Diamondback

By Terry Maag

The story takes place near and in the surroundings of two towns in modern western America. It involves youth and some problems with drugs and alcohol. An outside influence from the big city is ultimately drawn into the plot adding to the intrigue. The story resides within the moral boundaries set in the modern American west, involving adult humor and situations. A crime is committed under a unique set of circumstances which sets off a chain of events that keeps the action moving 24 hours a day. Anyone who has lived or worked in rural America can identfy with the characters and situations in this book. It is moderately intense, yet enjoyable to read.
The plot takes place in the time frame of approxamately two days. It has humor, but there are undercurents of a more serious nature. Some of the characters are likeable in a plot that builds and invites a surprise ending.
George Norton, the sheriff of Beaumont County, is filling the shoes of his former mentor, John Madison, who is now a federal marshal. It is George's job to insure and protect the integrity of some of the more promenent citizens. George thinks he has seen it all, but the future of America brings itself in the form of it's youth along with their trappings. The generation gaps are evident and lend to providing a learning curve for all involved. For a short time at least, they "wake up" the would be sleepy nature of this small town, rural America.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Oct 8, 2002
• ISBN: 9780595740611

Terry Maag

The author has lived and worked in the northwest. He has a Political Science degree from his home town, and he has studied in all of the major Universities of Idaho.

Book preview

WHAT’S GOING ON HERE? 

Jim Nelson was resting in his favorite easy chair, watching the morning news on his wide screen TV. The black framed television sat some twenty feet away, across the old vaulted ceiling living room, parked on its matching TV stand. The new plastic ensemble was in contrast to the old, amber colored flagstone fireplace that it bumped up next to. Vickie, his wife of forty years sat next to him at the end of the matching sofa. She was reading a current health magazine that was delivered free, through the mail several days ago. The large coo-coo clock that stood on the fireplace mantle rang out, signaling nine o’clock in the morning. It was already shaping up to be a beautiful day outside, but this was typical of the summer mornings they’d been having lately in Beaumont County.

The old Lazy J ranch house was clean as a pin from the living room to the back porch. Vickie had readied it waiting for their company to arrive. George Norton was supposed to be there in about an hour.

The big middle-aged sheriff was coming out 30 miles from the town called Desert Mountain to pick up a painting called ‘The Old Mine’ that was to be donated to the public library. It was one of Mary Nelson’s best. The 65-year-old rancher’s mother, Mary, had been quite the painter in her day. It was a hobby of hers that she had brought with her from the East Coast when she was a young woman and one that lasted until her death, just a few years ago.

This particular painting that George Norton was coming for was considered by many to be a real work of art. The painting had a very unusual frame; it was framed on two sides with a rather large, rusty split yoke. In the past, the yoke was part of a big harness that was required to stage a large draft horse.

The painting itself was done in oil. It was a beautiful rendering of the shaft entrance to what appeared to be a gold mine, located on the Lazy J ranch. The thick canvass was neatly tucked in and surrounded by an oval shaped, rusty wagon wheel rim. What was at one time a wheel rim was welded on each side to the split yokes. The yokes supported the whole thing and gave it a kind of splendid look. It was one of those paintings that seemed to capture the whole of the old western world within its boundaries.

The gold mine that was portrayed in the painting, ‘The Old Mine’ was something Jim’s father Jeffery worked as a hobby during the homesteading of his ranch. Word has it that he never got more than a few ounces of gold from the mine and finally ended up abandoning it before Jim was born. The entrance to the mine had long since been filled in with dirt and sealed. The remaining mound of dirt marking its former location now lay under a large haystack out back of the ranch house next to the barn.

The painting now hung on the wall next to the front door in Jim and Vickie Nelson’s living room. Because it was one of Mary’s first paintings, it had always been one of Vickie’s favorites. But she and Jim were getting on in years and they had often talked about selling some of Mary’s works, not that they needed the money; they were just trying to simplify their lives. As yet, Vickie didn’t have the heart to sell any of them, but she was at least willing to lend some of Mary’s work out so that the public could enjoy it. She eventually decided to do something for the library; loan this painting to them, where everyone could enjoy it for a long time as a reminder of Mary Nelson and the early days of the settlers of Desert Mountain.

Jim Nelson was watching the news broadcast. The weather people were predicting another hot day for the high mountain desert valleys. There hadn’t been any rain for nearly two weeks and it didn’t look as if they were going to get any in the near future. But at least it hadn’t been windy.

