C. C. Phillips
C. C. Phillips
Once again, Rascal wanted to run. He had been stabled for too long and fought the bit until Preston reached an area of less traffic and let him trot. They were heading out of Washington and, upon reaching open country, Diamond loosened the reins. Rascal's ground eating stride gobbled up a couple long miles in a short time and he fought to keep on running as Preston hauled back to slacken the pace. At the ferry fork, Preston swung his horse in the direction of Conception Landing. There are areas, towns, that sap one's soul; malevolence lurks; oppressiveness, like a dull ache, descends when you ride in one side and does not lift until you are well clear on the other. Diamond loathed the Citadel Crossing and the road to Alexandria; he hoped never to be forced to travel that trail again nor ever be in the vicinity of the field hospital. Rascal may have felt the same, or he sensed they were homeward bound, for he shook his head and whinnied long and loud. On an open stretch, free of trees and possible ambush, Preston put the heels to the gelding. Wind screamed in Preston's ears, tears filled his eyes and he bent low over the saddle, his face buried in Rascal's flowing mane. They left DC behind.
Diamond had told Uncle Lyss and the Unzers that he needed to be away from the city. The murdering, the treachery, the lies and deceit, weighed heavily upon him. He knew the next bullet or knife might be for him, but he wasn't running from that. He had to be alone, to put it all together and reconstruct what had happened in the tortured months since the night his parents were murdered.
A flood of relief had come over Preston when he was released from the burden of the vengeful hatred he carried against Captain Wiley. Rebecca and Colonel Unzer had whisked him away from the courthouse and, in the sanctity of their home, he collapsed on his bed. Unable to keep them inside any longer, tears he thought were gone came back in a flood. He sobbed like a little boy while Rebecca sat on the side of the bed and the colonel stood by. Unzer said, “Let it go, lad, you've carried this load far too long.”
And so he cried. He cried for an end to bitter burning vengeance; he cried for a reprieve for a young heart torn and saturated with hate; he cried for a loss he would never recover. Yet these soul-wracking tears were not enough and, even as he wept, he knew it was not over.
Vengeance, he had. Justice, he had not.
Rascal had slowed to a brisk trot and Preston was surprised to see the ribbon of the Patowmack rise into view. Mount and rider had made good time. Diamond rode right on to the waiting ferry and was soon across the river and riding toward the town of Conception. Reining Rascal to the side, he waited as a small wagon, drawn by a single mule, rattled down the trail toward him. Davy Brannigan, standing in the box, held the lines and his two sisters were seated on the load behind him. “It's Preston!” Amy shouted.
All three of the Brannigans were smiling broadly as Davy hauled back on the lines and Jerome stopped. “How's the leg, Preston?” Davy asked.
“Mostly I just limp a little now. How's your shoulder?”
“Good as new. I guess we both had a good nurse.”
Preston turned to his former nurse, “And how are you, Lily?”
She smiled and a faint blush brightened her fair features. “I'm fine, Preston.”
“Just look at our 'go to town' dresses, Preston.” Amy piped up. “Lily and I sewed up the clothes you gave us and Davy says we look like princesses.”
“Well, I'd say Davy is right. You look very nice… both of you are beautiful.”
Lily turned a deeper red. She changed the subject. “We saw Rufus Tweed in town just now. He was in the store.”
Amy said, “Yeah, I think Mr Tweed is sparking that girl who works there.”
“May-a-belle. Rufus told me about her, said she smiles at him sometimes.”
Davy said, “If you're looking for work, Preston, I have a contract to cut timber in the wilderness. The pay isn't much, but,” he jerked a thumb to indicate the wagon load, “it buys us supplies.”
The young people exchanged pleasantries for a short while, then Rascal started to fidget. On the inside, Preston was fidgeting too. He bid the Brannigans a good day. Lily invited him to come for dinner sometime and Diamond agreed.
As he rode toward town, Preston reviewed the encounter. No one had mentioned anything about the goings-on in Washington. Maybe the Brannigans hadn't heard; maybe they didn't care. Either way, Preston wasn't about to break the news. Preston decided it had been good to see Lily again; she had done a nice job fitting the dresses for her and Amy.
Just on the outskirts of Conception on the far side, Preston caught up to Washington. The Diamond/Tweed mule was pulling the light wagon and Rufus was sitting cross-legged on a small load. Preston rode up along side. Washington flicked a long ear in acknowledgement of Rascal and Rufus's broad grin spread across his face. “Lordy bless me, if it ain' dat ol' Press. I be'n athinkin' yo be'n in dat city an' yo ain't nebber acomin' home no mo' Press.”
“I couldn't stand it any longer, Rufus, and Rascal didn't like it either so we hightailed it home. How's May-a-belle?”
The grin broadened. “May-a-belle, she likin' ol' Rufus mo an' mo'.”
Rufus had plenty to show and tell Preston about the farm. The crop was seeded, some of it was poking through the ground. Bessie, the milk cow had freshened; her calf, a bull, was doing well. Rufus had been working in the garden; he'd made the plot larger and had some transplants ready to move out of the house.
