Diamond Buckow (9 page)

Buck hesitated. “I don't want you buying my beer.”

Saltwell and his worker exchanged a hurried glance, and Russ nodded, moving his head only a fraction.

“Never mind that, friend,” he said. “I'm a-payin'. 'Sides, I owe you 'n'other'n for all you done for me t'other time. You go on with Glenn, now, 'n' I'll bring the drinks along.”

Buck thought a minute, finally shrugged, and followed the trail chief into the shadows. By now he was a bit light-headed, and decided it
would
feel good to sit in a chair. He was glad he didn't drink, or want to drink, this way very often.

All through the early spring Buck rode from sunup until twilight. Working Blough's cattle, he did everything possible for one man to do. Yet, the whole time it had been as if he were two people, arguing the same facts back and forth, back and forth.

The boy, Peter Buckow, still held onto most of the high ideals he'd had when he ran away from home. Buck, the loner, on the other hand, had quickly learned some of the hard facts of life.

It was this last side he let other folks see, while he tried to bury the child he couldn't make himself forget. But out on the range in the quiet, the two sides of his personality debated constantly.

Part of him didn't know why he'd gone back to that table in the saloon to listen to Glenn and Russ. What they wanted him to do went against everything he believed in.

Yet those beliefs didn't work so well once he got out into the world. Here, a man had to be strong enough to go and take what was due him, if he really meant to have it. Since Old Man Blough hadn't paid up, the only way to get his money was to find a way to take it.

But just to steal some cattle and sell them to Saltwell? If he'd do that, he'd actually be a no-account rustler. And if he got caught, the boss would never pay him.

No, but at least he'd get what was owed him.

Or would he? If he was found out before the steers were sold, Mr. Blough would just take them back and still hold off on his wages.

So what? he challenged himself. The way it was going, it looked like he'd come out empty-handed unless he tried to collect. And, chances were, nobody'd ever know. Why, he could push a few head over to Glenn, be well paid for it, and never get caught. According to how his tightwad boss ran things, he didn't even know how much stock he had, or what the increase in new calves came to. Since Buck had been there, he plain hadn't gotten time to brand more than half of last spring's calf crop.

Yet he knew he'd stand getting caught a sight easier than he would getting away with it. And, anyhow, he couldn't much abide to live with himself afterwards. That kind of business was no way to be an honest Buckow.

He clamped his jaws together, pushing a sweaty strand of chestnut hair off his forehead. All right. Now that he thought he'd settled his argument with himself, he'd go and approach Henry Blough one more time about his wages. He also considered he should ride into Dodge, come night, and apologize to Sarah over that Saturday after the dance.

Yes, but...a demon sat on his shoulder.... But if the boss wouldn't pay him, he'd look up Glenn while he was in town this evening.

Still, his good side insisted, it was wrong. He'd get into real trouble and never make anything of himself.

It was almost closing time when Buck tied his horse in front of the merchandise store. He nodded briefly at Mr. Henderson and the man's late customer, heading toward the millinery and Sarah. To his surprise, he found the ladies' section unlit and vacant. As he turned to leave in confusion, he noticed the shopper out front had gone.

The proprietor was eyeing him sadly. “I take it you're looking for the Ainsworth girl. Right?”

Buck nodded without words as a sinking feeling lodged in his gut.

Mr. Henderson shook his head as if in sympathy, his voice soft with regret.

“I'm sorry to have to tell you this, lad, but she left on Tuesday with her father. They were headed for Oregon.”

Buck's mouth flew open, and at the same time his knees felt like they'd turned to water. He grasped the edge of the counter, hanging on so hard that his knuckles went white. At length his lips came back together, and he demanded to know what in hell had happened.

“Well, Sarah wanted to stay here and go on working for my wife, but her daddy wouldn't hear of it. Mean drunk he was, hateful and threatening. So the girl approached my missus about hiding her, but of course I had to put a stop to anything illegal. And on Tuesday she left, crying, riding a wagon with some other settlers while Ainsworth drove their second team.”

