C. C. Phillips
C. C. Phillips
The sewing shop did not have much spare space: brightly patterned bolts of cloth, clothing under construction held together with stick pins, paper patterns, ladies' fancy dresses, men's shirts, two bins stacked to overflowing with skeins of colourful wool yarn; there were several treadle sewing machines for sale and two more apparently in use. A small glass display case which doubled as a sales counter stood to the right and a few paces back from the broken window. In the rear a partially drawn curtain revealed another room, probably a suite for the owner.
There was a dumb audience of mannequins, both male and female in various stages of dress. One, fully clothed, spoke:
“She's deaf.”
Preston sorted out the live one. “Pardon?” he said.
“She can't hear you.” The speaker came forward, stepped in front of McBain and faced the woman at the sewing machine. “Matilda, perhaps you should go in the back while I talk to this… man. Make us a pot of tea. I'll be there as soon as this is settled.”
As was his habit with people in general, Diamond studied the gray haired lady as she rose and shuffled out through the curtained doorway. He asked, “If she's deaf, how come she heard you?”
Preston caught his breath as he inhaled an unobstructed view of the person who now turned to face him.
She was beautiful.
As was his habit, he studied her. Posture perfect, the lady stood quite tall: seven, maybe eight inches over five feet. Thick locks of wavy blond hair cascaded down her shoulders. A bright blue dress opening at the throat accentuated her delightfully large blue eyes where tiny living flecks of silver danced; eyes made all the more enchanting as they blazed with anger. The same vexation turned her smooth cheeks a deep rose. She had a wholesome, healthy look, perfect white skin, a pretty turned up nose and small mouth with full, sensuous red lips… fearing distraction Preston halted the perusal at her neck line.
“She reads lips… Now you read mine: 'Get out!'”
The cowboy on the floor groaned. Pulling his feet inside the shop with the rest of his body, he groggily attained a sitting position. “What mule kicked me?” he asked stupidly.
Preston ignored the evacuation notice. Indicating the fellow at his feet, he said, “He'll be all right in a minute. Sorry for the mess… I'll…”
“Out!” the lady repeated, this time accenting the order with her arm, wrist and forefinger extended toward the exit door. She even stamped a dainty foot.
“Well, Miss, I'd like to make restitution for this damage. If you could listen for a moment, I'm not totally at fault…”
“Out,” she repeated, but this time Preston hoped he detected a softer tone.
A large hat with a large head stuffed in it, darkened the recently opened window. “He's right you know, Sam,” Sheriff Dexter interrupted. “I saw it all from my office. Muley, here, started the whole fracas. As seems to be his way, McBlaine finished it. That's all.”
“McBain,” Preston corrected.
Moody Dexter limped into the shop via the doorway.
“Nice to see someone has enough decency to use the proper entrance,” the lady commented dryly.
“On your feet, Muley,” Dexter grunted as he heaved the fellow into a semi-standing position. The sheriff eased the dazed cowboy out onto the boardwalk, then sent him stumbling off with advice to rest up for awhile.
Upon re-entering the sewing shop, Dexter studied Diamond a long moment, “What wild notion provoked him to come a-swinging at you?”
“Well, we didn't exchange any pleasantries but he mentioned something suggesting he was a friend of the Lesters.” Preston turned to the proprietor, “My name is Bradley McBain,” he held out his hand to her, “I'm obliged to repair the damage to your building. I beg you allow me that opportunity.”
She opened her mouth in retort but Dexter cut her off. “Can't ask for fairer than that, Sam. The town owes him something, you know. He saved my skin… Well, most of it. Gordie and Jess asked for what they got. Even that stupid Muley came a-huntin' the man.”
The proffered hand was ignored but the anger subsided noticeably. “I'm not shaking the hand of a killer. However, I am a business person and this is my shop. If you want to pay for fixing the window, I accept.”
