C. C. Phillips
C. C. Phillips
The Klan had been organized in Tennessee in 1865, at the end of the war. Opposed to the Reconstruction, they had killed thousands of blacks and dozens of whites who supported black freedom. Diamond thought the highest concentration was in the more southern states and was surprised to see them this close to Washington. He didn't take much time to ponder further as he now reached the barn. Preston stepped inside, fumbled in the darkness to find the saddle, and pulled the rifle from its scabbard. He had mistakenly referred to the gun as “the Henry,” but this was a new rifle. The Winchester Model '66. It carried fifteen rounds in the .44 Henry rimfire cartridge and, tonight, the magazine was full.
The Klan members were becoming more obnoxious; three had dismounted and were hurling dirt clods at the house and singing an eerie chant. Preston yowled like a fighting tom: a cat signal Rufus had used in this yard on another occasion. Diamond didn't think the horsemen could see beyond their circle of light. He came out fast and dashed from the barn to the water trough.
On cue, the door of the house opened, then closed quickly as Rufus stepped onto the porch. He did not carry the lantern, but Preston glimpsed a revolver tucked in his belt. Not a good thing if the Klan members noticed it. Tweed disappeared in the dark shadow under the eave. “Yo' all acomin' to see me?” he called.
The chant stopped and one fellow took it upon himself to do the talking for the group. “We are the Ku Klux Klan, Mr. Tweed.” The voice sneered the “Mr. Tweed.” “We are here to remind you that we tolerate no blacks owning land. No land-owners, no voters. This farm is forfeit to the community and you will move on… or die here.”
“Dis, lan' on'y part my lan'. I got sign' paper sayin' dis my lan', too. It sign by Gen'l Grant hissel'.”
There were mutterings in the group and Preston heard Grant's name repeated. The spokesman said, “Makes no difference to us that Grant signed your emancipation. As far as we're concerned, you ain't free and never will be, in this country… Torch the barn, boys!”
Diamond did some quick figuring. Rufus had said Grant signed for the land. General Grant indeed had, because Preston had formed the partnership and Uncle Ulysses witnessed the document, but the ring leader had said emancipation. Grant had signed that too, a few years before the war, but Rufus had made no mention of it just now. Preston recalled the story Rufus told about the Conception sheriff demanding to see the black man's freedom paper. The whole town found out that Lieutenant General Ulysses S. Grant had once owned, and had freed, Mister Rufus Tweed.
The Klan members had paused for a moment of introspection: No one wanted Ulysses Grant bringing the Union Army down on Conception. The fiery cross flickered eerily and the unmistakable ratchet of a rifle lever sounded loud in the temporary hush. “You gentlemen want to burn something, you had best burn a retreat back to Conception. You're a bunch of fools, playing outside your league.” Preston took a chance: “Sheriff, you make a big target in that white outfit… I wouldn't miss you from here in the dark but with that fire you have set up there, why, I could notch your ear.”
Someone shouted, “Jesus! Wally, he recognized you!”
In a lower voice, another said “Maybe he knows us all.”
Others chimed in, those on the ground mounted up and they began to mill around, their sheet-clad horses growing antsy as the tension built. “Who the hell is out there, anyway? Where did that damn black go to? I don't like this… I don't…”
The left arm of the cross burned off, dropped to the ground, and rolled under a nervous horse. The wood must have received an over-zealous oiling, for droplets of fuel burst into flame on the ground. The horse's white cotton sheet was splattered and flames began to lick holes in the cloth. Fanning the fire with a fit of bucking, the frenzied horse pitched its rider. Highlighted in the flames, the acrobat described a white arc as he sailed over the animal's neck and landed head first on the ground. The horse, trailing fire, rocketed down the lane in a marvellous burst of speed.
“Jesus Christ, Leonard, are you okay?”
Leonard wasn't moving and he wasn't talking.
Contempt in Preston's voice rolled thick across the open space, “Pick up Leonard and get the hell out of here. If ever I hear of the people of Conception treating Mr. Tweed or his family with anything less than respect, I'll know who to come calling on. And you won't see me standing under a burning cross… you won't see me at all, because there is no looking back from Hell.”
The crumpled figure in the dirt had begun to stir and one of the men stepped down to assist him to his feet. Riding double they, and the others, left the yard in a sorry procession. The right arm of the cross burned through, the brace gave way and the sticks collapsed in a shower of sparks and ashes.
Preston called across the now vacant yard, “Rufus, you go on in and tell May-a-belle everything is alright. I'll be along after I've had a look around.”
After Rufus ducked inside the house, Diamond slunk along in the deeper shadows next to the corral and then stepped soundlessly into the trees. He emerged again at the lane. Listening closely, he thought he may have detected the distant drum of hooves; if he had, they were receding.
