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  DIAMOND BUCKOW

  DIAMOND BUCKOW

  A.J. ARNOLD

  M. EVANS

  Lanham • Boulder • New York • Toronto • Plymouth, UK

  Published by M. Evans

  An imprint of Rowman & Littlefield

  4501 Forbes Boulevard, Suite 200, Lanham, Maryland 20706

  www.rowman.com

  10 Thornbury Road, Plymouth PL6 7PP, United Kingdom

  Distributed by National Book Network

  Copyright© 1993 by Al Arnold and J. Karyl Arnold

  First paperback edition 2014

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote passages in a review.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Information Available

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  The hardback edition of this book was previously cataloged by the Library of Congress as follows:

  Arnold, A. J. (Tony)

  Diamond Buckow /A.J. Arnold

  p. cm.—(An Evans novel of the West)

  I. Title. II. Series.

  PR6051.R616D5 1993

  823'.914—dc20

  93-5765

  CIP

  ISBN: 978-0-87131-731-5 (cloth: alk. paper)

  ISBN: 978-1-59077-343-7 (electronic)

  ISBN: 978-1-59077-342-0 (pbk.: alk. paper)

  The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of American National Standard for Information Sciences—Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI/NISO Z39.48-1992.

  Printed in the United States of America

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter One

  The late afternoon sun balanced on the rim of the mesa and glared down on the five approaching horses and riders.

  The first two men in the file argued hotly while the other three followed without talking.

  “No, by God, it’s wrong! You’ve got no authority,” Jake Strickland protested with a shake of his big blond head.

  “You’ve got no right to hang Buck. Why, he’s not got more than sixteen years on him.” His voice shook from a barely controlled rage.

  The badge on Newt Yocum’s shirt peeked out from behind his dull gray vest as he turned to look at the rider of the third horse. He saw a fellow who was a boy in years, but an old-timer in experience.

  The kid sat slumped with apparent despair in his saddle.

  “Well, now, we’ll just see about that. I got all the authority I need,” Newt drawled. He gestured at his intended lynching victim.

  “Even him back there ain’t objecting—knows it wouldn’t be no use.”

  As the deputy turned away to spit on the ground, the one they called Buck flung an upward glance, a barb of pure distilled hate, at Yocum’s back.

  “Authority, hell,” Jake retorted. “Just because Sheriff Driscoll gave you a tin star and mumbled a few words, that doesn’t make you judge and jury. I’m telling you, Newt, you string up this boy and nobody will back you up.”

  Newt’s thick face darkened. “Jake, I don’t care what you got to say. When the sheriff swore me in, he give me orders to stop the stock rustling from the ranchers around here. Now, by the great billy goat’s beard, I mean to do that. My way.”

  He dug his spurs into the sides of his mount for emphasis. The stud was more interested at the moment in young Buck’s grulla mare than he was in moving forward. But the sharp pain in his flanks made him lunge ahead so abruptly that Newt jerked the reins.

  “Straighten up, here, you ornery bastard,” he snarled, struggling to master the fiery black as he turned again to Strickland.

  “Listen good, Mr. Top Hand. We ketched this here Buck usin’ a running iron on one of old Henry Blough’s steers. If you ain’t man enough to handle what he’s got coming to him, you just ride on. Me and the twins back yonder can give him a good send-off.”

  The two brothers served as silent guards for the rustler. Now they snapped to attention. They were a matched pair even to the clothes they wore and the horses they sat. Willy and Clem grinned their willingness to help Newt Yocum in whatever foul adventure he took on. They got ready to move into action.

  As Jake Strickland swore under his breath, the makeshift deputy halted.

  “This here ought to do just fine,” Yocum decided as he surveyed a wind-blasted cottonwood tree on the bank of a wet-weather stream.

  “Willy, get a rope over that limb. Use his fancy Spanish riata.”

  His eyes dancing like live coals, Newt indicated Buck with malicious glee. “This leather lariat he used for stealing ought to do him one last service.”

  The twin nodded eagerly, yanking the thong from Buck’s saddle. On the second try he managed to get a loop over the branch. As the business end snaked down to the level of the kid’s face, Willy gave a sharp tug. The noose brushed across Buck’s cheek, and he shuddered. The unoccupied brother, Clem, noticed his reaction and laughed.

  Something snapped inside Strickland. As he dismounted, his angular jaw worked like he was trying to grind down the jagged words that threatened to spew out. He studied the bank where the sandy soil had eroded away in some long gone gully-washer.

  What in God’s good name was he doing here? he wondered. He knew it was only because his employer—Daniel Thompson—was the most prosperous rancher in the territory. The boss had asked him to scout around with the law on expeditions to trap cattle rustlers; now he found himself in this hellish mess—with an ignorant, vengeful deputy and a pair of dimwitted cohorts who obviously would get a kick out of murdering an innocent kid.

  As a plan formed in Strickland’s head, Yocum snorted. Jake’s attention snapped from the cottonwood as he looked up into Newt’s piglike eyes. But Yocum’s narrow gaze was trained on Buck, not on Jake.

  “Listen here, kid. Afore we tighten up this new necktie for you to wear to hell, you got anything to say for yourself?”

