Diamond Buckow (4 page)

Digging around in his bag, Buckow found the only tool of self-defense he owned. A real, honest-to-God Bowie knife. Once he fastened the sheath, he felt better. After all, it was a formidable thing. He had practiced with it without his mother's ever finding out. She would have just thrown a fit.

She almost did, that time he'd told her he wanted a real gun and holster. But since he didn't have enough of his own money for it, anyhow, he had let the matter drop. Now as he headed toward the center of town, he touched the sheath several times. His hand needed to know where to find that knife, just in case.

The size of San Antonio surprised Pete as his alert gaze took in the surroundings. No one would ever find him in a town this big, he reasoned. Not that anyone would want to look. But, anyway, he guessed he shouldn't ever say too much about himself, if he was to start new. Someone wanted his name, he'd just say, “Buck,” and let it go at that.

As he rounded a corner, he discovered that he was in a different world. He had never seen so many kinds of wagons and buggies, and saddle horses filled the tie-rails on both sides of the street.

Awestruck, Buck paused to lean against the end of a hitching post as he considered a plan of action. He'd have to get a job if he wanted to eat. The stage fare had taken most of his small savings. But where to start? He didn't know anything about the city.

Something Uncle Ed had once told him came to mind: “A saloon's the best place they is to find out what's goin' on.”

Yeah, that was good, Buck thought, snapping his fingers. But he could see four of those establishments from right where he was standing. He wondered which he should try first.

Buck remembered a not-too-sober sermonette Uncle Ed had given his nephew somewhere around Pete's twelfth birthday.

“Buckshot, m'lad, in all my considerable experience, I've come upon only three types of drinking parlors. The first is the awfullest kind, where they have dancin' girls who'll do anything a man wants for a price. 'Course, what they charge depends solely on how fancy the place is. Don't you never go into a place like that, Buck.”

Pete had blinked in horror, sure he wouldn't.

“Second is the serious bar. A fellow goes in, downs his shot or however many he's havin', then leaves. And lastly, boy, is the socializin' tavern. People drink and talk and gamble, and oft-times bring out the worst in themselves. If you can manage to stay clear away, so much the better, Buckshot. The troubles of this life will find you soon enough, without your goin' to seek them out.”

With the old advice ringing in his ears, Buck picked a saloon where he figured he might gain some information. Squaring his shoulders and putting on a look that was a lot older and worldlier than he was, he pushed through the swinging doors into an abrupt cavern of darkness.

As his eyes struggled to adjust to the absence of daylight, he heard two quick gunshots that almost sounded like one, and a series of muffled exclamations.

His vision finally focusing, Buckow discovered the crouched figure of a man backing toward him, his sixgun trained on somebody in the bowels of the room. As the fellow reached behind himself to feel for the batwings and make his getaway, Buck slipped out of his path.

Noticing the gunman's hand, Buck's heart jumped into his throat. He'd seen a hand like that once before, withered and stiff from the wrist to the fingertips. His darting glance took in the steely metal glinting in the other's left hand, the thatch of red hair under his hat—Red Pierce!

With a quick, powerful chop, Buck brought his hands down on the forearm that held the assassin's weapon. The gun exploded harmlessly as it slipped from numbed fingers. Swearing as he flashed a black look at whoever had disarmed him, Pierce dived to the floor after his forty-five. Buck moved for the knife in his belt, glad he'd practiced finding it, just in case.

As the redhead got his gun with his left hand and started to roll over, bringing it into play, Buck threw himself on top of his enemy. Red Pierce's sixgun came upward and Buck's knife descended toward Red's heart.

Both met and deflected, neither hitting its aimed-for target. The long Bowie entered just under Pierce's collarbone as he fired, the slug clipping a quantity of hair and skin from over Buckow's right temple.

The grazing wound slowed everything down for Buck. He felt himself pushing forward, helplessly, until he could feel the handle of his knife pressing hard against his chest. Red Pierce groaned and swore and growled in a constant stream. But Buckow, balancing woozily on his hands and knees, was only dimly aware he'd impaled the gunman to the floor, the knife going clear through and into the wood.

