C. C. Phillips
C. C. Phillips
Next morning, it was Preston Diamond, alias Bradley McBain, who intercepted Sheriff Dexter on the street en route to his office. Samantha, who accompanied her father, gasped, raising a hand to her mouth when she heard the news. “How is Uncle Ole?” she asked anxiously before Dexter could start his inquisition.
“He'll have a sore head for a few days,” McBain allowed. “The wound wasn't too serious after we washed the blood away. Mr. Evenson didn't wish to bother the doctor so I helped him home then stayed in case signs of a concussion or internal damage appeared. He fell asleep and I administered a few cold cloths in effort to reduce the swelling. He was still sleeping when I left about an hour ago.”
Samantha interrupted her father's attempt to speak, “A long night for you, Mr. McBain.”
“Ole is your uncle?”
Dexter broke in impatiently, “He's been around so long we consider the old bugger part of the family.” While he held the conversation, he continued, “Did Ole have any idea who pistol whipped him? Did he see anybody? How many were there?”
The trio continued down the street, McBain answering the questions as they walked.
Samantha cut across to her shop when the sheriff reached his office. McBain followed him inside then confided. “Ole thought he heard a metallic jingle just before he received the crack on his skull. It may have been the ring of a rowel or some jingle-bobs.” He added, “I couldn't say what kind of fool would leave his spurs on while attempting to sneak around someone.”
Dexter studied McBain suspiciously, “You know damn well what kind of fool would do that… You booted him through Sam's shop window yesterday.”
The younger man grinned what he hoped would appear as sheepishly, “The fellow you called Muley had crossed my mind. In preparation for his first wind up and swing he told me the Lesters were friends of his.”
Moody Dexter shook his head, “No matter what happens around here lately, you show up right in the thick of things.”
If innuendo existed, McBain shrugged it off. “Earlier on, before I found Ole, I heard some horses, more than one, galloping off west. It could have been Kenny Lester and his accomplice.”
“That reminds me,” the sheriff expostulated, “What the hell were you up to, skulking around the streets of Way-cross in the middle of the night?”
“Couldn't sleep, so I decided to go for a stroll.”
Dexter snorted but didn't press the issue. “Now I gotta round up another goddamn posse and make a show of finding those two renegades. My hip ain't up to a lot of hard ridin' neither.”
“No need for the posse, Sheriff, they'll be back before too long.”
Dexter waited for the younger man to go on, but when nothing further developed he growled, “Well…What makes you so goddamn certain about that?”
McBain took his time in answering. “Among other things… Kenny Lester swore to escort me to hell for killing his brothers.”
“Bah! Idle threat. The young bugger has cleared right out of the territory. And I say, “Good riddance. Saves the circuit judge his trouble.”
Bradley McBain insisted, “He'll be back in Way-cross very soon and I'll be the bait.”
Dexter shrugged, “Well I'm going over to the depot to send a telegram. It's my bet this town won't see Kenny Lester ever again so I don't want that judge coming here for nothing.”
Preston Diamond knew what lay in store regardless of the irascible Moody Dexter's insistence. He purposely suggested that Larson would be coming for him so as to mitigate Sheriff Dexter's inquires later.
If he survived.
Routine, a luxury Preston Diamond and most of his aliases avoided could easily manifest itself in Way-cross. Preston deliberately began to modify his public activities; patterns can be unhealthy for people in his profession. In the privacy of his room however, he maintained a ritual as certain as morning ablutions: a full hour dedicated to solitary 'hand' combat practise. This performance, like a fanatical religious devotee, he performed whenever anything less than extreme circumstances permitted; indoors, outdoors, heedless of weather conditions the training he had acquired in his youth, from the teachings of an elderly Chinese master, were rehearsed over and over again always striving for the impossible: perfection.