  “Yeah. I do, Newt, and I want all of you to hear this.”

  Brittle blue eyes sparkled like chips of sapphire set in the thin young face. Jake could almost hear the drumbeat pounding of his heart, could almost see wheels and gears clicking inside the kid’s head as he tried to buy some time and maybe a way out.

  “I never took only but what was rightfully mine,” Buck said. He sounded so logical and sincere that Jake’s guts ached with the desire to believe him.

  “I worked four months for Old Man Blough, hard and honest as I could, without ever seeing one day’s wages. So all’s I was doing was collecting what was owed me. Not one penny more. I sure can’t see why getting what’s mine amounts to a hanging offense.”

  Strickland nodded his agreement in grim silence. But as he saw the three henchmen laughing insanely, he realized Buck’s little speech had fallen on deaf ears. Deaf souls, too, most likely. Jake saw that Newt was playing rougher than usu
al, and he never was one a fellow would care to meet alone in the night.

  What did he have against the kid, that he was so hot to do away with him? Jake considered. And Buck, he seemed so straightforward. So why was he not saying.... Didn’t he know?

  Yocum’s gravelly voice broke through Jake’s musings. “Well, Mr. Top Hand,” he droned, pointing toward the scrubby cottonwood.

  “Bein’s how you’re already off your hoss, let’s see if you got the balls to do a man’s job. How’s about tyin’ the other end of this here leather rope?”

  “Jake!”

  The kid’s shrill pitch froze him a second. He gulped, grateful for the interruption so he’d have a space to think.

  “Jake,” Buck said more calmly. He tried his damnedest to force his quivering lips into a smile. “I just wanted to say something to you, since I never got to know you good. You being so busy working for Mr. Thompson, and me, for Old Man Blough.” Buck paused to flick his tongue over his parched mouth.

  “It’s just that everybody says you’re sure enough four-square, Jake, and that’s how you’ve tried to treat me so far today. I wanted to thank you.”

  Strickland tried to speak, but he found something thick and lumpy stuck in the base of his throat.

  Damned babyface! he thought in angry frustration as he noticed the chestnut hair that spilled boyishly across Buck’s forehead. The kid looked more like a fresh-scrubbed altar boy from back east than any cattle rustler he’d ever seen!

  Coughing into one of his large hands, Strickland swallowed several times in an effort to bury his feelings.

  “What’s your whole name, kid?” he asked gruffly.

  “Peter D. Buckow,” the thief replied as a glint of hope in his wide eyes stabbed his questioner. “Never knew what the D stands for.”

  Doomed, Jake answered inwardly, with a sense of wry despair...or maybe damned. He shivered as he heard the disgusted, impatient sigh that escaped the deputy sheriff sitting on horseback above him. Glancing up at Newt Yocum, he saw the ugly, taunting gleam in his dark eyes.

  “All right, Newt,” he heard himself say with a sickening calmness. “I’ll fasten the rope for you.”

  Buck’s gasp of disbelief tore at Jake. He turned and ducked behind the cottonwood, searching for the perfect root to suit his purpose.

  “Now, boy, you know I can’t help you. It wouldn’t be right.”

  He spoke softly as he bent to his work, but his brain said something different. Strickland felt the kid’s stare searing him clean through the hanging tree.

  The deputy and his duo grunted their satisfaction at what they thought was a sensible decision. But Buck went into a near state of shock over the failure of his last-ditch effort. Why, he thought, Jake was no help, not a good man at all—not even any better than Yocum and his crew.

  He didn’t hear any more as he turned in on himself. Buck scrabbled through his dusty memories for the Deity his mother had so lovingly spoken about when he was a little lad.

  Ma had always seemed to him to be passive and sluggish, like a lazy stream. She’d showed no gumption at all. She married a cruel lout a year after the murder of Buck’s pa. She allowed him to insult and beat her boy for no reason. Yet, when it came to spouting off about the Bible or the Lord, that she did with ready enthusiasm.

  Buck squeezed his eyes shut in earnest concentration. God, if you’re real, if you’re there, you got to help me. You get me out of this alive and I swear to you, I’ll be the most honest man ever was born. I don’t begin to know how I’ll do that, but I promise.

  A jerk at his toes finished Buck’s meditation abruptly. He opened his eyes to see Willy and Clem on either side of him. They had pulled his feet out of the stirrups, clear away so they didn’t touch anything.

  He wondered if that would help him die easier, if he didn’t get hung up. Buck considered it as he felt the twins’ harsh tugging to see how firmly his hands were tied behind his back. He grimmaced, sweat pouring down his face. Willy knocked his flat-brimmed hat to the ground, guffawing as he tightened the noose.

  Why did Newt Yocum hate him? Buck asked himself frantically. It had to be more than his rebranding Mr. Blough’s steers, because that wasn’t even so wrong. Buck was owed that much, and Newt knew it.

  His head swam as he sought the answer. Anything to get out of his fate, or at least to override the awful thump-thumping in his chest. He prayed for his heart to pound to death now, and make a simple end to his suffering.