Next thing Buck knew, he was watching his father's killer squirm desperately as he tried to pull the Bowie out of his left shoulder, with his good left hand. The gun lay loose between them.

Buck grabbed it up in both hands and jumped to his feet, pointing it at the struggling man who lay pinned down before him.

“God damn you to hell, Red Pierce! You killed my Pa, and now I'm goin' to kill you!”

He cocked the forty-five, enjoying the trapped look on his enemy's face. “How does it feel to be on the other end?” he taunted.

Without warning, a large strong hand clamped over the weapon, twisting it out of line with Pierce's head. Someone spoke with a voice that sounded of the Old South.

“No, kid. If you kill him while he's down, the law will hang you. I agree, he needs takin' care of. But not this way.”

Buck grabbed the gun back and stuffed it into his belt. He looked up into a weathered face the color of pecans.

“The bastard killed my Pa!” he protested.

Another man had joined them, listening with interest. “I don't doubt it,” he agreed in clipped tones, as New England as the other was Southern.

“He's dispatched several young men's relatives, with no question. But, you know, my friend is right. You'd better let us help you while Mr. Pierce is napping.”

Buck looked down, and sure enough, the redhead had passed out, in a slowly widening pool of his own blood.

As the two men hurried the boy out to the street, the second one continued, “When he comes to, he'll certainly start looking for the person who put the pig-sticker in him.”

“Yeah, right,” South agreed, frowning. “But, John, where do we hide him? You know Pierce'll turn the town upside down, once he's able.”

Instead of answering, his friend turned to Buck. “Where's your horse?”

“Don't have one,” he muttered, the severity of his situation beginning to hit. “I just got in town this afternoon. Don't even have a place to sleep....”

He broke off in confusion, his shoulders slumping. “Appears I don't even have the extra clothes and stuff I started out with.”

“Are you looking for this?” New England John asked, tossing the bag he'd been holding. “I found it on the floor after your disagreement with Mr. Pierce.”

Buck grumbled a brief thanks while the Southern man paced the plank sidewalk in front of the saloon, searching for a plan to help.

“We got to get him out of here, John—fast.”

His eyes settled on a magnificent horse tied at the hitching rail. “Whose black is that?”

“Pierce's, I suppose,” John said as he moved closer to the creature. “What a splendid mare! Part Arab, too. Well, I'm sure he didn't acquire
her
by honest means.”

The Southern man gave the animal a good once-over, straightening up in surprise.

“Hey, John, get a gander at those short stirrups. Couldn't have fit that long-legged owlhoot, Pierce.”

The neat little man blinked. “Who, then?”

His sun-browned friend thought, finally coming up with a strong possibility. “That Mexican vaquero Pierce shot inside, just as this young man happened along?”

“Of course,” New England agreed.

Buck gulped, remembering the two fast shots. The black carried a fancy hand-tooled Spanish saddle, a braided cowhide riata—that had to be it!

“Well, kid, that's your best bet,” South said. “If we're right, you'll be free and clear. And if she's somebody else's, why, they'd be glad to help a fellow get away from
that
in there on the floor.”

Buckow's eyes blazed. “You two are tryin' to make a horse thief out of me. No, I won't risk it. I don't want to take what ain't mine. Besides, I plan to stick around long enough to finish off that bastard in there.”

New England John stifled a laugh with a hand to his mouth. “That's quite noble, I'm sure, but all it can get you is dead.”

“John's right,” his partner asserted, low and quiet. “You'd never take Red Pierce by surprise again. I'm afraid it's either run or die, kid.”

“What about the chance I'd be takin' with that mare?” Buck shouted in his frustration.

“We can only help so much, after all,” the New England man answered coldly. “The choice is yours.”

Turning, his back stiff, he walked into the saloon.

“Now, kid, check over the gear on that black,” South urged. “If that don't look Mex, I don't know what would. Besides, I know that brand on her. I guarantee it's from south of the Rio.”

Grinning, he thumped Buck's shoulder and then he, too, was gone.

