Preston Diamond In Waycross

Chapter 20

The newsman spread the news that a man had been shot on the outskirts of town. It didn't take long for the rumour mill to fill in the blanks and connect the dots. A distorted version went something like this: 'Samantha Dexter had been kidnapped from her sewing shop by a stranger. She somehow escaped and tried to outrun him but her horse died on its feet. The kidnapper was trying to kill Samantha, but that newcomer, McBain, shot him in the head, at a distance of over a mile…'

Gossip missed the truth by half a country mile.

Brad McBain drove the carriage which brought the three Dexters out to their ranch later that night. Samantha had awakened from a sound sleep, still confused but refreshed. She wanted to go home; she wanted to tell what she knew; she wanted Bradley McBain by her side to hear her story.

Edith Dexter fussed around the kitchen fixing a late lunch while Samantha sat at the big family table with McBain and her step-father. “It doesn't make any sense,” Samantha began, “Matilda and I were in the sewing shop, we were both at our machines… I had just given the wedding dresses to Mrs. Olson —we had finished them on Friday— it was quiet in the room, Matilda said something… I think it was about tea… and… then…. Oh! I can't remember anything! All of a sudden, I was on the back of a horse… there was this strange man with a cast on his arm, riding in front of me, leading my horse —it wasn't my horse though, it was a different horse and it seemed so tired— we were headed west on the coach road… I knew where we were because we crossed the fork that leads up to the timber… It was too real to be a dream….

Mrs. Dexter poured tea for everyone; Dexter added brandy to his and McBain's cups. Edith stood beside her daughter as the girl continued. “I didn't know what to do. I couldn't see the man's face but I knew I wouldn't know him if he did turn around. My horse tripped or stumbled and the man looked back… I shut my eyes, I don't know why; maybe I thought it might be better if he thought I was sleeping. He got off his horse and walked back to me; he began checking the feet on my horse… I grabbed the reins and lashed him across the face and put the heels to my horse. It was a gallant horse, he ran his heart right out for me.”

Samantha put her hands over her face and sobbed. “It..it was like a nightmare, like so many nightmares I've had… I couldn't get away… my horse ran for all he had but it wasn't enough… the horrible man was catching up… I saw town but it seemed so far away and I couldn't get any closer… then I heard a bullet over my head and a gun shot behind me… my horse was going down… he died on his feet… I jumped from the saddle and landed in the grass. We weren't moving forward anymore… I got to my feet hoping to run to town… I looked back… the man suddenly flew out of the saddle and tumbled along the side of the road….

And then Brad and Dad were there.”

The room was silent.

Samantha looked up at her mother, “What is happening to me, Mother? Why can't I remember what I've done?”

Dexter said, “Maybe you hit your head in a fall or something. Matilda, she come out on the street when we led you into town. She was a mess —worried sick— worse off than you, I'd say. She tol' us she had left the shop to buy some tea at the store and you were gone when she come back. When you was gone so long she began a'frettin'. O' course, I couldn't ask her many questions on account o' she can't hear me.”

Samantha ran a hand through her long hair, and smiled faintly, “No, I don't think there are any bumps on my noggin… I have no aches or pains, anywhere.”

During the time while Doctor Stohl examined Samantha and Dexter had gone to fetch his wife, Preston had returned to his ravaged room. A diligent search revealed nothing more than the poorly written note announcing Samantha had been taken. He had punctiliously cleaned the deadly Whitmore and stowed the rifle along with his other belongings in the trunk. The broken latch on the chest would need replacing; Preston's temporary repair would suffice until a locksmith could fix it properly. A hotel maid had changed the bedding and tidied up the room.

The clock was now approaching midnight. Preston was stretched out on the bed in his room, ruminating. Several messages, all in code, were waiting for him when he had arrived back at the hotel. The new information, combined with Preston's own findings, eliminated many questions, though a few assumptions needed firming up.

Diamond conjectured that Rittinger and the two men the governor had met on the rail platform were previously known to one another; the meeting had not been mere chance. The horse Samantha had ridden to death had been in the possession of one of these men who went by the names of Dunvegan and Peel; had Ballard stolen it or was he also known to the strangers? Where were Peel and Dunvegan now; according to the register they had checked in to the Grand Hotel. Where had Ballard intended to take his hostage? Had the trio planned a rendezvous? As Frazier Wentworth, Preston had seen all three of these men, though not together, in Clarkston; was this a coincidence? Frazier had overheard two of them threaten Herman Goldman and now Herman was dead. He was certain that was not a coincidence.

Preston believed that Ballard had not seen through the Wentworth disguise prior to the shooting at the Clarkston bank. Obviously Ballard or someone else realized this false identity after the disgraced clerk fled town, because a bullet awaited Diamond's arrival in Way-cross.

Rittinger's association with Peel and Dunvegan incriminated the Governor… but why would a man of high office become involved in a scheme to control the banking industry in this largely unsettled land?

Unsettled land; that was food for thought….

Diamond recalled Patrick O'Malley's prediction that Way-cross will one day be a city; in fact, Rittinger himself had grandstanded on a similar issue involving growth for the entire Territory. If Way-cross and her sister towns in the western territories experienced population increases, certainly the rural census would rise accordingly. Population growth necessitated real estate growth which was synonymous with higher property values. Sky-rocketing urban real estate; higher land prices in the rural areas —for the optimistic, especially an optimist privy to federal development initiatives— right now would be an opportune time for investment.

