C. C. Phillips
C. C. Phillips
Samantha was mortified. “A hypnotist? But how could she hypnotize me? I don't remember her doing anything like that.”
Diamond said, “You weren't supposed to remember anything. You see, Samantha, the ruse of being deaf was the key to Mrs. Frye's mesmeric talent. When you sat or knelt in front of Matilda to read her lips, she was able to hypnotize you. After the first time, she had control of your mind. Subsequent opportunities were as easy as snapping her fingers. You were in her power and she used you to execute her guileful schemes.”
Samantha felt invaded, violated. “How could she be so cruel?”
“There are no bounds, no rules in the game she plays. Matilda, Ethyl, Louise, who ever she presumes to be, is ruthless beyond imagination.” He glanced at the captive member of his audience, “There are probably occasions when she even surprises herself!”
Mayor Kirwin shook his head. “I must be in the middle of something that will take the rest of the night to sort out and I have plenty to do before I find my bed tonight as it is. Moody, you can report to me in the morning. Or rather, I'll come to you; my stage office and the town building are both gone.”
As the Mayor went out, McBain turned to Dexter, “It is fortunate that you are still in town this late, Sheriff….”
“Well, I was on my way to fetch Samantha so we could go home when them shots rattled my eardrums.” Dexter glanced at his step-daughter. “Mother will be gitten' worried by now.”
Nodding toward Widow Frye, McBain said, “We have a problem here, but I'd rather discuss it out of her hearing, even though she may be deaf at the moment. We best lock Matilda in your jail for the night; is your office still standing?”
The sheriff's office had taken a beating in the tornado, however, for the most part, it remained upright. The decrepit awning left town with the wind, most of the shingles and all of the front windows were in need of replacement. Water seeped from a dozen leaks in the roof. Dust, leaves and hay (the latter likely transported from Ol' Ross's loft) littered the front reception area. The cell room where Matilda decided to spend the night had a few drips; puddles were forming on the floor, but the bed was dry and the iron bars sturdy. The murderess, her hands tied securely, was led into the room by both Dexter and McBain. Matilda did not resist as she was ushered into the cell and her bonds removed. The sheriff left the lamp burning in the jail room and Preston deliberately kept the partition door ajar so he could watch the gate of the occupied cell.
Samantha, McBain and Dexter gathered in the recently renovated open-air front office. Shards of glass crunched under their feet. The rain had eased to a slow drizzle but sheet lightning so bright as to obscure the lantern, flickered continuously out in the street.
“We have a very dangerous criminal in your jail tonight, Moody. I don't think the cell is secure for felons of Matilda's calibre. She may have liaisons on the outside too, and for that reason, I suggest we have two guards watching her at all times. Hopefully, very soon, we shall be able to pass her over to higher authority.”
Dexter expostulated, “Two guards? I can't be here all night… Sam has to be gittin' home too. Her mother will be fit for tyin'.”
“I'll take the buckboard home and tell Mother everything is all right. Then I can come back for you, Dad… Maybe Ole can help with the night watch….”
McBain interrupted, “I really do not think you should be travelling alone tonight, Samantha. We don't know what trouble is on the way; there may be someone out there waiting for an opportunity to even the score; maybe take you hostage as a bargaining chip for Matilda's release.”
“Sheriff, as Samantha said, maybe Ole can help out. Perhaps you could go down to the livery and see who is there. I'd appreciate having both Ole and Lonny Fischer brought to your office if you can find them.”
Dexter immediately found Luke and Lonny Fischer among the homeless at Ol' Ross's barn-cum-hostel. Lonny still clung to the bedraggled pup. Luke's hips wouldn't allow him to go up and down the stair to the loft so he and his son had rolled out blankets in an empty stall. Ole Evenson's rheumatism argued against climbing steps too but he had managed to reach the loft and crawl into a temporary bed. Someone awoke the old Norwegian and Ole shuffled back down the stair to meet Dexter.
When the trio arrived back at the office, Lonny's eyes were huge in the lantern light. Standing poker stiff, like a new cavalry recruit, he managed to keep his voice from cracking. “Good evening, Mr. McBain.” The pup under his arm prevented him from saluting.
Preston smiled warmly, “Good evening, Lonny, thanks for coming at this late hour.” Turning to the Norwegian, he added, “God kveld, Ole.”
“Ja, god kveld, McBain.”
“In addition to the ruination of the town, we have another emergency on our hands tonight. Sheriff Dexter and I will need your assistance.” McBain turned to the youth, “Lonny, there aren't many people whom I can trust, so I am counting on you.”
Lonny gulped audibly and nodded.
