C. C. Phillips
C. C. Phillips
A searing sun sizzled in the two o'clock position when Diamond left via the back door of the sheriff's office. Another whirlwind whipped along the alley gathering strength as it raced madly out into the street at the end of the block.
Preston paused at the rear of O'Malley's bank. Would the gunmen attempt an assassination during the day or would they wait until the money man had gone home? Only the heat disturbed the quietude. Diamond moved on. He considered where the hunters might be if they were seeking him: The most obvious places for them to find the investigator would be either in his room, the lobby, or maybe the lounge of the Grand Hotel; somewhere out of the heat. There could be people covering those areas, the remainder ought to be scattered about the town. No one would be on a roof-top today; a sniper couldn't hold a gun without wearing baker's mitts. A vantage point in the shade would be found in the loft of the livery stable. A man with a rifle could cover a sizeable section of Way-cross from there. Would he have an accomplice hidden on the main level?
Skulking along the alley, Preston came to the holding corral that adjoined the hip-roof on two sides. He slipped between the rails and edged up to the east wall. Several horses watched him through droopy eyelids. The heat was so intense the animals were disinclined to swat the flies buzzing around and biting at them. Preston knew the big front doors would be pulled aside; he wondered if the back door had been left open in the hope of a breeze filtering through. His feet made no sound as Diamond held tight to the boards and moved toward the far end. Another corral fence with a long wooden gate ran at a right angle away from this part of the building. Preston lay down on the dry earth and peered around a corner post. The rear door was ajar and the toe of a boot projected from the opening. Cigarette smoke drifted lazily on the air…
Ol' Ross didn't smoke. He chewed.
And, while awake, he seldom shut-up; if someone was in the stable with him, Ross ought to be talking… What had become of the livery man?
The ground was uncomfortably warm and smelled of horse manure but Preston felt thankful to be on the shaded side. He studied the boot toe, wondering how he might trace it to the owner. A cigarette butt travelled a short arc out into the second corral and lay smouldering in the dust. Now would be a poor time for a dust devil to swoop down and pick up the ember.
The toe disappeared inside the building.
Diamond wriggled under the bottom rail and came to his feet, flattening himself like paint against the wall. He shifted to the door frame and waited in silence. A series of creaking noises reached Preston's ears; someone was going up or coming down the stair to the loft. He heard low voices… there were at least two of the gunmen in the barn… something about a cigarette… the man in the loft wanted to come down for a smoke. Preston credited him with good judgement; at least he wasn't about to burn the stable, today a fire would wipe out the town.
As Diamond's acute hearing sifted through the shuffling in the loft he pictured the location of the stair. It was at the rear of the barn on the opposite side of where he now stood. Drawing the Colt he stepped inside and shifted toward the corner. No one opposed his entrance; Ol' Ross was not in sight; the main level appeared empty except for several listless horses. Preston ducked behind the partition of a vacant stall. Soon dust and a few straws preceded a pair of boots as the sniper descended the stair. As his face appeared, Preston recognized him as the man who had been holding the rifle over at the stage and rail depots, either Peel or Dunvegan. The fellow was bathed in sweat, the loft must be hotter than a Finn's sauna. He wore a revolver at his hip but probably had passed the rifle to his relief man. At the bottom of the steps he fumbled in a breast pocket for makings then strode to the rear doorway to roll a cigarette.
Out on the street at the front of the big livery barn a dust devil, larger than its predecessors, bumped against the face of the building. It twisted away from the wall then blew in again. On the third pass, wind in the back eddy found the open door, swept across the littered floor and funnelled through the rear exit. Peel or Dunvegan clutched at his hat with his left hand, cursing as loose tobacco and cigarette paper were ripped from his right. The wind passed and died as quickly as it came. Dust and straw clung to the gunman's damp face and clothing. He ground his knuckles against squinched lids trying to remove grit from stinging eyes. Blinking tears away, his vision gradually cleared.
A lithe, smooth skinned man wearing dark clothing and a holstered pistol stood in front of him.
Peel, for that is the name Russell Frost wrote in his records at the funeral parlour, went for his gun. The partial draw was a blur but Diamond moved so much faster: Leading with his right foot he stepped forward, right fist rising in a smooth and powerful upper-cut, timing perfectly velocity and momentum for maximum force on the impact which connected with the gunman's nose, crushing cartilage, flattening flesh, driving splintered bone upward, inside the skull. Into the brain. Peel crumpled without a sound; his revolver, released from lax fingers, slid back into its holster.
