C. C. Phillips
C. C. Phillips
From a position of open concealment, Preston Diamond watched the approach of the noon stage coach. The lathered horses came to a plunging, dusty halt in front of the depot. Hands were unhitching the team as quickly as the conveyance stopped rolling. A youth scrambled up on the seat, took a convivial jibe from the driver, and commenced passing down luggage to another lad. George Kirwin himself opened the door to greet the passengers.
It was not a red carper affair, however Preston believed a certain amount of fan-fair had been rehearsed for the arrival of the first passenger to emerge from the coach.
“Governor Rittinger!” Mayor Kirwin boomed. “Welcome back to Way-cross!”
Rittinger stepped down to the street shaking Kirwin's hand and slapping him on the back. “Good to be back, George,” he laughed, “and a fine job your driver did bringing me here. Not too many potholes. No highwaymen.”
The two men continued a raucous conversation while Kirwin assisted the next passenger and her child down from the stage. The lady would have looked prettier if not showing the weariness of travel fatigue. The youngster, obviously having just awoken, clung to his mother's hand, blinking in the unaccustomed sunlight. Preston heard her ask Kirwin if they had missed the afternoon train. He assured her that punctuality was a certainty for his operation, “The train might be late, but the stage is always on time.” The governor laughed heartily. Rivalry between stage lines and rail-roads had been stiff, sometimes violent, in the past. Now they complemented each other. Giving Rittinger a tired smile, the lady led the child in the direction of the Union Pacific station.
Diamond caught his breath upon instant recognition of the final member to debark. The man was a giant. As he prepared to exit, the stage tilted under his weight, springs protesting audibly; when he stepped lightly, almost daintily, to the ground; the coach rocketed back and forth, juddering like a green sapling until it regained equilibrium. Straightening up, the fellow must have stood taller than six-foot-six. Even through his buckskin shirt one could detect the ripple of powerful muscle. He had thighs like the trunks on Dexter's cottonwoods; arms like the neck on Diamond's new horse. The man's gargantuan skull was the most striking feature. Preston had never seen another head nearly so large. Although more round than angular, the face managed to retain the definite lines of native heritage; sharp, chiselled features on a flat rock. The nose was a monstrous two-dimensional object with flared nostrils that appeared to have been squashed flat by a tremendous impact. Thick dark lips encircled the cavernous mouth. Preston imagined a full sized dinner plate with a heaping helping would easily fit inside. Long black hair hung in a braid down the centre of his back. Diamond recalled that a keen-edged throwing knife lay hidden under that braid, its sheath sewn into the buckskin shirt at the nape of the man's bull neck; he could flip the instrument with amazing speed and accuracy.
A half-breed, the son of a Scottish trader, his mother a full blood Lakota; the giant had travelled under many assumed names. However, as his magnitude and infamy grew, it became superfluous to attempt to conceal his identity. His father, Edward Rankin, from whom he inherited his size, christened his new son Byron Adelaide Rankin. His pretty mother, Little Cloud, named him Red Elk. Now the man accepted, along with a healthy serving of respect, the appellation “Chief” or “The Chief”, depending on context, when among the white skinned side of his heritage.
So the story went, the Chief killed his first man at the age of thirteen: A young buck, disdainful of the the white man's marriage vows and foregoing the subtlety of courtship, directed romantic inclination toward young Byron Rankin's beautiful mother. Hearing the commotion, the lad, already huge for his age, rushed into his father's trading post, grabbed a pick handle and killed the attacker with a single, two-handed blow to the head. The Chief could not remember the second man he murdered nor did he know the tally. Though skilled with knife and firearms, most of his victims were brought to their death by his huge, bare hands.
The Chief enjoyed watching life slip through his fingers.
The half-breed accepted his buckskin luggage from the handler, nodded to Kirwin and grinned at the Governor. He strode away toward the centre of town. “Behave yourself, Chief,” Rittinger called good-naturedly. The giant turned, his perpetual, mirthless smile spreading. In a thick brogue, he replied, “You know I will, Governor. I always behave myself.”