The winds could blow for days on end drying everything out and parching the clay-like desert soil. Farms and ranches like the Lazy J that had their own creeks to get them through the droughts, were the ones that did the best. Others had huge irrigation costs, especially the ones that relied solely on electricity to pump their water from underground wells. Lately, it was even harder for anyone to drill a new well due to the fact that they were highly scrutinized and severely limited by the irrigation districts.

Jim looked over at his wife, Vickie. Should I get the painting ready?

Yes, I don’t know why you haven’t thought of it until now, she replied.

I have. Until now, I wasn’t really sure you were going to let it go, he said.

She shook her head and looked up from her magazine. "If you don’t get it ready, we’re not going to send it; if you know what I mean. I don’t know why you always have to wait until the last minute to do anything," she complained, as if she’d said it a thousand times, and he sighed at hearing her.

It won’t take long. I’ll go get my tools from the back porch, he reassured her.

Jim was about to get up when, above the noise coming from the television, they heard a vehicle drive up in the driveway. They could hear a rumbling-crackling sound made by heavy tires coming to a stop on gravel. He and Vickie both assumed it was George Norton, except that Jim thought it was a bit unusual; because he could tell from the vibrations that it was a bigger truck than the sheriff’s SUV. Moments later, there was a knock at the front door.

Come on in ‘Gig’, the door’s unlocked, Jim rang out in his weathered sort of rancher tone. ‘Gig’ was the sheriff’s informal nickname.

There was a brief hesitation before the door handle turned. Then suddenly and without warning, two young men wearing baggy jeans and T-shirts burst into the living room. Their unsavory demeanor and the fact that only one was clean-shaven didn’t hide their similar resemblance. They both had rounded faces and the same hue of dark brown hair indicating that they might be brothers or close relatives. They were both wielding handguns.

Before the startled couple could move, the young men stood shoulder to shoulder, holding their weapons pointed directly at Jim and Vickie. The older, larger of the two young men scanned the room, looking to see if they were alone.

Vickie put her book down. She seemed remarkably calm under the circumstances.

What the…? Jim started to get up out of his chair.

Hold it. Stay right there, the one with longer hair ordered. You do what we say and no one gets hurt.understand? the apparent older one spoke while gesturing with his handgun.

He motioned with his free hand for the couple to get up. Jim and Vickie looked at one another in fear and puzzlement, but then slowly rose from their positions on the furniture.

Now stand over there, he said indicating over toward the living room window, beyond the fireplace.

Where’s the painting? the younger one shouted. He was much thinner, of smaller build, and wore a close crew cut.

By now, Vickie was shaken and went to her husband’s outstretched hands. The two of them stood together next to the front room window. Jim was trying to check out the truck the two rebels came in and at the same time pay attention to what they were saying.

What painting young man, we have several, Jim said, trying not to let either of the two intruders know that he was afraid.

Don’t be stupid, you old bastard, you know which one, the younger one growled.

Hey, the taller, stronger looking one shouted. "You don’t be stupid, I told you…." The smaller young man cowered to the commands of his mentor.

’The Old Mine’, the younger one changed to a calmer, mellower tone. Now get it, right now! he ordered.

Neither Jim nor Vickie could figure out what this was all about. Who could have sent these two? Why had they come today and just before George Norton was due to arrive? ‘Good Lord’, Jim would have given them one of Mary’s paintings if they had just come in and asked for it. And what was up with all of this gun waving? These two young men didn’t appear to be here causing all this rigmarole on their own behalf.

Jim knew he had to obey and do so immediately. From the looks of these two characters, they appeared to be capable of almost anything. There was an air of uncertainty about them.

I’ll get it for them, Jim said, flatly. Just then the whistle from the teapot in the kitchen sounded out shrilly.

Oh, I forgot I was making tea, Vickie said in an almost apologetic tone. Does anybody want tea? she asked.

The younger one snickered, but the older one just grunted and motioned with his gun for her to go and take care of the teapot.

Get it taken care of and get back here…NOW! he ordered, and don’t try anything stupid. YOU, keep an eye on her. He pointed his gun at his younger cohort threatening him, and then spun around toward Jim. Are we alone? he asked nervously. Jim didn’t hesitate to answer.

Yea, we’re alone, he reassured the young malcontent.

The younger one followed Vickie lamely to the kitchen door and sort of watched her and then watched what was going on in the living room, while Vickie took care of the teapot.

I’m not going to ask again, the larger intruder said, pointing his semi-automatic handgun at Jim’s head. Now would you please get the painting? he ordered, sarcastically.

