C. C. Phillips
C. C. Phillips
Barbara Kirwin nearly smiled when serving McBain his breakfast next morning; she hesitated in refusing the gratuity he offered. He could have left a tip on the table but that would have detracted from the game. Summed up, Miss Kirwin had refused a considerable amount of easy coin over the course of the past week or so; Preston wondered if that notion had occurred to her.
Before stepping outside May Anne's eatery, McBain surveyed the avenue from the cafe window. Most everything appeared normal except that Colon Patch, the reporter, had set up his camera and tripod in the street. The contraption was aimed at the door of May Anne's establishment. The man was bent over, his head hidden under a small curtain affair designed to prevent light entering the picture box. Behind Patch, Sheriff Moody Dexter left his office and angled across the street. When Moody reached the photographer he tapped the man on the shoulder; Patch emerged from under the curtain; Preston stepped out onto the street.
Colon Patch protested, “But it won't spook the horses, Sheriff. It's just a little 'poof' and a small cloud of smoke. It…
“There he is! Mr. McBain! Mr. McBain, would you like to pose for a picture? I'm going to have it printed along with a post mortem photograph of The Chief and the story of your hand-to-hand duel to the death, for the Kansas City Star; that's our new newspaper and we have hundreds, maybe thousands of readers and the story will be published in other papers too, down east, even to New York City, likely, so you won't want to pass up the opportunity I am giving you to become world famous… Mr. McBain, hold on a minute…”
McBain paid no attention to the photographer and soon disappeared into the barber shop two doors farther along.
Dexter mused, “I guess he ain't interested in becoming worldly famous. Now you git that gadget off'n my streets or I'll lock you up in the calaboose for being a public nuisance.”
Patch reluctantly folded his tripod and lugged the equipment to the boardwalk. He waited until Moody Dexter had continued on to May Anne's eatery, then proceeded in the wake of McBain. The reporter again set up his picture-taking apparatus near the barber's establishment. Apparently he hoped for a photograph of “The Way-cross Gunman” sporting a fresh shave and haircut. Though the clock lacked a quarter of an hour from ten in the morning, the sun, focused on this side of the street, had already preheated the oven to bread-baking temperature. Colon Patch alternated between hiding under his darkening curtain and emerging with squinting eyes to swipe perspiration from his brow.
Inside the shop, McBain took a seat in the swivel barber's chair. Tony, the Way-cross barber, was a dapper little man who flitted about like a chickadee on a suet log. Maintaining steady platitudinous chatter, he tactfully avoided allusion to the notoriety of his customer or the recent run of crime and killings in Way-cross. In the days since McBain's arrival, the shop had rung with news reports and rumour. Barbers enjoy a helping of gossip too.
Facing the chair, a large, ornately framed mirror reflected a view of the street outside. Though Colon Patch was hidden, Preston read in the reactions of passers-by that something was amiss near the right hand side of the entrance. He suspected it would be the persistent newspaper man. Subtle movement across the street behind the slab board wall of Leon's Mercantile lumber yard indicated that the camera fellow may not be the only chap basking in the sun awaiting an opportunity to view Preston's new hair style. The man in the tonsorial chair seldom showed up late for appointments but he loathed surprise parties.
As Tony scraped away the stubble, Preston considered the predicament he would soon be in: If there was a sniper secluded across the street, it would probably be one of the two strangers, Peel or Dunvegan, who met with Rittinger yesterday. Were they together? If not, where was the other one? Diamond wondered if they would be efficient enough to place the second man at the back of the building. He doubted not at all that they were quite capable men of the gun. Perhaps, too, they had brought in new recruits since Ballard would no longer be available…
Preliminaries and preambular rhetoric had closed; it was time for the main event. Preston had pushed the conspirators beyond the edge of caution; they were desperate to be rid of him. The colluders had no way of knowing what information he retained; nothing had been revealed to them on the occasions that Preston's luggage and room were searched; but what information had he passed on to his confederates? And who/where were they? The cabal could only presume the worst and that fear began to fray already over-strained nerves. Something had to break. This time they must not fail.
“Is there a rear exit to your shop?” Preston asked as the straight razor slipped smoothly through the growth on his throat.Tony chirped, “Normally I come and go through the front entrance but there is a rear door opening into the alley that I use to take out my trash. As a rule customers aren't allowed access through there…”
McBain smiled disarmingly and confided in a conspiratorial tone, “Only, there is a news reporter waiting for me to step out on the street. I'd like to avoid him for the time being. If you could let me out through the back, I'd be grateful.”
The voice was neither pleading nor demanding but Tony-The-Barber recognized futility in argument. “Of course, Mr…er… Mr. McBain, isn't it?”
