C. C. Phillips
C. C. Phillips
A loaded cane was not something Preston Diamond had anticipated, but he was anticipating something. As the powder darkened bore on the golden stick rose, he side-stepped, crouched and drew the Colt in one rapid sequence. The cane belched smoke and the hot bullet whined past Preston's ear, thudding into the broad side of the barn; it wasn't the most accurate weapon but, at short range, it could hit that much. The barn wall wasn't shooting back.
Diamond was.
The forty-five calibre slug through chest and spine lifted the visitor off his feet and pummelled him backward. The mare reared up in the shaves, broke and ran in a wide circle around the yard then, empty carriage rattling and jouncing along behind, headed full gallop down the lane.
Preston trained his revolver on the stricken man. His eyes were open and he tried to say something but a gush of blood was all that came out of his mouth. Preston spoke the words the dying assassin may have intended: “ Así siempre a traición… Thus always to treachery.”
Leaning on the shovel handle, Preston Diamond wiped a sleeve across his brow and looked up at the sun. High noon. He tossed the last few clods of dirt on yet another shallow grave. After putting the shovel away and washing up, Preston decided he would wait no longer. He threw his saddle on Rascal, climbed aboard and rode in the direction the mare and buggy had gone.
He caught up with the horse on the outskirts of Conception. She was unharnessed and turned loose in a paddock. The buggy was backed into the lean-to beside Dr. Filmore's house. Preston hitched Rascal in front of the building and walked across the porch.
The clinic door was open a trifle, as it had been so long ago when Preston came here looking for Captain Wiley. Colt drawn, Diamond stepped across the threshold. He left the door ajar. There were no patients, no visitors in the small foyer. Preston listened intently and heard a faint ting-ting-ting-ting. The ting-ting stopped and a voice said, “Come in, Preston, I am in the clinic.”
Diamond did not move. Soon the inside door opened and Dr. Filmore stood there with a spoon in his hand. He had aged almost beyond recognition: the face was drawn and haggard; the eyes were hollow pits with no light in their fathomless depths; even the hands were wrinkled and shaking. He looked like Hell had stalked and caught him on this side of the grave. His voice, reassuring and gentle, had not changed. “Come in, sit down. I've been expecting you. Please close the door, we must not encourage intruders.”
Preston holstered the revolver but kept his right hand near the walnut grip. He chose not to sit, but the physician took a seat on the raised cot he used for an operating and examination table. He let out a long sigh. “When the mare and buggy came back empty, I knew things had gone amiss for John. I'm glad. Now it is over. You won't believe me, Preston, but I never wanted harm to come to you or your mother. If I were not such a coward, I would have killed Captain Wiley the night he came to my surgery begging me to save him.”
Filmore may have seen a flicker in Preston's eye. “Yes, I know I've spoken of my creed, the sacred oath we physicians take. Well, one time I was an honourable man and a credible physician. Not so in recent times. This war has changed us all and none to the good. But I prayed that you would kill that scoundrel before someone murdered you. That is why I gave you his name the first time you came here and also why I told you about his subsequent visit, the one when I had said he'd been brought here by a soldier in an army ambulance.”
Preston nodded.
Filmore studied the silver spoon he had been holding. “I'd like to know, Preston, what did I do that put you on my trail? I've known for a few weeks now that you suspected me. You were a very determined lad. I don't believe that vengeance was your entire motivation, at least not after you killed Wiley in that courtroom. So what led you here, besides recognizing my carriage and mare at your farm?”
A buckboard or other light vehicle rattled by outside, a thud of hooves, probably a single horse followed close behind.
The conversation did not seem real to Preston. It was like he stood in the background, a detached third party, watching himself and the treacherous doctor chat as if discussing a show at Ford's Theatre. How could he be here talking to the man responsible for killing Cutler and Constantina Diamond? The man who had conspired to kill Colonel Unzer and how many other officers? The man behind the assassination of President Lincoln?
He felt compelled to answer. “I rode by here with General Grant and saw a dark bay mare with a peculiar star shape on her forehead and two white socks on her front feet. Later, I saw that mare again: It was the horse Kitty Nails rode the day she shot me.”
“Ah, Kitty Nails. Yes. She was the spark that lit the fuse. She was the one who brought Wiley back here ?there was no handsome soldier driving that ambulance? I lied about that. But I didn't lie about not knowing where they were headed.”
Preston considered what to do next. He couldn't bring himself to shoot this traitor in cold blood, though it was less than the fiend deserved, and he knew it would be folly to take Conception's cherished physician to Conception's useless sheriff: A boy's word against that of the town doctor would certainly be a waste of air. At the moment, the doctor posed no threat to Preston; he had other people to carry out his murders. Biding time until he could think of the next move, Diamond said, “There are several things I'd like to know.”
“Ask away, Preston, it is too late for deceit.”
“The day I trailed Captain Wiley to your clinic, two bluecoats were here. They knocked you senseless. If they were part of your scheme, why did they clout you?”
“They were Wiley's men, not mine. Few people know about me. I suppose they thought it best to move Wiley away from Conception before he was tied to your parents' murders.”
“What about Custus Lien, the ferryman? Did you have anything to do with that?”
Filmore tapped the spoon on the back of his hand, it made a dull thudding sound. “Oh, yes, another bungled mess that cost an innocent man his life.
“ The day you and General Grant rode by here, as you have just mentioned, Kitty's horse was out front and Kitty Nails was in my house. We were scheming something, I can't even remember what. Anyway, she recognized Grant and guessed where you and he were headed. There was another man riding with her that day but he was gone at the time. When he returned, Kitty sent him to the ferry, hoping for a shot at the general. He took my axe and you know what happened after that. I apologize now, for I should not have told Kitty it was you riding along side General Grant.”