Preston Diamond remained motionless in the shade of the depot, behind and slightly to the right, just a stone's throw away from the stage coach. No one had noticed him, though several of the employees passed within a few yards. He heard the company manager tell Governor Rittinger his luggage would be delivered to the Grand Hotel. The flamboyant politician thanked Kirwin profusely then departed in the wake of The Chief.
A fresh sextet was hitched to the coach, the outbound mail and luggage loaded. New passengers, a young man and his lovely wife, boarded. A replacement driver slapped the reins across the rumps of the team and urged, “Gidd-up”. The passenger vehicle gained momentum, disappearing in a cloud of its own dust when it turned at the intersection onto the main street.
The stage manager, cargo manifest in hand, went inside the depot. Suddenly, as if struck by an afterthought, he returned to the doorway. He stared at the vacant spot where Diamond had stood, shook his head, then ducked back inside.
Sam's Sewing Shop had become a very busy establishment. Samantha and Matilda worked furiously, maintaining an exhausting pace in their seamstress chores; at last a faint light glimmered at the end of the textile tunnel they had sewn their way through. The dresses and gown for the first of the two weddings had been completed. The second set required several alterations, a lace veil had to be constructed. The ladies were in a more relaxed mood realizing, for the moment, more work lay behind than ahead.
The little bell above the entrance door tinkled. Sam glanced up to see a bright beaming smile as Governor Rittinger entered. He bowed forward, kissing her hand gallantly. “Sam Dexter, I do believe you grow prettier each time I see you!”
“Governor Rittinger, are you practising for a campaign or are you simply a perennial lady's man?” Samantha teased.
The politician laughed heartily. “I don't plan to ever be on a campaign trail but it is paramount for a politician to stay on the good side of the people.” He winked, “Especially the lovely ladies.”Matilda had not reacted to the door chime but caught the movement as Rittinger made his way toward her. He knelt in front of her, touching a kiss to the widow's hand, “Ah, Mrs. Frye,” he said softly, forming the words carefully, so as to allow the deaf lady to read his lips. “Always such a pleasure to see you. Are you well? Is Samantha working you too hard?”
Matilda looked to Samantha before responding, “I am very well, thank you, Governor. We have been quite busy but things are catching up now.”
“Good! Good!” He spoke without a trace of insincerity in his voice.
Rittinger straightened up. “Well, just thought I'd drop in to see how my favourite Way-cross ladies are. Must dash over to the Grand to see if my luggage arrived in one dusty piece.”
Samantha and Matilda watched him go. “Rush in, rush out! What an old flirt!' Samantha laughed.
Matilda smiled faintly.
Widow Frye's smile faded completely with the entrance of the next customer: The stranger who had startled Matilda out of her wits by knocking Muley Trippett through the window, arrived almost on the heels of the Governor's exit. Samantha met him at the counter. “Good afternoon, Mr. McBain,” she greeted reservedly.
Preston tipped his hat, “Miss Dexter; Mrs. Frye…”
“Through my round window I see that you and my father have been visiting back and forth…?” Sam's voice trailed off, turning the statement into a question.
“Sheriff Dexter thought I should be in jail. The accommodations at the hotel were too posh for the likes of me.”
“Dad seems to have reversed that decision… or have you broken out?”
“We settled for parole.”
“Governor Rittinger is in town…” Preston changed the subject, fishing for information.
“Yes, he just stopped in to our shop.”
“Oh, did he tear his pants on the stage?”
Sam frowned. “No, he makes a point of dropping in to say hello whenever his travels bring him to Way-cross. He's just a friendly person.”
Preston sensed he may have touched a nerve. By way of dismissal, he shrugged, “Never met the man… I've come for the pleasure of asking you to join me for supper this evening.”
Samantha sorted through this sentence. “The pleasure of asking me?”
“Yes.” Preston smiled disarmingly. “If you refuse, I shall still have had the pleasure of asking.”
