C. C. Phillips
C. C. Phillips
As Preston Diamond's stiffened body warmed, his thought processes began to function. He did not know how he had arrived upon the sofa in front of the roaring blaze in the fireplace. Initially he thought his father had placed him there. Slow recollection filtered into his chilled brain ?it wasn't a nightmare? he feared to look behind him for he knew what must certainly await his gaze. He could smell death. Alternating chills and flashes of hot fear coursed through his trembling frame. One thought hammered at his instinct of survival: The killer whom Preston shot had said, “We'll come back for the kid another time…”
And one man, a wounded person whom Preston's victim had referred to as Wiley, had ridden off in the moonlight. Would he “come back for the kid”? Was he, at this moment, lurking out in the yard, hiding in the maple grove or one of the outbuildings, watching, waiting for Preston to emerge from the house? Preston's mother must have wrested a gun from the assailant, but how badly had she wounded him before the second man murdered her?
The boy shuddered and forced himself to look around the parlour. His father lay just as Preston had seen him last night. In the grey light of day the reality was so much harsher. Now it was morning, there had been no nightmare; nothing could change it now; no one on earth could put things back the way they were. Fighting tears, he staggered to his feet and reeled to the doorway. With deliberate caution Preston opened the door a crack. Squinting through the narrow slot, he saw the shoulders and head of the dead man on the porch; further away his mother in her white nightdress lay in the yard. He wanted to run to her, to wake her up. A horrible lump rose in his throat, he choked back the sobs. Through his tears he saw a band of horsemen ?they looked like soldiers? sweeping into the lane. Were they coming for him?
Preston slipped barefoot into his boots, grasped his father's heavy army coat, picked up the revolver from the floor and escaped through a rear window of the cottage. A dense wood lay near to the back of the house and Preston dashed into the trees undetected. From a vantage point in the brush he watched the proceedings in the farm yard. There were six mounted soldiers in Union colours milling about. In the distance a wagon and pair approached the farm; the driver also wore a blue uniform. These men were from Colonel Diamond's Union Army, but the young Diamond could place his trust in no one. “There is no one left…”
“…No one left.”
He thought of his father's long time friend, fondly known to Preston as 'Uncle' Ulysses or simply Uncle Lyss. How he wished to see that man ride up. But the boy had heard his father mention that General Grant was a few days ride from Washington. He could not possibly be here now.
Preston brought up his knees to warm his bare legs and shivered in the warmth of the greatcoat; the scent of his father lingered in the coarse muslin lining. The soldiers tied their horses and the wagon rolled into the yard. Across the distance Diamond could hear the low voices of the army men. Shouts erupted when two of them entered the house. People scurried about as if searching for something or someone. Ignoring their calls, Preston shrank deeper into the undergrowth as he realized who they sought.
The boy knew the woods as well as the birds and animals who lived there. And, like the animals, he could hide or escape without detection. With ease, Preston eluded the half-hearted search that ensued. Returning to his original location, the young Diamond watched as his parents' bodies, wrapped in clean white canvass were loaded onto the wagon bed. Shallow graves had been dug for the murderers and they were unceremoniously rolled into the holes. Two young soldiers shovelled the dirt in upon them; no markers or prayers were issued. In formation ?three mounted army men ahead and three behind? the company led and followed Colonel Cutler Diamond and his wife Constantina. The two rearmost soldiers led the riderless horses of the killers.
Silent sobs convulsed the young boy's body. Hot tears gushed from his powder blue eyes, soaking the sleeve of his father's greatcoat. He cried and cried until there were no more tears to come, then fell asleep with an aching yearning in the pit of his stomach like gnawing hunger in a starving man.
Two huge, round, tear-filled eyes watched from a distance.
Rufus Tweed was born into servitude and had been a slave for most of his thirty-something years. The black man's date of birth had never been properly recorded, but he knew it was during the presidency of John Quincy Adams, an early opponent of slavery. Most of Tweed's working history concentrated in the agriculture industry; a farm labourer. In the late fifties while 'employed' on a family operation near St. Louis, Missouri, he was manumitted.