Henderson saw the gleam of hope fade from Buck's eyes as he left without another word. Like a blind man, he plunged into the Saturday night crowds of Dodge City.

He had to go, Buck thought thickly. He had to get the money Blough owed him. He had to find Saltwell. He had to follow Sarah and find her. He wanted to be with her.

His numbness crumbling, it smoldered awhile. Then a strong resolve began, and grew into flames that wanted to consume him. Find Sarah...claim her...unleash his pent-up flood of longing.

Buck found Saltwell playing poker; intent on the cards in his hand, Glenn was unaware of the approach of his former trail hand. But Russ, who sat facing the door, watched Buck's progress across the crowded room. He cleared his throat loudly as a signal, and Saltwell raised his eyes.

“Well, Buck! Are you looking for me?”

“Yeah. I want to talk to you. Alone.”

The low, grim reply made Russ and his boss study Buck's face. A brief, questioning glance shot between them as Saltwell got out of his chair.

“Wait, boys, this won't take long,” he said to the card players.

He left his hand face-down on the table and led Buck to a dark corner.

“If we talk quietly, no one will hear us. By the look of you, I'd guess you've decided to do business with me?”

“Yeah, I reckon,” Buck muttered. “I'll round up enough steers to cover my back wages. Where do I deliver them? And how much are they bringin' these days?”

Satisfaction spread across Glenn's features.

“The price in Dodge right now is ten a head. And I'm glad you finally saw the light, Buck. But, listen, I have to get back to my poker game before they skin me alive. Russ will tell you where, and you tell him when.”

He started away, then turned back, the smirky smile gone.

“The sooner, the better. Oh, by the way, I'm sure you're smart enough no to try to set a trap for us. Even if both Russ and I were taken out, we have several others in our employ who'd be delighted to cut down a double-crosser.”

Buck watched the tall thief cross to his table. It's no trap, you bastard, he thought resentfully. But he wished to God it was.

Somebody took over for Russ, and Buck went to meet him. He was eager to finish the thing and get away from what suddenly seemed like foul air in the saloon. All he wanted was enough to pay for the work he'd done, so he could be long gone. Gone after Sarah, and a future of his own.

“The sooner, the better,” Saltwell had said.

Well, that fit Buck like an old weathered boot, too, in his hurry to go to Oregon. In fact, the boss kept him so busy around the ranch building that he didn't have time to look up unbranded stock. He merely pushed the first ten steers he could get hold of on to the meet with Glenn.

The results were disastrous. On his way back from the delivery, he tried to sort it all out in his mind. Glenn Saltwell claimed never to have promised ten dollars a head. He'd merely quoted that as the going rate in Dodge. Therefore, he refused to pay a penny more than thirty.

Damn it all, that wasn't enough! Buck fumed, slapping his thigh with his wide-brimmed hat.

Thirty dollars, when Old Man Blough owed him a hundred! What in hell was he going to do? He wondered if he should just take what he'd gotten and clear out. Or maybe he should try to get the rest. Three ten dollar gold pieces wouldn't be much if he had to go all the way across the country. Especially since that tightwad still owed him seventy, besides.

Buck was still pondering the next morning. He saddled up in the first light before daybreak and rode out for his work on the range. Not wanting to chance running into one of Wide Loop Thompson's riders, he kept to the lower ground, off the skyline, moving southwest.

Near noon, having covered ground with a relentless gait, Buck's little grulla brought him to an abandoned sod house and pole corral. Here, the issue was finally decided for him when he found a number of cattle around a spring.

There were two old mossy-horned cows that carried Henry Blough's Standing Arrow brand, and a bull marked with the Double P. Buck saw half a dozen younger animals that had never strained against a rope or felt the hot iron burning their hair and hide.

The reluctant rustler started a small fire of chips to heat the running iron Saltwell had given him. The device was intended to turn the Standing Arrow into a pine tree. After branding the few head of two- and three-year-olds around the soddy, Buck grew curious about the headwater that produced a small stream, even as dry as the weather was. He rode downstream, trying to find which river it drained into.