Diamond paid the man four-bits for his service and followed him through to the back door. A small curtained window faced the alley and Preston studied the buildings opposite. There were many places for a man with a rifle to crouch down in waiting. No obstacles were in a direct line of the door; a grain wagon and pair of draft horses stood parked a few yards down. A sweaty man in filthy shirt and trousers pitched garbage into the wagon box. Preston stepped across the alley and drew up against the wall of the neighbouring shop.
His senses detected nothing out of the ordinary. Preston glided down the back alley and emerged on the side street. He scanned the area, crossed the avenue and went another block before turning south across the main thoroughfare. Arriving in the back alley on the far side of Main Street, Preston sprinted west until he came to the boarded perimeter of Leon's lumber yard. Stacks of wood of various dimensions obscured his view as he peered between the vertical slabs of fence. Using a garbage barrel for a leg up he scaled the eight foot wall to alight inside on a pile of rough-cut two-by-fours.
Empty… almost.
He surprised a perspiring Mercantile employee who was shifting boards next to the heap Preston had landed on.
Diamond holstered his Colt, placed a finger to his lips, winked and strode over to the back door of the Mercantile. The astonished worker let one end of the board sag to the ground and watched wordlessly as Preston went inside.
Browsing near the entrance of the store, Preston followed activity on Main Street; there wasn't much. Scorching heat had driven all but the hardiest to shade. Horses, tied or hitched, swatted and stamped at the vicious horseflies that worshipped the heat. The camera man, if it had been him attracting attention in front of the barber shop, had folded his equipment and taken shelter too. Peel and Dunvegan were nowhere to be seen.
A voice hailed McBain and he turned to see Leon Nybo, proprietor of the Mercantile. “Leo” had been very gracious in assisting Preston in finding materials and loaning him the use of tools (for a small rental fee) for the repair of the sewing shop window. Preston noted again that the Way-cross merchants he encountered were not inclined to pass judgement upon a man, at least not in his presence. Following the ubiquitous weather discussion, Diamond asked about lumber and made inquiries as to the cost of building a house. Nybo failed to hide his astonishment but maintained a business air, asking no prying questions. The nail seller invited McBain into his office and together they drew up a preliminary house plan. Preston, if he stayed alive, would eventually need the lumber, but at the moment he wanted to use up time while his enemies stewed over his whereabouts.
Leo saw McBain to the door, promising to prepare a cost summary and have it ready by the end of the week. Suffering heat struck Preston's face and seared his lungs as he stepped out of the store. The mid day sun was a Devil's blast furnace as the noon stage wheeled down the street in a cloud of suffocating dust, the lathered horses reeling in their traces. Preston turned back into the store catching Nybo as he strode to his office. The proprietor raised his eyebrows in surprise.
“I'd like to use your back door, if you don't mind,” McBain explained.
“Certainly, certainly, Mr. McBain. Our customers use it all the time…”
Preston hurried to the back, braced himself for the heat and stepped out among the piles of lumber. This time he exited the yard through an open double gate.
Passengers were stepping off the stage when Diamond reached a vantage point near the depot. A strong hunch bore evidence when he discovered Dunvegan and Peel among the little crowd near the coach. One of them held a rifle in the crook of his arm. Preston did not recognize the man they had come to meet but he recognized the type: a gun for hire. Long limbed, long nosed, the man had a piercing gaze Preston could discern from a distance. He did not swagger but had a reassurance about him that emanated across the stage ground. The ivory grip of a revolver protruded from the holster at his hip. There was no obvious show of amicability between the newcomer and those who waited for him. They were all here on business, serious business of a deadly kind, and the sooner the job was completed, the sooner they could be shut of each other's company.
The sweltering heat inside the stage had taken its toll on the four passengers; everyone was down to the bare essentials decency would allow. The horses, being lead away, were dripping in sweat; Preston heard George Kirwin admonishing the driver for not being more considerate of the animals under these extreme conditions. “And don't give them a drop of water 'til they're cooled out good,” Kirwin shouted to the harness man. Peel or Dunvegan, Preston didn't know them as individuals, latched on to the gun man's war bag and began toting it in the opposite direction of the hotel. The other two men followed and, at a distance, Diamond tagged along too.
The threesome were headed to the rail depot if Diamond's next guess was accurate. But he did not believe the stage passenger was merely transferring to the train. Most likely these three would be meeting with a new arrival or arrivals on the in-bound Union Pacific.
Heat waves shimmered on the black steel of the locomotive parked near the platform. The dirty faced fireman guzzled water from a dipper as he oversaw proceedings at the water tower. Sweat had poured down his coal dusted features leaving black rivulets along his cheeks and chin. Preston, concealed behind a carriage, did not envy the coal stoker his employment on this day.
The man holding the rifle received curious and disdainful stares from the group near the station but he was oblivious. Diamond watched him shift the gun and almost drop it when his hand touched burning steel. Preston tentatively put a finger to the iron rim of the buggy; it was too hot to hang on to.
