C. C. Phillips
C. C. Phillips
Emerging from the Way-cross bank, Preston studied the main street. There were no signs of the strangers or their horses. He reasoned the logical place to start a search would be at Ol' Ross's livery barn, for the mounts had shown evidence of a hard journey.
The stable owner was using his molars —those still in his mouth— to gnaw off a corner of a plug as Diamond entered the barn. A dark trickle of tobacco juice ran down the old man's chin as a contented grin spread across his grizzled features. “Want a chew?” he asked, flourishing the foul, lint-encrusted plug.
McBain shook his head. “No thanks, Ross, I just spit some out.”
“You take the odd chew?” the hostler asked in disbelief.
“I tried a bit twenty years ago, the taste is still in my mouth.”
Ross chuckled. “Well, I can see that you ain't primed for goin' ridin' so what can I do you out of today?”
“Oh, I was just wondering if a couple of strangers with a pair of tired horses showed up here this morning?”
“Acquaintances of yourn?” Ross asked.
Preston hedged. “Not yet, but I'd like to talk to them.”
The hostler rubbed his chin smearing the dried dribble of tobacco juice. “Weeelll, I don't always supply information, but seein' as how these ain't customers, I 'll tell ya. Two duded up fellas with some dust on their horses and theyselves, hollered in the door —didn't bother to get down off them nags— to ask were the rail depot was.” He laughed at his own wit, “I tol' 'em it was down by the tracks.”
Several wheeled conveyances were parked and saddle horses were tied outside the railway station. The manager, Abel Stafford, barely acknowledged Diamond when he entered the freight office via a walk-through door at the rear. Probably everyone who came into the depot was treated to this reception; Preston had noted it on a previous meeting. Stafford continued to ignore the visitor while shuffling through bills-of-lading, checking them against the manifest. The only other occupant was a heavy-set black man of about twenty-five. He was shifting cargo, making room for the in-bound freight. The helper acknowledged Preston with a brief smile but said nothing. Preston wondered if Stafford forbid chatter inside the depot. Content to be ignored, he wandered around the crowded room observing more than his casual manner indicated. Boxes, crates, wooden barrels and kegs littered the floor space. A few pieces of merchandise awaited pick-up, but most were labelled for distant destinations down the line. Several four-wheeled handcarts were laden with more packages and various pieces of luggage. Preston memorized the tags attached to two dusty bedrolls: Dunvegan and Peel. If they belonged to the strangers he sought, it was probable the names were fictitious. Preston's eyes were attracted to two rather large, expensive pieces of luggage. He read 'Sheffield Rittinger' handwritten in large flamboyant script; the baggage indicated an eastern destination.
Diamond mused, “So the Governor is leaving Way-cross today.”
A partition had been constructed creating a separate room at the far end of the freight depot. In the centre of the dividing wall a closed door with translucent glass bore the title 'TELEGRAPH OFFICE'; the faint staccato rattle of the transmitter reached Preston's ears. A closed wicket window with thin iron bars stretched horizontally across was situated to the left of the doorway.
Through a series of adjacent windows looking out on the tracks and platform, Preston saw a small gathering of people; some sat on chairs or a long bench that paralleled the face of the building; others were standing. Occasionally one of those seated would stand up, stride to the raised edge and gaze down the twin lines of steel that vanished in the distance; passengers going out and folks awaiting the arrival of someone or an item of freight. Governor Rittinger strutted among the crowd chatting and visiting, always smiling or laughing.
Diamond espied the two men who had been in O'Malley's bank. They were apart from the crowd, at the far end, seated on the rough boards of the platform. Governor Rittinger seemed oblivious to their presence. Preston noted the butt of a holstered revolver on the man nearest him; from the angle he could not determine if the other had a weapon. Neither had been visibly armed when at the bank a short time ago.
