” In a softer tone he added, “I could go with you if you're strapped for help.”
Sheriff Dexter stifled the angry protest forming on his lips. He took another long drag from the quirly. Since the failed depot robbery he had been in the saddle a lot directing a posse that, like himself, wasn't eager to hunt down members of their own community. Everyone preferred that the Lester brothers would ride away and it could all be forgotten; after all, no one except Kenny Lester had been harmed and no money was taken. His deputy, one in favour of prolonged pursuit so long as it didn't extend past the edge of town, had gone off somewhere for a few days leaving the sheriff to deal with the Lesters on his own. Moody intended to fire him upon his return. He shrugged resignedly; help tonight would be better than no help in the morning. Stubbing the roll-your-own in an over-flowing tin ashtray adorned by a cheap spur with tiny rowel, he acquiesced, “I'll hire somebody to watch the damn jail, then fetch the buckboard.”
Preston Diamond turned to leave, “I'll see to these horses and grab a bite. We won't be up there before dark anyway.”
Long shadows angled south-easterly across the thoroughfare. There was still plenty of light for Diamond to read the store-front signs posted along the street on the opposite side. He had scanned the near ones briefly on his ride halfway up the avenue to sheriff Dexter's office. Now he didn't take the time to study them in more detail because, at street level, rays from the setting sun glinted off the gun barrel about twenty feet away, pointed directly at his chest.
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