Tweed's emancipator had abandoned a career in the army to pursue interests in civilian life. These various endeavours were financial disasters and the farming enterprise in Missouri left him destitute. However, though times were extremely difficult, the farmer and his wife had treated their slaves fairly; Rufus, in turn, cared for and respected his owners. Upon receiving his freedom, the illiterate Rufus memorized one particular line of his emancipation paper: “The Court therefore finds that said Rufus Tweed is absolutely a free person of color in this State or elsewhere…”. He also converted to memory the signature of the farmer who had signed his release from bondage.
Mr. Tweed found it difficult to hold a job as a free man. Not for a lack of ambition or insubordination, the work he found tended toward seasonal and Rufus suffered through several lean years; freedom is not free. With the advent of the Civil War, along with thousands of other freed blacks, Rufus Tweed gravitated to Washington D.C. There was no employment available here and living conditions were abysmal. Late one afternoon in March, while idly watching a unit of blue-coated soldiers riding along Pennsylvania Avenue, Rufus recognized an officer at the head of the column: It was the farmer from Missouri, his former owner. Tweed dog-trotted after the riders. Upon reaching the White house, the officer separated from the group, riding his horse to the President's stables while the others continued on. Rufus caught up to the bluecoat just as he handed the reins to a stableman. The Union officer smiled broadly upon recognizing his former slave.
Fortune smiled on Rufus Tweed that afternoon for the farmer cum army officer had a comrade who might be in the market for a labourer on his small holding across the Patowmack, in Virginia.
Tweed followed the directions given and the black man's luck continued; Colonel Diamond was at his home when Rufus arrived. Cutler listened to the labourer's plight, read the signature on the emancipation paper and hired Rufus immediately.
Cloud had burned away and the sun had tracked itself to mid afternoon when Preston Diamond awoke from emotional exhaustion. He found Rufus Tweed sitting nearby, his big arms hugging knees to chin, a tattered hat clutched in his hands. Tracks of tears were evident on the face of the black man; he wore sadness like a loose-fitting second skin. Preston realized again that he had not been dreaming. His voice quavered, “I guess you know what happened, Rufus?”
The black man nodded. “Oh Press, I don' know how come dey's daid, but I see'd dem so'jurs atoten' yo Mammy and Pappy away in dat wagon. I see'd dem so'jurs buryen' dos' mens an' I see'd yo 'as ahiden', so I guessen', Rufus, he ought be astayen' sca'ce, too.”
“I don't think they were after us… but I didn't think anyone was after my family before last night … They killed my father, Rufus… they killed my mother too… they were coming for me… one was coming up the stairs after me… and Papá ran his sword right through him… but Papá died too… and then another man came in the house calling for the man Papá killed….”
Preston's head hung down and he gasped for breath. “He said he'd slit my mother's throat. I shot him dead, Rufus. I shot that murdering bastard right through the heart!”
The hired man drew back upon hearing the lad's vicious outburst, but he spoke soothingly. “Press… Press… dat's all righ' you kil' that bad man. He was acomen' af'er yo.”
“What are we going to do now, Rufus? We have to do something; there's at least one more out there. I saw him ride away, but I think he was hurt pretty bad. The man I shot said that Mother had taken hold of a gun and shot the other man, so I think Mother put a bullet into him before the other man kill…” He broke off as a new flood of tears gushed from his red and swollen eyes.
Rufus gathered the boy in his arms and carried him through the brush. Preston cried on the big man's shoulder all the way to the house.
Tweed stood Preston on the porch and said, “We don' haf' a be gwyne in dat house if'n yo don' wan'… On'y we got to be feeden' yo sumpn, else yo gwyne pass ou' from de hongers.”
“It's all right, Ruf,” Preston said with more assurance than he felt. “We'll go in and straighten things out; clean the place up and light the fire. Someone brought me in and sat me in front of the fire this morning, Ruf. Did you do that?”
“No, Press, I dun nufin lak dat. Firs' I see'd yo, yo 'as ahiden' in de woods. Mebbe one dem so'jurs com by firs' an he dun put yo in de house?”
Preston shrugged but said nothing. He drew a deep breath and preceded the Diamonds' hired hand into the cottage.
Dark stains on the hardwood floor faded, but would not be completely erased no matter how hard Preston scrubbed. The lye soap had begun to burn his hands when Rufus gently pulled him away. “Dat's as good yo kin do, Press. Yo bes' be com an' eat sumpn.” Realizing the lad needed to be kept occupied, Rufus added, “Den we bes' go ou' an milk dat Bessy cow. She be bawlin' all af'ernoon, her bag so full.”
