C. C. Phillips
C. C. Phillips
From Patrick O'Malley, Diamond had obtained directions to the Dexter outfit. From the livery stable, he had purchased a fresh horse. From the hotel he retrieved his rig and saddled the new mount he had ridden bare-back to his lodging. While astride the unfamiliar animal the short distance from the barn to the hotel Preston thought about his recently deceased gelding. Without a saddle, that miserable brute would have pitched him three times by now. Maybe this mount would serve him better; Ol' Ross, the hostler, had vowed the young sorrel was well broke, possessed an even gait and was durable as a mule. Preston didn't even chew, much less swallow, anything fed him by a horse trader.
The new mount performed well although, having been a rental horse for a short while, it felt obligated to test the new owner. The animal soon sensed who had command, accepted the situation and settled down to the work at hand.
Dexter's ranch lay nestled in a grove of tall cottonwoods along the creek, perhaps three quarters of a mile as the raven flies, up-stream from Way-cross. The banker said Moody ran about thirty head of “white-faced” cows. It was the cattle that caught Diamond's attention first. This “white-faced” herd showed signs of a very particular breeding program. “Hereford,” Preston said aloud. Working incognito as a keniño, a cow hand on Captain Richard King's ranch in Texas, Diamond handled some of the first Hereford cattle in America. Dexter moved up a notch in Diamond's esteem.
The outbuildings and ranch house came into view as Preston trotted the sorrel along a rutted wagon trail winding between the sprawling cotton-woods. Reining in the mount, Diamond sized up the outfit: Near to him, the slab-board barn and corrals stood in good repair; the yard neat and orderly. The barn, about sixty feet in length, had a loft, the door of which stood open revealing a green stack of cured hay inside. The row of windows along the facing side all had their panes in place. On the off side, a lean-to had been built of the same slab-board construction. Several smaller sorting corrals, a windmill and water trough completed the barn area. Two large-uddered milk cows chewed their cuds and eyed the intruder with casual disinterest. Several red hens and a rooster of various colour scratched the dirt near the corral; frequently one of them would strut away from the flock in pursuit of an errant grasshopper or bug. A grunt followed by a short squeal suggested Dexter had a few pigs nearby.
A shed less than half the size of the barn stood about fifty yards to the left. A sooty chimney pipe protruded from the roof giving Preston to believe it may be a blacksmith shop. In a shaded area set back in the trees he recognized the ubiquitous outhouse painted dark green with a quarter moon carved in the door. Diamond deliberately saved scrutiny of the main house until last. It was a small but very well cared for log structure, probably hewn from pines in the forest Preston had passed through just before his encounter with the Lester brothers. A short veranda graced the front of the building. Two four-paned windows were framed adjacent to and on either side of the doorway. Smoke idly trailed upward from a stove pipe chimney; Mrs. Dexter must be baking. On the near side of the home stood a big stone chimney, no smoke issued from it on this warm day. The place manifested a strange, unfamiliar feeling of loneliness in Preston's breast. The Way-cross sheriff had something Preston Diamond would never have.
He spoke softly to the gelding, “Moody Dexter may be over-weight but he certainly isn't lazy.”
Diamond did not enquire as to purchase nor mention the ranch visit to Sheriff Dexter. When he had gone to interrogate the banker, the search for real-estate had merely been a ruse, another of the many falsities, pretences and charades Preston incorporated into his investigations. Curiosity, fuelled by a growing interest in Samantha Dexter had driven him to seek out the little cattle operation. Moody Dexter's neat and homey spread had taken Diamond quite by surprise. Now an uneasiness besieged him. Questions, thoughts foreign, flitted through his mind. Perhaps he could put down roots? Find a wife… Raise a family… These dreams, these fantasies, these doors had been closed to him, or so he thought, forever. The pretty dark-haired lass whose picture adorned the inside of his gold watch cover and a very large part of Preston Diamond's heart were buried beneath a slab of cold, sculpted marble in a cemetery near the Whitehouse in Washington D.C. Without love, without a heart to find love again, Preston had found solace in walking the razor's edge.
Since his twentieth year Preston had known no other way of life. The President's man: Emissary? Trouble shooter? Hunter? Killer? Dick? Gunman? What ever the classification, he was always alone.
And so he had preferred it.
