C. C. Phillips
C. C. Phillips
The storm blew itself out after two hours, leaving in its wake the aftermath of a three inch deluge. On the flat the rain had struck so hard it left no mud. Wagon ruts and low areas flooded. Pasture land greened up overnight. Way-cross's normally dusty streets had turned to a sloppy but fertile mixture of mud and horse manure by mid-morning. The weather man, had there been one, would have been confused as to whether he had done the right thing or not. Cattle ranchers were smiling. Folks who lost shutters, doors, shingles and received a flooding of their homes were not so enthusiastic.
Preston Diamond, oblivious, slept late. He seldom took weather or climactic conditions personally, finding it more agreeable to accept those things over which he had no control.
Though she looked exhausted and red eyed, Preston noted Barbara Kirwin had resumed her work at May Anne's eatery. The passing storm had not left a rainbow on her brow. He thought it odd she would be at her job this morning as Kenny Lester's funeral was to be held at two o'clock this afternoon. Another grim thought: On the week, three Lesters and Muley Trippet would be buried… Certainly one piece of real-estate in high demand around Way-cross was the town's cemetery. The sour waitress refilled Preston's cup. He fished a toothpick from a vest pocket. Service needed a bracing up but the food, and especially the coffee at May Anne's were well worth a repeat visit.
Diamond chose to stand outside the sheriff's office while enjoying his morning cheroot. Surprisingly, the gale hadn't ripped the awning from this building. He noted various pieces of other edifices strewn along the street. Way-cross seemed quite busy on this, a Saturday morning. Two wagons, one loaded, the other empty, a buckboard, a buggy and several riders slopped down the street deepening the ruts, throwing a spray of muck in their passage. Preston watched from the corner of his eye as The Chief ambled down the boardwalk toward him. The big man merely grunted as he went by. Perhaps he didn't recognize Diamond from last evening's verbal exchange.
Sheriff Dexter emerged from his office, studied the street then noticed the man standing beside him. “Wouldn't be the first time someone took a shot at a fellow standing in that spot.”
“Good morning to you too, Moody. Did your Herefords receive a good scrubbing last night?”
“Those cows will be up to their knees in grass before long,' Dexter responded gleefully. “Maybe I'll manage a second cut on my hay this summer.”
Dexter changed the subject, “The big breed I just saw walkin' past here… Sam said you an' him had some words last night?”
“He's trouble, Dexter, a free-lance killer. People who really want someone dead leaving no ties or questions hire “The Chief.” He often tries to force a fight, sometimes he simply murders the victim… usually with his bare hands.”
Dexter studied the younger man. “You seem to know him well.”
McBain shrugged, “We've met. He doesn't remember me.”
“So,” Dexter scratched his stubbly chin, “No doubt the Chief, as you call him, has been hired by someone in Way-cross to kill you? That fits along with Muley and Kenny being hired killers don't it?”
McBain returned the jibe with another, “The Chief arrived here on yesterday's stage. If he had been passing through, he would have caught the train out. The big brute is here for a reason. I've told you what he does for a living; he might be looking for me… But he could be hunting small town sheriffs. You never know with him.”
Dexter grunted. “Well, I hope it's you an' not me. My old Navy probably don't have enough powder to stop that giant.”
McBain suddenly turned grave. “Moody, don't get drawn into anything with him. Even if it's law business. Stay clear. Come or send someone to find me.”
Dexter saw the earnest appeal in McBain's eyes. He swallowed loudly, “I'll do that, Brad… Thanks.”
McBain turned to leave, flicking his dead cigar into the mud of the street. He said over his shoulder, “I'll be around, Moody, longer than the Chief.”
Preston rounded the next corner and strolled down the intersecting avenue heading south from the business section; in other words: Main Street. Halfway down the second block he came upon a small house in a sorry state of deterioration. The building could almost have been Joe's shack where Kenny Lester died, but it was situated on the opposite side of town. This derelict little residence also differed from Joe's place in that it had tenants. Wet bedding, a stained and crumpled mattress and some ragged clothing were distributed along a tottering, decrepit picket fence. Lonny Fischer, a dark scowl on his face, sat up on the roof, apparently fixing one of the leaks.
McBain called up to the boy. “Did you take on a little water last night, Lonny?”