Preston said, “We better tend to the horses and mule, too. They'll be needing a drink.”
“Dat's righ', Press, we still gots dem t'ings to do. Nufin' stops for ebber.”
Preston Diamond's youth had ended abruptly; there was no time for the natural transition from boy to man. A childhood of love and security had been stripped, ripped from him. All he had been taught to believe in, to respect, seemed as wasted, hollow sermons now. His young heart beat a dull monotonous ache; throbbing pain and anguish simmered in silent suffering. He feared the days to come. Would there never again be happiness? Had his life ?a pleasant dream? become a living nightmare? Were happy memories sacrificed for a world of unending terror? Anger and Vengeance crept in to feed upon his soul.
Vengeance fed upon his soul.
The first night, unable to fall asleep, Preston's active mind mulled it over again and again. Someone had arranged the deliberate assassination of his parents; not simply a robbery by desperate vagrants, a few starving souls seeking a loaf of bread. The men who committed this crime were coached beforehand: they knew how many people were in the Diamonds' cottage; knew Cutler Diamond was home on leave; knew of the beauty and nationality of Constantina Diamond; and they intended to kill the entire family.
Who could commit so monstrous an act?
Why?
The injured man who had escaped wore a frock coat with long tails; they flapped beneath him as he rode clinging to, rather than seated in, the saddle. Probably the wound Constantina Diamond had inflicted forced the soldier to ride in such a fashion. Had he been shot through the abdomen? His coat, army issue, was of a less bulky design than the greatcoat Preston's father wore during the cold months. In the moonlight, colour had been indistinguishable but the boy's keen eyesight noted there were no chevrons on the sleeves. There was a shoulder board, the distinction of an officer, though the light had been insufficient and the distance too great to ascertain rank. During his years of living in forts and army barracks, Preston had studied well the insignia of army personnel.
An officer referred to as “Wiley” by the man Preston killed; could “Wiley” be his actual name? A nickname? Was it first or last? Was he a Confederate or a Union soldier? Preston was not familiar with the uniforms of the southern camp other than the knowledge that the soldiers wore grey…
The awkward seating of the fleeing rider puzzled Preston. If the fellow had sustained an injury in the past he would have traded his horse for a wheeled conveyance. No man would deliberately set out on the trail half astride his mount. Conjecturing that the soldier had suffered the wound at the hand of Preston's mother, the boy attempted to establish the next event in the sequence. The man at the door, when calling for the dead Roddy, had said, “he's hit purty good…”
If Wiley was, in fact, hit hard, what would he do? Was he laying dead along the trail? Did he find a doctor to attend to his wound? Where was the nearest doctor?
“Conception.” Preston spoke the name aloud. There was a medical man in the little village of Conception, a short hike downstream from the Diamond farm. The doctor's office could be a starting point….
Normally, Rufus returned to his shanty in a wooded area about a half mile from the Diamond cottage, but the hired man stayed with Preston in case the lad needed comforting during the night. Sleeping on the sofa by the fire, he heard no sound from the youth though Preston hardly slept at all. In the morning Diamond forced himself down the stairs; his face was tired and haggard, the eyes sunken and red from tears spilled the previous day. Tweed had a platter of hotcakes on the table, beef frying in the skillet.
Pulling out a chair and seating himself at the kitchen table, Preston said, “Rufus, I'm riding down to Conception today.”
“Yo needen' supplies, Press?” Rufus asked as he slid a loaded plate in front of the boy.
“No, I'm looking for a man… the third man that was here two nights ago.”
“Na, Press, don' yo go acourten' no trubble. I b'lieb yo Mammy an' Pappy, dey's countin' on me be alooken out for dey son. Mebbe, dey don' want you arunnen' off after no bad mens.”
“I'm just going to check with the doctor to find out if an injured person showed up in the night. Perhaps I'll take a look along the trail, too. Might be something to see….”
Mid stretch for the butter dish Preston stopped and held up his hand to stop the black man's argument. “It's all right Rufus, I know what I'm doing. I know what I've got to do.”
Tweed's face revealed his angst but he held his tongue as he poured a cup of coffee for himself, then a glass of milk for his young companion.
Preston chewed methodically, his taste buds numb. The pair dined in silence. The lad cleaned up his plate but refused a second helping. At length he said, “I should have thought of this yesterday: Washington ought to be brought in close to the yard at night. Since old Ring died, we don't have a watchdog and that mule will let us know if anyone comes near.”