Suddenly alone again, Buck felt a flare of panic. “Oh, God!” he groaned to the mare.

“Now I've done it. Won't I ever learn to do a good job of something, or to be an honest Buckow? And now I've messed up the chance to get even with Pa's killer. Will I ever get a second shot at doin' the job up right?”

Angry, angrier than he had ever been, he swung up into the saddle of the part Arab, thinking only that if she had come from Mexico, he'd head in the opposite way. North. The mare under him was strong, and she wanted to travel. Dazed, Buck let her out—and he was running, running, running.

The black mare galloped onward, carrying the runaway further and further north out of San Antonio, away from Red Pierce. Buck had no idea how long she'd gone on, nor how many miles they had covered. It was only when the Arab's breathing got loud and rough that he thought of the horse.

She'd run herself to death if he let her, Buck realized as he slowed her to a walk. He looked around at where she was taking him, and decided it was all right for awhile. As they moved slowly, Buckow checked the contents of the saddlebags for food.

He discovered a good rifle with extra ammunition in the boot, a rare Mexican braided leather rope, and a sixgun in a smooth black holster. But nothing to eat, and his stomach was grumbling.

“Oh, well,” Buck said lightly to the dead vaquero's animal. “If I get grass for you and water for the both of us, I reckon I can do without grub for tonight.”

They kept traveling all the next day, stopping only briefly from time to time to drink and rest. At sundown they rode into a cow camp on the bank of a river, coming face to face with the tallest man Peter Buckow had ever seen.

“Got enough food for one more?” Buck asked. “I'm so hungry my stomach's rubbin' hard against my backbone.”

“Sure, kid, get down,” the fellow said.

His gaze caressed the fine mount. “Wouldn't want to sell that mare, would you? Hell, I'd like to buy the Mexican saddle and all.”

Buckow thought that if he could keep level, maybe this was his out. He sure enough wanted to ditch the Arab and saddle, before somebody came after him for a horse thief.

Smiling with false bravado, he lied, “Fact is, mister, I'm broke and don't have much choice. If you'll let me have something I can ride and a plain saddle, with a fair amount of swap money, I'll trade.”

“OK, kid,” the man agreed, sounding casual. He hid a smile that branded the stranger as green a tenderfoot as he'd ever met.

Covering the grin with a cough, he clamped a large hand over his mouth. “Why not throw your saddle and plan on staying all night? Who knows, if we can work out a trade, maybe I'll offer you a job come morning.”

Eyes a shade of muddy hazel studied Buckow, assessing. The older man continued, “I've got a fair-sized bunch of cattle along this river bottom. If I get hold of a few hundred more, I'll drive to Dodge City and the railhead. That's the only place where they're worth anything.”

A wave of fear rolled over Buck as he dismounted and pulled his gear off the mare's sweaty back. What if this fellow wanted proof of where she was bought? Or what if somebody was to happen along and accuse
him
, not Buck, of stealing her?

“Man, am I hungry,” Buckow declared, forcing himself to ignore his fears. “Hope whoever does the cookin' for your outfit makes plenty. I'd like to stay the night whether or not we trade, or you give me a job.”

The tall trail boss bet himself a twenty-dollar gold piece this kid hadn't got a bill of sale for the black. “Young man, about your mare,” he said, carefully looking her over. “Don't believe I've ever run across a brand like hers before.”

“Oh,” Buckow flushed, inventing his tale with a quick, desperate glibness. “It comes from south of the Rio. The Mexican I got her from left in hurry. Matter of fact, he plumb forgot to make out the paper sayin' I own her.”

The trail boss's slow, lazy smile would have told a great deal to a more experienced man.

“Sure,” he drawled. “Yeah, sure. I can see it happening just that way. Well, I don't aim to worry on it overmuch. Right here, right now, we're more than thirty miles from Santone.” He stopped to point with a bony, yellowed finger.

“This river is the Guadalupe. Once we get the critters over, I plan on staying west of the regular trail and not coming too close to places like Austin, where they tell me there's a new sheriff.”

Buck eyed him, but he was too scared to swallow the lump in his throat and ask any questions.