Authors: A. J. Arnold
Diamond Buckow
DIAMOND BUCKOW
A.J. ARNOLD
M. EVANS
Lanham ⢠Boulder ⢠New York ⢠Toronto ⢠Plymouth, UK
Published by M. Evans
An imprint of Rowman & Littlefield
4501 Forbes Boulevard, Suite 200, Lanham, Maryland 20706
10 Thornbury Road, Plymouth PL6 7PP, United Kingdom
Distributed by National Book Network
Copyright© 1993 by Al Arnold and J. Karyl Arnold
First paperback edition 2014
All rights reserved
. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote passages in a review.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Information Available
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
The hardback edition of this book was previously cataloged by the Library of Congress as follows:
Arnold, A. J. (Tony)
Diamond Buckow /A.J. Arnold
p. cm.â(An Evans novel of the West)
I. Title. II. Series.
PR6051.R616D5 1993
823'.914âdc20
93-5765
CIP
ISBN: 978-0-87131-731-5 (cloth: alk. paper)
ISBN: 978-1-59077-343-7 (electronic)
ISBN: 978-1-59077-342-0 (pbk.: alk. paper)
The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of American National Standard for Information SciencesâPermanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI/NISO Z39.48-1992.
Printed in the United States of America
Chapter One
The late afternoon sun balanced on the rim of the mesa and glared down on the five approaching horses and riders.
The first two men in the file argued hotly while the other three followed without talking.
“No, by God, it's wrong! You've got no authority,” Jake Strickland protested with a shake of his big blond head.
“You've got no right to hang Buck. Why, he's not got more than sixteen years on him.” His voice shook from a barely controlled rage.
The badge on Newt Yocum's shirt peeked out from behind his dull gray vest as he turned to look at the rider of the third horse. He saw a fellow who was a boy in years, but an old-timer in experience.
The kid sat slumped with apparent despair in his saddle.
“Well, now, we'll just see about that. I got all the authority I need,” Newt drawled. He gestured at his intended lynching victim.
“Even him back there ain't objectingâknows it wouldn't be no use.”
As the deputy turned away to spit on the ground, the one they called Buck flung an upward glance, a barb of pure distilled hate, at Yocum's back.
“Authority, hell,” Jake retorted. “Just because Sheriff Driscoll gave you a tin star and mumbled a few words, that doesn't make you judge and jury. I'm telling you, Newt, you string up this boy and nobody will back you up.”
Newt's thick face darkened. “Jake, I don't care what you got to say. When the sheriff swore me in, he give me orders to stop the stock rustling from the ranchers around here. Now, by the great billy goat's beard, I mean to do that.
My
way.”
He dug his spurs into the sides of his mount for emphasis. The stud was more interested at the moment in young Buck's grulla mare than he was in moving forward. But the sharp pain in his flanks made him lunge ahead so abruptly that Newt jerked the reins.
“Straighten up, here, you ornery bastard,” he snarled, struggling to master the fiery black as he turned again to Strickland.
“Listen good, Mr. Top Hand. We ketched this here Buck usin' a running iron on one of old Henry Blough's steers. If you ain't man enough to handle what he's got coming to him, you just ride on. Me and the twins back yonder can give him a good send-off.”
The two brothers served as silent guards for the rustler. Now they snapped to attention. They were a matched pair even to the clothes they wore and the horses they sat. Willy and Clem grinned their willingness to help Newt Yocum in whatever foul adventure he took on. They got ready to move into action.
As Jake Strickland swore under his breath, the makeshift deputy halted.
“This here ought to do just fine,” Yocum decided as he surveyed a wind-blasted cottonwood tree on the bank of a wet-weather stream.
“Willy, get a rope over that limb. Use his fancy Spanish riata.”
His eyes dancing like live coals, Newt indicated Buck with malicious glee. “This leather lariat he used for stealing ought to do him one last service.”
The twin nodded eagerly, yanking the thong from Buck's saddle. On the second try he managed to get a loop over the branch. As the business end snaked down to the level of the kid's face, Willy gave a sharp tug. The noose brushed across Buck's cheek, and he shuddered. The unoccupied brother, Clem, noticed his reaction and laughed.
Something snapped inside Strickland. As he dismounted, his angular jaw worked like he was trying to grind down the jagged words that threatened to spew out. He studied the bank where the sandy soil had eroded away in some long gone gully-washer.
What in God's good name was he doing here? he wondered. He knew it was only because his employerâDaniel Thompsonâwas the most prosperous rancher in the territory. The boss had asked him to scout around with the law on expeditions to trap cattle rustlers; now he found himself in this hellish messâwith an ignorant, vengeful deputy and a pair of dimwitted cohorts who obviously would get a kick out of murdering an innocent kid.
As a plan formed in Strickland's head, Yocum snorted. Jake's attention snapped from the cottonwood as he looked up into Newt's piglike eyes. But Yocum's narrow gaze was trained on Buck, not on Jake.