“Was Mr. Stafford from the rail depot at Ol' Ross's barn or do you know if his house is still standing?”
“I didn't see Mr. Stafford in the livery. I think the twister missed his house… you want I should go fetch 'im?”
“No… we have another job for you, not a pleasant task in this drizzle either. Could you bring Sheriff Dexter's rig around to the office and escort Miss Dexter home? When you get to the ranch, unharness the team, saddle Dexter's horse, then ride back here.”
“Sure, Mr. McBain, I can do that; I'll do it right away.”
“I'll help you with the horses when we get to the ranch, Lonny.”
“Er..er, thanks, Miss Samantha.” Lonny's face reddened. He clumsily handed Samantha the puppy then dashed out into the street.
Ole murmured softly as he took the mongrel from Miss Dexter, “Ja, I find a bed for you tonight little dog.”
From his waistband, McBain tugged the .38 Matilda had attempted to use. He reloaded the cylinder and handed the gun to Samantha. “Take this with you, and don't take any chances.”
“You think there are more of Matilda's cohorts hangin' around town?” Dexter growled. “My God, we killed five of 'em today already.”
“I do not know how many people are involved in the Rittingers' scheme, certainly many more than we have accounted for. I don't know if there are any alive in Way-cross tonight.”
Samantha's voice quavered, “I'll take the gun.”
McBain said, “I'm going to find Abel Stafford, I need to send a telegram.”
Dexter grunted, “Charlie Morris was killed by a falling tree, he is the only telegraph man we had.”
“If the lines weren't blown down between here and the mainline, I can operate the transmitter.”
Preston squeezed Samantha's hand and said, “I'll see you tomorrow morning. Moody, don't let Matilda put you under her spell, both you and Ole keep an eye on her constantly. I'll be back as soon as I can convince Stafford to let me in the depot and send that message.”
“If ya haven't already thought of it, better send a note 'bout our perdic'ment, here, too.” Sheriff Dexter advised. “Mayor Kirwin says we need some outside assistance.”
Preston followed Dexter's directions to the cottage where Abel Stafford lived. A few loud raps on the front door roused the rail man from his sleep and Preston soon convinced the agent to allow him entrance to the depot and telegraph office. Upon entering the telegraph station, Preston noted that the now deceased Charlie Morris had kept his desk and the room tidy. There were no messages in the trays so the operator must have had his work caught up before rushing home.
A prompt response to Preston's signal indicated the telegraph lines were in operation. Diamond quickly tapped out the first telegram concerning Way-cross's plight due to the tornado. The second, a lengthy coded message, took more time. It would be translated and read in the office of the President of the United States tomorrow. Preston felt certain Governor Rittinger would be in custody within twenty-four hours.
Matilda Frye lay awake upon the sorry bunk in her cell when Preston returned to the sheriff''s office. She had presented no problems to her keepers. Lonny Fischer arrived on Dexter's horse a short time later and the sheriff immediately excused himself from duty. The pup grunted contentedly in its sleep. It lay curled up in a fluffy ball on a blanket that Ole had found in the office.
“ I trust Miss Dexter reached home safely?” Preston said to the tow-headed youth.
“Yessir, Mr. McBain, I took her home in the buckboard. There weren't nobody around, nowheres.”
“Well, you have done a good job for us tonight. It is very important that Miss Dexter is taken care of.”
Preston continued in a lower voice, “I haven't had a chance to tell you, Lonny, Sheriff Dexter and I have come to an agreement. I will buy his place and, if you and your father are still interested, you can run the ranch for me.”
Lonny's eyes were huge when he first arrived at the sheriff's office, they now grew as big as Dexter's coffee mug. “For really, Mr. McBain?”
“For sure, Lonny; by the way, did your house blow away this afternoon?”
Lonny nodded. “Lots of folks lost their houses though, so we aren't any worse off than them. Dad, he hid down in the cellar hole and that was lucky for him. Me, I crawled under the walk lookin' fer my new dog and we just stayed there 'til she all blew over.”
“I am planning to build a new house for you and your dad out at the ranch —the Dexter's aren't ready to move yet— in the meantime I thought we could fix something up in Sheriff Dexter's black-smith shop. It wouldn't be elegant, but it would be a roof over your heads.”
Preston glanced at the old Norwegian. “Maybe Ole could move in with you too.”
Ole grinned and Lonny squirmed with excitement. “You bet, Mr. McBain!”
“It is pretty late now, you go find your Dad, and tell him the news when he wakes up. And, Lonny, as I told you before, no one else need know.”
“You bet, Mr. McBain!” Lonny repeated. He scooped up the sleeping dog, then dashed out into the night.