Rufus nodded in agreement but said nothing. The black man's eyes grew large as they followed Preston across the room and watched him lift his father's army issue Colt from the peg beside the kitchen door. The revolver slid smoothly in the oiled holster. Preston tucked the gun in his belt and hung the holster back on the peg. Seeing the grave expression on the hired hand's face, Preston said, “Don't worry, Ruf, no one will see the gun unless I really have to use it.”
“Don' be taken' yo pappy's gun to town, Press. Dey ain't no good gwyne come o' dat.”
“It may be no good will come of me if I leave the gun at home. There is someone out there who wants me dead… and I want him dead, too.”
“Yo ought be astayen' on de farm wid me, Press. We gots all dem chore an' it be comen' time to maken' plan fo' de crop.”
“Rufus, the farm is yours too, now. I want you to be my partner. An owner. You know much more than I about the business and I think, with good management and hard work, there will be more than enough for us to live on. So you go ahead and do what you think is best. I intend to return tonight but I won't be around the place very much until this is settled.”
Rufus protested. “Na, now Press, don' yo be atalken' like dat. Dis place is on'y fo' Di'mon folks. Rufus, he stay roun' an he'p but he don' need no share in de crop. I'as alus jus' a hire' man.”
“Not anymore, Rufus. You move right on into this house, into…” Preston paused, “…You move right into my father and mother's bedroom. The house mustn't be left empty for too long with all these beggars and homeless passing through.” Again he held up a hand to stop Rufus. “I know what I'm doing, Ruf, you can help me best by not arguing.”
The black man could not restrain himself, “Na, Press yo don' want no slave unner yo roof. Asides, what folks agwyne say when dey comes by an' see sum black man worken dis farm an' no Massah? Dey gwyne say, 'dat nigger he kil' dos white folks an' den he take de farm!' Dat's what dey's agwyne say, Press!”
Preston suppressed a grin upon hearing the passionate outburst. “I have no doubt that has happened and will happen again, but it won't happen here, not to you, Rufus.”
Tweed looked the question.
“You have your emancipation papers, don't you, Ruf?”
The hired man put a hand to a pocket in his overalls to assure himself. “Yo knows I carry dat 'macipat'on paper ebber where I'm gwyne, Press.”
“Well, your paper is different from everyone else's. It is a special one, Rufus.”
Rufus touched his hand to the pocket again. “Why dis one so e'special, Press?”
“Because it is signed by Ulysses S. Grant, President Lincoln's favourite general. Nobody within a hundred miles of Washington is likely to cause a stir with a former slave of Lieutenant General Grant!”
The sun had inched its way to mid morning when Preston, armed and ready, turned to the now cold trail. He gave no thought to where it might lead; only to where it would end.
“Never pass up an opportunity to learn something. Always see everything there is to see,” were words of advice his father had given. Cutler Diamond was a patient, observant man; his son inherited these qualities. Preston had learned to look closer, farther, deeper. He studied detail, never failed to heed the obvious. Most of the lad's education had come through the efforts of his parents but the few teachers he had had were baffled by his questions on subjects they themselves had taught for years. Preston's ever-ready but honest “Why?” exasperated the pedagogues.
He had intended to ride his horse to Conception, but instead, Preston commenced his search afoot, in the farmyard. The earth had soaked away the blood where Constantina Diamond had fallen and the tracks of the soldiers had erased much of the story, but Preston beagled about until he felt certain he knew all that remained: Constantina had left the house in her night dress for a visit to the privy. She had been abducted at the little outhouse and dragged across the dusty yard toward the maple grove where the two strange horses had been tied. In the struggle, Señora Diamond had managed to wrestle a gun from one of the assailants and shoot him. Though he could not read in the dirt the brutal scene of the second man cutting her throat, Preston was able to fit that verbal admission into the plot.
Approaching the puzzle from an audio perspective, the young Diamond constructed a theory involving the three shots he had heard: While two men struggled with Constantina, a third waited near the door of the cottage. As could be expected, when his wife did not return to bed, Cutler Diamond went out to investigate. He was struck by a bullet upon opening the door. That blast had wakened Preston. Recollecting the pain in Roddy's eyes and the smell of blood upon him as he climbed the stairs, Preston judged that the man must have been hit by the second shot; it followed soon after the first and was much louder; probably fired from inside the kitchen. Preston could not be certain but it suggested that Colonel Diamond had managed to wound Roddy, apparently with his own gun since Cutler Diamond's revolver had not been used. It hung, fully loaded, in its holster on a hook behind the kitchen door. The third pistol shot came from farther away; Constantina had injured the man named Wiley.
