Diamond Buckow (5 page)

“Well, kid, if we're going to exchange horses and work together, we'd best trade handles, too. I'm using Glenn Saltwell these days.”

“You can call me Buck. The rest don't matter much.” He offered the other man his hand.

The trail boss's grip was firm. “Buck's plenty-a name for any young fellow drifting, whether you're headed west or north.”

A knowing glint came into the thin man's eyes. “If I read you correct, you're one of those folks headed out without looking back. Am I right?”

“Well, I ...” Buck stammered, caught off guard.

Recovering fast, his voice was level as he continued. “The reasons I won't go back home to East Texas are personal. But there's no lawman lookin' for me, if that's your notion. As for the black mare, no, I don't have a bill of sale on her. Yet, it's a sure bet the hombre who rode her into Santone will never come lookin' for her.”

Glenn Saltwell held Buckow for a long minute with his cool stare before he finally said, “OK, kid, I'm trusting your word for it. I'll take the mare off your hands along with that saddle, but you can keep the rest. Wouldn't use that leather lasso, myself. I learned with a hemp rope, and I'll stick to that.”

Buck blew out a long breath and turned toward the chuck-wagon as the other hands pulled up, sliding down off tired, dusty mounts.

The next six weeks all ran together for Buck as he learned the life of a trail driver, working sixteen to eighteen hours a day. The smell of dust embedded itself in his nostrils, and he got used to the raw bawling of cattle that were too long without water. He grew smooth at swimming his horse across swollen rivers. But one time in particular stood out in his mind....

He had just returned his plate and tin cup to the cook, when the boss clapped him on the back.

“OK, Buck, here's your chance. You've been wanting to get out of the dirty work of riding drag—today you can help Russ along the right side. Joe left last night, and he won't be back.”

A thought surfaced in Buckow's brain, something he'd pondered over for quite some time.

“Boss, I don't like to be nosey, but it keeps on botherin' me. Joe's the second one to just up and quit, and if memory serves me right, Charley left in about the same way.”

Saltwell grinned in amusement, little creases forming at the corners of his eyes.

“Well, well. I was wondering when you'd catch on enough to start asking questions. You see, where we are right now is called The Strip, and there's no law at all here. So while you were asleep last night, four of us went over west to another trail herd, to see if we could increase the size of our own.”

Buck watched the gleam in Glenn's eyes, then blurted out, “Why, you're a lowdown cattle rustler! I
thought
the herd kept gettin' bigger, and now I know why.”

Unaware of his own action, Buck's hand went to the butt of the forty-five he now wore at all times.

But the thief noticed, laughing in a short, sharp bark. “Turn loose of that gun. I could give you a head start and still get two shots into you before you were to clear leather.”

Glowering, Buck let his hand slide away from the weapon.

“That's better,” Saltwell declared. “You see, kid, you're just as guilty as the rest of us in the eyes of most ranchers and lawmen.”

“No, by God!” The words exploded from Buck's mouth. “I never helped no one steal cattle, and I won't stand for bein' called dishonest.”

“Now, you just back off and listen,” Saltwell growled. “I've got no desire to gun you down and lose another hand. All these cattle belonged to somebody else, before we relieved them of the burden of taking care of the critters. Like it or not, you've been driving stolen stock right from the first. In the view of most folk this far west, that makes you one of us.”

Glenn paused, studying his newest hand. “And another thing. Nobody'd ever be convinced you were so dumb, it took you this long to figure out what was happening.”

His cold eyes bored into Buck. “You just shut your trap and get to work, or clear out. Mind you, remember—if you try to leave, you're in The Strip, with the only law being what a man carries on his hip. Should you escape me alive, there are men aplenty out there who'd be glad to give you a load of lead too heavy to drag around.”

Smiling without humor, Saltwell turned his back and walked off toward his horse.

A dead weight slumped Buck's shoulders and constricted his heart. He climbed slowly into his saddle and went out to the herd in search of Russ.

