C. C. Phillips
C. C. Phillips
Click.
The hammer fell on an empty chamber.
Preston expected Samantha to continue firing the gun, but she simply stared at the weapon, a puzzled frown on her face. When she turned her gaze to him, Preston saw that her eyes were once again sparkling and alive. “Why do I have your gun in my hand?” she asked. “Did you put it there?”
The expression of puzzlement was contagious but Preston quickly recovered. “No… No, I just asked you to hand it to me… I guess you didn't hear me clearly.”
A faint smile tugged at the corners of her mouth as she passed him the Colt. “Do you always turn to your gun after making love to a woman?”
What could he say? I like to celebrate by firing off a few shots in the air? I feel naked without it? Preston opted to change the subject. “Perhaps your folks will be wondering what became of us.”
Samantha flashed a smile. “Dad may be stewing, but Mother knows exactly what we're doing.”
Incredulity rang in Preston's voice. “Your mother knows we've been making love?”
“Not for sure, but she is a good guesser. And I can't hide anything from her… poor vision or not.”
“Isn't our return going to be… er… well… embarrassing?”
Samantha reached for her clothes. “Let's go find out!”
While the lady attended to hygiene at the water's edge, Preston dressed and strapped on the gun belt. He dug the six cartridges from his pocket and thumbed them into the cylinder of the revolver. He shook his head as he holstered the weapon. What had, for want of a better word, possessed the girl?
Samantha returned and he helped her arrange hair and clothing so as not to appear in obvious disarray. She laughed at his concern and kissed him lightly on the cheek, “I was already a big girl when we made love, now you have made me a woman. There is no shame in that.”
“Then there is no shame in this either,” he retorted, taking her in his arms and kissing her passionately on the lips.
She broke off the embrace, caught her breath, and touched a hand to his cheek. “We best be going or Sheriff Dad will have his posse out after us.”
Samantha lay awake staring out at the triangle of star lit sky she could see through her bedroom window. Sleep waited in the shadows as her mind churned through an olio of thoughts and doubts. It had been a momentous day. She harboured no regret. Brad had opened a door she could never have opened on her own and she knew he affected her more than anyone she had ever known… He had driven away the haunting terror of the night Lenore was murdered; given Samantha the courage to live; to love.
Did she love Bradley McBain? Thinking of him made her heart beat faster and she looked forward to seeing him; is that love or simply infatuation? Could she fall in love with someone she had known for less than a week? How do you even know when you are in love? The intimacy they had shared in the cool grass on the bank above the creek went far beyond description; beyond imagination; with proper nourishment, that must certainly lead to love…
The solitary debate continued. Sleep was patient, it could wait all night.
On the other hand… did he feel the same way about her? Bradley McBain must have been with many women in his lifetime. Was Samantha Dexter to become just another lady he had known? Would he move on, she a fading memory? She knew nothing about him; his past, his work… absolutely nothing. Yet she asked him to make love to her. Why did she do that?
There was something else… sometimes, in his presence, her mind went blank. Moments were blotted out. Could his being near, actually, physically, force her heart to skip a few beats? Was she blacking out, losing her mind? She didn't feel faint or have a headache when regaining her senses. On two occasions this afternoon there were moments, actions, for which she could not account. Did time stand still? When she stopped on the little rise above the creek she remembered looking across the water, then… nothing. The empty pause seemed brief and she would not have thought of it again, but Brad was staring at her with a look of deep concern on his face. Later she found the revolver in her hand. How did it get there? Brad's expression did not match the explanation he gave.
Samantha yawned and queried the stars; “What is happening? What is wrong with me?”
Sleep passed a gentle hand over heavy eyelids, turning torment to pleasant dreams of love's embrace, erasing the recurring nightmare of Boston Common.
And Samantha Dexter awoke in love.
Monday morning Sheriff Dexter sat behind his desk scribbling the finishing touches on the last of the reports he had started the previous week. The pencil stub had shrunk and dark streaks from excess lead had marred the brief account that would, until misplaced or destroyed, be the only pages history would have to remark the passing of Muley Trippett and Kenny Lester. A less lengthy message, Dexter's report on the first two Lester brothers to die last week, had been forwarded to Mayor George Kirwin's part-time clerk. That document would now be lost in the bottom of the apple crate filing cabinet. It wasn't much to mark a man's lifetime.
