Diamond Buckow (7 page)

Throwing the saddle on, he started around the enclosure. As he moved along, leading the small grulla, Buck nearly stumbled over a still form that huddled on the ground.

Must be a drunk, he thought with disgust. Well, at least that was one weakness
he
dido't have. Or maybe the man was dead—he'd better have a look. As he stepped around the motionless figure, he saw a leg thrust forward.

Damn it! Buck swore in silent dismay. It was Russ, his former riding partner from Glenn's outfit. Buck had ridden with him enough times to recognize the cracked, run-over boots. He bent to turn the inert heap face-up, and Russ groaned. The reeking smell of cheap whiskey floated up.

He leaned down and shook his old saddlemate roughly.

“Russ, Russ. Come on, man. What are you doing here? Get up.”

“Huh?”

The bigger man moved painfully, trying to straighten his cramped muscles and sit up.

“Ohhhh. Ahhhh. Oh, God, I wished I was dead.”

He went limp like a wet saloon rag, slumping back to the hard earth. “Let me be, goddamn it. Can't you see I'm sick?”

Buck was tempted to just walk away. After all, he didn't owe Russ anything. Damned fool to get himself in such a state. But then he glanced at the cowpoke's greenish, awful-looking face, and decided to give it one more try.

“Come on, Russ. Get up. I'll buy.”

The drunk's face turned a little. One bloodshot eye opened as he tried to get the voice into focus with its speaker.

“Who are you, boy? Do I know you?”

As if he'd found some new source of energy, Russ lurched to his feet. He wove a crazy pattern as he reached out to cling to the corral fence behind him.

“Why, I'll be. That you, Buck?”

“Yeah, it's me. What in tarnation happened to you? I thought you'd be over in Colorado by now, still headed west.”

“It's a long story. Did I hear you say, you'd buy?”

“Yes, you did. But I never said
what
I'd buy,” Buck answered in a wry tone.

“Come on, let me help you. It's not too far up the street. We're going to get some solid breakfast into you at the restaurant.”

As Buck got Russ's left arm over his shoulder and his own right arm around the fellow, Russ began to protest.

“I don' wanna eat. Wan' another drink. Don' know what-samatter with the liquor in this town, though. Stuff tastes funny. Grows fuzz on my tongue.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Buck muttered as they zigzagged in the right direction.

Hell of a thing! He'd wanted no part of anything related to Saltwell, yet here he was with old Russ. Wobbling around and looking just as drunk as him.

At last they reeled through the front door of the same eatery where Buck had met Sarah. The sudden thought of her made him feel better and worse all at the same time. He deliberately dumped the trail hand onto a backless counter stool. If Russ was forced to
sit
up, maybe he'd
sober
up, too.

“Two coffees,” he told the morning manager, who hadn't been there the day before. He'd never seen this one.

“I'll have a regular full breakfast, and my...uh...friend, here, will have whatever you prescribe for a hangover.”

The balding proprietor stared over his horn-rimmed glasses, first at Russ and then at Buck. The silence grew so loud that the rhythmic tick of a clock filled the room. After a good, long minute the slightly built gentleman put a pair of fragrant, steaming tin mugs in front of them. He left a metal pitcher containing more coffee near Buck's elbow.

Without a word, he reached under the counter and produced a black quart bottle, pouring a generous shot into Russ's hot brew. Leveling one last sharp glance which seemed to blend pity with outrage at the drunk, he replaced the bottle and went into the kitchen.

Buck sipped at his strong, dark drink while watching his companion out of the comer of his eye. Russ wrapped both hands around his mug, then bending his head low, he tasted the liquid without lifting the mug from the counter. His embarrassed partner pretended not to notice as the cowboy repeated his actions several times.

At length Russ raised the mug to his lips and slurped noisily. He cleared his throat and growled three or four times.

“That helps. I just might decide to live, after all.”

He wiped his mouth on a dirty sleeve while Buck took hold of the coffee pitcher and poured him a second.

“Goddamn, Buck,” he muttered. “I'd'a swore you didn't like me. Why for'd'you save my life?”

