C. C. Phillips
C. C. Phillips
Morning in Way-cross much resembled evening except the sun peered over the buildings from the opposite side. Bradley McBain shared a small cheroot with Preston Diamond on the raised boardwalk in front of the little eatery, May-Anne's Lunch, where he had just breakfasted; washing it down with two cups of the best coffee offered to him in recent times. He stood, back to the wall of the building, barely noticeable to passers-by out in the street, beyond view from within. The town, if it was going to come to life at all, did not do so first thing in the morning. Only two light wheeled vehicles had passed along the avenue; a team and wagon were parked in front of “Leon's Mercantile” on the next block. Someone on a saddled horse had ridden east out of town. A Chinese fellow carrying a large woven basket of clothes or linen nodded a silent acknowledgement to Preston's “Good morning” as he shuffled past along the wooden walk way.
Just a thin cut over six feet, Diamond stood taller than he appeared, weighed more than he appeared and took up less room than anybody. He could, if so desired, disappear (well, not actually disappear, but to the casual observer, he certainly appeared to disappear). With amazing accuracy, he could mime a door frame, a tree trunk, a wagon box or what ever camouflage the moment demanded. Most people took no notice of him in a crowd or along a busy street. If he needed noticing, it was probably too late for the observer. Quiet, charismatic, magnetic to women of all ages, Preston might be in his early forties, late twenties, most often somewhere in his thirties; he had, on one occasion, been a sexagenarian. Sun tanned and wind-burned smooth shaven cheeks correctly indicated a mostly out of doors lifestyle. He had thick, dark hair, stunning powder blue eyes, a strong, handsome visage and flashed brilliantly white teeth on the rare occasion that he allowed a smile. His movements were deliberate, effortless, fluid and, when necessary, much faster than the natural eye could trace. Preston Diamond and most of his aliases wore dark clothes: browns, grays or even black; nondescript, blending in with shadow, invisible in darkness. A modest western hat crowned his head. Well attended, soft leather riding boots served his footware needs. The customized, precision made-to-order Colt .45 at his hip hung so natural and unobtrusive an interested study might mark its absence. The Colt wasn't the only piece of equipment he carried but it received the most use.
Concealed in the lining of his travelling coat existed a card, a small water-proof ticket bearing the signatures of three former presidents of the United States: Preston Diamond's credentials. In his war-bag a coded message announced that this special card would require an up-date in the near future: The most recent signature had unexpectedly become void due to the assassination of the President. The card granted Preston Diamond total impunity. The “President's Man” (more accurately, “The Presidents' Man”) had complete free rein to handle any situation as he deemed fitting. His job was, well… varied. Master of disguise, actor, impersonator, imposter, Preston Diamond slid with ease into any personality required. He sorted through the chaff of rumour, seeking the grains of truth; digging to the bottom of questionable operations that were of a nature serious enough to reach the ears of the nation's top executive. The man wore no badge though he might be classed a lawman; not a Pinkerton though he possessed amazing investigative talent; internal affairs or “homeland security” may broadly and occasionally describe the position, but only in as much as the majority of his assignments were carried out within the confines of the nation's borders. Preston received his orders directly from the President's office in the same code as the aforementioned letter. Diamond had no colleagues, no associates, no relief. He was one of a kind.
And he was very good at what he did.
The little cigar held particularly good flavour this morning and Preston thoroughly enjoyed it as he considered the developments over the past fifteen hours. By now everyone in Way-cross and all in the reaches of the rural rumour ripple would have heard about the stranger who had shot dead two of the Lester boys then spoiled an attempt on Sheriff Moody Dexter's life. The story, needing no exaggeration, would be so far out of proportion, Preston himself may not recognize it.
The other customers —there were three— in the eatery had been cool, avoiding the newcomer though they were unable to mask their interest. The waitress, Preston reflected, a quite pretty lass, had been down right cold. She even refused a generous tip Diamond included with the receipt. He grinned inwardly, “What foreign object or objects had she tossed in with his biscuits, fried beef and eggs?” If anything, it had passed over his taste buds undetected and he suffered no ill effect.
Last night, the trip out to Preston's dead horse and the subsequent return with the gruesome cargo passed without incident for Carver Ward and Bradley McBain. Ward didn't have the time to spare for the side trip —he had a ranch to run— but he and Moody Dexter were, if not close friends, at least long time acquaintances. Ward seemed duty-bound to assist the wounded sheriff.
Prior to their departure, while Carver rented the buckboard from “Ol' Ross” at the livery stable, Diamond had ordered a boxed lunch from the hotel dining room and then booked in to a room:
“Nice place you have here,” he commented to the clerk while filling out the registry.