Preston recognized the steady puff of black smoke boiling into the sky before seeing or hearing the train. Folks on the platform began to mill about in animated anticipation. Watching closely, Diamond soon picked out the two strangers making their way through the crowd. Indeed, both men wore revolvers at their hips. Preston noted the worn grips and the natural way the guns hung. Was there a silent acknowledgement as they passed Rittinger? The pair left the platform and were lost to sight.
Abel Stafford sighed audibly, set aside his paperwork, then proceeded to a huge set of double doors which he heaved apart. Brilliant sunshine and the clamour of the approaching train flooded the room. The doors opened onto another portion of the platform at right angles to the section visible from the window. Peering around the side of a carton, Diamond again caught sight of the strangers. They were climbing aboard the weary horses. As he studied them, one fellow, half-way into the saddle, stepped back onto the ground, passed the reins to his companion then strode in the direction of the depot. The man entered the building through the double doors, growled, “Change of plans,” to Stafford and retrieved the two bedrolls from the baggage cart.
The whistle blew and the locomotive chuffed into Way-cross station. A flurry of bustle commenced as Union Pacific men, passengers (in-bound and out-bound)— people awaiting arrivals and freight, depot personal Stafford and his assistant, even the telegraph operator, all crowded the platform at once.
Alternately watching through the windows and the doorway, Preston marvelled at the efficiency with which the depot and rail crew quickly handled the freight and shuttled the locomotive and its cars around. Two in-bound boxcars were dropped from the train and one outbound, with livestock --probably cattle, Preston guessed, was hooked on. Cargo and baggage was off-loaded; cargo and baggage was loaded on.
Passengers disembarking were of interest to Preston. There were five visitors to Way-cross or bound, via stage coach, farther into the hinterland. One of these was, from appearance, a news reporter; probably the fellow who had sent the telegraph message concerning the death of The Chief. Even if he had not been in possession of the bulky picture box and tripod Preston would have suspected him a news person; no ink or pencil lead stains on his clothes; no writing pad and fountain pen visible; nothing material to identify his profession; the chap simply acted like someone accustomed to delving into other peoples' matters. Maybe it was his long nose.
Diamond, moving inconspicuously among the shifting freight near the wide entrance, was near enough to see and hear as the reporter seized Abel Stafford by the sleeve and demanded, “Where may I find the man who beat The Chief to death? Is he still in town?”
Stafford looked meaningfully at the man's hand on his arm, brushed it aside, then adjusted his deadpan gaze to the reporter's face. “The Chief is dead. What Chief?”
The new arrival found the Governor more loquacious and though Rittinger yielded no information about the midnight fight, Preston heard him express excessive interest in the camera box. Inevitably, on the station platform, the Union Pacific locomotive behind him, Governor Rittinger proudly posed for a photograph.
The echoes of the train died in the distance and the hubbub on the platform dwindled to a few people waiting to be issued their freight. Soon these people dissipated too. The telegraph key punch was back in his office; the black man shifted new boxes and crates; the agent resumed scrutiny of the paperwork; Bradley McBain made himself visible.
Abel Stafford hired on as depot manager when the railway arrived in Way-cross. Stafford had come with the tracks; he had been on the gang that laid the steel. The spur was Union Pacific's end -of-the-line and it became the-end-of-the-line for Abel as well. The company recognised Stafford's diligence on the road gang and, more importantly, the fact that he had an education. Into his fifties now, the man had not gone over to fat when the hard work ended. He still carried plenty of muscle though his shoulders were stooped and legs bowed from years of heavy lifting. Taciturn, surly, a loner, the agent had an air of no-nonsense about him that the unfortunate Lester brothers should have realized before they tried to rob the rail depot. He glanced up with no show of emotion when McBain silently appeared beside him.
“I hadn't heard that The Chief was dead although I knew he had come to Way- cross… You will be the man who killed him,” Abel Stafford said.
McBain nodded, “He was looking for trouble; I fought back.”