Buck shrugged. “Would've done the same for 'most anybody.”

That is, anybody other than Glenn Saltwell, he added to himself—or that murdering bastard, Red Pierce. He shifted closer to Russ.

“You still got any of the money you were paid day before yesterday?”

The drunk on his right gazed up at him. Buck was reminded of his Uncle Ed and the times he'd had to dry
him
out. When Russ spoke, his voice was still a little thick, and somehow sour, as if he could hardly stand the lingering aftertaste.

“No, kid, I don't think I got any money left. Fact is, I know I don't. I lost it all playin' poker.”

He heaved his shoulders and sighed with a melodramatic whiskey sadness.

“What the hell, I might as well admit it. I'll never make it. It just ain't in me to be clean or decent.”

Buck watched Russ. This man had showed real strength and stamina on the trail, but none of that was apparent now. He looked beaten, pathetic.

Buck heard himself saying, “I've got a line on a job out of town here aways. You want to ride along and see if the rancher can use two?”

The moist, blurry eyes fastened on him again. “You know, you're the first hombre ever tried to help me. I don't rightly know how to answer you.”

He was spared that as the breakfast came and Buck attacked it without wasting any more words. After three mugs of coffee, food looked good to Russ, and he called for a plate of the same.

As he was finishing, a man in his middle years came in and thundered, “Breakfast!” at the manager.

Buck took note of his Stetson hat, hand-tooled boots, and a pearl-handled gun resting in a black leather holster. Judging the newcomer to be a prosperous rancher, he faced up to him.

“Beg pardon, but could you tell me the whereabouts of the Standing Arrow ranch? I'm told a Henry Blough might be looking for a hand.”

The rancher rumbled, “I've known Henry for several years. As to whether he's looking for help or not, that I don't know. But I'll tell you this: the only directions I give a stranger are those that lead him out of this part of the country.”

Buck's eyes glittered with cold fire as he looked into a face that had been rough-chiseled with lines and planes of determination.

But his voice sounded mild as he said, “They call me Buck. Now you know my name, which is more than I know about you.”

The big man took his time looking Buck over. “Take it you're new to this part of Kansas?” he finally said.

Not about to admit he came up the trail from Texas, Buck replied, “That's right. But I'm honest, and I do know how to handle cattle. And I also need a job.”

The rancher's breakfast came. As he turned his attention toward his food, he merely breathed a weighty, “Hmm,” at Buck.

Rebuffed, Buck glanced over at the silent Russ, who was just finishing the last of his coffee. Buck guessed as he counted out money for two meals that the rancher didn't trust anybody. He reckoned he'd have to try and find some other source of information. He and his old saddlemate got up to leave.

As Buck reached the door, the well-dressed man muttered, without looking up or turning his head, “My name's Daniel Thompson. I own the Double P out west of here. If you still want to get to the Blough place, take the west trail to the second fork, then go south. If you leave right away, you ought to get there by midafternoon.”

Buck's angular face nearly split from the grin that knifed across it. “Thanks, Mr. Thompson. I really do appreciate it. Thanks very much.”

This time the older man did look up, a strange smile of his own playing along his square features.

“Just tell Old Man Blough that Wide Loop sent you.”

“Wide Loop?” Russ demanded, as soon as they were on the street and out of earshot.

“Why would a feller call himself by a handle like that?”

“Don't know,” Buck answered, shaking his head. “But I'm wondering what kind of range it is, where he'd come right out and tell that to a stranger.”

He led his mount as they walked back down the street to get Russ's cayuse from the corral. While he waited for the trail hand to snake out his horse and slap the hull on, Buck's jaw dropped at the sight of Glenn Saltwell approaching him with deliberate steps.

“'Morning, kid,” he drawled, flashing that effortless trademark smile of his. “You still sore at me, or are you ready to talk business?”

His body drawn taut immediately, Buck snapped, “I'm not looking for trouble, and I'm not willing to talk about anything with you.”

As they stood glowering at each other, Russ walked up, leading his horse.

“Well, howdy, Boss,” he greeted Glenn, sounding pleased. “Thought you'd be halfway back to Texas by now.”

