Larkspur

by Dorothy Garlock

  He checked a pair of Smith & Wessons. One he had in the holster, the other one tucked in his belt. Buck strained his ears for a foreign night sound or the absence of a normal one. Night lay like a dark blanket over the grassland. Usually a million stars twinkled in the sky but tonight they were hidden by an overcast sky.

  On the breeze that came from the south was the smell of sun-ripened grass that stretched like a pale gold carpet from the foothills to the mountains. This was lonesome country. His country. Here the large herd of buffalo had roamed for hundreds of years. Here the rawhiders had come to slaughter them by the thousands. Here the Indians had had to give up their land and move west.

  Standing at the corner of his house Buck Lenning swore that he would not give up an inch of it.

  For a while all the sounds he heard were those of a squirrel scampering around in the tree overhead, birds getting resettled, and an owl sending out its lonely call. Then faintly his ears picked up the slight jingle of harness and the swishing sound as a wagon or buggy cut through the tall grass.

  The enemy would not come in a buggy or a wagon. Unless . . . to bring a barrel of kerosene to burn him out. Angry and tense, he waited. Now he could hear the heavy wheezing of a tired horse. The shape of a buggy loomed out of the darkness.

  “Hel . . . lo, the house—”

  Buck waited. He was quite sure he’d not heard the voice before.

  “Hel . . . lo, the house.”

  “Who are you?” Buck called.

  “Bernie Gates. I’ve got a message from a man named Cleve Stark.”

  This could be a trick. Someone might have intercepted a letter to him from Cleve. The name, Bernie, had a familiar ring. He was the man who took Kristin to the freight camp. Was this him or was it a Forsythe man pretending to be Gates?

  “What did you say your name was?”

  “Gates. Bernie Gates. My sister, Bonnie, is with me. A man named Tandy is with us. He’s been shot.”

  Buck knew an old geezer named Tandy Williamson. The old trail cook, a friend of Moss’s, had spent a week or two here a couple winters ago.

  “Bernie! Is that you?” Kristin came running across the yard.

  Muttering a string of curses, Buck raced after her. He grabbed her around the waist with one arm and dragged her back behind a large oak.

  “Goddammit to hell, Kristin! Are you trying to get yourself killed?” he whispered angrily.

  “It’s Bernie and Bonnie. They’re my friends. They helped me get out of Big Timber.”

  “Kristin! It’s me, Bonnie.” The feminine voice sounded close to tears. “Let us come in. We’re so . . . tired and Tandy’s been shot.”

  “Come on in,” Buck shouted. “Gilly, get a lantern.” Buck’s arm was still around Kristin, holding her tightly to him. “I could beat your butt. You scared the living hell out of me. It could’ve been Forsythe’s men out there. Don’t you understand that they’d like nothing better than to see you dead? Dammit, next time I tell you to do something you’d better do it . . . or I’ll shake the puddin’ outta you.”

  “I’m sorry, Buck.” She touched the side of his face with her palm before she pushed herself out of his arms. “Bernie risked his life to get me to the freight camp. I couldn’t let you turn them away.”

  “I wasn’t going to turn them away. I had to be sure who they were.”

  The buggy moved past them as he spoke. They followed it to the yard behind the house, where Gilly waited with a lantern. The tired horse slowed to a stop and stood with his head hanging, his sides heaving.

  The three people on the buggy seat blinked against the light. An old man’s head lolled against Bonnie’s shoulder.

  “Please . . . help him—”

  “Oh, Bonnie! Are you all right?”

  “Yes, but Tandy and . . . Bernie—”

  “Oh, my—” It was all Kristin could say when she saw Bernie’s face. Without Bonnie’s being with him, she would not have recognized him as the man who had driven her to the freight camp only a few weeks ago.

  Bernie held Tandy on the seat while Buck lifted Bonnie down to stand on shaky legs. When Gustaf reached for the old man, he groaned and cried out when he was moved.

  “Where’s he hit?”

  “In the back. Sonsabitches shot him in the back,” Bernie said.

  “I’ll be careful, mister, but it’ll hurt ya some.” As Gustaf lifted Tandy in his arms he glanced questioningly at Buck.

  “Take him to the bunkhouse. It’s warm in there. Kristin, fetch hot water and rags.”

  “I’ll go with Tandy—” Bonnie moved to follow the men.

  “Come help me, Bonnie.” The tired girl’s steps faltered, and Kristin took her arm.

  Bonnie waited at the door. Kristin groped for the matchbox, touched the flame to the wick and turned to Bonnie. Her hair had come loose from the pins and was hanging in strands. Her face was dirty, her dress torn and bloody, but it was the hopeless, tired look in her eyes that tugged at Kristin’s heart. Her memory of Bonnie had been of a spunky girl with sass in her voice and an angry sparkle in her eyes.