Passengers on the in-bound numbered seven: A youngish cattleman with his wife and two small children, a middle-aged chap of unidentifiable purpose, sporting a narrow moustache and long nose. The last two seemed to know each other; they wore pistols on their hips.
A dust devil swirled across an open area collecting grit, leaves and debris, whisked them high into the air, danced around tethered horses, tugged at manes and tails, then swept joyously over the platform; ladies clutched at dresses, men grabbed for their hats; silently laughing, it spiralled away, skipping along the rails, leaving folks rubbing sand blasted faces and digging dust from their eyes.
Shimmering heat rushed in to fill the void left by the tiny twister. Instantly, horses, people and leaves returned to their former wilted state. Preston snatched a bothersome horsefly from the air. Things were heating up in Way-cross, and not entirely from the merciless sun. The two armed passengers joined the trio waiting on the platform. A band of five mercenaries… hired for what? Preston was too modest to believe anyone would contract that many people just for his hide. Something bigger lay in store.
A startled Sheriff Dexter shifted his bulk but did not rise from his seat behind the big oak desk when McBain surprised him by arriving unannounced through the rear entrance of the sheriff's office.
“Damn it, McBain, can't you do things the way normal people do; like, use the front entry?”
“Sorry, Sheriff, I was out for a stroll and when I saw your door, thought I might stop in for a visit. It was too hot to come around to the front.”
“It's too damned hot for walking in the back way, too,” Dexter growled. Perspiration trickled down his cheeks and beads of sweat oozed from his forehead like a squeezed soggy sponge. “I be'n roastin' in this oven, wishtin' I could go home and throw myself in the creek, but it's so goddamn hot outside I don't want to ride the horse.”
“How is Samantha today, Moody?” McBain asked.
“Weeelll… contrary as all git-out. Her mother and I both tol' her to stay home and rest up, but she didn't want to leave Widow Frye alone with so much work agoin' on… she's at her shop; I be'n keepin' an eye on the place but it's got a back door too… I went over twice but she shooed me out the second time…”
“Moody, the town is headed for trouble. Big trouble. And quite soon….”
Dexter studied McBain's face. “There has been nothin' but trouble for…for… how long you be'n here? Anyway, it started when you rode in.”
“Actually, Sheriff, it started before I arrived; remember the hold-up at the rail depot? You already had Kenny Lester in your jail when I came to Way-cross.”
Dexter grunted. “Yeah, you may have reminded me of that before. Well, it ain't slowed down none in your presence.”
“It will escalate now. I don't want you or Samantha to be caught in the middle.”
“What makes you so certain we're in for a heap of grief, all of a sudden?”
Preston informed the sheriff of the five armed strangers patrolling the streets of his town. “They are after me, that is a fact, but there is something more going on. I suspect Patrick O'Malley and his family may be targeted. These people intend to take-over the Way-cross bank and they will be merciless in the way they choose to do it.”
“Take over the bank!” Dexter expostulated. “How the hell can anyone take over the bank?”
“It has been done all over this territory in the past two or three years. To my knowledge, Way-cross will be number thirtyone. Most small town bankers sold out for an offer too grand to refuse —I cannot identify the source of the buyers' capital— others were persuaded or strong-armed into giving up their holdings; several bankers who stoutly refused to sell under any circumstance, were murdered; one was found dead in his home, ostensibly death from natural causes; another took a spill from his horse or fell off a cliff; two were assassinated during staged bank robberies.”
Preston could read denial in the sheriff's eyes.
Dexter glared at the younger man. “Just where the hell do you dig up all this hogwash?”
Diamond realized, since his arrival in Way-cross, he had stretched or broken so many of his stringent personal rules of conduct that they now existed as fragile guidelines. Why had he taken an interest in the welfare of Lonny Fischer and his father? Why was he buying property? Why did he caution Patrick O'Malley? Why did he —and this may be the wicked virus that weakened his resolve— why did he fall in love?
He said, “Moody, I have a job, I make certain inquiries into certain situations for an elite group of quite influential people. If I can solve a situation, I do so. Sometimes I call in men of high authority and they clean up the hornets after I have disturbed the nest….
“For the past six months, or so, I'm losing track, I have been investigating a situation in a radius of one hundred to a hundred and fifty miles of Way-cross. I believe your town is the hub, the base of the operation. Maybe for that reason, O'Malley's institution has not been harassed… until now. The syndicate does not know how much I know, but they fear I know too much. They will attempt to eliminate me and, at the same time take control of O'Malley's business. This they will do very soon.
During McBain's disclosure a host of expressions ranging from disbelief through incredulity, at last settling upon resignation, shadowed Dexter's craggy features. He slumped further into his chair. “What do you want me to do now?” he asked tiredly.
“Convince O'Malley to strap on a gun; maybe he already has. Don't mention anything I have told you, just say there are five heavily armed strangers in town. Unless I grossly misjudge the man, he will figure out the implications.”
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