Preston digested that concept. The small town financial institutions that had recently changed hands were now ruthless in their repossession schemes. Businesses, ranches, small holdings, property of any description —in a very large radius of Way-cross— had come under ownership of these ostensibly independent banks. The man standing at the top of the midden heap, in control of twenty or thirty small town money houses and their associated real estate, could one day enjoy considerable political influence, maybe more so than a territorial governor. The king-pin would definitely amass more wealth than the average political figure.

And the other gnawing, bone of contention: Who supplied the initial investment capital to buy out the financial institutions?

Sated with questions, Preston hungered for answers. Soundless as a bat he glided along the lamp lit hall and up the stair to the rooms registered in the names of the mystery men. Using a Double Eagle for a mirror, he checked for light reflection under the doors. Dunvegan and Peel were out, asleep or waiting silently in the dark.

Knowing killers were plotting his death honed Diamond's senses: stay alert; stay alive. The situation was not new for the intrepid loner and Preston had learned that the hunter has an advantage over the prey in that he can choose time, place and means. “The hunter becomes the hunted,” is simply too trite; clichés generally are: Diamond didn't just turn the tables, he flipped them over and lit them on fire; he didn't put the shoe on the other foot, he put foot and shoe into someone's groin; the hunter didn't become the hunted, he was eliminated; survival of the fastest; the best offence is a dead opponent. Preston Diamond had no rules, no laws; he did not play, he worked at staying alive.

The hunter padded down the stair and exited through the rear doorway. Rain water and puddles on the back streets had evaporated with the heat of the past two days. Now dried clods thrown up by delivery vehicles crunched underfoot. Preston proceeded slowly. The town had an unnatural quiet hanging over it, like everyone was holding their breath. Another day, another killing; no wonder the townsfolk had closed their shutters and blown out the lamps. Even the saloon offered no boisterous laughter or tinny piano music. Houses and businesses were dark; only the lantern above the hotel door illuminated the near area. A shy sliver of moon, peeking through thin cloud, would soon brighten the townscape.

At the rear of Samantha's store, Diamond paused again. No sound or light came from within. Mrs. Frye would be in bed at this late hour. Why did this establishment persist in drawing his attention? Could a sewing shop be more than it seemed? Did a deaf widow and a beautiful young woman fit into the puzzle? Samantha was indeed a part of the story now, but he doubted she had volunteered. Maybe, Preston considered, because he had been shot at from the roof of this building, the shop heralded significance in the yarn. Or, most likely, the attraction was the beautiful proprietress; a distraction to his investigation. He would have to wait for the spool to unwind further.

A coal oil lantern burned in the double doorway of the livery stable. Preston slipped inside and was surprised to find Ol' Ross up and moving about. Not for the first time he wondered what season the old timer chose to have a bath; perhaps it wasn't an annual event.

“McBain,” the hostler grunted. “What could have brung ya down here this hour?”

“I need my horse.”

“Ya don't look to me like yer ready to climb into a saddle… or did ya just decide in the last minute or so?”

McBain shrugged. “No, I don't really want my horse… I was just testing you. ”

Tobacco juice splattered the side of the feed pail. “So, I heerd ya shot some dumb bastard that was achasin' Dexter's daughter…”

McBain interrupted. “Samantha was riding one of the horses you saw the two men mounted on this morning, the fellows that asked you directions to the rail depot…”

“Yeh, I recollect that. She must have been on that blazed face bay with one white sock, right front foot.”

McBain blurted, “Do you study every horse you see?”

“Habit, habit I had since I 'as a tad. Not as good as I once was, but I can pick out markin's like that 'un had. The other one, a bay mare,” Ross jerked a thumb over his shoulder, “is back here.”

“Mind if I look her over?” McBain asked.

“Not much to see, the poor ol' girl's be'n rid pretty hard and not looked after. But ya can take a look if it suits yer fancy.”

The mare, in a stall next to Preston's gelding, still looked worn out but she had been eating the hay Ol' Ross had tossed in the manger. An empty feed bucket indicated that the animal had had some grain too. There wasn't anything peculiar about the beast. It had two brands but that held no significance as many horses change owners.

Over the back of the mare, McBain asked the livery man, “Were both horses brought to you this afternoon? I'm wondering how that stranger who abducted Miss Dexter came in possession of the horse that died on the edge of town.”

“Weeelll, that's a funny thing about that.” The hostler rubbed his stubble, “Them two fellers did come back from the depot, if they found their way to the tracks that is, and they left both their hosses here. Not much time later, one of them fellas and another stranger showed up…”

McBain broke in, “Did the new stranger have a cast on his right arm.”

“Yep, I recollect he did have a broke limb, too… Anyhows, they asked for this first fella's hoss and I tol' 'em the critter wasn't fit to ride to the edge of town… They said he wouldn't have to go much farther than that and they didn't need a race horse.”

Ol' Ross shuffled away. Preston considered: Ballard may have put Samantha on a tired horse as a precaution against what did actually take place; had they been any farther from town, he would have easily overtaken her. But why didn't he, or they, rent a buggy or buckboard? How did Ballard lead her out of the town in broad daylight? Samantha must have appeared willing to follow or someone would have seen them and raised an alarm. Had she been drugged? What kind of drug would allow a person to snap out of a stupor instantaneously? And how was it administered in the first place?