Jim slowly put up his hands and walked past the man holding the gun over to the wall behind the door. The bigger one followed him with the gun. Jim grunted as he calmly lifted the heavy painting called ‘The Old Mine’ off the wall.

Straining a bit he asked, Will there be anything else? He directed his question to the taller one.

Just put it down, he replied, as the old man appeared to be struggling with what seemed to be a fairly heavy object. The first sign that the young man just might be softening a bit came when a slight expression of sympathy brushed over his face.

Jim set the painting down on the light brown carpet and leaned it against the wall, but as he did so, a rounded piece of wood fell out from the back of the painting. It lay next to the wall unnoticed to all but Jim.

By now, Vickie was returning from the kitchen, closely observed by the young man as she entered the room. She scurried over to Jim’s side. They looked at one another as if to say, ‘what in the Hell do these guys want with that old painting?’

Is this some kind of a joke? Jim asked trying to make light of the situation, though he was dead serious and no one was laughing. You could have waited a day and this old painting would be in town, in the library, Jim added. ’Gig’, I mean George Norton was going to put it..

Shut-up, you., the big guy ordered obviously trying to regain his tough composure. He jerked his head at the younger one and nodded, indicating that they should continue with their plan.

The younger one began as if by rote. Ok, now if you guys want to see the sun come up in the morning, get out to the truck, he said. Now MOVE IT! he shouted, trying to make himself believe it as much as the others. He shoved Vickie toward the open door.

That did it for Jim. Quick as a flash he lashed out at the closest one of the two nitwits, catching the bigger one on the chin. The younger man staggered for an instant but caught his balance, then immediately recoiled, putting a wrestling move on the older man and taking him to the floor. Jim let out a groan as the big guy stood up pointing his gun at Jim’s head again.

Startled and angered, he then reached over and grabbed Jim’s wife. In an unassuming move, he pointed his gun at his younger partner.

I told you no violence. Now goddamn it, I meant it. Do you HEAR? The younger man put on a shit-eating grin and backed away toward the painting, while the bigger one turned his gun again on the older man on the floor. Then speaking to his partner, he half yelled trying to control himself.

Now GET HIM.and put him IN THE TRUCK! he ordered, waggling his gun. We’ve still got some ground to cover.

Vickie slumped to the floor and put her arms around her husband. She was in tears. She could tell Jim was all right, just shaken. The younger one looked over at his older counterpart with questioning eyes.

Ok then, get the PAINTING in the truck, the big one charged. We can deal with these two in a minute, he sounded exasperated.

The younger man acquiesced and lugged the painting out the door. In a brief fit of anger, Vickie took the opportunity to lunge at the bigger guy who was holding the gun on her husband. He swung away to avoid her attack, but the gun went off, hitting the large wooden clock that stood on the fireplace mantle. There was a brief struggle before the robber twisted her arm and she slumped to the floor again alongside Jim.

Having heard the shot, the younger bandit quickly laid the painting down and burst through the door with an excited look on his face. He was waving his gun back and forth with one hand and holding the other over his eyes, looking around as if he’d been blinded by the sudden change from the lighter outside to the darker inside.

What the hell are you looking for? the older one asked. Nothing has happened here. Everybody’s ok. Now help me get these people into the truck. All of this is your fault, you know, he added.

The younger one was through resisting. He stuffed the gun in his pants and began to herd the couple out the door. Within minutes the couple and the painting were inside the back of the large yellow truck.

Jim and Vickie were lying on the cold, corrugated metal floor, with their hands, feet and mouths taped. It seems the bandits found a new roll of duct tape in the jockey box of the truck. They wedged the painting in between some boxes that filled the space in the back half of the truck. After pulling the roll-down door closed, and doing a quick hi-five, the two captors separated to opposite sides of the truck and headed for the cab.

The older bandit hesitated before getting in the driver’s side. Instead, he turned and ran back into the house, clenching the keys to the truck in his right hand with the gun in his left. He didn’t trust anyone at this point. He quickly opened the front door to the ranch house and cautiously crossed over the threshold, paused, then hurriedly scanned the living room. The TV was still on; he knew he’d forgotten something. He immediately went over to shut it off. On his way back across the room, he could feel that there was something out of place, something not quite right. He couldn’t put his finger on it so he shrugged and walked out the front door, closing it behind him. Seconds later the diesel truck engine roared and the two misfits drove off with their cargo.

HEY, WHAT DO