Morning came to Way-cross. The sun, apologising for its performance of the previous day, shone beautifully; the temperature moderated. Night had not been uneventful for Preston Diamond. He had retrieved Matilda's bundle of papers from the sewing shop and, making himself comfortable on the bed in the adjacent cell to Widow Frye, began to peruse the documents. The Rittinger's must have felt secure in the cover Matilda had, for the incriminating evidence contained in the folder was over-whelming. Details: names, dates, places, meetings were meticulously documented, like a well-run, legitimate business.
An inadvertent link to the past appeared in a letter written in beautiful script:
Dear Ethyl:
It is with great sadness that I compose this note, for it concerns someone I care for very deeply. Today, a gentleman with whom I have been acquainted for the past several weeks has left Clarkston. I believe he could be bound for Way-cross. Mr. Ballard saw him leave town on horseback (a tall bay gelding) and he said the man was wearing dark clothes, a flat-crowned western hat; more or less dressed as a cowboy. (His eyes, if you have the good fortune to meet him close-up, are of the most divine blue.) His name while employed here was Frazier Wentworth, but I am quite certain that is not the name he will use upon reaching your town. This morning, just before noon, Frazier Wentworth, working as clerk at the bank, shot and killed the two men you and Sheffield hired to assassinate Herman Goldman. Fortunately, they were able to kill Goldman before Wentworth shot them both, leaving no one to tell the tale.
Frazier Wentworth, or who ever he may be, is a very special man. Please do not hurt him when you have him killed.
Your Loving Sister,
Sarah
P.S. Frazier Wentworth broke Mr. Ballard's forearm last week. No one saw him do it, but I was not surprised when Ballard informed me. I wish I could have spent more time with him.
S.D.
As he finished reading the letter, Preston heard a rustling from within the adjacent cell. The lamp had burned low and its light began to flicker. He glanced across and saw an apparition, or perhaps he was experiencing deja vu. Matilda had removed her little-old-lady spectacles, along with every other article of clothing she had. She stood nude in her cell, an alluring smile on her lips. Her body was not that of a sixty year old grandmother, it was a near exact copy of Sarah Dickens; maybe just a little heavier. Any other discrepancies were hidden in the soft glow from the single lamp.
She looked meaningfully at the letter in McBain's hand, then said in a seductive purr, “Did you enjoy my sister's company, Mr. Wentworth? I can assure that, if you'd like to spend some time with me, it will be even more pleasurable.”
Preston was gallant, “I appreciate the offer, Mrs. Frye, you are a very lovely lady, but I think you should put your clothes back on. I don't wish to be on the wrong side of the Governor and you are making Ole uncomfortable.”
Later, as dawn probed the room, Diamond watched from under the brim of his hat as Matilda, using a hair pin, picked the lock on the cell door. Preston knew it was not a particularly tough mechanism to unlatch —he'd done it himself— but he was still surprised at the ease with which the prisoner opened the iron barred door.
Mrs. Frye was not as reasonable about returning to her cell as she had been when Preston asked her to put her clothes on. As he neared, she flew at him, biting, scratching and kicking. Preston applied a painless technique that put the lady to sleep temporarily. He and Ole bound her hands, removed the remainder of her hair pins, then relocked the cell.
And, when morning did fully arrive, more problems came with it.
Dexter returned and Preston went to the hotel to have breakfast. The lounge was quite busy, as May Anne's restaurant had been razed in the storm. Barbara Kirwin had a change of venue but not a change of demeanour. On his way back to the sheriff's office, Frank Collier in tow (he hoped to interrogate the hotel clerk) Diamond espied Colon Patch, the news reporter. Patch was in a familiar position behind the tripod, hiding under the curtain. As Preston shifted to avoid the lens, the camera box emitted a small cloud of smoke, there was a very loud blast and Frank Collier took a slug through his shoulder. Frank fell screaming in the mud of the street as Preston's Colt destroyed camera box and reporter.
Lucky miss for Diamond, not so lucky for Collier.
“My camera!” someone wailed.
Diamond turned to face the voice. The man with the thin moustache and long nose who had arrived on yesterday's train hurried over. “Someone stole my photography equipment while I was on my way here to capture the story of The Chief. That's my camera. That… that dead man took it from me and I lost a day trying to find new equipment. But there are no cameras to be bought out here on the frontier. I decided to come for the story and forego the pictures,” he lifted the curtain, “now my camera is ruined.”