The fourth blast Preston could vividly recall and account for.
According to the blood trails left in the house prior to Rufus and Preston's diligent cleansing, Cutler Diamond, fatally wounded at the front door, could not reach his rifle or revolver ?bloody hand prints on the wall indicated this? but his cavalry sword, which young Preston had been practising with before going to bed leaned against the door frame near the archway leading into the parlour. The man named Roddy had stepped past Colonel Diamond, leaving a trail ?from blood of his own and Cutler's wounds? across the dining area and a short way up the stair. Cutler Diamond dragged himself to the sabre, summoned the strength to rise, and, with his last gasp, threw or drove the deadly blade through the torso of the gunman.
So Preston constructed a plausible description of the attack as it unfolded. Patchwork and creativity blended the fragmented plot but it was sufficient for a beginning.
The morning the blue coats had arrived, Preston, from his hiding place in the wood, determined that the soldiers had not been very thorough in their investigation. They had spent less than an hour in search of the missing youth and were at the farm no more than two hours in total. Now he felt hurt and angered that the Union Army could not devote more time in honour of his father and mother. Still, he reminded himself, perhaps those soldiers who were at the farm were now in their own graves. It is wartime.
However, Preston had a lifetime to investigate the murder of his parents. He had to find the wounded person who fled, for that man may be coming back to kill the very last remaining Diamond. Preston needed more data and he wondered if the blue coats' cursory inspection had drawn any conclusions or had they simply buried the evidence with no concern for justice?
What evidence did they bury?
Preston walked across the yard and retrieved a spade from the little tool shed beside the barn. He did not relish what lay in front of him but he determined to be as thorough as possible. The ground was soft and the graves shallow. The man referred to as Roddy was in the first excavation. The cool, damp earth had preserved the body. Preston lugged the corpse from the hole and went through the man's pockets and bloodstained clothing. If he had had any identification, or personal effects, the soldiers had taken them. Preston tugged off the scarred army issue holster and extracted spare ammunition from the belt. Two initials, R.M. were scratched into the thick leather on the inside of the flap ?Roddy M.? the name meant nothing to Preston. A bullet hole through the man's side, just below the rib cage, bore evidence that Cutler Diamond had managed to wound Roddy before killing him with the sabre.
The second body had no identification in his pockets or his gun belt. Preston rolled the corpse nearer the first and examined them side by side. There were similarities in build and facial features; they could have been brothers. Revulsion nearly took Preston's breakfast as he studied the dead men. The lower portion of the left sleeve on Roddy's shirt had been ripped away and Preston saw a part of a tattoo. Without hesitation he rolled the loose material back and revealed the letters R.M. tattooed on the forearm. Preston turned to the second corpse and rolled up the sleeves. On the right forearm he discovered, in a similar style, the inked letters G.M. The possibility of the two being brothers was now a probability. Was that information of any value?
Preston Diamond tipped the bodies back into their respective graves and filled in the holes. He returned the shovel to the shed, then made his way to where the mounts of the deceased had passed the night. Other than normal signs of horses tethered for a prolonged time there was nothing to be learned. Preston found where the third animal had been tied. It was some distance from the other two. Diamond considered the meaning of this. Possibly, the third mount was unfamiliar with the first two. The miscreants would not have wanted their horses making a ruckus and alerting the household; any equine hostilities were prevented. Did this mean the army man who had escaped was less than a casual acquaintance of G.M. or Roddy M.? Perhaps he was another brother who simply had come into possession of a new horse? There were many possibilities.