“Listen here, kid. Afore we tighten up this new necktie for you to wear to hell, you got anything to say for yourself?”
“Yeah. I do, Newt, and I want all of you to hear this.”
Brittle blue eyes sparkled like chips of sapphire set in the thin young face. Jake could almost hear the drumbeat pounding of his heart, could almost see wheels and gears clicking inside the kid's head as he tried to buy some time and maybe a way out.
“I never took only but what was rightfully mine,” Buck said. He sounded so logical and sincere that Jake's guts ached with the desire to believe him.
“I worked four months for Old Man Blough, hard and honest as I could, without ever seeing one day's wages. So all's I was doing was collecting what was owed me. Not one penny more. I sure can't see why getting what's mine amounts to a hanging offense.”
Strickland nodded his agreement in grim silence. But as he saw the three henchmen laughing insanely, he realized Buck's little speech had fallen on deaf ears. Deaf souls, too, most likely. Jake saw that Newt was playing rougher than usual, and he never
was
one a fellow would care to meet alone in the night.
What did he have against the kid, that he was so hot to do away with him? Jake considered. And Buck, he seemed so straightforward. So why was he not saying.... Didn't he know?
Yocum's gravelly voice broke through Jake's musings. “Well, Mr. Top Hand,” he droned, pointing toward the scrubby cottonwood.
“Bein's how you're already off your hoss, let's see if you got the balls to do a man's job. How's about tyin' the other end of this here leather rope?”
“Jake!”
The kid's shrill pitch froze him a second. He gulped, grateful for the interruption so he'd have a space to think.
“Jake,” Buck said more calmly. He tried his damnedest to force his quivering lips into a smile. “I just wanted to say something to you, since I never got to know you good. You being so busy working for Mr. Thompson, and me, for Old Man Blough.” Buck paused to flick his tongue over his parched mouth.
“It's just that everybody says you're sure enough four-square, Jake, and that's how you've tried to treat me so far today. I wanted to thank you.”
Strickland tried to speak, but he found something thick and lumpy stuck in the base of his throat.
Damned babyface! he thought in angry frustration as he noticed the chestnut hair that spilled boyishly across Buck's forehead. The kid looked more like a fresh-scrubbed altar boy from back east than any cattle rustler
he'd
ever seen!
Coughing into one of his large hands, Strickland swallowed several times in an effort to bury his feelings.
“What's your whole name, kid?” he asked gruffly.
“Peter D. Buckow,” the thief replied as a glint of hope in his wide eyes stabbed his questioner. “Never knew what the D stands for.”
Doomed
, Jake answered inwardly, with a sense of wry despair...
or maybe damned
. He shivered as he heard the disgusted, impatient sigh that escaped the deputy sheriff sitting on horseback above him. Glancing up at Newt Yocum, he saw the ugly, taunting gleam in his dark eyes.
“All right, Newt,” he heard himself say with a sickening calmness. “I'll fasten the rope for you.”
Buck's gasp of disbelief tore at Jake. He turned and ducked behind the cottonwood, searching for the perfect root to suit his purpose.
“Now, boy, you know I can't help you. It wouldn't be right.”
He spoke softly as he bent to his work, but his brain said something different. Strickland felt the kid's stare searing him clean through the hanging tree.
The deputy and his duo grunted their satisfaction at what they thought was a sensible decision. But Buck went into a near state of shock over the failure of his last-ditch effort.
Why
, he thought,
Jake was no help, not a good man at allânot even any better than Yocum and his crew
.
He didn't hear any more as he turned in on himself. Buck scrabbled through his dusty memories for the Deity his mother had so lovingly spoken about when he was a little lad.
Ma had always seemed to him to be passive and sluggish, like a lazy stream. She'd showed no gumption at all. She married a cruel lout a year after the murder of Buck's pa. She allowed him to insult and beat her boy for no reason. Yet, when it came to spouting off about the Bible or the Lord, that she did with ready enthusiasm.
Buck squeezed his eyes shut in earnest concentration.
God, if you're real, if you're there, you got to help me. You get me out of this alive and I swear to you, I'll be the most honest man ever was born. I don't begin to know how I'll do that, but I promise
.
A jerk at his toes finished Buck's meditation abruptly. He opened his eyes to see Willy and Clem on either side of him. They had pulled his feet out of the stirrups, clear away so they didn't touch anything.
He wondered if that would help him die easier, if he didn't get hung up. Buck considered it as he felt the twins' harsh tugging to see how firmly his hands were tied behind his back. He grimmaced, sweat pouring down his face. Willy knocked his flat-brimmed hat to the ground, guffawing as he tightened the noose.
Why did Newt Yocum hate him? Buck asked himself frantically. It had to be more than his rebranding Mr. Blough's steers, because that wasn't even so wrong. Buck was owed that much, and Newt knew it.