The lady turned abruptly; with a frou-frou of skirts and an impatient clicking of heels, she disappeared behind the curtain. Habit made Preston watch her go.
Dexter Moody broke into his thoughts. “McBlaine…”
“How about you using my first name, Bradley, or Brad, and I'll call you… Sheriff?”
“All right, but I got one strong hunch says your parents never heard of Bradley McBlaine.”
Preston let the innuendo slide. “How is your hip today? I see you're toting a new shooter.”
Dexter had stuck a cap and ball Navy Revolver that looked as though it had, and probably did go through the war, in the bullet scarred holster he now wore reversed on his left hip. “Hip hurts a little. Doc Stohl had to extracticate some bits of shrapnel from under my hide and the leg is black and blue the size of a dinner plate. Kept me awake last night although I couldn't sleep anyway on account of wonderin' who in hell shot me. I finally decided it was you, not me, they was after. It's easier to live in the town thinkin' that way.”
McBain grinned, “It might be easier, but it could be shorter to live that way.”
Ignoring the statement, Moody continued, “I hope the town sees fit to reimburse me for my gun. This old shooter ain't the most modern piece of artillery.” He added, “My draw is so slow it don't matter from which side I tug my gun out… You, on the other hand, seem to palm that Colt like magic. That's what convinced me you was the target yesterday. Somebody doesn't want you around.” Dexter paused, “A-course, it could have been a mistake in identity.”
While Moody spoke, Diamond walked over to one of the sewing machines where he located a seamstress's measuring tape. One end was wedged under a sewing basket. He was surprised at the weight of the basket when he shifted it over to release the tape. Must be several big pairs of scissors in there, he surmised.
The sheriff stopped talking and watched as McBain moved to the window hole and began taking measurements. “You figgerin' to fix that there window your own self?” he asked at length. “You must be one o' them ambidexterious fellers, shootin' like you do and being a carpenter too.”
McBain offered no response, mentally recording his readings.
Dexter dug out his tobacco but McBain interrupted his plans. “Would you mind fetching a broom and shovel from the proprietor? I'll sweep up this mess before looking for some new glass.”
Moody stowed his makings. As he hop-walked to the curtained doorway in the back he said, “Leon's Mercantile is where you'll find the glass and other stuff.”
Dexter soon returned carrying a coal shovel and a corn broom. The proprietress followed. She said in a cool but not cold voice, “I will clean up the mess. You round up someone to fill in this hole so I don't have flies in here all day and strangers wandering about in the night.”
Ignoring the emphasis on strangers, McBain took the tools from the sheriff.
“Have you a large box or something else I could use to throw the debris in?”
Again she turned on her heel and disappeared in back. Dexter whistled softly. “McBl… Bradley, you got more guts than Svenson's abattoir. That gal has a temper an' if you ain't a tad more cautious around her, you'll see her in action.” He shook his head, “It ain't purty.”
“You seem to know her quite well,” Preston observed.
“Well, I ought to. I raised her.”
Incredulity rang in Diamond's voice, “She's your daughter?”
“My wife's daughter. But Samantha has been in my care since she was five. Her real Daddy died and I married his widow… You know how things go… She's a Dexter now an' is ever' bit my own daughter.”
Small town, Preston thought; in fifty years everyone will be related. “She is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.” A well tuned ear may have detected a faint, lingering tone of sadness in his words.
The curtain moved and Samantha returned with a container for the trash. A flush on her cheeks suggested she may have overheard McBain. If she had, she said nothing.
Dexter felt obligated to make some introductions. Following the exchange he added, “You may as well shake his hand, Sam. He's insisting on fixing the window himself.”
The cold fury that had subsided almost surfaced again but Preston headed off the outburst, “I am quite capable. It will be a special job… just for you,” he promised.
Samantha Dexter shrugged in resignation, “Well don't shoot anybody or break anything else. We run a sewing shop here, not a saloon.”
Moody winked at Diamond.