Samantha laughed, intensifying her beauty. “I should be honoured to accompany you Mr. McBain.
Preston Diamond had padded half-way across the hotel lobby before Frank Collier and a guest at the registration desk noticed his approach. They had been conversing in low, earnest tones when Frank suddenly raised his voice, “Just sign here Governor Rittinger. It certainly is a pleasure to have you staying with us again…”
The politician made a flourish of signing the registration. He then turned to face the new-comer who nodded silent acknowledgement.
“Oh, Governor Rittinger, this is Mr. McBain, another of our favoured guests. Mr. McBain has been staying with us for nearly a week now. Mr. McBain, Governor Rittinger.”
“Mr. McBain, pleased to meet you.” Rittinger shook Preston's hand vigorously.
“Governor, an honour. I do not encounter many dignitaries in my limited travels.”
“Way-cross is the attraction,” Rittinger avowed. “I declare the food and accommodation are as fine here as anywhere I go… and, between you and me,” he winked, “that's a fair piece.”
What the Governor lacked in height, he had begun to compensate in girth. He appeared a surprisingly young man for a governorship. Handsome, he retained a full head of fairish hair that only showed signs of graying on the sides. He carried himself well, dressed meticulously and spoke the polished lingo of the quintessential politician.
The brief introduction eventually led to a cocktail in the lounge of the Grand Hotel. Rittinger loved to talk, Diamond had the patience to listen. Preston had no reason for tapping the Governor for information but everything meant something to somebody. Later he would riffle through the trash, salvaging anything that may be useful. Without effort, Rittinger presented the epitome of sincerity. A “What you see is what I am” persona. After all, he must have convinced the President of the Union in order to achieve the posting he now held. Preston learned that Rittinger was a widower; his wife had passed away several years ago, prior to his appointment to the governorship. There had been no children. Understandably, since the death of his dear wife, politics superseded all else in his life. The governor talked just loud enough to ensure that the few lounge patrons nearby could hear if they chose to listen. Volume increased as he articulated, “My life is dedicated entirely to the betterment of the Territory. Very soon farmers, merchants, settlers from back east and all over the world will be emigrating to this land. Prosperity for the region is just around the corner.” Suddenly, dropping tone to a conspiratorial hush, he confided, “Don't tell the stage line folks, but my office is lobbying the Union Pacific Railroad to extend the Way-cross spur. Railways, not stage coaches, are the vehicle to expedite growth. That is what brings me to Way-cross today.”
Preston wondered why the man felt compelled to share what ought to be confidential information with a stranger. Perhaps Rittinger may be visiting Way-cross simply for the luxury offered by the Grand Hotel…. Perhaps business associated with extension of the Union Pacific drew him to this end-of-the-line town. Perhaps there could be an entirely different motivation…. The Governor had definitely piqued Preston Diamond's interest.
Supper with Samantha Dexter obliterated the after-taste of a cocktail with Rittinger. The young couple appeared oblivious to the many stares and the occasional dark glance of disapproval from Grand Hotel habitués. Way-cross did not think kindly of a possible budding relationship between 'their seamstress' and a stranger, particularly a gunman.
The couple were quietly reviewing the menu when Governor Rittinger swept into the lounge. Stopping at their table, he slopped unctuous familiarity over Sam like a new grandmother fussing after a baby. After too long, in Preston's opinion, the politician moved on saying, “I'll see you kids later.” Preston followed him with his ears as the Governor cut a theatrical and circuitous path to his own table. Like every political figure worthy of insult, Rittinger had a knack for recalling names and faces. It seemed he knew everyone in the dining room.
Except “The Chief.”
Preston found it curious that Governor Rittinger only had a curt nod, no indication of recognition for the giant who sat alone at a table in a corner. Three hours previous, the pair had been practically on a first name basis.
