C. C. Phillips
C. C. Phillips
There were a host of questions vying for supremacy in Preston Diamond's thoughts as he travelled a circuitous route to town central: What was the connection between Rittinger and the men who had threatened Herman Goldman? Was the meeting at the depot a mere coincidence? If so, an early arrival seemed out of character for the politician; in his home territory, schedules probably accommodated him. Yet, according to Abel Stafford, the Governor had been on the platform ahead of everyone. He had discussed a subject of serious nature with the newcomers. What had they talked about? Why had the pair elected to cancel their travel plans? Were they contracted to finish the job Muley Trippett and Kenny Lester had not completed? Where were they now? He hoped his coded telegraph messages received prompt response.
Preston detected a flash of movement. Using a large tree trunk to conceal his outline, he faded into the foreground. Nothing moved in the stillness. Freshly washed laundry hung limply from half a dozen clotheslines in back yards along the alley; Monday must be wash day for the women of Way-cross. Two rather large dogs, hounds of a sort, lay in the shade beside the nearest house. A crow perched in uncharacteristic silence atop one of the clothesline poles. Preston could not track down the source nor pin point the exact area where his subconscious had detected something amiss. There were an infinite number of possibilities: a tin can, polished metal, a mirror, a lens… maybe a gun barrel.
He waited; better to be sure than dead.
Two houses farther along, a door opened, a lady emerged carrying a tub of washing.
Another flicker allowed Diamond to establish the source: a cat, only its head visible, was eating from a shiny bowl beside the two sleeping hounds. Could a man be too careful? Preston slipped away quietly, believing it best to let the dogs sleep.
The alley opened onto a side street near the Fischer's residence. The shack, except for the new shingles, looked abandoned. Diamond hoped conditions would soon improve for the two men he had tentatively hired. He wanted to let them know of developments so far, but everything depended on his staying alive for the next few days. Neither Luke or Lonny needed any further disappointment.
Main street held the usual activity of mid-afternoon: a couple farm wagons, one parked, the other travelling toward Preston, several hipshot horses at the hitching rails, a cowboy watering his mount at the trough, two pedestrians walking cat-a-corner across the intersection, Sheriff Dexter strolling toward his office. The men Preston sought, or avoided were not visible. Diamond waited for the approaching wagon to pass then, using it as a screen, crossed the street to the Grand Hotel.
Collier's colleague acknowledged McBain's entrance to the lobby. The man lacked Frank's geniality, but he was effervescent in comparison to Abel Stafford. McBain strode to the counter and asked if he had received any messages. As the clerk turned and thumbed through the pigeon holes, Preston caught a glimpse of the opened register: Rittinger had checked out, three others had checked in. Scrawl on the registry: Peel and Dunvegan, matching the names on the bedrolls he had seen at the rail depot.
“No messages, Mr. McBain.”
Preston went up the stair, his footfalls silent. He edged up to his door and checked for the tiny seal. It was in place. With the skeleton key he opened the lock, pushed gently on the door while standing to one side of the door frame. A slight resistance caused the door to close; a draft caused by an unbalance in temperatures from the room to hallway.
The window was open.
Diamond palmed the Colt and paused for reflection. He had ensured the glass had been latched before leaving his room. Someone had entered via the window. Were they still in there waiting for him or had they searched his belongings (again) then exited back the same way? Or… had two persons discovered the tattle-tail seal; one entered the room, the other reattached the seal? An intruder may have opened the window to allow air movement in the stuffy chamber; he would have to be a patient chap to spend the day cooped up with no fresh air. Preston bolted down the hall, thudded loudly on the stairs, wheeled and silently stole back to his room. His plan was to allow the stowaway time to escape through the window or come out through the doorway. In either case, Preston moved fast enough to at least catch a glimpse. He kicked the unlatched door open and dove into the room.
Abandoned.
Ransacked.
Anger surged through Diamond as he collected his possessions. His trunk had been forced open, contents strewn about. A rapid summary detected nothing stolen. The intruder must have been searching for a specific item… the only thing that could be was information; information Preston held pertaining to this investigation. The hotel furnishings received a beating: the mattress, tick and sheets were ripped from the bed, drawers from the nightstand and chest were dumped on the floor, even the pillow slips were turned inside out.
The Whitmore and Remington received careful scrutiny. The weapons were both operable. The sight adjustment on the long tube scope of the Whitmore had not been tampered with; Preston had the settings marked. Holding the optic to his eye Diamond scanned through the open window; the lenses were clear, the cross-hairs set… A rider, his horse at full gallop, appeared in the view. There was something familiar, but the distance was too far to be certain.
Diamond lay the Whitmore on the displaced mattress, then pawed through the inventory of his belongings in search of the pocket telescope. A rumpled sheet of paper he had not noticed before, possibly blown from its initial resting place by the breeze in the room, caught his attention. Straightening the note he read large scrawled letters: “WE HAVE SAMTHA DEXER”. Preston flipped over the page… nothing.
He found the telescope and quickly focused on the fast moving horse.
It was Samantha Dexter… Behind her a second rider had appeared; using the bridle reins he whipped his mount to greater speed. The powerful optic showed clearly the fear on Samantha's face. Preston watched as she risked a glance behind then put heels to her racing steed.
The man in pursuit was gaining. They were still more than half a mile out; he may catch the girl before she reached the safety of the town.
Diamond tossed the telescope on the heap and frantically searched for his ammunition. He found the package, fumbled a load into the breech of the Whitmore and returned to the window. The low power scope on the 'Sharp-shooter' now revealed more than Preston hoped to see: Samantha's horse was faltering; the man in pursuit had a carbine in his hand. Did he intend to shoot the girl, or maybe her horse? Preston knew that, at full gallop, accuracy was non-existent.