As a youth, Preston Diamond had apprenticed under the watchful eye of the handy-man-in-charge-of-the-handy-men, so-to-speak, on a rather large and well known estate. In Preston's estimation, this gifted craftsman could easily triumph over any task or project; Jack-of-all-trades, master of many, the eager protégé learned all he could from the willing teacher. The master often boasted that the youth could outperform any two of his more experienced assistants. Work never daunted Preston. He had a thirst for learning —learning everything— that would not be quenched. He listened, practised, learned and retained.
A design to match the “a special job” part of Preston's promise formed in his head as Diamond made his way to the general store. Leon's Mercantile lacked some of the materials a larger centre would have provided but Preston knew well how to make-do-with-what-you-have. After purchasing the largest pane of glass available and borrowing, for a small fee, the tools he required, Way-cross's latest carpenter wandered over to the shop of the blacksmith, who doubled as wheelwright. Preston purchased a narrow rimmed buggy wheel and carried it back to the general store where he had been allowed a temporary space to work in. The new window was ready for installation an hour before the sewing shop would close for the day.
Samantha Dexter, measuring tape in one hand, fly-swatter in the other, gasped in astonishment as her grinning step-father and McBain hoisted the finished product into the vacant hole Preston had created earlier that day. The new unit fit exactly. It had several small panes moulded into each of the quadrants forming the four outer corners. This configuration contained the buggy wheel with hub and spokes removed. A large sheet of heavy glass, cut in a perfect circle, was framed inside the wheel. Dexter held the window while Preston hammered home the nails that would make it permanent.
The proprietress had not managed any words throughout the installation. Preston tossed the hammer in the buckboard he and Dexter had used to deliver the new window. Turning to the shop keeper he said, “I'll install some putty around the edges for you. Tomorrow I'll paint the frame,” He paused, “Do you like it?”
“Oh…oh, it's wonderful… I had no idea you were making something so elegant. It looks like it should be in Boston or New York, not Way-cross.”
“Thank-you,” he said simply.
Diamond turned to his helper, “Thanks, Sheriff,” he said. “I would have had a devil of a time installing it alone. Any aggravation to the sore leg?”
Moody shook his head, “Nope… By-the-way, nice work there McBain.”
Diamond climbed aboard the buckboard. “There ought to be a package for me at one of the freight offices. May as well pick it up while I have this cart rented.”
“It's at the rail depot,” Dexter called. Then in answer to McBain's questioning glance. “It's been there over a week; addressed to a Bradley McBlaine… Everybody knows everybody's business in Way-cross.”
McBain lightly slapped the lines over the rumps of the horses and the buckboard rolled ahead. Sheriff Dexter limped across the street to his office. Samantha stood on the boardwalk in front of her new window watching the driver of the retreating wagon. There was something vaguely disturbing about the man. She re-entered her fabric shop. Matilda was busy at her machine gathering frills for a new dress.
Samantha “Sam” Dexter had opened her sewing shop in a small building that formerly belonged to the town barber. In her second season the business began to show profit. The workload grew and Samantha placed an advertisement for an assistant. Matilda Frye, the deaf lady, responded. Samantha met Mrs. Frye at the stage, inspected her samples and hired her on the spot. The pair got on quite well. Matilda, though solemn and difficult to communicate with, turned out excellent work. Samantha made no objection to her new employee's occasional trips out of town for a week or two at a time to visit her daughter and grandchild. Matilda moved into the tiny suite in back of the sewing shop.
When Sam's father had passed away, all he owned (not a significant amount) went to his wife and little daughter. The young widow refused to touch the inheritance and took in sewing to make ends meet. After two years she married Alan “Moody” Dexter who owned a thirty head spread on the edge of Way-cross. The ranch, while run well, made scant profit and scarcely paid the bills so Moody had taken the sheriff's job when the town fathers offered it to him. Somehow the couple still managed to retain most of the inheritance, even adding to it in the good years. This money was ear-marked for furthering Sam's education, something her paternal father had dearly wished he could provide.