The tow-headed youngster brightened. “Hello Mr. McBain. Folks say it rained three inches, we got a foot an' it all ran into the house.”
Preston climbed the frail excuse for a ladder and agilely hopped onto the roof. Rafters shuddered under his weight. Assessing the situation he opined, “Looks like this is a major repair, Lonny. You lost most of your shingles last night.”
“I know Mr. McBain. I tol' Pa but he just got mad and tol' me to get up here an fix it. I don' know what to do… it needs shingles… Where are we goin' to find the money to buy shingles?” The lad's lower lip began to quiver. He tried valiantly to suppress his grief and frustration in front of the man he considered a hero.
“Maybe I can help, Lonny. I know a fellow who has some extra shingles just laying around. I'll go fetch those and we'll put this roof right as… well, good for the next rain.”
Ol' Ross obliged Diamond by not charging for the buckboard, allowing that Lonny was his part time employee and the conveyance would not have far to travel. Leon's Mercantile is the place where Preston had seen the shingles. These he paid for out of his own pocket then hauled the goods to the Fischer dwelling. Lonny had been industriously peeling the old shingles off as McBain had directed. Together they completed that project and began installing the new roof.
Preston felt like the proverbial sitting duck, knowing there were people very near who wanted him dead. Up on the Fischer's roof, he could not have presented a more tempting target. But he considered that the Chief would be the only person hired for the job at this time. The half-breed didn't usually kill from a distance.
The roof was small and the job went fast. Lonny placed the cedar, Preston nailed it down. The two chatted while they worked. Lonny was thrilled to have the locally famous (or infamous, depending upon view point) Bradley McBain helping him on his own roof. What had begun as a soggy, miserable day with no prospect of improvement had turned into the very best time the youngster could remember.
Luke Fischer hobbled out of the house when he could no longer stand the constant hammering and pounding. He shuffled as if his hips were inflexible. A curved wooden stock cane supported most of the upper body weight as he leaned forward to keep his balance. He still wore the regalia of the ranch hand: riding boots, denim pants, flowered shirt; a colourful bandanna was tied loosely around his neck, a beaten and skuffed western hat rested on his head. The entire ensemble had been off the store shelves for many years. Like his clothes, Luke Fischer also looked a bit shabby around the edges. The cowhand needed a hair cut, a shave, probably a bath, and a month of good meals to set him back on track. He wore loss of self esteem like a repentant man walking to the gallows.
Upon seeing his father, Lonny clamped down on his lower lip, instantly turning sullen. McBain immediately descended the ladder, cordially making his own introduction to the broken cowboy. The man presented a surly attitude, merely grunting in response to McBain's comments and questions. Preston did not seem to notice. He maintained an open, but not over-familiar, discourse. Gradually digging deeper, he forced the man's true nature to the surface. At the same time, imperceptibly, Preston skilfully drew Lonny into a three way conversation. As they worked, Diamond included Luke Fischer in the project, asking him to pass up the hammer that had fallen, more nails, a couple more shingles. By the time the roof had a complete double-layer of new cedar, McBain had become a friend to both the Fischers.
Luke invited the new-comer into the little home for a cup of coffee. The place was in very poor condition. It needed attention both structurally and in house-keeping. Broken chairs, still lying around had been replaced with more utilitarian apple boxes. The table had a leather strap serving as a splint on one leg. A Spartan warrior would have complained at the lack of luxury. Preston did not notice Lonny's embarrassment when he apologised, “The place is a mess right now. That rain raised the devil around here…” The coffee had a good flavour and Preston concentrated on that.
McBain asked what seemed a ludicrous question, “Do you think you'll ever go back to working cattle?”
Luke Fischer snorted in disgust, “Cripples don't handle cows. Or,” he added bitterly, “horses.”
“Well, it is a shame to have so much knowledge lying away dormant, you know, not being put to use,” Preston persisted.
Lonny explained, “Pa cain't ride a horse no more, Mr. McBain. His pelvisic bones is broke and they didn't heal right. He cain't even climb into a saddle no more.”
Luke looked at his son then turned to McBain, “It's a tough chore just walkin' around this shack let alone trying to straddle a damn bronc.”
“Have you ever tried lowering one stirrup? Sometimes that makes a man sit more comfortable in the saddle.”
“Pa ain't been in the saddle since he got banged up so bad…” Lonny turned to his father, “You cain't ride no more, can you, Pa?” A trace of hope made his voice crack.