Preston saw a white puff of smoke from the distant rifle. A moment later the muffled sound of the shot arrived… Samantha's horse kept running…
Using the window sill for a rest, Diamond nestled the custom moulded stock against his shoulder; his cheek brushed the smooth finish as he placed the cross-hairs on the rider's chest; there was a faint “click' from the set of the hair trigger… Preston judged the distance, raised the barrel and allowed for travel on the moving target.
The rider had levered another round into his carbine and was trying to shoot single handed. He was only a few lengths behind the fleeing girl.
Preston let out his breath and squeezed the trigger.
The now headless horseman tumbled from the saddle rolling to a stop in the grass beside the wagon road.
Samantha's horse slowed, sagged and went to its knees.
Preston did not wait to see more. He raced down the stair and out into the street. A few people, startled by the blast from the Whitmore, were gawking around in wonder. Sheriff Dexter, pounding along the boardwalk, stopped when he saw McBain on the run. The sheriff instantly drew a conclusion: “What the hell,” he panted, “were you shootin' at?”
“Samantha!' Preston shouted. “Moody, grab a horse! Follow me.”
Dexter bawled, “You were shootin' at Sam?” But McBain, running like an antelope, didn't break stride as he headed for the west side of town.
“Gimme that horse,” Sheriff Dexter bellowed at a cowboy leaning on a hitching rail.
McBain and Dexter reached Samantha and her fallen horse at the same time. The animal was one of the pair Preston had noticed tethered in front of the bank this morning. A peculiar single white sock on the right forefoot and blaze forehead marked it. No wonder the horse had died in the chase, it had been nearly dead on its feet hours ago. The girl had not been thrown; in a shocked daze she walked around the prostrate animal. When she realized who had come to her assistance, Samantha collapsed in Preston's arms. He held her close, speaking in reassuring tones. Moody helped ease her to a seated position, facing away, and a short distance back, from the dusty road.
“What happened, Sam? Are you all right?” the girl's step-father asked anxiously.
Samantha sobbed, tears flowing down her cheeks. “I don't know… I don't know what happened… I'm so confused….”
“Well, how come you are out here? Who's dead horse is this?” Dexter focused along the trail where a second horse stood, feet tangled in its reins. Not far beyond, something that looked like a body, lay at the side of the road. “And who…”
McBain broke in, “We best let the doctor have a look at her right away, Moody. She may need something to calm her down. Maybe she will be able to answer your questions later.”
Leaving Samantha with her dad, Preston walked down the trail to the riderless horse. This animal was not of the same pair. He freed the reins from its front feet and led the mount to the place where its former rider had stopped rolling. The horse balked at the scent of blood. A broken Winchester lay nearby. There wasn't much recognizable in the absent facial features; maybe a family member would know. Preston did note the ragged, dirty cast on the fellow's right arm. Someone had scrawled on the plaster, in large clumsy letters quite similar to the writing on the paper left in Diamond's hotel room, one word: BALLARD.
Diamond recalled the tough who had harassed him when he worked as a bank clerk in Clarkston. The hooligan had pushed too hard and Preston gave him a broken arm for the trouble. Now, that man had come here.
Preston looked at the bloody corpse and considered his own arrival in Way-cross last week; the local welcoming committee lacked a certain courtesy.
A young man with a long nose, dog-trotted up to where Samantha and Dexter sat as McBain returned leading the horse with the empty saddle. The newcomer had a note-book and pencil in his hand; though the camera and tripod were absent, Preston immediately recognised him as the reporter who arrived on the noon train. “What's going on here?” he demanded.
Dexter raised his eye-brows, “Who's askin'?”
“Colon Patch,” he offered his hand, “from Kansas City… I'm a newspaper reporter.”
The sheriff ignored the gesture. “We heard you were coming. How the hell did you get here so fast?”
The newsman grinned amicably, “Oh, I was in the area… sort of; caught the first train to Way-cross after I heard some one had killed The Chief. Big news that, you know, he murdered a lot of people….”
McBain interrupted. “Moody, we best get Samantha to Doc Stohl.”
Colon Patch hammered questions at them as Dexter and McBain helped Samantha into the saddle of the deceased man's horse. “How come that horse is dead? Where did this horse come from? I saw you come out here and only one of you rode… but there are, counting the dead one, three horses here now…” He gave a yelp of surprise, “Hey! There's a dead body over there!”
McBain led Samantha's new mount, Dexter rode his confiscated horse alongside. They ignored the newsman when he caught up to them.
Dexter and McBain sat in the sheriff's office, the younger man giving the account of what he knew. Doc Stohl had given Samantha laudanum to settle her down and she had fallen asleep in one of his rooms. Edith Dexter sat with her daughter; Moody had ridden out to the ranch and brought his wife to town.
“Somebody trashed my hotel room, looking for I don't know what —nothing was missing— and they left that note.”
Dexter studied the misspelled scratch, it was worse than his own writing. “Why would they take my daughter and leave a note in your room?”
McBain shook his head. “They left no instructions, no demands. They must have planned to contact you, or I, later. Moody, I think they were trying to draw me out. I've told you before, there are people —and I still don't know who— in this town who want me dead.”
“But that has nothing to do with Samantha!” the sheriff protested.
McBain spoke softly, “Whoever is at the bottom of this, knows that Samantha and I are… good friends.”
Dexter locked eyes with McBain. “If anything happens to my daughter, McBain, I'll hunt you until one or both of us is dead.”
McBain held the stare. “I'm sorry, Moody. If anything does happen to Samantha, I'm not so sure I'd want to be alive anyway.”
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