School work came easily to the bright child and she excelled.
By her early teens, Sam expressed an interest in sewing. Her mother willingly taught her the needles and threads, as it were, of the trade. Very soon she became quite proficient, so much so that mother and daughter decided to set up a small business working out of their home. This venture went better than they dreamed.
Of course, Samantha wished to honour her dead father's wishes, however, the school in Way-cross had a limited level of education. Moody and Mrs. Dexter arranged to enroll their daughter in a boarding school in Boston. Sam's mother's eyesight had begun to fail so the sewing business came to an end. Samantha rode the train to Boston, moved into the boarding school and commenced her studies. Here the blond haired beauty from Way-cross demonstrated that, though she was a small town girl unaccustomed to the twisted sophistication of a big city, she lacked not at all in mental capability. A year and a half went by, Samantha Dexter always at the top of the class. Though chronically homesick, cherishing those glorious days of summer vacation back home, she determined to fulfil the last request of the father she could barely recall.
During a mild spell in mid-winter Sam and a girl friend were out for an afternoon stroll. The weather had been so fair they had not realized the time passing until the gathering darkness dawned on them. They were a long way from their dormitory and in an unfamiliar part of the city. Hurrying through a wooded area they were brutally attacked by two thugs. Samantha fought like a demon, drawing blood with every rake of her long fingernails. She kicked and punched viciously, screaming for help. Her cries were heard and a young policeman dashed to the scene. He quickly rendered the attacker senseless. Samantha —bruised, clothes torn and bloody— struggled for breath. At last she gasped, “Where's Lenore? Where is my friend?”
Help did not arrive soon enough to save Lenore.
Samantha Dexter boarded the next train back to Way-cross; to home; vowing never to travel east again.
The remainder of the education fund paid for the start-up of Sam's Sewing Shop.
Preston had to agree with the hotel clerk's assertion; the dining room indeed offered surprisingly delicious meals. The menu outclassed any he had seen in his travels through a hundred towns the size of Way-cross. He polished off a big slab of steak done just the way he ordered it, along with roasted potato, interestingly flavoured mixed vegetables, and a bowl of chowder. “Perhaps I'll drop in later for that dessert,” he told the waitress, by way of refusal.
Returning to his room, he lit a cheroot and commenced an inventory of the luggage he had retrieved from the freight depot. When leaving a town on horseback, Diamond sent his extra baggage via train or stage depending on what logistics were available. He never shipped direct, it went a circuitous route to be collected, then forwarded by one of two officials who had earned Diamond's trust and respect.
Earlier, upon locating the small trunk at the depot, Preston had noted two peculiarities: first, McBain had been misspelled in unfamiliar script (normally the address contained a coded insignia); secondly, the chest had been forced open. Setting the little cigar aside he now inspected the chest more thoroughly. The contents had been searched though an attempt had been made to conceal the fact. Nothing had been taken. Preston breathed a sigh of relief. The trunk contained no confidential or revealing documents though someone must have been searching for such; another indication his arrival in Way-cross was anticipated. Along with apparel for a colder season or climate, there were personal effects: two suits of dress clothes, low topped shoes of the same soft leather as his riding boots, several trinkets of meaning and value only to the owner, four volumes: a poetry and prose collection of Edgar Alan Poe (Preston could recite “The Raven”); his favourite: Chaucer's “Canterbury Tales”; Herman Melville's “Moby-Dick”; Parisian author Jules Verne's “The Mysterious Island”. The latter was written in French. Tucked in a corner wrapped in soft calf-skin lay a gold pocket watch and fob. Also wrapped in calf-skin, a hand size brass telescope. A beautifully engraved Remington pistol of .44 calibre lay in its tooled leather holster. A long case of sturdy construction rested diagonally across the bottom of the trunk. Preston withdrew the gold watch, wound it, flipped open the lid and set the time according to another time-piece he carried on his person. He then spent five quiet minutes gazing at the tiny portrait photograph