C. C. Phillips
C. C. Phillips
Rascal did not have to fight the bit this afternoon. Preston put heels to the eager steed and the pair fairly flew down the trail. The rushing wind whipped tears from the boy's eyes and he had to tuck his head to catch a breath. Mane and tail streaming, neck reaching, ears tilted forward, nostrils flaring, hooves beating a steady, pounding rhythm, the racing bay pony never faltered. Preston stuck to the main road until he passed through Conception; Doctor Filmore, who had just emerged from his office, recognized the boy as the horse galloped through the town leaving a thin trail of dust in its wake.
Back in familiar territory, Diamond reined onto a cut-off trail. Guiding the sure-footed mount over treacherous terrain along the river bank, then through a quiet wood, Preston gained a few more minutes. At last the gelding pounded into the yard, lathered from bridle bit to tail, sides heaving, but still tossing his head; still raring and rearing to go. Rufus Tweed heard the thrum of the pounding hooves, and he dashed from the barn to meet the excited youth as the bay skidded to a plunging, dusty halt.
Preston swung from the saddle shouting, “We have to get ready, Rufus! Some men're on their way here to kill me! They'll kill you, too!”
Rufus grabbed the reins and tried to calm the prancing, snorting bay. “Which way dey comin'? We gots to be gwyne b'fore dey gets here. We gots t' be hidin' sumplace.”
Preston, panting, shook his head. “We aren't running nowhere, Rufus. I'm staying here to wait for them.” He stepped to the side of the horse and extracted the Henry rifle from the scabbard. “You take Rascal up to your cabin; walk him out real good and rub him down. Give him a drink after he's cooled out. Come back to check on me in the morning.”
“But, Press, I ain't gwyne leabe yo all 'lone. Dos bad mans gwyne kill yo sho'.”
Preston shrugged. “For certain they'll try, but I'm not running. These two helped plan my parents' murder. I'm not letting that rest. Now, clear out before they show up… Rascal and I gained a fair piece on them, but it won't be long.”
Tweed glanced at the setting sun. “It be da'k soon, Press, dat gibb yo sum hep.”
Preston nodded but said nothing more.
The black man swung into the saddle, waved a solemn salute, then trotted the gelding into the darkening trees.
Preston ran to the house, pocketed more bullets for the .44 Henry and for the Colt revolver tucked in his belt. He bolted the door, then crawled through the same window he used to escape the soldiers on the morning they had come to take his parents away. Hiding in the scrub brush where he had eluded the bluecoats, Preston studied the foreground. There were no rays of sunlight, just the growing shadows of evening, but he noted the horses, the mule and Bessy the milk cow in the little pasture beyond the barn. Apparently, Rufus had not had time to bring Washington, the long-eared 'guard dog', to the corral for the night and maybe that was a good thing: the visitors would not have a braying welcome to put them on edge. The little knoll allowed Preston to see into the yard and watch the lane. He tried to guess how the men would mount an attack. They could not know they were expected. Would they boldly ride in, having no caution for a mere boy? Would they ride together? Would there be more than the two Preston had overheard?
A thought occurred to Preston that he should have lit a lantern or the fire in the house. In a natural situation, someone would be within the home. The intruders would search there first. His grip tightened on the Henry; probably the odoriferous scum would elect to ransack the place, too.
Preston shivered; was it the evening chill… or… Fear?
“Fear is never an ally…” The words filtered into the boy's subconscious. With an aching heart, he thought about the man he loved so dearly, his hero, his father. What would Colonel Diamond do in this situation? A sensation of warm assurance, like a warm hand on the shoulder descended; self-confidence stole over him and Preston knew that Cutler Diamond was near….
Twilight came.
A horse and rider appeared in the lane.
Preston studied the approach. The man wore a soldier's coat or smock; no shoulder boards or chevrons on the sleeve were visible in the fading light. Neither of the men who had taken Wiley from the clinic in Conception had distinguishing marks of rank or seniority on their blue frock coats. Was this man one of Wiley's killers, Cyril or Joe, or was he here in a different capacity? Maybe he had been sent to rescue the younger Diamond?