The door opened silently and Bradley McBain stepped into the sheriff's office. Dexter glanced up, grunted, “Hello,” and continued writing.
“Well, Sheriff, your enchanting voice certainly fills the air this morning,” McBain goaded.
Sheriff Dexter ignored the jibe. He wrote furiously for another minute then tossed the pencil aside. “There!” he exclaimed, flourishing the two pages of scribble. “I've finished the reports on Muley and Lester's shooting.”
“How can you be finished Muley's report? You don't know who shot him yet?”
“This is just a write-up for Mayor Kirwin. Nobody cares about who done it.”
“You'll make another report when the murderer is apprehended?” McBain asked.
“Could be; don't know who would read it though… unless the matter goes to trial. Mind, if you are still around when the guy shows up, there won't be no trial. You have a habit of bein' judge, jury and executioner, all rolled into one handy package.
“An' speaking of you bein' the executioner, word got out down the wire —apparently someone goaded the rail-road boys into sendin' a message on Sunday— that The Chief was killed. That breed is mighty well known and plenty feared throughout a considerable chunk of this country. Some dude, some writer guy, from back east caught wind and is acomin' out here for interviews. He telegraphed Russell Frost sayin' to keep the body above ground 'cause they want a passel of pictures.”
McBain shrugged. “I don't have time for interviews nor do I pose for pictures.”
Dexter persisted, “Them reporter guys will hound you to hell. They don't quit easy.”
“You will have to give the reporter the story, Sheriff. And make certain he understands I want no truck with him. Tell him… tell him it is for his own well being.”
Dexter switched the conversation. “My girls and I talked pretty late last night. We agreed we should sell the ranch while there is a buyer available. We've never had much, and who knows? Tough winters or dry years could wipe us out; then Edith and I would have nothing for our old age…” Moody's eyes became moist. “We'd like to stay on at the place for awhile yet —like you said we could— God knows it will be hard for us to leave…”
McBain smiled. “You can stay there forever, Moody. And, if you so desire, providing I don't go first, I'll bury you on the place.”
Dexter swallowed the lump growing in his throat. “You'll be wantin' to know the price… We don't got an exact figure but I can tell you it will be slightly more'n double the bounty on the half-breed's head. How does that suit you?”
“Sounds reasonable; I'll make arrangements with the banker.” Reaching across the desk McBain shook Dexter's hand: for men of the calibre, an agreement more binding than a signature.
Preston Diamond strode along the boardwalk to the brick and mortar structure that served as Way-cross Bank. Two saddled horses bearing signs of a long trail were tied at the hitching rail shared by the financial establishment and the neighbouring town hall. O'Malley had clients or visitors in his office so Preston took a seat near the barred window in the foyer. The building was of sturdy construction. His eye for carpentry noted renovations had been performed recently. The original trim, likely painted fir, had been replaced with beautifully stained oak. The mop boards, quarter round and wainscot glistened with a diligent polishing. A patterned oak trim enclosed the entire room along the top of the walls abutting the ceiling. The hardwood floor was oak of a darker stain. This same colour and grain served for the wooden structure of the two teller cages and a long flat counter.
A male clerk, a younger version of Patrick O'Malley (this one having a full head of hair) waited on an elderly lady who was quite hard of hearing. A second clerk, a friendly young lady with dark eyes and a pretty smile, worked at a large desk behind the main counter. Preston had noticed her before he sat down. Both tellers had been present during his previous visit.
The door, advertising the stencilled word 'MANAGER' above the name 'PATRICK O'MALLEY' opened and Diamond glanced in that direction as the banker showed two travel-stained but well-dressed gentlemen from his office. Preston immediately shifted his gaze, ostensibly fixating on the elderly customer who had completed her business and was, with the aid of a cane, shuffling toward the exit. One of the gentlemen held the door for the old woman, then both followed her out of the bank.
They were the men who had first come to visit Herman Goldman, the now deceased banker, in Clarkston.
