C. C. Phillips
C. C. Phillips
With disregard for her finery, Samantha assisted her father in unharnessing the team. While Dexter tossed a fork full of hay over the fence rails, his daughter turned the pair loose in a large holding corral. Two saddle horses in the confinement nickered greetings then turned their attention to the roughage.
“You seem quite taken by that McBlaine character,” Moody Dexter mused as he and his step-daughter walked across the starlit yard to their home. A heavy dew soaked the grass and the pair circumvented several puddles from the previous night's downpour. “McBain, Dad. His name is McBain.”
“Yes… so he tells me. Do you really believe that is the handle his folks gave him? There is a whole lot more to that jasper than either one of us has seen.”
Samantha conceded, “Brad never really divulged any personal information when I talked to him during our supper at the Grand. He didn't withhold anything, in fact he talked quite freely. It was only after I came home and thought about it that I realized he had told me nothing about his past or even what he does for a living.”
“That stranger is too slick, too smooth. An' he's so fast with that pistol of his, I can't imagine him not bein' in trouble with the law somewheres along the line.”
“Have you any dodgers or information to support that?” Samantha asked, rather sharply.
They had reached the house; Dexter paused, rubbed his chin in thought; then reached for his tobacco and began the very deliberate, painstaking effort of rolling a smoke while Samantha held her impatience in check, studying his countenance from the fanlight above the door.
“Weeelll,” her father struck a match with his thumb nail, the flare illuminating his face which appeared softer and less haggard this evening. “Weeelll,” he repeated as he inhaled, “I've sent a few telegrams and checked all my wanted posters… No one has ever seen or heard of Bradley McBlaine or Bradley McBain.”
With an audible release of breath Samantha said, “Maybe he is a lawman too. How do you know he isn't here looking for someone? Perhaps Brad is a US Marshall or something?”
“Can't be,” Dexter argued. “Those law-dogs don't hide their stars. They have 'em polished up and tacked up there on those pigeon chests so obvious, your Momma, even with her poor eyesight, could see 'em coming from here to Way-cross… No, he ain't no Marshall; at least no regular lawman.”
“But,” Dexter said, “just how interested are you in this drifter?”
Samantha felt her face grow warmer and hoped her step-father wouldn't see her blushing in the pale light. “Weeelll,” she mimicked, “I ain't gonna lie to ya; I'd kinda like to know more 'bout 'im.”
Moody threw back his head and laughed. “You do beat all, my girl! Only I don't want you gittin' hurt by some no-account.”
“He isn't no-account, Dad. From his speech you can tell he's educated; he has manners none of the Way-cross rowdies could even fathom; he's handsome, cultured, fashionable… maybe he is an upstanding man of wealth and prominence….”
“Could be, could be,” Dexter agreed. “He's likeable in some ways; tends to grow on ya. But I caution you, dear: never judge a man just by the clothes he wears.”
Samantha lifted the latch and eased the door open. “I'll be careful, Dad.” She smiled, then preceded him into the lantern-lit kitchen.
To Preston's recollection, on the few occasions he had studied the Chief, he had never presented a cunning or intelligent side. Probably, back in the genetic make up, the fellow possessed the instincts of a hunter, but this meeting did not require inherent predator and prey sense. At the moment, Diamond did not dwell on the question of whether encountering The Chief was an accident or strategic planning. The big man stood in the centre of the boardwalk, his huge bulk allowing no room for passage on either side. The perpetual sneering smile gave no indication that the man had been waiting for Preston Diamond in particular. No doubt, any late passer-by would have run afoul of his brutal nature.
Preston gave no indication he had not been looking for the Chief.
Without breaking stride, Diamond focused the combined force of his momentum, muscle and body weight into a vicious reverse punch to the midriff. Putrid breath, reeking of stale whiskey gushed out of the flattened face. The Chief doubled, over retching and clutching at his midsection. Diamond spun round facing his injured opponent.
“Stay out of my way, Chief,” he advised in a cautionary tone.
Still bent over in apparent agony, The Chief's left hand flashed up from his belly to reach behind his neck. The silver flash of the hidden blade glinted as he brought his hand forward in a calculated throwing action. Before the arm could straighten, Preston's right foot, clad in a soft leather dress shoe, caught the elbow on the point of the funny bone sending a not-so-funny shock down the giant forearm and wrist. A furious grunt of pain issued from the breed as the force of the kick drove the arm upward; numbed, powerless fingers released the weapon. The knife traversed a graceful arc high into the air and struck blade-first in a wagon rut out in the street.