“No, I'm still here. Had a change of plans, and I'm looking for some good riders who have nerve. You want to throw in with me?”

He was speaking to Russ, but his hard, shrewd eyes were on Buck.

The now-sober trail hand didn't consider for even the space of a second before he said, “I'll be glad to ride with you again. What's chances for a good profit?”

Buck's glare pierced into Russ. “I thought you wanted to go straight.”

The cowpoke looked at his boots, shamed and uncomfortable.

“Well, hell, you know how it is,” he managed at last, with a feeble laugh. “I still need a stake, 'cause I lost the last one I had. But the next time it'll be different.”

Before Buck could make his hot retort, Saltwell cut in smoothly.

“Good, Russ, I'll be happy to have you.”

He turned just as pleasantly to Buck. “You're free to change your mind. If or when you do, I'll be in and out of Dodge at least 'til spring.”

Glenn Saltwell changed his weight from one foot to the other as an unyielding tone came into his voice.

“On the other hand, if you're working for some rancher around here, you better just forget you ever knew me, or what my business is.”

His meaning was unmistakable, and once again Buck felt seared through with consuming hatred. Only with tremendous effort did he manage to mount and ride off.

The winter sun had slipped from the sky, and the ever-present wind of western Kansas drove the chill through to the bone. Buck's feet were like blocks of ice, his fingers stiff on the bridle reins.

He rode toward Dodge from the west, slumped in the saddle. Most times he could hardly wait to see Sarah, but the last two paydays had been a different story. Just how long, he wondered angrily, was he supposed to work for a man before he got some money for his time and muscle?

After all, Buck had things he wanted to do. He would have liked to take Sarah to the Saturday square dance, and he needed warmer socks and gloves. And another thought kept bothering him as well: what if Ainsworth dragged Sarah away before he was in a position to do anything about it?

Damn it! he swore to himself through gritted teeth. Old Man Blough just
had
to come across with the wages he owed. The closer Buck got to town, the more dangerous was his state of mind. By the time he tied his mare in front of Henderson's his mood was murderous.

Slamming through the front door of the merchandise store, he strode the length of the narrow first room and into the ladies' section without thinking. He was aware of no one other than the slender blond girl he had come to see.

“Sarah,” he blurted out, with no preamble. “My tightwad boss didn't pay me again this month, and so I reckon I can't take you to the hoedown tonight. This is the third time in a row he's managed not to be around when I was set to saddle up.”

Abruptly, Buck stopped talking when it dawned on him that they were not alone. Two faces were turned earnestly toward him—Sarah's, and Nancy Blough's. Buck's own features flushed at what his employer's wife had heard him say. He hadn't expected to find her in the millinery at just this moment. And yet, she certainly seemed to be his friend. Even now, her rich brown gaze was full of concern and kindness.

Not the kind of woman to hide in the house and make herself scarce, Nancy was someone to talk to and depend on in the much older and harsher world of a working ranch. She felt lost in this land of limitless space, so different from the safe, close confines of her former life in Saint Louis. And Buck made her laugh.

He in turn poured out his hopes of redeeming his family's name, of being an honest, ambitious man. Her grave, dark eyes always upheld his dreams. Yes, they were friends, and his swift, furtive glance in her direction confirmed that he hadn't offended Mrs. Blough.

Sarah gulped and swallowed hard at Buck's words. “Oh, I
am
sorry.”

She flashed a sweet smile as a glint came to her bright green eyes. “But I have enough to pay our way in, if you'll still take me.”

“No!” Nancy cut in, her low voice unusually sharp. “I'll give him the money and it can count against his wages.”

She searched Buck's face, her sense of his feelings evident. “That will be better, Buck. I'll simply ask Henry to deduct the amount when he
does
settle up with you.”

He stared from Sarah to the slightly older woman in confused misery. His eyes locked with Nancy's.

“You can't do that, Mrs. Blough. Your man would get mad. Remember the first payday, when I told you he'd passed me by? We both thought it was an honest mistake, but when you reminded him—well, I always
thought
that was how you got that awful bruise on your cheek.”