C. C. Phillips
C. C. Phillips
During the fracas, Preston Diamond had refrained from drawing the Remington even though the breed had twice attacked with a knife. He now lay the weapon on a small table beside the big claw-footed bath tub Frank Collier had filled with warm water; the hotel's boiler system had cooled to lukewarm by this time of night. The efficient clerk also added a generous helping of magnesium salts. No one bothered Diamond as he half-dozed, letting the strain and pain seep from his tired body. His fists and feet were swollen and sore. Ugly bruises turned his forearms black and blue from blocking the ham fisted punches and clumsy but brutal swings of The Chief. There were numerous scrapes and gashes. Doc Stohl had resentfully offered to stitch one of the larger tears where the skin had broken but Preston felt too weary to withstand the remonstrations of the medical man.
The water had cooled to room temperature when Diamond stirred. From a small medical kit Frank Collier had provided, Preston attended to his open wounds. Once the blood had been washed away none of the abrasions were as serious as they had first appeared. The injured man winced, biting his lip to fight the stinging pain from iodine he poured on the cuts. The disinfectant left a red-brown stain on his skin. Preston tied a small bandage over the wound along his left forearm. The ministrations required extra time as he fumbled with swollen hands and fingers. Satisfied, he wrapped himself in a large towel, picked up the Remington and padded down the hall to his room.
Full daylight streamed through the hotel room window when Diamond awakened next morning. Slowly he climbed out of the luxurious bed. A yawn and stretch did not hurt so bad as he had feared. Swelling in his feet and hands had subsided; he flexed his fingers, paying special attention to the index on his right hand. The ritual combat program lacked his usual fervour, but Preston, clad in summer underwear, stubbornly went through the paces, feeling loosened and relaxed when finished.
A maid knocked on the door, delivering the hotel guest's freshly laundered clothes. These Preston inspected, noting that a rent in the trousers had been repaired with minute precision. He reattached the special accoutrements necessary for his trade then dressed carefully. He opened the trunk and swapped the Remington revolver in its hide-out holster, for the .45 Colt. After buckling on the gun belt he tried several fast draws. To the average professional, Diamond's speed would be remarkable; he felt sluggish. But the gun fit his hand and the index digit slid smoothly inside the trigger guard.
A second knock on the door interrupted his practise.
“McBain, are you in there? It's Sheriff Dexter.”
In answer, Bradley McBain opened the door.
“Mornin', McBlaine,” Dexter drawled. “I'd like you to come down to the office as soon as you can.”
“Working Sundays now, Sheriff?” McBain queried as he stepped out into the hallway.
The sheriff grunted, “Seems lately, I just can't get no peace… An' ever' time I git called to town, I find that you are at the bottom of it.”
“No arrest today, though?” McBain asked.
“Not yet… maybe tomorrow. My daughter has plans for you this afternoon.”
McBain surmised that Moody Dexter did not intend to be in town for long this morning because his saddled horse stood idly swatting flies at the hitching rail in front of the sheriff's office. Dexter pushed open the door and McBain followed him inside.
Dexter gestured toward a seat for his guest, flopped in his own chair behind the oak desk and reached for his makings. “So you killed that goddamn breed last night…”
McBain waited.
“Killed the brute with your bare hands… and boots, if the rumour is near to bein' accurate. Judgin' by the size of the man, I'd say that was a mighty tall order.”
“The Chief was waiting for me as I walked back to the hotel after leaving the dance.” McBain shrugged, “He didn't appear predisposed to let me past; so I opened the ball.”
Dexter blew out a cloud of smoke. “You opened the ball? I'd say you opened the ball, supplied the orchestra and then proceeded to waltz up and down the main street of this town for an hour.”
McBain sighed. “I would have willingly given up my dance partner, but no one offered to cut-in.”
“Doc says you broke the big bugger's neck. Witnesses say you flew up in the air and kicked his head right off. They're sayin' a lot of things an' I can't nearly believe the half of it.”
McBain assumed a pained expression. “I cannot tell you what the witnesses saw. I was quite involved and didn't have time to stand back watching myself.”
Dexter grasped a thick sheaf of papers and tossed them across the desk. “Since he arrived, I be'n making some inquiries about that jasper… Turns out, quite a few concerned citizens throughout the western territories are willing to pay for bringin' him to justice…” The sheriff reached out and reclaimed one of the documents. “'Dead Or Alive', it says here.”
McBain rose and leafed through the pile of dodgers. A sketch of a female caught his attention and he studied it briefly. In an obscure fashion, the face reminded him of the Clarkston school teacher, Sarah Dickens. “Your filing could use an up-date… many of these criminals are already serving time, or they are dead.” He added with a wry grin, “You don't have any with my picture on… I'll bet my horse and saddle, you've been looking.”