If the days had run together before Buck's confrontation with the sordid facts of trail life, afterward was even worse. The time went by in one solid lump of hate—not only for his boss, but also for the crew he was forced to work with. His mind conjured up all kinds of plans to get away, along with elaborate schemes to get even with Saltwell, the man who tricked him into becoming an outlaw.

They were short-handed now, and the cattlemen spent most of their time in the saddle. Buck felt too tired to talk, to joke, or even to damn his own stupidity. Even
he
was aware of how low his ebb of strength and determination would be without that potent dose of hatred. He knew it was all that kept him going; without it he'd never last to Dodge City.

In this state Buckow at last arrived at the railhead with the rest of Glenn Saltwell's men. Moving in a daze toward his objective, not seeing or caring what was happening around him, he helped prod the last steers up the ramp into the cattle car. Then he turned toward the station house, looking for Glenn. As he came abreast of the office, he met his saddlemate of the past three weeks.

“Russ, is the boss in there?” he asked, tight-lipped, gesturing toward the door.

“Yeah, just step in and get your share.” The grin that split the long planes of the trail hand's face was the first Buckow had ever seen on him.

Buck's features were stiff as he asked, “Just what is the fair share of the profits for helpin' drive stolen stock, Russ? How much would you figure a fellow's reputation is worth? And how much good would that money do you if we'd've got caught? How about that, Russ?”

The man straightened his sloped shoulders and stood up tall.

“Now, you hold on a minute, Buck. If you're huntin' trouble, you can just pass me by. I got enough out of this drive to stake me, and I'm a-goin' on west where's I'm not known, and try again. That's all I set out to do, and that's all I'm a-goin' to do. If you want to make something out of it, go in and talk to Glenn. He'll give you trouble enough for two.”

Buckow watched Russ's retreating back in disbelief. He wondered how in hell you could have any self-respect as long as you got your start with dishonest money. Shaking the dirty dark auburn hair off his face, he went to the man waiting in the station.

The ticket window was straight in from the door, and off to the left, wooden benches stood against the walls. Glenn sat on one of them, with a small table drawn up in front of him. On it were only two items: a large amount of greenbacks, and a forty-five within easy reach of the boss's right hand.

Glancing up, his lips parted in their familiar slow, lazy smile.

“OK, Buck, you're the last. Take your share so I can put the rest away. I aim to get a bath and see the sights of Dodge.”

Left-handed, he pushed a pile of bills toward Buckow. “There you are. I cut you in for a full share, since you were with me all the way from Santone.”

Buck stood a good six feet in front of Saltwell, looking and thinking. He wouldn't have much to go on if he didn't take it. But if he did accept a share, then he'd be just as no-account as he took Glenn to be.

He swallowed hard as he decided once and for all. “No, Boss, you keep your share. All I want is my regular wages for the time I worked for you. I don't want no part in your dishonest profits.”

Glenn's smile barely changed as he redivided the bills.

“Well, if that's how you want it, kid. Just leaves that much more for me. Only, don't plan on coming back later to ask for more. Either you take it right now, or not at all.”

Buck reached out for the smaller amount. He thought he'd like to take out Saltwell's guts with the Bowie knife he left in Red Pierce.

Glenn's face went sharp and calculating, as if he could read Buckow's mind. “Don't even think on giving me problems. Nobody in Dodge gives a damn who owned those steers down in Texas, so it wouldn't do you any good to go to what little law there
is
here. Try taking me out yourself, and you'd see it'd take a lot to kill me. If you're smart, you'll grab your take and clear the hell out of here.”

Buck glared. “I don't like this, Glenn, and I don't like you. But I'm not loco enough to try and settle any score.”

“That's sensible.” Saltwell smiled in his easy way.

“And if you ever change your mind, why, I can always use a hard-working man. Seems like you and I understand each other pretty well, Buck.”

Without answering, Buckow turned on his heel and stomped out of the station. Someday, another time, he'd cut Glenn Saltwell down. For now, he was relieved to be done with that sort of business. Done, he hoped, for good. He'd never felt so exhausted and filthy, both inside and out, and it lifted his spirits to see a barbershop with a sign that read: “Bath, twenty-five cents.”