“No,” Luke Fischer sighed. “I don't believe I'll ever be on a horse again.”
“Well, that's a load of nonsense,” McBain argued amiably. “I bet if I fetched my horse over here you'd be on him in an instant.”
Preston saw a quick flash of hungry desire in the man's sunken eyes, but he shook his head, “I know what your trying, Bradley, but it ain't no good… I cain't…”
The younger Fischer broke in, “Won't you at least try, Pa?”
“Well, I'll bring my gelding around anyway. Ole Evenson tells me you are the best in the country and I wanted somebody who knows what they're about to take a look at his front legs. The bugger beat himself up fighting the halter a couple days ago.”
Luke Fischer was waiting at the broken gate in front of his home when McBain returned leading the gelding. Lonny, his arms full, dragged the last load of bedding into the house and rushed back outside to help.
The lame man came forward and grasped the gelding's reins. He stood quietly studying the horse. A dim, far away light shone in Luke's sad gray eyes; a reflection of times passed. After a moment, with a small groan, he bent over to inspect the horse's shins. A protesting crack emanated from somewhere in the man's broken body. He winced but no sound passed his lips. “Someone's been rubbin' ointment on these scrapes,” he said aloud.
“That's me, Pa,” Lonny said proudly. “I been lookin' after Mr. McBain's horse for him down at the Livery.”
“Well, that's a good start. I got some stuff in my box in the house there, son. Fetch me that bottle of turpentine, a rag and a cup of warm water. We'll give this bronc's front legs a scrubbin' and then put some more ointment on there.”
Lonny rushed inside, eager for the opportunity to paw through his father's war chest.
The 'box” Luke Fischer referred to contained remnants of his working days: brush and curry comb, a bit and reins but no bridle, a pair of tarnished nickel-plated spurs, an assortment of conchos, rosettes, leather working tools and scraps of leather. The bottle of turpentine, several tins of salve and ointments, a hoof-pick and knife lay in the second of two removable shelves. The cherished contents of the box were all that Luke Fischer had to tie him to the life he had loved. His saddle, his trail worn chaps, even the horse hair lariat, had been sold to buy food for himself and Lonny. Luke had also bought a bottle of liquor with the proceeds from the saddle.
Luke straightened up, another groan escaping his lips. “My boy has this hoss's legs coming along nicely. I can see the critter didn't do hisself too much damage. It's likely to have healed on its own but a guy don't want trouble with flies gettin' in there this time o' year.”
Lonny returned with the requested items and Luke set to work, washing the scrapes with diluted turpentine. He soon had the job done. “I won't bother applyin' more ointment. Those burns ain't goin' to bother the horse none now. You can put the turpentine back in the box, Lonny.”
Preston thanked Luke but the cowboy only grinned at him. “You didn't bring that horse up here for me to fix up. You an' I both know it.” He gazed thoughtfully into the distance as though seeing something in the past rather than an object on the horizon. Returning his gaze to the gelding, he said, “I suppose I'm obliged to try to get on you,”
The experience wasn't necessarily pain free when Luke Fischer made his second début in the saddle. Bones and joints creaked and protested loudly. The cowboy winced, groaned and bit his lower lip so hard it bled.
But he stayed there.
After the initial shock swept through him and breath came easier, Luke accepted the reins from Preston and goaded the horse ahead. The gelding was a well behaved animal, saving the halter phobia, and he recognized the hand of a master straight off. Luke Fischer made a couple of circuits walking the horse to the end of the street and back. Preston watched father and son closely. Their eyes shone like two youngsters on Christmas morning. “You're doin' it, Pa! You're ridin' a horse again!” Lonny cheered.
“How does it feel, Luke?” McBain asked.
“It's… it's the second best feelin' I've ever had… but it hurts like hell!”
“While you're up there, you may as well ride over to May Anne's where I can buy you boys some supper.”
Luke's face clouded, his pride pinched, “You don't owe us supper McBain. We should be buyin' for you, seein's how you patched our roof for us…”
“Pa, we… I spent the money Ol' Ross paid me…”
Suddenly a completely uncharacteristic notion seized Diamond. “Actually, I may have a business proposition for you both… If it suits you, I'd like to discuss it over a meal. And, I will pay for the supper.”
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