Though the silent stranger could attach neither name nor description to his occupation he acknowledged one fundamental aspect: The position required infinite patience; days, weeks, even months on certain difficult cases. Assuming a character role, Diamond could almost forget who he really was. Stagnating in a hellhole, betting his life on a river-boat loaded with cut-throat wastes of humanity who cared no more for their own lives than those of anyone else, riding herd on wild cattle driven by equally wild men, working the dangerous back streets infiltrating murderous gangs, or worse: the brutal, calculating, manipulating lords of the upper echelon in a big city. No one knew how long an assignment may last, no one knew where or what Preston Diamond or one of his aliases may be doing at any particular interval. Time went by, patience was tried and every moment Preston Diamond risked the life he could not call his own.
And danger lurked here in Way-cross; any moment may present that bullet shattering the hour-glass that contained the sands of his fragile existence. How could he consider buying a place of his own? Settling down? Why did he want the banker O'Malley to be innocent? Preston could neither understand nor suppress these feelings so out of character. Samantha Dexter was the most attractive, mind messing lady he had ever seen; but there had been many lovely ladies along his lonely trails and none had ever reached him. Was she different? Would Samantha Dexter be the fatal error in his judgement?
Satisfied with his brief foray to the outskirts of town, Diamond returned his new gelding to Ol' Ross saying the mount had proven up admirably. The hostler grinned through brown and broken teeth then shot a stream of tobacco juice at a feed bucket, “Well, I tol' ya, I wasn't a gonna lie to ya. He's a good'un.”
Removing his rig, Preston grinned inwardly; No doubt, from Ol' Ross's point of view, the price had been “a good'un” too!
Preston accepted an offer from Carver Ward to join him and his wife, Emily, for supper in the hotel dining room. Mrs. Ward, a handsome woman having the healthy tanned complexion of one who is not afraid to be outdoors, spoke very little though her quiet replies were polite. The conversation centred around cattle, grass and livestock prices and Diamond appreciated that the rancher did not ask why or how long he might be in Way-cross. Preston mentioned the small bunch of Herefords pastured near town. The rancher commended Dexter's foresight expounding upon the benefits of the recently introduced breed. Ward had purchased two yearling bulls from Moody Dexter and hoped to see herd improvement with next year's calf crop.
Upon arriving at his hotel room later, Diamond immediately noticed the tiny tattle-tale strand had disappeared from the doorway. Snapping his fingers as though he had suddenly remembered something, Preston said, “Oh damn!” loud enough to be heard inside the room then turned and strode purposefully down the hall to descend the stair. He gave the intruder plenty of time to escape should he be in the room. Returning about twenty minutes later, Colt in hand Preston edged silently along the hallway, taking precautions against casting shadows under his door. Noiselessly he turned the key then burst through the door, leaping to the side so as not to be framed by light spilling in from the hallway. He landed in a low crouch, the dark ominous bore of his pistol, like a malevolent eye, searching the room.
Vacant.
A faint… a fragrance, perhaps, lingered above the familiar kerosene odour. He lit the lamp on the near chest of drawers, closed the door and surveyed the room. The trunk had been tampered with but the searcher had not been able to open the chest. Diamond sniffed the water in the pitcher on the washstand. Though he detected nothing he made a mental note to have Frank Collier, the desk clerk, replace it. Again he tested the air: A lady's perfume. Perhaps the chambermaid had returned though the tenant had specified “no admittance” to the hotel clerk after the room had been made up. Diamond had been present when the maid arrived to tidy the room; he recalled no strong scent of perfume accompanied her. This fragrance must be more recent. And, it was of high quality. Someone, a female, must be interested in him or his luggage. He reattached the near invisible strand that had been dislodged from the trunk.
Boots off, gun-belt removed, Preston stretched out fully clothed on the bed. He leaned over, blew out the lamp and immediately drifted off in tranquil sleep.
Across the street, the soft flickering of the coal oil lantern caused Ole Evenson to glance up from the book he was reading. He stood up, stretched and adjusted the wick on the lantern reminding himself to add some oil to the light next day. Quietly the old Norwegian opened the door to the double cell room and made his way in the familiar darkness to the rear exit. Pale light from outside framed the barred window but failed to penetrate the room. The faint trace of a breeze indicated the window had been raised to let in the night air. The place smelled strongly of lye soap, a by-product of the cleaning up of Lester's mess. Soft snores issued from the prisoner though he stirred in his sleep when the night man slipped by. Ole stepped into the cool quiet evening. He gazed up at the inverted ocean of the Milky Way as he relieved himself in the dust of the back alley. The Norwegian thought of the old country and wondered if his parents who had passed away so long ago would be there among the constellations tonight. A faint musical jingle caught his attention just an instant before a sharp pain on the top of his bare head caused the heavenly display to explode in a thousand dazzling shooting stars; quickly light switched to black as he sank to his knees, toppling over in the dirt.