Diamond managed a few hours of sleep before Dexter, acting on Mayor Kirwin's orders, roused him to operate the telegraph at the rail depot. There were many messages to send and more than a few to receive. One coded telegram arrived for Preston himself; it translated:
Agents en route stop governor in custody stop escort Mme. Rittinger with evidence to Merryvale stop
Merryvale was the two-horse town on the mainline at the head of the Way-cross spur.
The creek ran clear out at McBain's ranch, high water and debris from the storm had swept by. Grass tended more toward yellow than green as the heat of mid-summer took its toll. Samantha Dexter and Bradley McBain strolled hand in hand in the pasture where contented Herefords grazed. Busy sounds of carpentry echoed from the ranch yard where a new house was being erected. With the help of the U.S. Army and carloads of necessities, Way-cross had risen from devastation. The town faced a tough, up-hill climb, but the long run promised a brighter future.
It was a time to think of the future; it was a time to be in love.
More than anything, Preston Diamond longed for the peace and stability of this bucolic existence. He wanted to live his life with the lovely goddess now at his side. And he feared that that may never be. “I have been called back to Washington; prosecution is depending upon my testimony and substantiation of Matilda's papers for the trials.”
They stopped walking, Preston turned to Samantha. “The investigation and the trial will be very high profile: Governor Rittinger and Louise Lafayette are names that will have the newsmen and photographers buzzing like horseflies on a hot day; particularly so, since Louise has been supposed dead for ten years. Throughout the proceedings, I must maintain a very low profile keeping my identity dissembled for there will be people from the opposite side of the court room who want me dead. And, the public must not know me when it is over.
“Disguise is second, maybe first nature, to me, for when I am not incognito, I have no real identity to call my own,” Preston paused. “Samantha, I have not walked many miles in my own shoes… When I am with you there is no pretense, no charade. I would like to grow accustomed to being me… being me, with you.”
She put her arms around his neck and gazed deep into his eyes. “If I were Matilda, I could mesmerise you, put you under my spell… maybe then I could hold you here forever.”
The pair had reached the high bank overlooking the creek and the meadow beyond; the place where they first made love.
“I have not been candid. You don't know me, you do not even know my name. The Dexter Ranch, the home you will always have, is the first property —property more substantial than a good horse and saddle— that I have ever invested in. But I dare not settle down here; inevitably, I will bring grief to people who have become my friends,” he looked at her meaningfully, “people I care for….”
“This Rittinger business has left a trail of blood throughout the territory. Way-cross will not soon forget the gunman who instigated more killings, in just a few days, than the entire territory has witnessed in years. You wouldn't want to live your life tied to a reputation like that.”
Samantha did not appreciate the direction the conversation was leading. “You cannot blame yourself for any of those slayings. Those men were hired to kill; they came to town hunting —not only you— but David O'Malley and his father, too. If you had not been here, where would our town be? We would have corrupt management at the bank; maybe Dad would have been killed and we would be facing a worse devastation than a tornado could ever bring. Way-cross will regard you as a hero.”
“The residual though, Samantha… the aftermath of the trial… strangers, journalists, photographers —like Colon Patch, or, more accurately, the man he impersonated— will be arriving in Way-cross, hoping for a thread, a link to the mysterious witness for the prosecution… and there may be people paid to finish what the others failed to do. If I am not here, they will not linger; if I am here, I become a liability to everyone. Your parents, you, me; we could not lead a normal life…” Preston added miserably, “perhaps I do not understand what 'normal' is…”
“But this is your ranch now!” Samantha protested. “You bought it, it is where you belong.”
Preston considered her words. “In time this will blow over; bigger news will push the Rittinger file into the recesses of history… in the big city that can take as little as a week or two… in Way-cross it may take a decade or longer.”
Diamond recalled the haunting nightmare of his youth: the brutal murder of his parents; he thought of the picture in the cover of his gold pocket watch. He knew how horribly devastating it is to lose someone you love. Tears filled his blue eyes, “Samantha, I could not live with myself if something happened to you; something I was to blame for. When I saw Ballard shooting and chasing after you, my whole world stopped. I could never pick myself up again if you were lost….”
Samantha clung to him desperately. “Brad, when those men attacked Lenore and I in Boston, I did not believe it possible to ever stand tall again. I did… and from you I have learned that I can love with all my heart. You have made me whole. Please do not send me back to the horrible nightmares, the loneliness….”
He glanced over her head and saw Lonny Fischer, on foot, running toward them; the gangly pup clumsily trying to keep up. Preston stiffened. “Something is wrong!”
Lonny panted up, his eyes huge. Gasping for breath he blurted, “Mr. McBain…there's riders in the yard…they got guns…they're lookin' for you!”
<<<Chapter 24