C. C. Phillips
C. C. Phillips
She opened the door a thin notch and something leaned hard against it. The rough panel slipped out of her hands; a body fell across the threshold to land sprawled, inert, upon the floor.
Lily Brannigan screamed.
Davy, switching the rifle to his lame left hand, used his right to pull the person inside, then kicked the door closed, shutting out the night. He rolled the man onto his back as Amy brought the lantern near. The hat fell off and a lock of dark hair fell across the youthful face. Amy and Lily cried, “It's Preston Diamond!”
An aide had stopped by to talk to Preston half an hour after the scuffle. “Kenny has been asking for that from one of you smaller lads. He's a bully, but a damn good worker. Don't know how he smashed his hand up so bad though. Doctor Kelsey says it's broke.”
Preston lifted his head from the scrub board. Kenny and Kelsey. Where there hadn't been any K's a minute ago, he now had two handed to him. He said, “Must have hit my buckle, I guess.”
Diamond went to find his injured coworker. In the third tent he checked, he found Kenny laying on a cot just inside the entrance. Kenny glared at him but kept his mouth shut when Preston said, “Hey, Kenny, I'm sorry about what happened there. How's the hand?”
No response.
Preston reached in his pocket and fished out a dime novel he had found under one of the empty cots in the second tent he'd searched. “I thought this might give you something to do while you're healing up.”
Kenny growled, “Won't do me much good, I cain't hold it with one hand, an' I cain't read anaways.”
Preston left the tent. Kenny didn't write the note.
Doctor Kelsey was not the doctor who had operated on Colonel Unzer. Preston didn't think he could be tricked as easily as Kenny, either. Diamond found out who Kelsey was without difficulty; everyone knew the doctors. During a break for a bite, one fellow was happy enough to name them all. There were no other initial K's, first or last.
The medical staff had a tent where they could go to rest up, eat their lunch or just relax when a break in the action allowed. Preston poked his head inside the flap and surveyed the room. It was cluttered with books, cups, lunch containers and medical paraphernalia. A table with papers, ink and pens stood near the middle of the room. There were no people. Diamond looked around the camp, saw no one looking his way and slipped inside the staff tent. He went to the table and shuffled through the writing material hoping to find Kelsey's signature or a piece of his hand writing. Preston held the note written to Corporal Peters and scanned the papers for a comparison.
There were two articles of interest; one with Kelsey's signature, in which the letter K did not fit at all and a missive addressed to one of the staff. The handwriting on the second appeared to match. Preston pocketed the letter and left the tent unnoticed.
Rather, he thought he'd left the tent unnoticed.
The afternoon was spinning by. The sun, still reluctant, did not burn off the morning cloud cover though rain didn't appear to be an option either. Preston slipped the bridle on his horse, scrambled aboard and cinched up on the go. About a mile away from the camp, he pulled the letter from his coat and began to read as he rode along. Now, he realized that, in his haste, he had taken only half of the note. There must have been two pages or more because this portion started in the middle. It was probably addressed to one of the medics for they had exclusive access to the staff tent. The gist of the message was lost, but Diamond determined several items of importance: the sender was familiar with the army camp; was an acquaintance of the addressee; was named Kitty. Preston folded the paper and stuffed it back in his pocket. 'K', as in Kitty; if the abbreviated signatures were using the initial of their first names, who was 'F'?
The bullet hit half a second before the sound of the shot, so it must have come from a distance. It ripped through Preston's right thigh, cut a groove in the saddle and burned Rascal's shoulder. The young gelding broke into a bucking run, and Preston held on until he succumbed to pain and shock. The unforgiving sod, dry and hard, jarred him awake momentarily but he slipped into a black hell again. Pain wouldn't let him stay unconscious. He collected his thoughts, trying to sort out where he was and what had happened. He bit his lip to keep from crying out. Fearing to move lest there be another bullet coming, he forced himself to lay still. A warm wetness was spreading high up on his leg; the pain, searing and intense at first, now diminished to an excruciating burning throb. He became aware of more soreness in other parts of his body; the tumble from the back of his horse must have been a rough one. Preston slipped a hand inside his coat and pulled the Colt from his belt. With clumsy fingers he held the grip and eased back the hammer with his thumb. He realized a small comfort from the muffled “snick.” Then he passed out.
Sometime later, maybe a minute, maybe an hour, Preston thought Rascal had come back when his ear nearest the ground picked up the sound of hooves walking on grass. The horse snorted as it came near and the squeak of saddle leather announced someone was dismounting. He heard the ratchet of a lever, it sounded the same as his
.44 Henry. A soft toe nudged Preston and rolled him over on his side. A blurred face came near and peered into his half closed eyes. It was distorted but he could make out a satisfied grin. A rasping voice said, “So, this little diamond has lost its sparkle, what a shame.” A warped rifle barrel came into view. Preston couldn't extract the revolver so he just squeezed the trigger and the bullet found its own way out through his coat. Then he passed out.
Diamond knew he hadn't been out for long this time because the smell of powder and scorched cloth were in his nostrils. There was a weight on top of him and he couldn't move. Squinching his eyes against the pain he forced his head to clear. His vision came back to near normal: Rascal was grazing about forty yards away; another horse stood nearer, its mouth bleeding, probably because it stepped on the reins. The weight Preston had felt upon regaining consciousness turned out to be someone laying crosswise on top of him.
A dead person.
He shifted sideways and tried to squirm out from under the burden. The pain in his leg amplified and he almost cried out. Biting his lip again, he wormed his way clear. Using the Henry rifle that the stranger had dropped, Preston pried himself erect. It wasn't his Henry, he didn't know whose it was; most likely it belonged to the dead woman at his feet.