The black man was disappointed to hear that his partner would not be staying at the farm for long. Preston said, “I'll be returning to Washington in a week or two. General Grant is coming out to visit with you and he will bring Colonel and Mrs. Unzer with him. The Unzers want to see the farm. I figure to load my stuff in their carriage and go back with them.”
“But, dat ain' righ', Press. Dis farm yo home. We 'as gwyne work it, yo an' me, Press.”
“I'm sorry, Rufus. Papá, in his last letter, asked Uncle Lyss to see to my education. My parents wanted me to have every opportunity, I must not let them down. Besides, Rufus, with a fast horse and good timing on the ferry crossing, it is only a couple of hours from here to there. I'll be back sometimes. I won't abandon you.”
For the following ten days, Preston put his back into working on the farm. But hard work did not sufficiently occupy his busy mind and his thoughts kept going back to the assignment left unfinished: the trail his father had pointed him down. This procrastination kept him out of Conception though he knew he would have to go soon. In the end, motivation paid a visit.
While working around the farm, Preston was never far from the Henry rifle and he'd taken to wearing his father's army holster. Though he said nothing, Rufus cast anxious eyes toward his young partner every time the gun was strapped on. Preston's abdomen was chafed and calloused from toting the revolver tucked inside his belt. Hours on horseback with that uncomfortable bulk had left him raw at the start. Now the skin was hardened and scarred and the gun had become a part of his regular dress but he did not like carrying the piece in that fashion. On the other hand, a youth with a pistol strapped on, in plain view, is apt to find the trouble he was hoping to avoid.
On the occasion when the man from Conception and the scar faced fellow held up Preston and Lily, Diamond had fetched his Colt to hand in short order. The thieves were caught flat-footed and, if the fool hadn't tried for his gun, twice, no one would have been hurt. The fact that the gun did appear so suddenly gave Preston cause for thought. He realized that situations arise when being able to have a gun in your hand in a quick fashion could well mean the difference between living and dying. Toward that end, he cut away the flap and a part of the army issue holster.
In moments of idleness, he practised pulling the gun out in a hurry, usually without firing. In evenings in his bedroom or in the parlour, with the .45 unloaded, he went through the motion over and over again. The front sight sometimes scraped along the thick leather of the holster so he used a file and modified the shape, then went through a box of bullets making the Colt shoot straight. Preston was naturally quick, and that attribute had often won him a victory over an older and bigger adversary when wrestling with the Indian boys out west. His reflexes served him well in this new enterprise. He was not yet fast, but he soon surpassed average.
Midway through the second week, Rufus had found an excuse to go to Conception for a few hours and Diamond had been forking last year's hay in the little mow above the main floor of the barn when a mouldy piece sent him into a sneezing fit. He came down from the loft and, as he stepped outside for a fresh breath, noticed a canopied carriage coming along the lane toward the farm. At first he thought it may be the Unzers ?they should be along any day now? but this vehicle only had one horse and it wasn't one of Unzer's greys. There was one person on the seat. Preston pulled the revolver, blew the hay dust off, rotated the cylinder and slid the gun back in the holster.
Upon seeing Diamond in front of the barn, the driver turned his horse in that direction. Preston studied the horse, carriage and driver as they drew near. The man in the seat was a stranger. The horse had no particularly distinguishing features. The vehicle was a sharp looking black carriage with polished oak shaves and black canopy. It was familiar.
Reining in, the stranger said, “Good afternoon, young man! I've come a long way and saw your fine establishment from the main road. I was so captured that I felt I must come down the lovely lane and have a closer inspection. I'm in the business of selling disaster insurance. For a small fee I can guarantee that your home, livestock and buildings are secure against fire, wind and vandals.”
Preston Diamond said nothing, though he had made several observations: the horse had not come a long way; the carriage, familiar at a distance, he now recognized; the stranger was someone he had seen before though the man was wearing a disguise which, in itself, was a study: the longish yellow hair protruding from under the derby hat was a poor representation of a wig: the man had a kind of colouring applied to his face making lips wider, shade lighter and cheeks rosy. The face also had an unusual bulge, like a squirrel with a cheek full of acorns; the voice seemed unnatural as though he were speaking around marbles. The fellow was a charlatan or an actor.
“Oh, do excuse me,” the stranger continued, “my name is Petruchio Pandolfo and it is my humble honour to serve you. Would you mind, sir, if I were to step down and stretch my cramped legs?”
Without waiting Preston's answer, the fellow climbed lightly, almost daintily, to the ground and stood a moment favouring one leg. Diamond tensed as the stranger reached back inside the carriage but, when his hand reappeared, it was holding a slim walking stick. Had the fellow sported a drooping moustache, Preston would have identified him sooner. However, the stick was as good as an introduction. It was a golden colour.
Using the buggy shaft for support the man came nearer to Preston. “Pardon my intrusion but you seem quite young. Perhaps there is someone… er… older I should be talking to about the insurance for this lovely place?”
Diamond shifted. He said, “I have a partner but he is away right now.”
The fellow twirled the golden cane; Preston watched as melancholy and evil fought to surface through the painted features. Evil won. The walking stick tipped up; there was a blackened hole in the end.
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