Preston knocked gently on the door before going into the house. May-a-belle had tear tracks down her cheeks and she was ringing her hands in distress. The Tweed's daughter, Constantina, was not in sight; May-a-belle must have tucked her into bed. Rufus's eyes were big as tea cups and his voice trembled. “Press, I don' know what we agwyne do, if'n dem mens comen' back. I don' know what we adone if'n yo ain't here righ' now.”
Preston leaned the Winchester in the corner near the door. He shook his head. “I don't know either, Rufus. But I think those men were not the real thing. They had some idea they were going to make a difference and at the first sign of trouble, they showed yellow. They won't be back, not that group, anyway.”
“Dey sho' nuff turn tail when yo gib dem de preachin'.”
“Cowards,” Preston spat. “Seven men against one man, his wife and a child.”
Rufus's eyes met Preston's. It wasn't the first time men had come hunting folks at Diamond/Tweed farm. When Cutler and Constantina Diamond had been murdered, Vengeance rode a long hard trail to set things right. By the time the cutting, shooting and hanging had come to an end, there were a lot of people buried; five of them in unmarked graves right on the edge of this yard. The town of Conception was backward, in a backward time, and the people were slow to catch on, but they had all heard the story of Preston Diamond's revenge.
“I'm heading back to Washington in a day or two, Rufus. I'll stop in Conception on my way through and talk to some folks. I think you and May-a-belle will be treated with respect from now on.”
Still distraught, but comforted by Preston's words, May-a-belle went to bed. Rufus and Preston stayed up and talked for awhile; however, the Klan had soured the evening and Rufus Tweed was disappointed. He looked forward to Preston's visits.
Rufus would not allow anyone to use Preston's room in the Tweed house. When the newlyweds had moved into the senior Diamond's chamber, Rufus had said of Preston's bedroom, “Dat alwus be Press's room. Now, an' ebry tam he acomin' home.” Apparently he meant it; the bedroom had not been touched except for a regular dusting and fresh linen placed on the bed. Between the sheets, Preston had haunting memories as he closed his eyes. He could hear the shots, the rasping death breaths of his father… He shuddered. When would people stop butchering each other? Diamond vowed, as he had on the pain of death of his parents, if something were to happen to the Tweeds, every last bastard responsible would pay.
The journey back to Washington passed without event; Preston had stopped in Conception and visited the sheriff. The man was taciturn, allowing only grunted replies, but Preston sifted through the gutturals and learned that the white clad rider named Leonard had suffered a not-too-serious neck injury.
Diamond, at sixteen, had reached the six foot mark and was in fine muscular form. He put a hand on the sheriff's shoulder and said, not unkindly, “You are the lawman in this town, Wally. I'm asking you to make certain no trouble befalls my friend Mr. Tweed when he is in your bailiwick. You know, I'm not suggesting any special privileges, just fair treatment… And remember, fair treatment works in two directions: If the Tweed family runs into bad treatment, I believe that fair treatment will come to the perpetrators.”
Beads of sweat were forming on the sheriff's brow and he was sagging from the reassuring hand Preston had placed on his shoulder. The sheriff, like everyone else in Conception, had heard rumour of the young Diamond's wrath. It had culminated right in this town. Wally's voice changed from a grunt to a squeak. “I'm sure there aren't anymore Klan people here in Conception, Mr. Diamond… I… we… we decided they're not welcome here….”
“I'll be speaking with Lieutenant General Grant within the next few days… Should I ask him to send out a detail to help you?”
The squeak was replaced with a hoarse whisper. “Uh… uh… no, Mr. Diamond… that won't be necessary… uh…uh.. thanks just the same.”
Though Preston Diamond had only been gone for several days, Rebecca Unzer fussed over him as though he had been away for a year. Mrs. Unzer possessed a solid personality with plenty of backbone, but she fell short when it came to doting over her 'son'. Colonel Unzer chided her for “smothering the lad” but the old war veteran loved Preston, too. Preston had taken to calling him “Colonel Jim.”
When, under the direction of his adopted uncle, Ulysses Grant, Diamond had first moved in with the Unzers, his life had been in danger. Preston held pertinent information that eventually led to the conviction of several Civil War traitors. At the time, General Grant thought Diamond should use an assumed name; the alias, Adam Forsythe, came into use. Publicly, the Grant family continued to refer to Preston as Adam. The Unzers, though both knew full well that the handsome, blue-eyed youth was Cutler and Constantina Diamond's son, had also preserved the alias.
Rebecca said, “Well, now, Adam, as soon as I get some food into you, we'll want to hear all about your adventures.”
Preston felt his face warming; he didn't think it appropriate to tell “all” in regard to his visit to the Brannigan farm. It would have been an interesting story, however.
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