Diamond Buckow (12 page)

“That trail was mine, and it's far from being hot. I don't take kindly to your followin' me.”

Newt squinted his ugly dark eyes, his mind off on a different tack.

“Wasn't quite after
you
, Mr. Top Hand. So put that cannon aside and git out of my way, or I'll have to arrest you for obstructin' justice.”

The gun came up and steadied on Yocum's chest.

“This isn't the other day, when we hanged that young kid. I've talked to my boss, and he'll back me in whatever I do. Even if it was to take the form of killing a deputy that's not fit to wear his badge.”

Yocum grinned disarmingly. “Now, that's real funny, that is. Old Wide Loop sure can put on whatever hat he wants to. First he gits himself that there nickname, then him and Blough bring me in to stop the cattle from disappearin'. And now you're a-tellin' me he wouldn't mind if you was to kill the very deputy he hired to ketch the rustlers?”

“Newt, I don't know whether or not he earned being called Wide Loop. It ain't my business. As to what he might've told you or not told you, I couldn't care less. He and I talked as recent as mid-morning today. If I got to choose between what he said then and what you say he told you several weeks ago, why, I got no trouble at all!”

Newt's grin slipped from his face as he growled, “I think you're a-bluffin'.”

“If that's what you think, then it's your move.”

The loud click of the gun hammer being pulled back to full cock emphasized Jake's stand.

Willy and Clem exchanged nervous glances, their skin going a little pale under the many layers of sun and dirt. Even Yocum 's voice betrayed a tremor of strain.

“Hell, let me explain. We had us a visitor at the Standing Arrow last night. Then this morning when Blough told me the mare belongin' to the kid we strung up was gone, I began to wonder. Well, the more I worried the more confused I got. So I sent Clem, here, to see if the kid was still a-hangin' there. He come back and said he was gone entire.”

“What do you want from me?” Jake's tone was calm. “I rode away the same time as you. Never heard tell of a man livin' through being hanged. You sure that nitwit went to the right tree?”

A murderous flare shot through Clem's eyes and tensed his body. Willy laughed at the insult. But Newt quelled them both with a quick look.

“I knowed you was agin it in the first place,” the deputy said to Jake. “So, well, hell, I jist thought mebbe you went back to bury him. And mebbe, you know, you found him not quite dead and carted him off.”

He sneaked a direct look into Jake's gunmetal eyes. Streams of sweat poured off his square face, making stripes in the dirt down his cheeks.

“If that's the way it was, why—uh, well, I guess since you're the one's a-holdin' the iron, I won't arrest you. But if you know where he is, jist tell me and we'll count it even.”

“That's real generous of you, Newt.”

Jake worked on the wry sarcasm. He wanted Buck to hear what he said, to realize the strength he couldn't dare show the day of the hanging.

“But I can't tell you where he might be by this time, and that's the truth of it.”

Despite Yocum's air of casualness, Strickland noticed the restless movement of the deputy's stud. He was aware that the rider kept his mount on edge, lightly flicking his spurred boot against his flank.

“Newt, you tum that horse so I can see your gun hand real plain. That goes for you other two as well. Real careful, Newt. If that stud should get excited and move fast, I'd have no choice. I'd just shoot you right out of the saddle.”

Yocum gulped and gave a sick smile. “Whatever you say, Mr. Top Hand. Looks like if you ain't a-goin' to help us, we'd best ride on. Only remember, I ain't one to forget a body's a-holdin' a gun on me.”

“Wouldn't want you to forget, because next time somebody might die.”

Jaws taut, Jake added, “If you're thinking to leave here with loaded guns, you think some more on it. You first, Newt. Take that sidearm out real slow and easy, then just drop it on the ground.”

Yocum complied, black hate on his face as his weapon hit earth.

“The long one, too,” Jake directed as his eyes searched their saddles and discovered the deputy's rifle.

Newt tossed it down, swearing. “I'm a-warnin'you, Strickland. The penalties is stiff fer disarmin' a lawman.”

Jake snorted. “I got a hunch it'd be a lot worse to let you keep your hardware. You twins do like your boss did, take 'em out slow and let 'em fall.”