Diamond, as noiselessly as possible, dragged the inert form into the empty stall. He found Ol' Ross bound, gagged and unconscious in the harness room which also served as living quarters for the hostler. Preston checked his breathing and noted the flow of blood from an ugly gash on the head had stopped. Better that Ol' Ross remain asleep for now, Preston surmised, as he closed the door and stole back to the foot of the loft stairs.
Keeping slightly back from the doorway, Preston gazed out on the broiling landscape. Leaves in the cottonwoods were beginning to rustle; was there a darkening of the sky on the western horizon? Another dust devil, spawned on the open plain, traced a capricious phantom path toward the settlement. The ring of the blacksmith's hammer striking the anvil echoed on the stillness; how could the man be stoking his forge on a day like this? The smithy must be impervious to heat.
Preston mulled through a host of questions: How long would it be until the rifleman in the haymow decided to check on his companion? Was the man up there the companion of the dead man below —Peel or Dunvegan— or one of the recent arrivals? Preston thought of the tall, flint-eyed gunman who had come on the noon stage. He probably worked alone and wouldn't be in the loft waiting for a shot from ambush; he would try to draw his quarry out and shoot him down in plain view. Who would be the target in his assignment: the investigator or the O'Malleys? Another thought: Obviously Peel and Dunvegan had had McBain pointed out to them —Preston hadn't been entirely in seclusion— but he wondered how the three new imports were to recognize the man they had come here to kill. What will happen if a Way-cross citizen comes to the livery and finds Ol' Ross tied up in his own boudoir while the gunman is waiting in the loft? Preston doubted these people were mercenaries of mercy, they would not favour the innocent. So many possibilities: Diamond decided to consult with the man above.
The Stetson of the deceased rode high on Diamond's head as he wore it while ascending the stair. The fragrance of new hay teased his nostrils as his nose came level with the floor of the loft. A small stack of the forage stood in the centre, blocking view to the far end of the barn. The near door had been flung back, daylight at the opposite wall suggested the front was opened as well. No breeze filtered through, the heat was suffocating. No one stood guard at the rear, though several pigeons studied him curiously, warbling their throaty gabble. The lookout must be stationed over the front entrance to the barn. Cautiously, Diamond edged round the stack, Colt drawn.
The fellow stood in the shadow, obscured from view of anyone on the street. His attention was riveted on something or someone below and the Winchester hung loosely in his right hand. Preston hoped he could take the man prisoner without alarming his cohorts or riddling the barn roof with bullet holes; perhaps, later, in a federal prison, the fellow would supply evidence. Diamond said, in a conversational tone, “Drop the rifle and raise your hands very slowly.”
It wasn't Peel or Dunvegan, this fellow had arrived on the train. He looked up in surprise, stared at the intruder, shrugged, then dropped the Winchester. Only, as the repeater thudded on the hay strewn floor, the sentry leaped to one side, hand diving for the revolver at his hip.
The man was fast.
He wore a scalp-skirted, swivel holster that enabled him to fire the gun without wasting the time required to draw. However, a problem with the swivel holster is the sacrifice of accuracy for speed. Flame, smoke and (though Preston couldn't see it) lead erupted from the barrel. The hot slug sizzled by, slightly left of target, perforating the steep-slanted roof, tearing a long gash in several of Ol' Ross's cedar shingles as it left the building. A dash of sunlight filled the hole.
Diamond returned fire.
Twice.
The heavy .45 bullets caught the gunman high in the chest. The impact twisted his body first to the left then back to the right, the combined effect hammered the man back on his heels and propelled him, tail first, through the loft door. A dull thud announced his arrival at ground level. Fortunately, neither of Preston's shots ventilated the barn.
Reloading the Colt as he hurried to the stair, Preston took the first few steps then jumped to the lower floor. After pausing briefly to scan the foreground, retrieve his own hat and discard that of the dead man, he sprang away through the open rear door. He angled east, almost to the railway tracks, before crossing the wide open avenue. Camouflaged against a cottonwood trunk, Preston again paused to consider the situation.
The heat had not yet diminished. Overhead, the sky, a pale blue lifeless haze, hovered as though in fear. The air was oppressive. An enervating, soul-stripping pressure, like being in school, weighed down on Preston. Far to the west, where he had previously noted a thin cloud or disturbance, a great dark bank of thunderheads had risen. Directly above, the leaves of the cottonwood trembled, though no trace of breeze touched the earth. Two little whirlwinds, like laughing children, raced along playing tag across the stage landing.
Shouts, originating in the direction of the livery stable, reverberated on the stillness. The shots and corpse had drawn a crowd. Soon someone would find Ol' Ross and the second dead gunman. Without a doubt, the people of Way-cross would attribute the killings to Bradley McBain. Now Preston had to avoid the townsfolk as well. He hoped the livery man would regain conciousness and be able to identify his attackers. Ol' Ross would not be shy about swinging sentiment in McBain's favour.