Samantha talked about herself and McBain encouraged the conversation. She asked questions of him and only hours later did she realize he had told her nothing. Neither heard or seemed to be aware that there were other people in the establishment. McBain casually mentioned that he had read posters announcing a family dance scheduled for Saturday night. Samantha replied simply that she would be attending with her parents. The meal went by too quickly. Cosseting service, exquisite food, excellent wine and the delicious chocolate 'Chef's Surprise' left Samantha feeling embarrassed. Her companion laughed when she apologized for her repletion. Sam remarked that McBain had certainly not overindulged. He replied that Ole had fed him too well in jail this morning.
An uncomfortable interruption in the repast occurred when the half-breed made his exit. Openly leering at Samantha, he made a deliberate detour to come near the table where she and McBain sat. Preston watched the brute's eyes, they held no trace of recognition. “Maybe the pretty lass would enjoy the company of a real man this evening?” The Chief smiled without warmth. It was a taunt, but McBain refused the bait. He didn't even rise up from his chair.
Paralysing fear grew in Samantha's beautiful eyes. The Boston assault flashed across her mind. She suddenly felt sick. What would happen if this huge disgusting animal should attack her? Nothing short of bullets would stop the heinous Goliath. She nervously searched McBain's face, knowing he could be of no assistance. To her surprise, she found no trace of fear; if anything, mild amusement.
“How about it, yellow haired lady… like to sleep in my teepee tonight?”
“Better move along, Chief,” Preston said softly. “The Governor told you to behave yourself.”
Silence had flooded the lounge, poured over into the kitchens. No murmur, no movement.
The half-breed seldom witnessed another man who offered no humbleness or awe in his presence. Usually noisome fear assailed his flattened nostrils, fuelling his ego; a burning fuse for his explosive violent nature. This fool, this inconsequential piece of white trash, took no notice. It was a new experience for the big man.
“Nobody tells me to behave myself,” Chief sneered. “I could break you… and the Governor,” he snapped his banana fingers, “like a match.”
“Well not this evening,” Preston sounded apologetic. “I'll be around town for awhile yet. Let me know when you are ready.”
McBain returned to his conversation with Samantha. The girl wasn't hearing anything he said. Though quaking with fear she bravely tried to follow his example. Ignoring the Chief she even threw in a light laugh and an unrelated reply that flabbergasted McBain completely.
The breed straightened, looked uncertainly around the room, noted the muted silence, maybe caught a glance of disapproval from Governor Rittinger; for whatever reason, he did not press the issue further. With a grunt of disgust, he strode out of the lounge.
“You must not let that interruption spoil our evening.” McBain insisted. “There are many people who believe ignorance is a voice to be heard. It is not. It's the road to degradation.”
“You weren't afraid?” she quavered.
“Enjoy your dinner,” Preston smiled. “There is no one else in all the universe. Just you and I.”
Diamond accompanied Samantha to the livery, saddled her horse —her father had come to town early to arrest McBain, so neither had used the buggy— and gave her a leg-up. Instead of handing her the reins he started walking, leading the horse down the street. “Brad,” she protested, “I am perfectly capable of riding my horse home.”
“Not tonight, Samantha. Maybe not tonight.”
Her voice caught, “Oh… I thought we were forgetting that incident.”
When Bradley McBain made no reply, she asked tentatively, “Why were you not afraid of that monster?”
“When it comes right down to it, Fear is never an ally. If I had been afraid, it would have excited The Chief. He would not have left us alone. Bullies thrive on others' terror.”
“Only, it took me back to a time, a horrible time…”
Preston coaxed the story from her lips. At first, bit by bit, she gave him pieces. Under his gentle reassurance, she finally told him what only Moody and her mother had ever heard before. The terrible nightmare attack in Boston. A nightmare that still haunts her sleep. She wept when it was all out.
Diamond handed her his handkerchief. Remaining silent he gave Samantha a moment to recover.
As he led the horse through the cottonwoods along Moody Dexter's lane, she said quietly, “I'm sorry, Brad, I shouldn't have…”
He looked up at her, his eyes moist. “I am very glad you told me…”
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