Though he chose a different approach and time for the meal, Preston stubbornly continued to breakfast at May-Anne's eatery where the surly waitress invariably declined a gratuity. Preston found the pretty girl amusing though she offered only the very basics of service, no smile, barely acknowledging his presence. Her demeanour among other customers verged on, for the creative imagination, affable. Now, the morning after Ole Evenson's knock on the head, Diamond detected a more pleasant air when his meal arrived. He looked up into the fathomless eyes of the waitress but she yielded no clues as to why he should sense a difference. “Strange lady,” he opined.
Frank Collier appeared a touch on the weary side when Preston returned to the hotel. The effervescence usually displayed barely surfaced. “Good morning, Mr. McBain!” the clerk called as Preston strode through the lobby.
“Hello Frank, have you been behind that desk for two days straight? You always seem to be here.”
With private amusement, Preston watched the out of control Adam's apple frantically seeking an escape either up or down. “Well Mr. McBain, I have enjoyed a very long shift this time and my relief appears to be later than usual today…” He failed to stifle an errant yawn, “Looks like you may have a chance to meet Governor Rittinger after all.”
Preston smiled over his shoulder as he started up the stair, “I'll look forward to it.”
In his room, Diamond quickly unlocked the trunk and extracted the brass telescope. This he tucked inside his coat then closed and sealed the chest. Stepping out into the empty hall, he sealed the door to his room then took the stair back down to the lobby. Frank Collier's cross-shift had arrived, Frank's Adam's apple pelted out an up-date of the evenings activities. Neither clerk took notice as Preston slipped by.
Entering the livery stable Preston observed that Ol' Ross had apparently enjoyed more sleep than Frank Collier. The ageing hostler was patiently explaining to a pimply-faced, tow-headed lad, the proper way to fork manure. Diamond had seen the kid about town, always staring in wide-eyed awe when Preston passed near. Undoubtedly the boy had heard the exaggerated tales of McBain's pistol prowess. An honest fellow would not wish to encourage a youngster in that endeavour.
The pair hadn't noticed his approach. McBain eased into their line of sight, nodded to the kid, sending his face into an acne enhanced contortion of gaping and gawking. “Morning, Ross.” he said to the hostler.
“Ah! it's Bradley McBlaine… come to ride that prime piece of horse flesh I sold you, no doubt?” To the stable hand he said, “Fetch Mr. McBlaine's gelding, Lonny.” The boy demonstrated far more enthusiasm for this chore than forking road apples.
“Indeed, I am here for my pony, but what makes you so certain?”
The hostler grinned advertising a complete lack of dental hygiene then fired another accurate brown stream at the feed bucket. “I can al'us tell when a feller plans to go for a ride. He carries hisself a certain way, sort of 'poligizin' to his feet they won't have to take him far.”
The boy came forward leading the gelding. “You want,” he gulped, “you want I should saddle him for you, Mr. McBlaine?”
Preston sighed, “McBain. No, thanks Lonny, I'll throw the rig on him this morning.”
Ol' Ross levelled another squirt of tobacco juice, “A man like Mr. McBlaine, here, Lonny,” he explained, “he don't hold with other folks saddlin' nor straddlin' his horse.”
Preston broke in, effectively warding off a soliloquy, “Would you mind holding the reins while I set my rig on, Lonny?”
“You bet Mr. McBain!”
Diamond slipped the boy a nickel then led the horse out into the sunlight.
“I gave him a real good drink this morning, Mr. McBain,” the stable hand called. “He sure was thirsty.”
Swinging into the saddle, “Thanks, Lonny,” he said and rode east out of Way-cross.
The sound of running hooves Preston heard during the night had headed west from the town. Suspecting the horses were ridden by Kenny Lester and his accomplice, Diamond intended to eventually point his horse in that direction too, but did not wish to announce his plans to anyone who may be watching. He rode past Dexter's place and eyed with favour the white faced bunch grazing in their pasture. Slipping into the cottonwoods he put Way-cross far enough behind him to enable a double-back along the north side without being observed from town. Diamond dismounted, removed the telescope from his pocket, and studied his back-trail. The cottonwood trees were sufficiently sparse that, if he knelt down below the level of dense foliage, he could detect movement among the trees. No tell-tale horse legs appeared in his vision. Mounting the gelding again he rode on, confident in the certainty no one had followed.