  “Sit down, Bonnie. I’ll get the bandages.”

  “I can’t sit until Tandy’s tended to.” Tears flooded her eyes. “He’d got down to water the horse and they shot him. We didn’t know anybody was about.”

  Buck came into the kitchen, walked past the women and into the room at the front of the house. He returned with a box in one hand and a bottle of whiskey in the other.

  “We need cloth for bandages, Kristin. Do you have more of the salve you put on my shoulder?”

  “I’ll get it and cloth and vinegar. There’s hot water in the teakettle.” When she came out of her room, she touched his arm briefly as she handed him a bundle of cloth and the salve. “Is it bad?”

  “Can’t tell. He’s got a bullet in his back. I’m thinking his heavy coat helped to slow it some.”

  “Do you need me and Bonnie?”

  “No. We’ve got to cut the bullet out. It’s not something you need to see. Fix a meal for Gates and his sister. They haven’t eaten today.”

  Gustaf appeared at the door. Kristin gave him the teakettle and the jug of vinegar.

  “Careful with the teakettle. The water is almost boiling,” she cautioned as the men stepped off the porch.

  * * *

  The bullet had gone up under the shoulder blade. Bernie explained that Tandy was bent over when he was shot. Buck was puzzled as to how to get the bullet out until Gustaf took from his pack a rolled-up doeskin that contained a small razor, tweezers, a tin of salve, a bottle of laudanum, a length of linen thread and several needles.

  “Never go anywhere without this kit. Pulled out many a splinter and sewed up many a cut after a fight. Meanness comes out in some folks when they ain’t doin’ nothin’, but watchin’ the shoreline go by. All it’d take is for somebody to look at ’em crossways and they’re up and rarin’ to go at it.”

  “Was ya the doc?” Gilly asked.

  “No, but a lot of fellers kept a eye out so nothin’ happened to me in case somethin’ happened to them.” Gustaf grinned. “Worked out pretty good. If I got in a fight, I had plenty a backup.”

  “See what you can do,” Buck said. “Tandy deserves better than what I can do for him.”

  “Can’t say that I can do better, but I’ll give it a try.”

  The men watched as Gustaf scrubbed his hands with lye soap and poured water from the teakettle over the tools he would use. Tandy yelled when he cut his flesh with the razor. He yelled again when the bullet was removed with the tweezers. The Swede was skilled when it came to doctoring, Buck had to admit. After Gustaf stitched the wound he gave Tandy a few drops of laudanum and the tired old man went to sleep.

  Sitting on one of the bunks, Bernie took off his boot and handed a folded paper to Buck.

  “I wasn’t sure we’d make it and didn’t want Forsythe’s men to get their hands on it.”

  Buck moved close to the lamp, read Cleve’s message and
put the paper in his pocket.

  “Well?” Gilly was never one to hold back when he wanted to know something. “Air we gettin’ help or not?”

  “Cleve says a judge in Bozeman is looking into Forsythe’s affairs and that they’ve claimed Miss Anderson sold out to them. He says for us to hold on here a while longer and keep an eye on Kristin. It’ll be her testimony that’ll cook Forsythe’s goose.”

  “There’s rifles and ammunition in the ba . . . ck of the buggy. And some grub. We ain’t aiming to put ya out any more than we have to.” Bernie’s voice cracked.

  “Take a swig of this.” Buck held out the whiskey bottle. “You look like you could use it.”

  After a few minutes Bernie began to talk.

  “We left Big Timber about two in the morning. Noon the next day we stopped at a creek to water the horse. Bonnie and I had gone down to drink when Tandy was shot. We got him behind a dirt bank. I’m thinkin’ they hadn’t seen me and a few minutes later two men rode in bold as brass thinkin’ to take Bonnie. I opened up with an old buffalo gun, shot the horses out from under both of them. Hit one in the leg pretty bad. The other’n was carryin’ him on his back when they made for the woods.”

  “Did they follow you from town?” Buck asked.

  “I don’t think so. I think we were as much of a surprise to them as they were to us. But they knew who we were. Bonnie says one of them was in the café with Mike Bruza. We waited until dark to leave that place, then run that poor horse almost to death to get here.”

  “They’ll get back to town and Forsythe will know you’re here.”

  “I’m sorry to come in on you, but Stark seemed to think it was the thing to do. They’d of killed me in another day or two, and God only knows what would’ve happened to my sister. I’ll tell you one thing, that killer that’s so crazy for her will be here sooner or later.”

  “Are you planning on going up against him?”

  “If he tries to take her, I’ll have to.” Bernie shook his head. “The man’s a puzzle.”

  The men in the bunkhouse listened intently while Bernie told about Del Gomer’s obsession with Bonnie.