The trail of the fleeing horse and rider ended abruptly when the pair hit the hard packed lane. The animal was shod, but Preston read no peculiarities in the prints he had been able to discern. The young tracker hiked along the lane and carefully inspected any discrepancy or path leading into the trees along the road. Only deer tracks were apparent there. The soldiers and impromptu hearse obliterated any defined track. However, at the junction of the private lane and a public wagon trail Preston espied a deviation from the route taken by the army men. A horse had shied off to the side leaving shod hoofprints in the softer, untraveled shoulder. A boot heel left a deep impression. Preston searched the distance for passersby, then knelt down for a closer inspection. The blotch of blood must have come from the same person that had left the heel mark. Possibly the frock-coated officer who fled had lost his grip on the saddle. When he slipped off, the horse side-stepped and the man landed hard; hard enough to jar blood from his wound. On closer study the boy picked up several more boot prints along the margin of the wagon rutted trail. He found a place where the boot heel swivelled leaving a small trench in the dirt; in a radius typical of a pair of reins, the horse had shied in a circle, apparently nervous of its rider.
Did that mean the horse was unused to blood? How could it be the mount of an army officer and not be hardened to the smells of the wounded and dead? Or was it just weary of the clumsily positioned side-saddle rider? Preston was learning fast in his investigative debut. Only, there were more questions than answers.
The heel prints disappeared, leading Preston to believe the rider had possibly regained his seat and continued riding toward Conception. Maintaining keen observation, the lad strolled the two winding miles to the village as the sun arched through mid afternoon.
Conception had once been part of the initial District Of Columbia, however the land had recently been returned to Virginia. The Patowmack formed the north eastern boundary of the hamlet and houses sprawled haphazardly along the river banks. The little burg did not boast a huge population; the Civil War had depleted the male side of the equation and many of those young men would not return home. On the other hand, because of the war, similar to Washington DC just across the river, the village had observed an influx of refugees and homeless.
In the brief time the Diamond's had lived in the area, Preston had often come to the town with his mother when she needed supplies. Occasionally his father, when he was home, or Rufus Tweed accompanied Mrs. Diamond if she required assistance with a large order. One time Preston had visited the doctor's office for stitches to patch up a gash on his arm. It was to that office the boy now headed.
Doctor Filmore's clinic was in his home, just a short walk from the business section of the town. The house looked much the same as others along the street; however, it was recently painted. Handy to the entrance was a small woodpile; an axe was stuck in the chopping block and woodchips were strewn about. The doctor's personal rig, a sharp looking black carriage with polished oak shaves and black canopy, was parked in a lean-to alongside the building. There were a pair of bays standing with their heads down and hitched to an empty buckboard in front of the clinic. There was no sign of a saddle horse with blood stains on the saddle.
Diamond cast a glance in the box of the buckboard as he walked past. A rough bed of blankets had been made on the wagon floor. Preston surmised an invalid had been brought to the doctor or perhaps a patient was being picked up.
The door to the clinic stood slightly ajar. Preston eased up to the opening, listened briefly, then slipped inside. A murmur of voices came from another room. The conversation grew louder with one angry voice, protesting vehemently:
“You cannot move this man. He is severely injured and will die if his wounds are not allowed time to heal.”
“Ya done yer best, Doc, now it's our turn. You jes' stand back and let us be….”
“I will not tolerate this! Unhan…”
The sound of a solid slap, followed by a dull thud, then a faint groan, reached Preston's ears.
“Christ, ya knocked the old bugger right out, Joe!”
“Never mind that, let's get this crippled bastard out of here a'fore somebody comes in.”
Preston shrunk down behind a reception desk just as the inner door burst open and two blue coated soldiers emerged carrying a patient laden stretcher. A blanket had been hastily tossed over the injured person; across the end of the load lay a stained and dirty blue frock-coat. Preston's eyes grew wide as he noted the sleeve: there was a shoulder board with the double bar insignia of captain. The men did not notice Preston as they manipulated the stretcher through the entrance door and out into the street. Less than gently they hoisted the invalid into the buckboard and slid him along the floor leaving the stretcher under him. One of the pair hopped into the box and shook out the blankets that had rumpled up ahead of the stretcher. Stepping over the seat and grasping the reins he called to his partner, “Okay, let's git Ol' Wiley down to the Alexandria field hospital afore somebody names him a deserter.”
The second man boarded the wagon. “Might be he'll die on the way there. You heard what that sawbones said.”
“He ain't gonna die, Joe. If Cutler Diamond didn't kill him, nothin' will.”
Preston had edged up to the open door so as to see what was taking place. He could hear the conversation quite plainly. At the mention of his father's name, slender fingers stole down to the butt of the Colt. Almost instantly a firm grip seized the boy's shoulder and a soft voice said, “Still your hand, son, those blackguards are more than you can handle.”
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