Eventually Preston's route brought him to the wagon road he and Carver Ward had taken to retrieve the corpses of the Lester brothers. There were plenty of shod horse tracks along the trail. Preston's plan did not involve tracking down the escaped prisoner so he only casually studied the various prints. What he wanted he soon found: A high knoll that would serve his purpose as a lookout point. From here he would scan the distance across the flat land, up the barren grass rise all the way to the pine tree ridge high up on the horizon. At the foot of the hill a copse of aspen served as tether and concealment for the gelding. The rider slipped the bridal and loosened the cinches. Telescope and canteen in hand Diamond angled up the slope afoot. A mule deer, startled at the intrusion, snorted a complaint then bounded away to disappear around the far edge of the hill.
“Perfect,” Preston breathed when he discovered the bed of the buck. The animal had chosen a hollowed out area in a patch of light brush more than three quarters of the distance to the hilltop. As it had for the deer, the position provided Diamond with a backdrop to obscure his presence and a panoramic foreground to keep watch upon. Slinging the canteen on the grass, Diamond sank into the recently occupied bed, prepared for a long sojourn.
Flies buzzed, little birds made little bird sounds among the scrub, the sun shone. Preston soaked up the warmth, dozed off from time to time and, through the telescope, kept a vigil.
A wagon, heavily loaded, drawn by four horses, proceeded west along the road Preston had abandoned to reach the hillside he now occupied. A pair of riders, cowboys heading to town, held his attention briefly; they weren't the pair he sought. The in-bound, then out-bound stages came and went. Through the eye of the powerful optic Preston observed portions of the faint fire trail he had taken from the pine ridge to the wagon road. Though he could not distinguish the exact location, several turkey vultures, flapping skyward or plummeting down, marked the position of his deceased horse. Within view, roughly a hundred head of cattle contentedly grazed the green prairie grass.
High noon slid by; afternoon baulked, as was its wont this time of year, hoarding more than its share of sunshine; disinclined to relinquish the reins to evening. Preston waited. The great orange ball doggedly crept toward the western horizon. Finally the last flare of sunset, that closing burst that suddenly floods the land turning golden everything in its wake, had only a few seconds grace when the telescope produced a pair of riders just on the near edge of the pines; they were heading in this direction. The brilliant light faded, the image lost resolution.
In the brief instant available Preston observed that one rider was a large heavy-set man the other slight but nearly as tall. The distance was too great for positive distinguishing features, but no doubt existed for Preston Diamond: Muley and Kenny Lester.
Diamond had felt absolutely positive the outlawed pair would return. He didn't wish to bet his life on it and that is why he dedicated this entire day to proving himself right.
In the gathering dusk Preston strolled leisurely down the slope to his tethered horse. Here he discovered that this animal, though well broke to saddle, displayed a serious aversion to the halter. Through experience Preston had learned to tie his horse both short and high. Don't allow sufficient lead for the clumsy buggers to tangle themselves in the tether. The adage holds true, “Give 'em enough rope, they'll hang themselves.” The gelding didn't hang himself but he had worked his way around the sturdy tree so snugly he inhaled bark with every breath. His forefeet had delivered a brutal punishment upon the aspen and near turf; the hind legs had demolished all within radius. Half the grove lay pounded to pulp, churned to dehydrated mush. If the animal had been frantic, he had worn himself down to a quietude unfamiliar this side of his foaling.
Preston, speaking soothingly to the gelding, drew a razor sharp knife, quickly severing the twisted, knotted halter shank. The horse momentarily sank to its bruised front knees, grateful for the release. Diamond wondered if the mount had been attacked by deer or horseflies. Though it seemed unlikely, for only blue-bottles had buzzed around Preston where he spent the day higher up the slope, he checked for tell-tale welts from bites of the vicious winged demons. The horse bore no evidence of an insect attack, nor did it appear to have suffered serious self-inflicted abuse.