Dexter ignored the barb. “Close to two thousand dollars reward; I added 'em up myself.”
“I'm not a bounty hunter but have them send the money to O'Malley's bank. I plan to open an account there.”
Dexter looked up in disbelief, “What? Are you plannin' on becoming a perm'nent resident of Way-cross?”
“Not Way-cross proper… I want to buy your ranch.”
McBain retrieved his horse from the livery stable and rode out to the Dexter place along with the sheriff. As they trotted the horses among the cottonwoods Dexter gazed across the fence at his beloved Herefords. “I s'ppose Carver Ward would buy my cows if you or someone else does eventually buy my outfit.” He sighed.
McBain shifted in the saddle and followed Moody's gaze. “If we can reach an agreement, I'll buy you out lock, stock and barrel.”
The landowner gave a non-committal shrug. “This is moving faster than I had anticipated. Better break the news to Sam an' Edith. They'll have something to say, I can assure you.”
“Er… do Samantha and your wife know about the fight I had last night? I don't want to make anyone uncomfortable; I know how some folks feel about me…” he amended, “well, what they perceive as my kind.”
“The girls heard part of the story. Doc Stohl who drove out to relay the news.” Dexter shook his head, “They both seemed more concerned about your damned health than the fact that you kicked a man to pieces.”
At the ranch, Dexter off-saddled and turned his mount loose in the corral. He instructed his guest to tie the gelding in the barn as the Dexter's had a harness mare with a mean streak toward newcomers. The horse McBain purchased from Ol' Ross no longer showed any inclination of fighting the halter shank and stood quietly in the stall as McBain loosened the cinches.
The ranch exuded quietude as the two men strolled across the yard to the log house. McBain could feel the homeliness of the little spread. Smoke from the cook stove issued from the chimney. “Mother will have it hot in the kitchen today,” Moody observed.
Both ladies' faces were warm and flushed from the heat as they greeted the new arrival. McBain hung his hat and holster on a peg in imitation of Dexter. Samantha instantly noticed a gash along his forehead; the iodine stain making it more livid. She made a fuss insisting on applying salve to the sore area. McBain objected half-heartedly, eventually succumbing to the unaccustomed tenderness.
What passed as Sunday dinner at the Dexters would serve as a banquet in most households. McBain embarrassed himself but pleased the cooks with his terrific appetite. He hadn't eaten since the lunch at the dance and the hour long workout with The Chief had burned up any energy reserve in his lean body. He stretched his own rule of not overindulging.
Samantha and her mother bustled about clearing the table after the meal. McBain kept up a lively discussion with the women while Dexter chewed thoughtfully on a toothpick. At length the sheriff delved in his pocket for his makings, twisted a quirly and touched a match to it. Timing the moment perfectly, during a lull in the conversation, he cleared his throat in the manner of someone desiring to have the floor.
“Mr. McBain here, is offerin' to buy our ranch,” he announced.
Silence.
The female contingent searched the faces of first one then the other of the two men. A twenty-five year age difference did nothing to conceal the mother-daughter similarity as a gamut of emotions ranging from astonishment to disbelief were reflected in their eyes.
Samantha found her voice first. “You want to buy our place, Brad?”
“Well, only if it is for sale. I cannot imagine how you could give this up to move into town.”
“It's for Mother,” Dexter said.
“It's for Allan,” Mrs. Dexter said.
“It is for them both,” Samantha explained. “Doctor Stohl says Dad has a bad heart; the work on the ranch and his sheriff duties are too much for a man his age. Mother's eyes are not so good anymore and she shouldn't be out here alone all day.”
Her father interjected, “I'm not too old, I'm too fat.”
Edith Dexter smiled. “We shall have to think about moving sooner or later, I fear. No one wants to leave…”
“You wouldn't have to leave until you are ready. As for myself, I will not be living here; not on a permanent basis.”
Dexter argued, “But you said you might buy the cattle too… Who will look after the Herefords if you ain't gonna be around?”
McBain spread his hands. “Please don't think me presumptuous, but I have made some inquiries. I had to investigate certain arrangements, certain possibilities, before making you an offer. If you want to sell now and move later, I'll build a house; living-quarters for a couple of fellows I can hire to run the ranch.”
Samantha paled. “But we don't want to live here with strangers moving into our yard!” she protested.
A light of realization dawned in Dexter's eyes. He held up a big hand. “Wait a minute, Sam, I don't think he has strangers in mind, do you, McBain?”
“No, they aren't strangers, Moody. They are a fine and capable pair of gentlemen… Luke and Lonny Fischer.”