Buck went in and paid for the luxury, dozing off in the wooden half-barrel and coming to, chilled, when the water cooled off. He fell asleep again while getting his hair cut, and asked the barber about the nearest place to bed down.

The man raised his eyebrows. “Up the street to the corner, then left to the last house. An old gent there rents beds by the night. No meals, and no questions asked.”

Buck thanked him and left. Did he look like a person who had something to hide? Would this dogging sense of dishonesty ever wear off, and let him feel right and clean again?

His thoughts haunted him even as he found the designated place and paid for a bed. But as soon as he lay down, the questions left him alone for fourteen straight hours. The horrors of hell itself couldn't have disturbed his sleep.

Peter Buckow woke up hungry enough to eat anything. The old man who had rented the bed directed him to a restaurant on the far side of town. A nameless eatery, he said, but the only one that wasn't a saloon. He volunteered that its owner claimed to have cooked once at a big hotel back east.

Buck thanked him for the welcome information and took off at a brisk pace. On his way, he got to thinking that as soon as he had a decent meal, he should get out of Dodge. He wondered if there were any ranches around. Maybe, though, it would be better for him to go farther away. Of course, nobody here knew him at all—not even his name, much less that he'd helped drive rustled cattle.

With his thoughts in a jumble, he walked past the eating place, stopped, and went back. Pushing the door open, Buck entered a long narrow room, lined by high-backed booths on one side. The counter stood against the other wall, with the kitchen obviously in the rear. Buck stopped at the counter to give his order, then sat in one of the booths in the center of the row.

After a few minutes he grew conscious of a woman's voice from the wooden seat behind him. Her tone intrigued him. Its soft musicality was like nothing he'd ever heard before. He strained to listen, not even considering that he was eavesdropping.

The voice soon was answered by a whiskey-slurred nasal whine—unpleasant, but nonetheless masculine.

“Now, Sarah Dawn Ainsworth, you stop'at and leave me alone, d'you hear? You're gettin' to be as bad a nag as your mother used to be.”

“Oh, Pa, can't you see?”

Even the chiding reproach in her speech seemed a pretty melody to Buck.

“Pa, you've got to admit that Mama was right. You can't go on chasing rainbows forever. We have to settle down someplace and get steady work if we' re ever going to have anything.”

The man muttered something that sounded like, “Goddamn henpeckin' home-tied females never let up on a fellow.”

“Don't think I enjoy being this way anymore than Mama did,” the girl called Sarah asserted. “It's just that when we've been somewhere for a little while, you want to move on. It's almost like you really don't want people to get to know you, Pa.”

“Damn it all, girl!”

Buck could hear the thump of his hand on the table and a jangle of utensils as the enraged Ainsworth man continued.

“The job I got at the livery don't pay nothin'. That scout, Casey, says in Oregon the crops grow like magic. 'Taters big as melons, ‘n' melons so big you got to hitch a horse to roll 'em over. That's where we'll make our fortune, Sally girl. You just wait 'til we get there, you'll see.”

The counter man interrupted Buck's attention as he brought the biggest steak and mountain of home-fried potatoes Buck had ever seen on one plate, along with a huge steaming mug of coffee. Suddenly famished, he wanted to dive right into the fragrant heap of food. But he also wanted to learn more about Sarah Dawn Ainsworth. Juggling things, he shifted his seat on the wooden bench as he decided to try to do both.

“No, Pa, I'm not going,” the beautiful voice insisted. “I've got a good job at the millinery. It doesn't pay much, but Mrs. Henderson offered me a permanent position if I want to stay. I'm learning a lot—if I can stay there two more years, I'll be old enough and I'll know enough to open my own store.”

“That done it!” her father groaned, banging something against their table one more time.

“God bless it, Sally girl, can't you see that ain't enough fer me? A little ol' job might be satisfactory to you, but I got to have more. I
deserve
more, after all I been through, and I'm a-goin' to git it.”

“All right, Pa,” Sarah sighed, sounding to Buck like she'd gone through this conversation many times over.