“Yes, sir,” the fellow's Adam's apple bobbed like a short tethered yo-yo. “The Governor, he stays here quite regular.”
“Is that so? What brings the Governor to Way-cross?” Diamond asked idly.
The apple ricocheted up and down inside the long neck, “Oh, he just likes our hotel and he says the food is the best in the territory. There's a lot of important folks pass through our little town…” He leaned forward to view the registry, “Are you going to be with us long, Mr. McBain?”
“Well, I was just passing through, but maybe I'll stay longer if the room and victuals are as you say.”
“If you're still here at the end of the week you might meet Governor Rittinger himself!”
Preston accepted his key, gripped his saddle rig in his left hand and started up the elegant, curving staircase.
“Just ask for Frank Collier, if you need anything, anything at all, Mr. McBain,” the clerk called after him.
“Odd that the clerk didn't mention hearing shots,” Diamond mused. Perhaps pistol and rifle reports were not uncommon in Way-cross. Preston stowed his grip in the room, collected his lunch from the dining lounge and met Carver Ward on the street in front of the hotel. He climbed up on the seat beside the rancher. Ward spoke to the horses and they headed west.
Upon arriving at the scene the men lit two lanterns so McBain could present his story in too real detail. The rancher, hardened to the brutalities of a frontier life, couldn't restrain the odd oath as he surveyed the grotesque and bloody figures under the pale yellow glow of the lamps. He summed it up: “Jesus! These boys picked the wrong fellow to relieve of his horse!”
A heavy tarpaulin was spread in the box of the buckboard-cum-hearse. The two human corpses were laid upon this then covered over with the extra canvass. Preston had cast one last glance at his dead horse before the lantern was extinguished: The gelding wouldn't care if he were the main course at the wake the coyotes would hold in his honour.
Feeling a pang of regret, Diamond studied the last bit of his cigar. He inhaled one final drag and flicked the butt out into the horse litter beyond the hitching rail. There were a few chores he must address this morning: Way-cross was the end of the line for a spur of the troubled Union Pacific Railway; here the steel stopped and the stage started. In one or the other of the two freight offices, there would be a package, a medium sized trunk, waiting for him. This he must retrieve and transport to his hotel room. Secondly, it would be prudent to check in with Sheriff Dexter. The third chore, one which he now opted to do first, was to pay a visit to the seamstress shop to make amends for shooting some daylight into the upper section.
It was a short hike along the street to the store. Truthfully, in Way-cross, it was a short hike to any establishment. A sign above the door read “Sam's Sewing Shop.” Preston considered this a queer business for someone named Sam. As he approached the store Diamond studied a heavy-set, heavy-footed fellow, spurs a-jingle, striding purposely in his direction. Just then the Chinese gentleman, now carrying an empty basket, emerged from an adjacent building between Preston and the rough looking cowboy. Diamond read the rabid anger in the man's eyes and noted the wicked rowels on his spurs as he deliberately knocked the Chinese out of his path. The basket clattered to the boardwalk and rolled off into the filth of the street. The stricken man quickly regained his feet and glared at the retreating form of his attacker. McBain and the cowboy met in front of Sam's Sewing shop.
Spurs stopped abruptly and stabbed a finger at McBain's chest. “You son-of-a-bitch! You killed two o' my friends!”
Without further preamble the fellow swung a vicious right roundhouse at Preston's head. The fist grew immense as it neared his face and Preston felt the wind from it as he pulled back. The misplaced haymaker took the assailant off balance and he did a three-quarter pirouette, spurs tangling as he spun. Compensating agility with luck, he remained upright, growled deep in his chest and swung with his left hand. This shot missed the mark by a greater margin but Preston had had enough. As the clumsy fool waded in for a third attempt, Diamond, rattler quick and in one fluid motion, shifted a half turn, balanced on his left leg, brought his right knee up across his chest, turned his right foot outer edge leading and piston-stroked a brutal rising side kick into Spurs's solar plexus. The heavier man was lifted off his feet and propelled backward through the store's front window. The defenestration demolished panes, frames and tore out the dainty lace curtains. Spurs crashed to the floor in a grotesque heap amid a shower of glass. Booted feet hung limply out over the sill, one of the vicious pin-wheel rowels spun musically for a few seconds after the last tinkle of broken glass.
The Chinese fellow stared wide-eyed, then, basket in hand, skirted the inert feet, and nodded to Preston as he slipped past murmuring something that sounded like, “Velly good! Velly good!”
McBain stepped into the shop through the new opening, his feet crunching on shards of shattered window pane. He addressed a bespectacled older woman with gray hair pinned up in a tight bun. She was behind a sewing machine, mouth agape, staring in disbelief from Preston to the body on her floor.
“Er… I'm here to make right for the damages I caused to your building last night.”
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