In one motion, the brothers deposited their guns on the sod.

“Lest you say I'm thieving, I'll see you all get your property back by sunup,” Strickland promised.

“Now start back the same way you came. Stick to a steady, even pace because I'll keep you in sight of this Winchester. If you got a complaint, why, come to the Double P in the morning and we'll take it up with Mr. Thompson.”

As the three rode slowly east, mumbling and cursing, Jake gathered up all the weapons. Then he spoke softly out of the comer of his mouth.

“Buck, I'll be leavin' your sixgun on this stump, here. Good luck.”

Buck felt overwhelmed. Everything had happened too fast.

“Thanks, Jake,” he breathed. “I don't know what to say. This is the second time you've saved my neck. Are you sure you won't be on the wrong side of the fence with your boss for what you just did?”

Strickland turned his large body, enough both to watch the retreat of Newt and his crew, and to talk low to Buck at the same time.

“Let me worry about that. I may have stretched Thompson's attitude a little, but not as much as you might think. He told me this morning, ‘I'm about through with this Yocum fellow. He doesn't recover any cattle, which is what he was hired for. All he's managed to do so far is to hang a kid not yet dry behind the ears.”'

Buck exhaled a deep sigh of relief, as if that statement somehow gave him a wisp of hope to snatch at.

Jake couldn't fathom Buck's thoughts as he commanded him, “Stay out of sight, but bring me my sorrel. I'll watch them aways, 'til you can get started out of here.”

Within moments Strickland felt the leather reins in his right hand.

“I took the provider sack,” Buck said. “And, Jake, do you need that rifle? I was thinking I might have need of it, and I know for a fact it ain't Yocum's. I seen him, uh, borrow it from Old Man Blough one time.”

Jake thought for several seconds, and finally answered with reluctance.

“OK. Dark as it's gettin', they couldn't see whether I got it or not. Just remember where it came from, and be careful how you use it.”

Strickland swung up into his saddle and rode after the posse trio, who showed faint outlines against the rim of the fast-falling night.

Buck stared into the darkness where Jake had disappeared. He still could hardly believe what had just happened. This was the second time Jake had gotten him out of trouble, when nobody else had ever before stood up for him.

Not his sister, Rebekah, who had laughed at his efforts on behalf of her honor. Not his mother, who without protest had let her second husband abuse him. Not even Uncle Ed, who sympathized with a listening ear, but who backed into a bottle rather than defend or fight for a boy who needed a champion.

The grulla mare tossed her head impatiently, snapping him back from his thoughts. He knew that if Jake's bluff was to count for anything, he had to move. But he didn't know where to go. Strickland had followed Yocum eastward, so he figured that west would do for starters. He tightened the saddle cinch and hove up.

The night was black, with no trace of daylight left. The moon wouldn't be up for an hour or so, Buck judged. He let the mouse-brown pick her own way and gait, knowing she'd choose the path of least resistance and not silhouette him against the sky. He also knew she was sure-footed, and not likely to step into any holes. Thus assured, he concentrated on using his ears instead of his eyes.

After some time, Buck got a strong sense of having been in this place before. He couldn't have said what it was, but he stopped his mount and looked around. The newly risen moon made the ground seem flat, although he knew it wasn't.

He eased the mare to the left. Within just a few more paces, she was definitely going down a slight slope. A hundred or more yards, and he recognized the shallow basin where Newt Yocum had caught him using the running iron.

Once again Buck experienced the whole terrible day. The diamond-shaped scars on his neck began to burn with an intensity that drove away all his consciousness of the present. Not realizing he'd used his spurs, he was oblivious to his mount and the direction she took.

As minutes passed, the little mare slowed to a safer gait. She followed her instinct, and went back up the stream. The same stream they'd worked down on that fateful day, trying to get enough cattle marked with the pine tree brand to make up for the money Blough owed Buck.

Eventually Buck became aware of the horse under him. His thoughts settled down. He wondered what he should do. Would he dare stay around this range and try to clear his name, or would he have to give up and run? He could probably catch up with Sarah Ainsworth, but he didn't know if he wanted to.