of a lovely dark-haired lass fastened in the watch cover: a young lady, in her teens; Preston had been a teenager then too. He closed the lid tenderly and returned the watch to the chest. Diamond then extracted the elongated case and set it on his bed. Inside lay a Joseph Whitmore .451 calibre “Sharpshooter”; a masterpiece of long range shooting artillery. The rifle had been modified to facilitate quick dismantle and set-up, allowing for discretion and easy transport. A fixed three-power scope, an improved version of the Confederate Army model, was solidly attached to the barrel. Ammunition packets were stored in a separate compartment within the case. The Whitmore could consistently group five shots in a ten inch circle at eight hundred yards. As was his custom, Diamond carefully examined both firearms, searching for signs of tampering, checking the balance, testing the action. Satisfied, he wiped them down with an oil cloth and returned the guns to the trunk. Neither the Remington nor the Whitmore had seen much service but Preston felt reassured to know they were there and ready when needed. The articles he had brought into this hotel room: the trunk with its treasures, the saddle, Winchester carbine in its scabbard, the bedroll doubling as war-bag, and the items on his person were Preston Diamond's sole possessions in all the world. There were no living relatives he knew of. He had a sizeable bank account somewhere but he did not consider it a possession of significance. After locking the trunk Preston looped a fine thread across the opening. If further tampering occurred he would know.
Diamond relit the cheroot, studied the street below his window, then turned his scrutiny to the room he occupied. It was a spacious, corner accommodation, having one window on the street side and another giving a view to the south. In that direction, Preston could see a mile or more along the wagon road that had brought him to Way-cross. The room came equipped with washstand, two mirrored dressing tables, two chairs —one an ornate high-backed wooden piece, the other a padded leather arm chair— wardrobe and an exquisitely comfortable bed. The previous night, though it had been quite late Preston completed some minor rearrangements of the furnishings. He moved the quilted bed out of line of the frilly curtained windows and shifted the dressing tables so that the mirrors, while reflecting on themselves could also be studied from the bed. He had then fallen asleep as soon as his head struck the pillow.
This evening Preston felt no fatigue, just a mild soporific dose from eating a little too greedily; a slip normally guarded against for those circumstances when he had to go into action without time for a healthy digestion. The cigarillo burned down and Preston stubbed it in a hotel ashtray. Removing his boots he stretched out on the bed with a sigh of satisfaction. Fragments of an obfuscated plot danced through his mind as he sought to piece together recent events.
Who had taken the shot at him in front of the sheriff's office yesterday? The shadow on the street indicated only that the attacker wore no hat. A split-second glimpse at the back of the retreating figure's head had been thoroughly inconclusive, but Preston had noticed an irregularity. What was it? Intuition, a subliminal suggestion, had prevented him from pursuing the fugitive after the shooting stopped. His bullets, six of them, hadn't come too close to the target. He knew this for a fact because he had deliberately aimed to miss. Why? Relating his story to Sheriff Dexter had taken less than half an hour. How did someone have time to climb up on Samantha's shop and be in position for an attempt on Preston's life? How did they even know he was in town? No one could have recognized him; no one knows him! For the hundredth time he considered and discarded the idea the Lester attack had been anything more than what it appeared. Still, coincidences are more rare than most people believe.
Preston's active mind reviewed the circumstances which placed him in Way-cross. For more than four months his time had been devoted to this assignment. The job required: Investigate and bring to justice concerned persons involved in alleged hostile take-over of territorial bank(s). Further details were scant: no mention of a senator, governor or other government representative who had carried the complaint to the President's attention; no name of an official or enforcement officer in the field who would supply additional information; Diamond had been given the name of a town from which to start: Lizzy's Falls….
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