Preston thought he heard a faint footfall on the porch. He shifted out of line of the doorway and his hand went to the Colt. “But he shot the ferryman. Why did he do that?”
“The fool didn't know Ulysses Grant from Custus Lien. General Grant was not in uniform you recall so Kitty's shooter guessed. But he guessed wrong. He came back here proud as a peacock that he'd assassinated President Lincoln's right hand man. We soon learned the truth. Kitty shot him dead on their way south that night.”
Filmore tilted his head as if listening for something. He stood up and walked over to the counter that ran along his dispensary. A coffee cup held down a sheet of paper; pen and ink were nearby. He dipped the spoon in the mug and stirred methodically. Ting-ting-ting-ting. Laying the spoon aside, he picked up the cup and turned to face his guest. “Any more questions, Preston?”
“What is your first name, Dr. Filmore?”
“My mother's maiden name, Franklin… My full name is, Franklin Nathaniel Filmore.”
The clinic door opened.
Dr. Filmore looked up and with no trace of surprise said, “Ah, General Grant. How positively pleasing to see you. I drink your health on a battle well fought!”
'The doctor brought the cup to his lips and drained the contents in several deep gulps. He placed the mug on the counter, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and said, “Now, gentlemen, I really must bid you 'good day'.”
All at once, Filmore's eyes began to bulge, his tongue protruded and he seemed to be choking. Clawing at his throat, he heaved huge gasps then, half turning, half falling, he made a grab for the operating table tearing the sheet off as he slid to the floor. Grotesque spasms racked his body for a few seconds, then he lay still.
Grant, revolver in his hand, stepped across the room; Colonel Unzer followed him. Ulysses knelt and held his fingers to the victim's jugular vein. “Strong coffee… He's dead.”
Preston moved closer, shaking his head slowly as he stared at the body. Doctor Filmore, Conception's capable and trusted physician. The kind man who had stitched Preston's arm when Constantina had brought her son to the clinic. There could be no explanation.
Colonel Unzer picked up the paper from the counter and read through it. “The doctor admits his guilt, claims to have set up the whole operation. Damn shame though, he didn't name any of his accomplices.”
Grant read the short note and passed it to Diamond. Preston noticed the paper had a round yellow stain from the cup and another, smaller one, from the spoon. After reading the missive, he fished in his coat pocket and pulled out the tattered note addressed to Chester Bateman. Preston was not surprised at what he found; the handwriting matched.
Filmore was “ F ”.
He passed the notes to Grant. “Uncle Lyss, this paper will put that lawyer, Bateman, in a bad spot.”
Unzer said, “Rebecca is waiting in our carriage about half a mile up the trail. I best let her know what's happened here. She was worried when we recognized your horse out in front of the clinic. And, though Mother did not appreciate it, General Grant talked her into staying away until we could find out what was happening here.”
“So Rascal is responsible for you showing up when you did. I was wondering what had brought in the cavalry,” said Preston.
General Grant, mounted on Cutler Diamond's war horse, went to alert Conception's town fathers of their loss while Preston and Rascal escorted the Unzers to Diamond/Tweed farm. The weight of the world had been lifted from Preston's shoulders. Though he would have to stay ever vigilant, at least until after the trial, he knew the worst of the long nightmare was over. He could look at the sun and feel warm inside and out. As they travelled at a leisurely pace, the colonel and Rebecca updated Preston on the latest news from Washington: Bateman, Engels, and several other conspirators, including Martha ?the Grants' maid? were incarcerated and slated to stand trial next month; Union soldiers had hunted down John Wilkes Booth and killed him; DC was still reeling from the loss of President Lincoln; Secretary of State, Seward, was recovering well from his wounds; Vice-president Andrew Johnson had been sworn in as president.
Diamond had previously packed up those items he wanted to take to Washington so he had only to throw together his clothes and personal effects. General Grant, riding alongside Rufus driving the mule and wagon, arrived about the time the carriage was loaded. Rebecca had packed a lunch for everyone and they enjoyed a meal before Preston and Rufus took their guests on a walking tour of the farm. Rufus was beaming with pride as he explained which crop was planted in each small field. Together the partners related the plans they had for the farm's future.
When it came time to leave, Rufus had tears in his big round eyes. “Yo gwyne back to dat city, Press. Dat ain' no place fo' a boy like yo. Yo comin' on home ebry tam yo thinkin' bou' Rufus.”
Preston shook Rufus's hand. “I'll come home often, Rufus. I'll miss the farm and besides, I want to meet your May-a-belle.”
Rufus smiled. “Mebbe, yo be alookin' for dat girl, Lily, too, Press.”
Grant noticed the fresh dirt as the little cavalcade proceeded toward the lane way. As he had done on his previous visit he stood up in the stirrups for a better view. The old mounds were already grassing over, the new one was obvious. He offered no comment. The Unzers continued down the trail; Preston, then Ulysses, reined in. Diamond said, “Colonel Unzer says the army tracked down and killed the man who assassinated President Lincoln.”
“That's right. A detail led by… a Corporal Peters, I think it was. They hunted Booth down; it took them over a week.”
Preston reached in his coat pocket again and pulled out the last note, the one addressed to Corporal Peters from Kitty Nails. He passed it to General Grant. “Uncle Lyss, Mrs. Unzer and I must have forgotten to tell you about this. We informed General Engels but, of course, he wouldn't tell you either.”
Grant read, then reread the short message. He raised his focus and studied Preston for a few moments. “This note implicates Corporal Peters. Does this mean the man who murdered our president may have escaped?”
Preston tilted a slight nod toward the new grave. “I believe that justice has prevailed.”
<<<Chapter 25 Author's Note>>>