Preston Diamond passed from sleep to alert in a split second. His life style didn't allow for groggy interlude. Without relighting the lamp he strapped on the .45, then collected the light coat he had set aside before his nap. No one observed the silent exit from the rear of the hotel; another shadow lost in the crowd. From a saloon several doors down the street from the hotel, boisterous laughter accompanied the tinny sound of a cheap piano flogged by a novice. Preston ignored the noise and tuned in to the suspicious. He sought anomalies: A discreet assembly at a closed curtained residence, saddled horses tethered in the darkness, whispered conversations along the alleys. Most often nothing became of these night time forays. Occasionally something did. Preston operated on the principal that answers were not to be found, nor would they come to him, in his bedroom.
This evening Diamond chose to work the far side of the main street. He paused as a horse and rider trotted by, then faded across the dimly lit avenue. Away from the piano's abuse he detected the distant diminishing thud of more than one, likely two, sets of hooves as someone rode away at a rapid pace. The saloon was busy tonight.
Using the alleys and unlit side streets Preston wandered about the sleeping town. He considered: Way-cross would require a huge population growth to achieve city status; Banker Patrick O'Malley's optimism may outlive him. A lantern burned above the opened double doors of the livery. Preston slipped inside the barn avoiding being silhouetted in the doorway. Ol' Ross's snores were loud enough to keep the horses awake. Preston briefly checked over the animals. None were lathered or showed signs of a long ride recently. Seven horses were tied short in the rows of stalls along each side of the barn's alley-way. His own newly acquired mount stood farther along the line, untethered in a box stall. Preston fed him a handful of oats, then quietly disappeared through the smaller rear doorway.
Normality ruled all of Way-cross tonight.
Gliding along the alley which ran west from the livery stable, Preston took extra time to study the rear of the bank. Again he wondered why this institution had been spared a take-over interest.
A faint but distinct groan interrupted his thoughts. Straining to hear more he eased softly along in the direction from which the sound had emanated. Behind the sheriff's office, he paused a long time. An owl hooted from somewhere farther back and higher up, probably the roof of the livery stable; a dog barked. Even as Preston's eyes registered the darker shadow of a human body stretched out on the ground, Ole Evenson groaned again. The Colt leaped into Diamond's hand as he jumped over the inert form making a dash for the rear entrance of the jail house. The door stood ajar. Quickly he searched the cell block, stepped into the office, pistol at the ready.
Deserted.
Kenny Lester had broke jail. Or more accurately, someone had sprung him free.
Preston hoisted the lantern from its hook and sprinted back out to where Ole had now pulled himself into a sitting position.
“Ja, some son-of-a-gun bugger clobbered me on t' noggin.” He groaned.
Blood had trickled down the jailer's face making the injury look far more severe than actual. Preston inspected the damage. A wicked swollen goose egg and thin evil slice in the scalp where Ole's hair was the thinnest indicated the source of the blood. Probably the assailant had clouted the night watchman with a gun barrel. The wound had stopped bleeding, crusted particles told Preston the job had been done more than a few minutes ago. He recalled the thud of rapid hooves when first he had began his midnight foray.
With Diamond's assistance Ole struggled to his feet. Leaning against the younger man the Norwegian awkwardly shuffled into the office. Preston seated the injured old timer in his chair then offered to fetch the doctor. Ole declined medical assistance. “Ja he'll yust say, “you got a bump on your noggin”, no use to wake him up at this time of the night for Ole.” The jailer pointed to a drawer in the sheriff's big oak desk. Though it was closer to him than Preston, Ole said, “Maybe some medicine in there…”
Diamond opened the drawer, retrieved a half bottle of brandy then poured a shot in a less than spotless coffee mug. Ole accepted the drink gripping the cup with both hands. “Ja, better have one yourself.” An aborted attempt at a smile turned into a wince; both were less than glamorous through the blood stained trail across his pale and wrinkled face.
Preston poured a short shot in the other dirty mug he located amid the clutter of the desk top. “Skål.”
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