“Well, I suppose you have a dislike to tethering. No doubt that is why Ol' Ross locks you up in a box stall.” Preston grinned to himself when he thought of being trimmed by the hostler. “That crooked old hoss-trader took me on that count, but I'll bet you are completely halter broke now.”
Deepening dusk provided cover as Diamond, leading his horse, back-tracked to the wagon road halting a hundred yards short. This part would be particularly delicate: Preston intended to allow the in-bound riders to pass by, then follow at a distance. He knew it would be a simpler task to dog their heels undetected than to have waited in town all day hoping to locate the miscreants within the confines of the village, where they, so Preston believed, would also be hunting him. To accomplish this he first had to be near enough to hear their passing. Success hinged on the reaction of the horses when they sensed each another, as surely they would.
Diamond's horse heard the riders first and Preston gently clapped a hand on its muzzle. Ears forward, eyes staring intensely into the gloom, the gelding danced and fidgeted but did not whinny or snort. In the intense stillness, Preston could now hear the steady clop of the advancing hooves, the occasional word exchanged between the men.
A shrill neigh burst upon the night. Preston clamped a more firm grip on the muzzle of his horse.”What the hell?” someone cursed. It sounded like the high voice of Kenny Lester. There were sounds of a brief struggle between horse and rider, followed by another curse in a deeper tone, “It's that goddamn mare of yours. She's in season; be'n actin' up all day.”
The minor altercation resolved, the ride continued. Preston waited a few moments before releasing the nose of his gelding, then swung into the saddle.
Trailing dangerous murderers, suspects or fugitives on foot, on horse-back, day or night, pleasant or inclement weather conditions, Preston Diamond had experienced many diverse situations in his business. Tonight's task proved painless and uncomplicated. These fellows were obviously quite novice, they did not suspect anyone could be following them.
The distance to Way-cross was not great. Preston correctly assumed the riders would not continue directly into the town. Kenny Lester could not afford to be seen. They veered right, off the wagon road, about a quarter mile from the edge of Way-cross. Reining in under a cottonwood, Diamond slipped from the saddle, quickly stifling the gelding's urge to announce his presence. With his ears Preston followed the progress of Kenny Lester and Muley. The pair had not gone far when sounds of dismounting drifted on the night's stillness. A horse, probably Lester's mare, neighed loudly. A curse, a muffled thud followed by another short ruckus gave Preston to believe the pony had shied or reared after receiving a fist to the muzzle. The horses settled down. Preston heard low voices above the jingle of Muley's gaudy rowels as the cowboys, now afoot, made their way toward the lights of main street. He hoped the steady metallic ring from the spurs would drown out the quiet footfalls of his horse as he led the gelding in stealthy pursuit. Just before lantern light illumed them, the pair stopped for a quiet parley. Preston edged close enough to hear the voices clearly. He knew their eyes, growing accustomed to the street lighting ahead, would not be able to penetrate the deeper darkness where Preston and his horse stood eaves-dropping.
“…besides nobody suspects me of springin' you out of the calaboose, I can go anywhere I want in Way-cross. You're the wanted man, not me…”
Lester's higher voice broke in, “Well, we got us a touchy job to do and it ain't gonna be any the easier with you half full of whiskey.”
A snort of laughter followed. “Hell, Kenny, I'm on'y gonna have a little to wet my whistle. If it makes you feel any the better, I'll bring along a pint when I come back.”
Lester acquiesced, “All right; I'm goin' to see Barbara and tell her what's goin' on. You meet me at Joe's old shack… better give me an hour or so in case Barb's in a good mood.”
Another derisive snort from the idiot Muley. “Well, if she's in a good enough mood you give her one for me too!”
The men separated, Lester taking a foot path to the left and Muley strolling, spurs ajingle down the main street. Preston waited until the pair were well away before leading his horse along another trail to the right. He mused, “How thoughtful of Lester to provide such detailed information.” All he needed now would be a map to Joe's old shack.
The 'map' showed up about three minutes later.
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