After all, he'd always carry the scars of his hanging, and no girl would want to sit across the table from
that
the rest of her life! Or so he thought. A huge sigh shuddered his thin frame. No, he was sure now, he wouldn't seek her out. But if he stayed, how in hell could he go about making himself an honest Buckow?

The mare halted, and Buck saw the old soddy where he had spent the early part of the previous night. He couldn't help but ponder as to why he'd been brought there again. As he sat contemplating, the mouse-brown shook her head and rattled the bridle. Then she struck out with her right forefoot, like she was trying to tell him something.

“OK, old girl, you win,” Buck said aloud. “We'll stay the rest of the night.”

Sliding out of the saddle, he pulled off the heavy rig and slipped the bridle over the mare's ears. He turned her loose without hobbling her, but was instantly sorry.

Now, that was a damned fool thing to do, he cursed to himself. Any outlaw worth his salt would keep his horse close, so's he could mount and run fast. Oh, what the hell! Anybody who wanted to find him would have to track him from where he'd met Jake, and nobody knew for sure he'd been there. Of course, the whole range knew by now he was still alive—that he hadn't died when that bastard strung him up.

Once again Buck's neck scars were on fire. Only now he was aware of the passage of time. As he pored over the circumstances of his hanging, his ever-present hatred of Newt Yocum flared up. He asked himself how a fellow could go straight with a malicious bonehead of a deputy after him.

Buck had thought Glenn Saltwell was bad, but, alongside of Yocum and Henry Blough, the trail chief now seemed damned near honest. At least Glenn would stand right there face-to-face and look you in the eye while he was cheating you.

The hell with all this, Buck decided angrily as he worked his bed-blanket up over him. He guessed he'd just be a straightforward cattle thief. That's what he'd do, all right. He'd just be an honest
rustler
.

But his sleep was restless, and Buck woke up in a foul mood. He felt he'd better not build a fire, that smoke could be seen a long way off.
Cold
jerky and the lack of coffee for breakfast didn't improve his disposition. His mind turned toward planning what to do in his outlaw state. He figured he needed to get good with a gun. Someday he'd meet Newt Yocum again, and he wanted to be sure of himself when that day came.

Buck settled down to practice his draw, although he was afraid to risk the noise of actually shooting at a target. He adjusted the gun belt several times until it felt like it fit just the right spot on his hip. The more he worked over the next couple of days, the faster he got. But if the gun clung to the holster for even a fraction of a second, Buck thought that this tiny space might mean the difference between life and death.

He found a piece of rawhide and tied the bottom of the holster to his leg. Then he cut away some leather at the top of the holster. When the gun still dragged against the inside of its sheath, Buck filed off its front sight. Three days of trial and error, and finally the weapon slid out smoothly. All he needed now to outdraw Yocum was a lot of practice.

With a trace of bitterness, Buck realized he'd gone with nothing hot or sustaining to eat and drink these past three days. He'd lived almost entirely on beef jerky and hate, mixed with fear.

Often he'd interrupted his learning of the gun to go up to the knoll and look carefully in all directions. But now, today, was the fourth day. If somebody
was
seeking him out, they weren't very active about it. He decided to build a fire and to move around the soddy and corral.

Refreshed by the heavier meal and his growing sense of safety, Buck returned to practicing his draw. To increase his skill, he'd turn suddenly as his weapon cleared leather. Other times he dived behind a rock or some brush as he pulled the gun out. He went on this way, taking himself a few yards away from the old sod house.

An unexpected noise from behind startled Buck. As he whirled and fired in a newly automatic movement, a cottontail burst from concealment. He saw his lead kick up dust a good foot-and-a-half behind the bounding rabbit.

Not so good, he thought ruefully as he pushed a shock of dark auburn hair out of his eyes. Wasn't much use hitting where the object
was
, you had to shoot where he
is
. Buck guessed that went for a man as well as a jack.

After that he deliberately searched for moving targets. Yet he always watched that the gun noise didn't bring unwanted visitors. As the days passed, both his speed and aim improved until he could hit a running rabbit once every three times. Trouble was, Buck was all but exhausting the supply of cottontails around the soddy.