  Then with a lightning bolt’s swiftness, he remembered—that night in Blough’s yard! Old Henry had been gone on a business deal for three days. Buck hadn’t been able to sleep, and he’d gone out for a spell past the bunkhouse he was sharing with the twins and Yocum while they were making their cattle rustling survey.

  Buck had looked up just in time to see the deputy skulking away, and the faint outline of Nancy Blough peering through a lighted window.

  Buck groaned. Newt must’ve seen him, after all. Yocum probably thought Buck knew a whole lot more than what he saw by accident. Buck wondered what he could do now. If he said anything at all, he’d ruin Mrs. Blough’s reputation. He couldn’t do that.

  Nancy had come the closest of anyone around the Blough ranch to being Buck’s friend. She was only two years older than his sixteen, and they talked some. Especially about her parents back in Saint Louis, and how her father worked day and night to put bread and butter on the table.

  Then, her father ran into Henry Blough, his old schoolmate, on a business trip. He learned how wealthy his acquaintance had become, and suddenly turned into a matchmaker. So here and now was his little Nancy. She had become a Westernized city girl and was married, homesick, and miserable.

  Old fart, Buck thought with disdain about his employer. He had no right wedding such a young and pretty lady, dragging her away from everything she knew. No matter what she did—if she did anything—with Newt, it wouldn’t be her fault or her shame. No, Buck couldn’t tell a word, even if he was about to be hanged. Newt would go ahead, anyway, so it couldn’t serve any good purpose.

  A burst of ribald laughter came from Yocum to Willy to Clem. Buck knew with bleak certainty his time was at hand.

  Buck couldn’t see Jake Strickland but he guessed the top hand was still back of the cottonwood, checking that he’d tied the kid’s own Mexican riata firmly enough to insure death.

  In a moment Strickland emerged from behind the tree, making a point of not looking at Peter D. Buckow. While Jake hauled himself up into the saddle of the red sorrel geld, Newt Yocum pulled the reins of Buck’s mare over her head.

  Excitement shone on the deputy’s face as he ordered, “Clem, you quirt his mount from under him. I’ll lead her on so she won’t run away. Let’s go!”

  Buck’s eyes clamped shut as his thoughts spun backward to his Uncle Ed. Edward Malvers had been close to him when he was a boy, and had given him the strength to endure. As he concentrated on the details of his beloved Unc’s appearance, he remembered every hard-lived line in the man’s face. Buck swore he’d make it through this, without letting Newt see him beg...no matter what awaited him on the other side of life.

  A whistle sliced the air as Clem’s saddle whip met the little mare’s rump. She had planted her feet, doggedly resisting Yocum’s tug at her reins. Bunching her muscles in anticipation of the lash, the mouse-brown leaped straight up and came back down only inches from where she had been standing.

  The jolt shook Buck out of his seat, but he was helpless with both hands pinioned behind him. His legs tightened automatically against the horse—with the natural reflex of one used to the saddle. As his head snapped forward, crown up, he wondered vaguely if it would break off.

  Buck felt a slippery sensation and knew, dully, that he was sliding off the mare’s rump. Sliding, sliding, the way he’d slid down a haystack when he was a boy of eight. Even now he recalled the licking he’d gotten for that prank.

  Then the noose grew taut around his neck. Buck felt the grulla ge
tting away from him. He felt the relentless pull of his own rope holding him under the tree limb while she moved off. Without a sudden drop or jerk, he knew he’d been denied the quick, clean death a broken neck would have brought.

  The four horsemen were aware of his harsh, pained gasping as they rode away. Willy and Clem looked back, eager to watch their victim strangle. But Jake Strickland rode up and whipped their mounts’ rumps with the knotted end of his rope, urging them along and spoiling the twin’s and Newt Yocum’s view. They swore long and loud, but to no avail. Jake herded them all ahead of him and forced them to keep going.

  With muleheaded determination he refused them the sight of Buck’s dying.

  Chapter Two

  It was as if the slide off the mare’s rump continued right down the haystack and Pete Buckow was eight years old again. Lo and behold, his stepfather was at the bottom waiting with vengeful arms opened wide to catch him. Along with him was Alexander Kirtos, the Greek who owned the winter feed as well as the livery stable and the large pasture behind it. Off to one side was the enclosed area, the stackyard, where the boy was playing and the two men stood ready for him.

  Pete spied the pair at the base of the haystack. He tried to run even before he hit bottom. But the dry chaff on the hard-packed ground betrayed him, and he fell. Before he could get his feet under himself to take off, his stepfather fastened a huge beefy hand to the front of the boy’s shirt and lifted him, squirming and flailing, to eye level.

  “Well, well. Seems like some young’uns don’t never learn,” he snarled, glancing at the livery man for his reaction.

  Mr Kirtos, who all the children of those parts privately called Curl-toes, flashed an oily smile that was at once both darkly handsome and sinister. “Now, Gerald, don’t be too hard on the lad. Of course, I can’t afford to lose any of my hay, but I’ll be satisfied as long as this never happens again.”

  “You bet it won’t,” Gerald Hamm breathed. He fixed an ugly glare on the helpless Pete, who was still wiggling in his grasp.