The rider halted his horse in the centre of the yard, dropped the reins and walked over to the house. The building blocked Preston's view but he heard unceremonious knocking upon the door and a voice hailing the house. After a brief pause, there came the sound of aggressive pounding as the stranger attempted forced entry.
These were not the actions of a man with good intent….
The soldier reappeared, made several passes back and forth in front of the house, then sauntered over to his horse. Preston grew perplexed as fading light obscured the man's actions. It looked like the fellow was rummaging in a saddle bag. What could he be looking for? The answer came to light as a Lucifer flared in the soldier's hand. He touched this to something larger and the flames grew strong. The horse danced away from the fiery torch as the stranger turned on a heel then strode in the direction of the cottage.
“The bastard is going to burn our home!”
Without conscious decision, the Henry rose to the boy's shoulder; light from the fire brightened the target. Preston squeezed the trigger….
Apparently, the intruder had had a bottle of kerosene or other flammable in his saddle bag for the torch did not extinguish when it dropped to the ground. Even the force of the dead man's falling body failed to smother the flames; soon his frock coat caught fire. The abortive cremation temporarily illuminated the farm yard.
A shadow flickered near the corrals, something had moved over there….
Preston hastened to change position, for the muzzle flash from the Henry may have revealed his place of concealment. As he slipped farther back into the wood, the shadow moved again. It flitted toward the barn and disappeared through the open door. In a short while, the fire exhausted the fuel supply, the last flicker winked out and an intense darkness flooded the foreground.
Stealthily, Preston felt his way along the familiar trail. His young eyes adjusted to the blackness as blurred outlines became definite shapes; shadows grew detail. Cautious as a stray cat, Diamond made his way to the wall of the barn. In the silence of the night nothing moved. Ear pressed against the boards he listened for a betrayal of movement from inside the building. The animals, including the milk cow, had all been outside, in the little pasture beyond the buildings. One or several cats may be within, but they usually made no sound…
No sound was what Preston eventually heard; the kind of sound made by someone making no sound ?a silent suggestion? like clear vision to a blind bat. Something lurked, noiseless, beyond the level of hearing; Preston could feel it. Evil hung in the stillness.
But, could the intruder sense Diamond's presence? Did he know Preston's position?
Rustling straw; the scrape of a boot sole on stone floor; movement. The listener held his breath. A single, faint but distinct yowl of a tomcat drifted on the evening air.
Preston grinned inwardly.
Light appeared through a knot hole of the barn wall; a chink of metal on metal; darkness.
What happened? Had the stranger attempted, but failed, to light the straw in the barn? Would he try again? Why burn the building when you are inside it? Why create a silhouette? More sounds of shoe leather scraping on stone reached Diamond's ears. Now it was farther away, closer to the front door. Preston leaned the Henry against the wall and tugged the Colt from his belt ?the revolver would be handier in a closeup encounter. He eased along the building in the direction of the receding boot scrapes. At the corner of the barn, Preston paused… something….
Sudden brilliant light burst in through pupils as large as teacups. Preston's arm involuntarily whipped upward to shield his eyes. Harsh, humourless laughter erupted in his ears. “Found ya, ya little twerp! Shot an' burnt ol' Joe, so ya did, but ya din't save yer scrawny little hide from me.”
Eyes adjusting, Preston recognized one of the two soldiers from Doctor Filmore's office: Captain Everett Wiley's accomplices. The man held a dark lantern in one hand, a cocked army revolver in the other. A malicious grin revealed stained, broken and missing teeth as he savoured the moment, taking his time in levelling the gun.
Horror struck, immobile, Preston watched the hole at the end of the barrel growing larger.
The leer shifted to stunned shock. An agonized grunt escaped; bubbles of blood appeared at the corners of the assassin's mouth. He pitched forward, sprawling face down in the short winter grass beside the barn. The long handle of a hay fork protruded from his back.
Preston said, “You do a good impression of a cat, Rufus.”
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