Preston again looked to the west. Ominous clouds were rapidly approaching, he could see them black and boiling like angry waves on an inverted sea. Lightning split the seams of darkness illuminating a glimpse of seething hell. As dull thunder boomed and rolled in the distance, a demon funnel-shape emerged from the tumult. It dropped toward the torrid earth like thick molasses poured from a giant's bucket. The molasses touched down, steamed, thinned in the intense heat, then splashed skyward to be devoured by the ravenous tempest.
Shots erupted.
Instantly Preston determined the location; the shots came from O'Malley's bank. Long strides carried Diamond in leaps as he pounded over the ruts and dust of the alley. Another shot ripped through the air followed by the roaring blast of a heavy rifle or shotgun. A hot drop of rain struck Preston's face as he removed his hat and chanced a cautious peek around the side of a corner building. Nothing moved on Main Street. Out on the plain, but nearer now, another towering, dirty-brown dust devil spiralled down from the black mass of thunderheads. It wavered and danced, skipping lightly to earth then rebounded up again; Way-cross lay directly in its path. Diamond sprinted the distance to the door of the bank building. All was quiet. Only the faint roar of the approaching storm disturbed the stillness. Another rain drop struck his cheek.
Preston pushed and the door swung inward. Voices, murmurs, sobs came from inside the building. Acrid smoke from burned gunpowder filled the air. There was another familiar scent: the foul smell of blood and death. Diamond hailed the room and someone, a not unfamiliar voice, answered. Preston walked in, Colt drawn.
A blue haze hung near the ceiling, behind the counter a wide-eyed youth supported a sobbing young lady: the bank clerks. On a chair in the foyer, a dazed Patrick O'Malley sat slumped forward holding a bloody cloth to his upper arm. Half-way across the room in another chair, Sheriff Dexter sat with a fully cocked double-barrelled shotgun in his right hand. The close-range cannon was pointing half-heartedly toward Preston. On the floor between the two seated gentlemen a pool of blood grew around the buck-shot riddled body of a stranger. The door leading into the manager's office stood ajar, a pair of legs protruded from inside. A broad smear of blood trailed down the oak door partially obliterating the lettering.
Dexter failed to disguise the excitement in his voice. “Damn good thing you warned me about there being a hold-up at the bank, McBlaine.”
“McBain. Good thing you listened,” McBain responded.
“I came here to tell Pat about the strangers in town… He already had his Colt strapped on and David, here,” Moody jerked a thumb toward the young clerk, “was packing a pistol too. They had this ol' double-barrel handy, so I took hold of it and sat down to watch the show…”
While Dexter related the story, Diamond inspected the bodies. He toed the dead man on the floor: he was the second of the two train arrivals. The body half-way in to, or out of, O'Malley's office, had blood seeping from a hole in the chest where his heart used to be, dead eyes stared vacantly at the ceiling: Peel or Dunvegan. That left the lone, tall gunman who arrived via stage coach.
“…We was sittin' for awhile an' nothin' happened, but it was cool in here an' I ain't in no hurry on hot days.” Dexter eased off the hammers, broke the breech and laid the shotgun on the counter near the teller cage. “The bank folks, they went back to workin'. All to a sudden these two jaspers come in here alookin' for trouble and no mistake. That 'un over there,” the sheriff nodded at the farthest corpse, “he pulled out his gun, yanked open the office door and walked right into Patty's .45 slug… Killed him on the spot.”
McBain interrupted, “There was a delay between shots…”
Dexter reflected a moment. “Yeah, weeelll, this jasper,” Dexter stretched a booted toe in the direction of the near corpse, “he couldn't decide what to do, he was waving his shooter around between young David and I when Patty come out of his office. For some reason this gent turned an' poked a shot at Patty. Hit him in the arm there as you can see. David and I both fired at once; he died pretty quick.”
The senior O'Malley groaned. “God! I killed a man! I… I'm a bank manager, not a gunman… What is this town coming to?”
Sheriff Dexter turned to David O'Malley, “Best fetch your Pa over to Doc Stohl. He'll need some bandagin' up.”
Moody shifted back to McBain. “An' where do you suppose the other three….”
Mayor Kirwin charged in through the entrance. He stopped short, eyes darting from one corpse to the other, his mouth working but no words coming out. At last, focusing on the sheriff, he stuttered, “We…we… just found two dead men down at the livery!”
Dexter gawked at Kirwin. “We heard shootin' along that way but…” then shifted back to McBain, “an' where do you suppose the other one can be?”
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