His knees buckled and Preston collapsed on the grass. He'd killed a woman! He made himself look at the bloodless face; she wasn't a young woman, older than Señora Diamond but younger than Rebecca Unzer. She may have been beautiful in someone's eyes a long time ago. Was she a mother? A grandmother? Preston averted his gaze and saw that his leg was still bleeding or had started bleeding again. He pulled out his knife and cut away his trouser leg. The wound was deeper than he had thought. The bullet had passed right through the meat of his right thigh. It missed the bone but tore a jagged hole on the exit side. The area around the wound was bruised a dark blue to black, blood oozed from both holes. Preston knew he was in trouble.
Using his knife to rip strips form the lady's skirts he plugged the entry and exit wounds with cloth. Preston went cross-eyed with the pain and shock of seeing his own flesh mangled like sausage meat. He cut more strips and bandaged the leg as tightly as he could. He lost consciousness several times during the procedure.
Rascal had come near but held back, not liking the smell of blood. Preston used the Henry crutch to get to his feet and called to the gelding. Rascal turned his head to avoid the loose reins and came closer. Preston hobbled away from the body and was then able to call Rascal to him. It took all of Diamond's will power and all of his strength to climb into the saddle. He scanned the area. There was nothing moving, no sign of life, not even a farm house vacant or occupied. Preston was confused. His vision was blurring again. He couldn't remember where the army camp was; he didn't know his directions. And it was growing dark.
Preston nudged Rascal in the flank with his good leg. The dead woman's horse whickered as they moved away, but it did not follow. The gelding walked along at a gentle pace as though he understood that he had to keep the rider in the saddle. Night came, the moon didn't. But it was all the same to Preston Diamond because he was in another world.
The pain went away. A lighter shade of darkness surrounded him and Preston felt warmth, a warmth that comes from within, not of the sun or an evening fire. He watched a white shapeless form walking, no, floating, toward him. It reached out, touched his hand and lifted him up; he drifted along, high in the air but there was no fear of falling, he was weightless. Far below, a horse and rider, black in a land of silvery shadow, plodded along a high and narrow track spanning a bottomless chasm. The horse was sure footed but the rider tilted awkwardly in the saddle. If he fell he would be swallowed up in the abyss on one side or the other. The precarious track between Heaven and Hell.
The soft white vision released Diamond's hand and he fell. He dropped down, down, down toward the unsuspecting rider. He was going to collide with the man, knock him off his horse and they would both be tossed into the pit. Preston tried to scream a warning but he had no voice. Preston braced himself for the impact.
He was back astride Rascal. The pain was there, the cold, the night.
The gelding stopped.
Someone stood on Preston's left side. There were two people. The taller one reached up and lifted the reins from Preston's hands. He stepped forward and Rascal followed. The other person, a lady, kept pace at the left stirrup. She held Preston on his horse. They travelled slowly, there seemed no urgency. The lady often glanced up at Preston and sometimes the man looked back but Diamond could not make out their features and they said nothing. The pain in the wounded leg still throbbed, but it was dull and distant. A heavy tiredness clung to Preston; he wanted to close his eyes; to stop the horse and slide out of the saddle; to give it all up; to go to sleep… to go to sleep.
The lady touched his leg, her gentle caress brought a surge of strength. He had to keep going, he could not let these people down.
A thin yellow line in the shape of a rectangle grew more distinct in the darkness. It was a doorway, a closed door with lamp light glowing around the frame. Preston had seen this before…
Rascal stopped and the stranger who had been leading him dropped the reins. Together, the man and the lady eased Preston to the ground. In the thin orange light cast from the rectangle he recognized their faces.
Cutler and Señora Diamond.
They helped him across the stoop and up to the door. “Papá. Mother,” Preston said.
Sunlight streaming through the open doorway, shining in his eyes, brought Preston awake. He didn't know where he was and it took a frantic moment to sort it out. His leg pained fiercely when he attempted to turn over. Lily Brannigan sat in a chair beside the bed. She was asleep.
So, now he knew where he was. How did he get here? Why was he here?
Laying back on the lumpy pillows, Preston tried to remember last night. A dream? Or a nightmare? He'd been shot… in the leg. Someone had tried to kill him… a woman. He'd shot her. God! He'd killed a woman! What happened then? He was on his horse. And there was pain; pain was everywhere. And a light, a strange light and then… then Papá was leading Rascal. Papá and Mother brought Preston to the Brannigan house. Where were his parents now? Why weren't they here with him? Didn't they know he was hurt? “Am I still dreaming?” He wondered.
Lily stirred in her chair, her eyes flickered open; she leaped to her feet. “Preston! You're awake!” She picked up a damp cloth and mopped his brow. “Do you know me? Do you know where you are?”
“Hello, Lily.” Preston's voice rasped and his throat hurt when he spoke.
“Oh! Preston! You're here! We thought you were dead… the fever, the chills. You turned blue. You turned grey. Sometimes you went so quiet and you didn't move. You didn't even breathe.” She started to cry. “We thought you were dead!”
“I was shot. You kept me alive, Lily? I don't remember anything. Except… except… someone led my horse to your door…”
Preston tried to sit up. “My horse, I have to take care of Rascal. He's been standing out there all night.”
Lily pushed Diamond back onto the bed. “Davy took care of your horse. It wasn't last night, you've been here four days.”
“Four days? …The people… the ones who brought me here? Did you see them? Where are they now?”
“No one brought you here, Preston. You were alone.”
“But… how? It was dark, I didn't know where I was… and… my… a man… a man took the reins and led me here. Why didn't he come in?”
Lily mopped his brow again. “There was no man, Preston. Your horse brought you. Maybe it remembered the way from the last time you were here.”
Diamond sank into the pillows. “Maybe,” he said.
Only, Preston had been riding Cutler Diamond's cavalry horse on the previous visits. Rascal had never been in this area.
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