On the way he found a wealth of unbranded cattle. As he went along, he used the running iron to produce the pine tree brand on only the most saleable. He thought he'd ask Glenn to loan him the use of Russ, to help him comb out those he'd marked, when the time came to get them to market.

Buck stopped to rest beside the slowly moving water and to mull over how good it would be to have a ranch of his own. Lots of space here, and all these cattle of Blough's, along with some that should have been Thompson's. He was finding proof, the length of the stream, that neither rancher covered this western edge of the range.

Hell, yes, there was plenty of room for one more, he decided happily. When he got himself squared away with a little money, he could come over here and start his own ranch. After he found Sarah, and brought her home.

Back in the saddle, Buck was figuring. Only a couple more, and he could stop putting on the pine tree and start to-to what? Mark them with Blough's Standing Arrow, or should he start his own brand?

His question went unanswered as he gave chase to a wild two-year-old up a draw that ran in an easterly direction. Several times he missed with his Mexican lariat, and with each attempt he became more determined to catch the skittery maverick. When he finally brought it to the ground in a shallow basin, he was a long way from the last fire he'd used to heat the iron.

Buck looked up at the position of the sun and judged it'd be easier to build a fire right here than to drag his critter back. Besides, he planned to head on east for the bunkhouse when he finished with this one. Never mind the couple more he'd counted on. He was so bone-tired now, he was about to drop.

He left his mare leaning her weight into the rope to hold the downed animal in place. While he waited for the iron to get hot, his mind drifted back to the notion of his own ranch. If he could persuade Sarah Ainsworth to come with him, to marry up, why, maybe....

Buck's daydream trailed off as the running iron glowed cherry-red. He picked it up and went to the captured two-year-old. As he finished burning the pine tree into its hide, a voice from behind him gave him an awful start.

“A real artist with that rustler's tool, ain't you?”

Buck dropped the iron and swung around to face his accuser, his hand going to his hip. But it was no use. Three guns were pointed at him.

Newt Yocum, who had been sharing the bunkhouse, said, “Well, well. Looks like we done solved the mystery as to where the stock has been goin' of late.”

His deputy's badge caught a glint of sunlight as he turned to the blank-looking pair of twins beside him.

“Clem, you get his gun. Willy, bring up the kid's horse and turn his catch loose. Then get him in the saddle with his hands tied behind him. Come on, let's move.”

While Newt kept him covered, Clem pulled Buck's gun from the holster, giving him a violent shove. Forced to take a step to the side, Buck regained his balance to see Wide Loop Thompson's top hand approaching. Jake Strickland was coming over the rim of the basin, leading the mounts of the other three.

Strickland rode up with a cold flame in his gray eyes.

“Did you really think you could get away with it? That everybody on this range was so stupid, you wouldn't get caught? Just what in hell is the matter with you?”

Buck hung his head in shame.

After several fruitless tries, he finally managed to stammer, “Jake I, uh,—well, you see, it was like this. I worked four months for Mr. Blough, and he never paid me. Not once. Well, my girl had to leave for Oregon against her will, and I aim to follow her. I was only taking what's due me, nothing more. It's just...can't you see?”

He stared helplessly from one to the other of his captors. He saw no hope for himself in any face. Or
was
there a touch of sympathy in Jake's? But he was roughly forced onto his grulla, and as they headed east toward Blough 's place, Buck didn't think he stood a chance.

He was a dirty thief. He was sure his chances of turning into an honest Buckow had just run out.

He wished he could get another look at Strickland's craggy features. Had he seen the faintest glimmer of hope there, or a willingness to help him? God, he didn't know—he just did not know. Only when the forward motion of his mare stopped did he glance up. Buck saw that they'd halted under a wind-blasted cottonwood tree, on the bank of a wet weather stream. And that was where they hanged Peter Buckow.

Jake Strickland returned to the old cottonwood slowly, half afraid of what he might find. The kid was mostlike dead, the top hand told himself. After all, he hadn't gotten much time to make sure the knot would slide off that root.