Preston watched O'Malley watching the two strangers. Nothing could be read in his expression. O'Malley saw McBain and smiled a welcome. “You're here to see me, Mr. McBain? Please come in; have a seat.”
The money man gave no indication that he had been troubled by the strangers' visit.
O'Malley applauded the decision and welcomed the soon-to-be new resident to Way-cross when McBain announced that he and Dexter had come to an agreement. McBain stated that he would like to open an account in Way-cross and have O'Malley's people handle the transaction. Also, drawn from the new account, there would be a monthly salary payment made to Luke and his son, Lonny Fischer.
O'Malley smiled broadly, “We heard about you putting Luke back on a horse. Even if Luke won't be able to work cattle anymore, he has his pride back. That goes a long way for a man like him.”
“Lonny is my concern,” McBain countered. “A boy needs a fair chance… just like you've given your son, Mr. O'Malley.”
Diamond checked the reaction but could not be definite. Did the banker's eyes reveal a fleeting fear or uncertainty? The instant passed but a perceptible note of apprehension rang in his voice when O'Malley replied, “Yes, it is our hope, the wife and I, that David and Melissa can take over our business some day. We….”
He broke off as McBain rose from his chair and turned to the window. The bank manager stared in consternation as his customer quietly studied the street.
Preston noted the two horses were gone from the hitching rail. He thought of Herman Goldman and wondered if he could have prevented his murder. Reaching a decision, he turned back to O'Malley. “Can you handle a gun?”
Completely blind-sided by this change in conversation, O'Malley spluttered, “What do you mean, handle a gun?”
“Are you familiar with firearms at all?”
“Well, yes, Mr. McBain. David and I hunt deer and elk. We are, I say in all modesty, above average with both pistol and rifle. Shooting is a hobby we share, something we can do together as father and son… but I really cannot fathom why you are asking such a question at this time.”
McBain levelled his gaze, locking eyes with the bank man. “Those two men who were in here before me… they are serious trouble. Do not doubt my sincerity: I suggest you and your son go nowhere without carrying a weapon.”
“But.. but they were only inquiring about… about something. They issued no threat.” O'Malley protested.
“Tell me if I am wrong… I suspect they were offering to buy your bank.” McBain held up a hand to stall protest. “They were charismatic, decent business men today. They or someone like them will be back and they will not be nice at all. You will sell or you will die.”
O'Malley paled. “How do you know this? Why should I believe you?
McBain skirted the questions. “Are you familiar with a town by the name of Clarkston? It is about a hundred and fifty miles, as the horse trots, south-west of Way-cross.”
“Clarkston? Yes… I heard something about an attempted robbery there a few weeks back. The owner of the bank, Herman Goldman —I met him on business several years ago— was killed and the two robbers were shot by a clerk or somebody in the bank. I never actually read a newspaper account of the fiasco, just heard the rumour. As far as I know, that is the end of the story. Herman was a decent sort but we all know banks are a temptation; I hoped we would have a reprieve when Jesse James was shot back in April….”
“The Clarkston business has no connection with what may be left of the James gang, but it was more than a simple hold-up gone sour. The details are not open for discussion; the important issue in that crime is that the robbery was a cover-up; a ruse to hide the fact that Herman Goldman was deliberately assassinated.”
“Mr. McBain, I don't want to be rude, but there is a limit. How could you expect me to take your story as gospel? A stranger to Way-cross, you ride into town a week or so back, two dead men on the trail behind you; since then there has been a jail break; Sheriff Dexter shot the fugitive; the accomplice, after he was arrested, was murdered in his cell; Saturday night after the dance you beat a man to death —granted a vicious killer, wanted by the law— but you killed him.” The banker leaned further forward in the chair his face grew red and flecks of spittle spattered from his lips as the remonstration progressed. “Now you come into my bank telling me to arm myself, in preparation for… for what? …war? And I am supposed to accept that?”
McBain took his time responding allowing the money manager a moment to settle back in his seat and regain composure. “The two men who were in your office ten minutes ago had been to visit Mr. Goldman, a few weeks before he was killed. They were strongly encouraging him to sell his business.” With cold finality he added, “That, Mr. O'Malley, is gospel.”
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