C. C. Phillips
C. C. Phillips
“Just turn around right there mister, real slow-like and march your sorry ass back into that sheriff's office.”
Around here, people tend to call you 'mister', Diamond thought while assessing the raw boned, heavy set man holding all the authority in his right hand. Why did gun barrels appear so enlarged when they were directed at you? Like the big Greener, the pistol had the hammer eared back. Unlike the shotgun-toter however, this fellow didn't have crazy eyes or, at least, he didn't have a crazy voice, which of course was immaterial because he seemed quite predisposed to carry out what the elder Lester only suggested.
Preston hesitated, “Now why would you be insisting so strongly that I go back in there?”
“'Cause you're a horse-thief and I got me the proof standing right here beside me.”
The man never shifted his eyes but an angry tilt of his head in the direction of the dog-tired ponies Preston had brought to town left no question as to what he referred to. “Yeah, see that brand on the left shoulder? That there is my brand an' them horses is mine. Some of my boys saw you ride up with 'em.”
“That's not a brand, it's a goddamn paragraph,” Preston Diamond expostulated. “Half-circle C W on-a-rail! What kind of ostentatious moron uses that much iron to burn his insignia on some sorry critter's hide? How would you like it if I was to write a story on your backside with a hot poker? You dumb bastard.”
Before the horse owner could form a reply a rather complicated situation developed. It went like this:
Behind Diamond, Sheriff Moody Dexter burst through the door bawling, “Carver, drop that damned…” He would have bowled over the lighter framed man in his path but Diamond agilely stepped aside. This movement saved Preston severe damage and cost the big sheriff a good revolver. A bullet ripped through the heavy leather of the sheriff's holster striking the steel frame of the sheathed gun, shattering the grips and destroying the action. Fragments of steel and lead perforated the sheriff's ample hide. Dexter's bellow ended in a howl of pain as he went over sideways clutching at his right hip. Preston Diamond's pistol was out and talking before Dexter landed on the woodwork. The man the sheriff had called Carver dropped his revolver in the dust, mouth and eyes open so wide his face disappeared. Diamond's gun continued to belch smoke and hot lead. The dazed cowman in the street suddenly realized he wasn't mortally wounded. In fact, the pistol-crazed wild man he faced seemed to be aiming above and behind him. Carver suffered no bullet holes, but the muzzle blast and thunderous bark of the roaring side-arm were close enough to make his ears bleed.
Just before Moody Dexter erupted from his office, Preston Diamond had detected a shadow, a long, thin, shifting shadow just above the more defined elongated shadows in the middle of the street cast from a store front behind the angry cowman pointing the pistol. The sheriff entered the scene about the time a head-shaped blob materialized at the end of the thin shadow. Geometry hadn't been Preston's long suit during his school days but he calculated instantly where the source of that blob of shadow may be situated. It was in that general direction lead from his .45 ripped through the thin fronting boards above the store.
The shooting stopped.
Stunned, shocked silence rippled noiselessly along the street as wisps of gun smoke and the strong acrid smell of burned powder drifted lazily on the stillness. Preston Diamond broke the cylinder on his Colt, dropped six empty brass on the boards then fed six fresh cartridges in the six vacant holes. The exaggerated metallic sounds were strangely ominous.
The cowman, Carver, spoke first. “Jesus! Moody, I didn't shoot you!”
Dexter rolled onto his good side, clutched at an awning post and pulled himself upright. He grunted, ignoring the speaker and turned to Diamond, “McBlaine, were they shooting at you or… or was it me?”
Preston holstered his gun, “McBain. I'm sort of new to your town, Sheriff. Is this a common occurrence?”
Carver broke in, “Jesus! Stranger, you can operate that hog-leg! Do you figger you winged who ever shot at Moody?”
More geometry. “If this little awning hadn't been above your office that shot would have been aimed a tad higher. Maybe the assailant couldn't distinguish who he was shooting at.” Diamond made this observation in a casual tone; quite casual for a fellow who had just missed out on what often is the last opportunity of a lifetime. Absolutely no doubt existed in his mind as to who the target had been.
Townsfolk began to emerge along the street, congregating in little groups but keeping a good distance from the trio in front of the sheriff's office. Several cowboys appeared on the boardwalk at the entrance of the local beverage room. Fortunately no one had been nearby when the shooting commenced.
Carver stooped to pick up his revolver, eased the hammer forward and blew the dust out the barrel. “You hurt bad, Moody?”
“He got clean away did he?” Dexter directed the question to McBain.
“Yeah, I had nothing to shoot at so I just perforated the top of the…” Diamond looked at the offended edifice, “the seamstress's establishment. Pursuit seemed futile.”
Weary of being the third person in a two-way conversation, the cowman called to the cowboys who must have been Half-Circle C W on-a-rail hands. Indicating the tired pair Diamond had brought in he said, “You boys fetch these horses down to the livery and make damn certain Ol' Ross gives them the best care he can muster.”
Preston Diamond stepped down beside the gelding, loosened the cinches and pulled his rig from the horse's back. He placed the saddle on the hitching rail.
While two hired hands led the saddleless mounts away, Dexter Moody fetched out his makings. Leaning against the post with his good leg supporting most of the weight he twisted a quirly. To no one in particular he growled, “Damn leg hurts like hell but I don't feel no blood runnen' in my boot. Must be just bruised aplenty.”
“Raised the devil with your shooter it appears,” Diamond observed.
The rancher had turned to leave when Dexter called him back then made an introduction: “Carver Ward, this is Bradley McBlaine.”
“McBain.”
“McBain has a story to tell you about your horses. I'd be obliged if you'd listen to him while he takes you for a little journey out on the old wood road. I'd go, but my hip probably wouldn't enjoy the ride.”
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