The Dexter family and McBain discussed options and possibilities, but they avoided the topic of price. The Dexter's were surprised by, and unprepared for, the sudden development and they would need time to decide amongst themselves. Dexter probably had a figure in mind for the ranch itself, but he would have to do, “a fair bit of calc'latin'” as he worded it, to come up with an exact value for “the whole shebang.”
The sun was approaching mid afternoon when Samantha invited Bradley McBain for a guided tour of the place. She did not protest when he strapped on his gun belt before leaving the house. Samantha first showed him around the corrals and the outbuildings. He checked the gelding when they went through the barn. The fresh hay in the loft teased his nostrils with its redolence. The Dexters kept seven horses: three for saddle and four broke to harness. Preston found the machinery (a mower, bunch rake, hay rack, sturdy low-bed sleigh, 60 bushel farm wagon, buckboard, buggy and cutter) to be in good repair, like the rest of the ranch; Moody Dexter was fastidious with his equipment. Samantha then led McBain out to the pasture and hay meadow. An imperceptible breeze rustled the leaves as the pair walked beneath the cottonwoods along the creek. The water ran muddy and more furious than usual due to up-stream flooding brought on by the heavy rain. Preston caught a whiff of the perfume Samantha wore. The fragrance was vaguely familiar.
“That is a lovely scent you are wearing,” He complimented.
Samantha smiled. “Thank-you… My helper, Matilda Frye, gave it to me a few weeks ago when she returned from visiting her daughter.” Samantha blushed when she added, “Matilda said it would help me attract a man.”
McBain laughed. “Judging by the line-up of suitors at the dance last night, I would have thought you needed a repellent!”
Then he added casually, “How long has Mrs. Frye been working with you, Samantha?”
Sam put her head to one side as she considered. “Um, I think it is about fourteen months now. Matilda is a godsend. She is a hard worker, fast, and turns out excellent quality. She even helps with my account records.”
Grass grew lush, a vibrant green. A host of wild flowers nodded lazily in the meadow. Dozing Herefords lay chewing their cuds in the shade of the big trees. McBain commented that he admired Moody for having the foresight to initiate the small scale breeding program. The light of love for her step-father showed in the lady's eyes as she talked about Moody Dexter; his pride in the valuable herd; his fastidious up-keep on the ranch.
Unabashed, Samantha slipped her arm through his. On a secluded grassy bank she stopped, her body growing tense, almost rigid. A silent warning clicked in Preston's brain as he anxiously watched her staring vacantly, eyes unfocused, across a hay field beyond the stream. He began to wonder what she was thinking when, at last, she turned, grasped his hand in both of hers and looked deep into his eyes. In a low, urgent tone, she said, “I… I've never been with a man… The trouble in Boston has made… made me fearful to be alone with anyone other than my parents… I… I know… I….”
Preston Diamond took her in his arms and held her to him. She sobbed silently. Huge tears trickled down her cheeks and he felt their wetness on his shoulder. Though his hands were bruised and swollen, their touch was soft and gentle as he caressed her long blonde hair.
Samantha raised her lips to his ear, “I want you to make love to me.”
Preston did not rush the lady. Tender, reassuring, he allowed her every opportunity to change her mind. He lay beside her on the cool, carpet of grass, her beautiful cream-white skin accentuated by the flickering dappled shade cast by the shimmering leaves above. Diamond caught his breath; surely nothing in heaven or on Earth could compare to this beauty… this loveliness… perfection. His hands, his lips, explored her body. She shivered and sighed with pleasure as he touched her where no one had ever touched her before.
He made love to her.
And she cried softly while he held her close when it was over.
Naked, Preston rose to his feet and gazed down upon the lovely goddess; a bare arm shielded her eyes from the sunlight. Was she sleeping? Fascinated, riveted by her beauty, he fought a wild desire to take her in his arms again; to make passionate love to her; to tell her he loved her for all eternity. Instead, Preston turned away, concealing his arousal. He tried to concentrate on a doe and two fawns at the far edge of the field.
A metallic “snick”echoed loudly on the stillness.
Preston Diamond had let his guard down.
He shifted around slowly. Samantha had risen to a sitting position on the grass, her legs crossed in Indian fashion. Both her hands clutched the butt of McBain's heavy .45; it was pointed at his chest, the hammer eared back. Her eyes were vacant, fathomless pools; dead. She spoke in a strange, empty voice that came from her lips but seemed to originate an eternity away. “I must kill you for what you have done. I shall say that you raped me and I shot you. No one will ever doubt the word of Samantha Dexter.”
She squeezed the trigger.
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