With surprising agility the breed silently launched himself at Preston. Huge sweeping arms reached to engulf the smaller man. The Chief's infamous, body crushing bear-hug had never failed him. Any man who fell within that grasp had only a few seconds —maybe a minute, if The Chief felt benevolent or needed to prolong the pleasure— in which to review his lifetime. Preston back-peddalled, teetering along the edge of the raised boardwalk; shifting left, he reversed direction, ducking forward under the monstrous limb. As the Chief's arm swept above him, Diamond seized the wrist in both hands, spun about and wrenched the arm around behind the attacker's back. This accelerated the breed's rush, sending him somersaulting off the boardwalk to collide with a hitching rail. The impact shattered the near post but the giant regained his feet while still moving.
His breathing rattled in wretched gasps. His sides heaved like a foundered horse on the verge of collapse. Blood seeped from a gash on his forehead and the numbed left arm sagged at the elbow. The Chief glared with sneering malevolence.
There was no sign of quitting, but he desperately needed second wind.
Preston said, “You don't remember me, Chief.”
It was not a question.
No answer came, so Preston continued. “Remember the fight you had on a Missouri riverboat when you lost a fistful of money in a rigged poker game? The game didn't involve me, but you were sour about the cards and wanted to kill someone to soothe your temper. I happened to be handy.”
The battered breed offered no comment.
“To be honest, I thought I had killed you that night. It was dark though and hard to tell for sure. The way you went over-board and got tangled up in the paddle-wheel should have left you dead… I'm the man who flattened your face….”
With a bellow of rage, The Chief charged.
Coincidently, the building with the broken hitching post outside was Russell Frost's Funeral Parlour. Doc Stohl, after pronouncing the giant half-breed dead, stood by as the mortician and Preston Diamond lugged the grotesque body into the shop.
The doctor was audibly grumpy for having been woken up. Preston was extremely weary and ached in more muscles than he realized he had. Undertaker Russell Frost's expressionless face remained deadpan. No one had bothered to fetch the sheriff.
The few Way-cross residents who witnessed the midnight battle would not soon forget its duration and ferocity. Several of the spectators were wakened by the commotion, half a dozen others who were late departing the dance hall encountered the scuffle while walking home. Both combatants were recent arrivals to the town so no one took a side or attempted to interfere. The smaller man known as McBain had his hands full, fighting the monstrous ogre who had been making town folk, especially women, uncomfortable for the past couple of days.
The people noted that McBain had a style of fighting quite unfamiliar in these parts. The man fought equally well with feet or fists. He dodged and shifted effortlessly, struck with punishing precision and moved so fast it was often difficult to follow. The Chief, clumsy by comparison, had incredible strength and stamina. He seemed impervious to the onslaught delivered from his insignificant opponent. The battery of blows drew copious amounts of blood; eyes swelled shut, lips split and teeth jarred loose but the half-breed stayed on his feet, swatting, grasping, clutching at the shadow of the demon who struck and landed, always beyond the reach of those huge murderous hands.
The brawl went up and down the littered street; through the dried, mud-caked ruts, into filthy puddles of muck and manure; around a horse water trough. A lamp post fell in the melee, igniting splashes of Kerosene fires in the avenue. Curses, grunts of pain and roars of rage issued from the breed. McBain remained silent though his breathing began to sound tortured, desperate.
The smaller man's kicks and punches seemed to lose their power. He was visibly fading. The Chief, an indestructible hulk, continued to absorb the punishment, kept pressing in, grasping for the one chance to end it all: the evil and definite death grip that would crush his opponent's rib cage, snapping the spine like a stick of kindling.
The struggle returned to its point of origin. The breed, barrel chest heaving, body swaying with fatigue, stumbled over the fallen rail of the hitching post, sprawling flat on his back in the horse dung. He lay inert, panting heavily.
McBain, obviously on the point of collapse, gulped coarse ragged breaths. Maintaining his distance he watched the prone man….
Was it over?
Cat-quick, the giant regained his feet; in his big left fist flashed the fallen knife he had lost at the onset of the struggle. The jaundiced light of the street lamp exaggerated the murderous glint of triumph flashing in the dark eyes.
The gallery stood motionless in gruesome, silent anticipation. McBain would be eviscerated before their eyes.
The half-breed made no sound as he rushed in for the kill. In a split-second border-roll, the knife flipped from the injured left into his right hand, allowing crucial additional reach.
McBain shifted a half-step forward and launched himself in a colossal twisting leap high in the air. As his feet came level with The Chief's head, a strange, powerful cry, a summons from hell, rent the night. Mid scream, McBain's right foot struck just below the giant's left ear. In the dying echoes of the demonic curse, a dull, ominous crunch issued audible finality.
The Chief's neck snapped, his huge head lolled to one side as he sank to his knees then toppled forward in a bloody, deformed heap.
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