Stafford tossed the cargo manifest on a crate. “I knew The Chief. What is it you are here for today? The name 'McBlaine' isn't on the manifest.”
“Actually it is McBain, the spelling was incorrect on my freight last week. I am impressed that you recall my name at all… And why do you assume I fought The Chief?”
The agent shrugged. “I don't make a habit of memorizing names. Yours stayed with me. Simple deduction told me you were the one who killed that goddamn half-breed giant…”
“And how is that?”
Another shrug. “No one in Way-cross could have done it… Now, what is it you want?”
“Information.”
“Yes,” Stafford sighed, “I guessed that too.”
Charlie Morris, no relation to the inventor, Samuel Morse, was the telegraph operator in Way-cross. From Charlie's alcove, Abel Stafford obtained two mugs of lukewarm coffee and led McBain out of the depot. The two men took up seats in the shade of the building's eave on the now vacant freight platform.
“I can't imagine what information I could have for you. Union Pacific records are strictly confidential,” Stafford advised, then added, “First off though, I would like to tell you a story…”
McBain waited while the agent took a large swallow of coffee.
“The Chief worked for a short time on a railroad gang that I was with; maybe the only time he ever did any honest labour. He was a mean and miserable bastard if God or the Devil ever made one. You can imagine McBain rail line construction is quite physically taxing and we were all tough boys then; we worked hard, we played hard. One night The Chief challenged two of the lads to what he called a “friendly” wrestling match… he killed them both with his bare hands. One of them was my younger brother.”
Tears welled in the hard man's eyes as he looked squarely at McBain. “I wish to hell I had been able to stop him, but there was nothing any of us could do; we could as well have tried to stop the train. God, how I would have enjoyed seeing you beat that bastard to death!”
McBain consoled, “If you want to see the Chief's carcass, that reporter guy that arrived on the train is taking pictures; probably, right now.”
“No, it is enough to know he is dead. And,” Stafford held out his hand, “to shake the hand of the man who killed him.”
McBain solemnly acknowledged the firm grip.
“I'll try to give you anything you want to hear, but I will not compromise the company.”
“Maybe you won't know anything that can help me. Governor Rittinger went out on the train today, did you happen to see or hear him talking with those two gentlemen who changed their minds about leaving?”
Stafford took his time in replying. “I know who you mean, they had paid passage for themselves and two horses up to the main line. And yes, I did see them in conversation with Rittinger. They were on the platform quite a while ahead of anyone else. They talked for about fifteen minutes, I would estimate.”
“Did you hear anything they said, anything at all?”
“No, they were out here on the platform and I was inside the freight office.”
“Was it a friendly conversation? Was the Governor on parade, so-to-speak?”
“There was nothing to suggest they weren't on even terms, from what I saw, but… no, Rittinger wasn't fluffing his feathers for the crowd. He actually looked quite serious. And I mention that because in all the times I've loaded him on this train, he has never been less than overly familiar with everyone.”
“The Governor rides the train often?' McBain asked.
“Well… yes, he is a quite frequent passenger; maybe once a month…” Stafford reconsidered, “Probably more like twice in three months would be a better average. I don't know how long he stays in Way-cross or how far he travels by stage coach when he leaves here.”
Through the open door way the sound of the transmitter resumed. On impulse McBain asked, “Does the telegraph run twenty-four hours a day on this spur?”
Stafford hesitated again, he did not appreciate questions that may be connected with rail-road business. “We only have the transmitter up for nine hours a day. The main line runs day and night.; Charlie is the only operator.”
McBain smiled, “I have a few messages to send, I'll do that now.
“You've given me something to digest, Mr. Stafford. You may be assured none of this discussion will go any farther.”
Stafford smiled, an expression foreign to his face. “Maybe I will go pay my disrespects to the half-breed. You know it is a coincidence that the heathen bastard was killed here in Way-cross, right in my own town. Thanks again, McBain… I shall sleep better knowing that Dick is avenged.”
Chapter 17 Chapter 19