  “He’s a cold-blooded killer. He’ll shoot a man in front or back and not bat an eye. When he finds out Bruza put his hands on Bonnie, he’ll kill him. As bad as he is, at times I was grateful for his protection.”

  “Who killed Cletus Fuller?” Buck asked.

  “I don’t know for sure, but I’m thinking Mike Bruza had something to do with it. He takes orders from Forsythe.”

  Buck went outside and spoke with Bowlegs. The Indian was satisfied that the buggy had not been followed. It was decided that his drovers would take the first two watches and Buck and Gilly the early-morning shift. Bowlegs trotted away and Buck went back to the bunkhouse.

  Kristin and Bonnie were sitting at the table when Buck brought Bernie to the house.

  “How is Tandy?” Bonnie asked anxiously.

  “He’ll be all right unless blood poisonin’ sets in,” Bernie replied. “The Swede is quite a doctor.”

  “I’d forgotten about that,” Kristin said quickly. “Back home Gustaf even set some arms and legs when the doctor was down sick.” She glanced at Buck’s quiet face and away. “Sit down, Bernie. I’ll get you some coffee. Do you want some, Buck?”

  “No. I’ve things to do.” He went to the door and stopped when Kristin called his name.

  “Buck.” She set a cup of coffee on the table and took her shawl from the back of the chair. “Bonnie, will you dish up some supper for Bernie?” Looking up into Buck’s puzzled face, she asked, “May I speak with you for a minute?”

  He hesitated, and she thought that he was going to refuse. Then he held the door open. She went through and he followed her onto the porch.

  Kristin walked out into the yard toward the well. When they were well away from the house she stopped and turned to him. Her heart was racing like a runaway prairie fire, and she was having trouble getting enough air into her lungs, yet there were things that had to be said.

  “Before I knew how things were out here”—she took a deep breath hoping to steady her voice—“before I knew that Uncle Yarby hadn’t really left me a house to live in, I invited Bernie and Bonnie out to stay with me after I found out that they were having trouble with Colonel Forsythe’s men.”

  She placed her hand on his arm. He stepped back as if she had burned him, and her hand fell to her side. She was grateful for the darkness so that he’d not see the tears that sprang to her eyes.

  “I’m sorry that because of me these people have come in on you—the Gateses, Mr. Tandy and Gustaf—” She almost choked on the words, and pretended to cough.

  “It isn’t like any of you will be here forever.” The voice that came out of the darkness was low-edged with sarcasm.

  “I plan to stay. Oh, not in your house,” she added quickly. “In one of my own. I appreciate your letting me stay here, but I feel that because of me you’re being pushed out of your house.”

  “No one pushes me anywhere I don’t want to go.”

  She could feel his unrest and it made her nervous. She could also feel his hard eyes on her face. He radiated energy, strength. He was the most confident person she had ever met. The silence between them stretched into frozen moments of time.

  “Have I done something to . . . offend you?” she asked softly.

  It seemed an eternity before he answered.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “You’ve . . . been different lately.”

  “Things are different lately. A few weeks ago it was just me and Gilly and Moss. Then you came. Now people are cropping up all over the place.”

  “When I came, you were forced to take me in. Now the others have come here because of me. We’ve disrupted your life, taken over your home. I’m going to ask Gustaf to start fixing up Uncle Yarby’s old place—”

  “Are you wanting to move over there . . . with him?”

  “It’s a matter of not wanting to impose on your hospitality any longer than necessary,” Kristin said quietly.

  Buck rocked back on his heels; and when he spoke, it was with more anger than she had heard from him before.

  “Where will he get the lumber, Miss Anderson? The nails? The tools? And when it’s tight enough for winter, what will you sleep on? Cook on? Do you think Forsythe will sit still for you to haul what you need from town?”

  “Gustaf could go to town. He’s not known in Big Timber. He could take the wagon. I’ve a little money—”

  “No! You’re staying right here in my house where I can keep my eye on you.” His hands came out to grip her shoulders. “Gustaf is not fixing up that shack, Kristin. You’re staying where you are until this thing with Forsythe is settled. It could rock on until spring. By then you’ll have had your fill of this country and will be begging your cousin to take you back to Wisconsin.”

  “You’re wrong, Buck. I love it out here. I don’t care if I never go to town or see River Falls again. This is my home now . . . here on the Larkspur. I’ll find a way to stay here—”

  “In the meanwhile Gustaf will stay in the bunkhouse, but he’ll work for his keep,” he said as if she hadn’t spoken.

  “He expects to . . . stay in the bunkhouse,” she said defensively. “And he will work. Gustaf’s not a moocher.”

  “He’ll have to help defend this homestead.”

  “He’s not a coward, either. I can shoot, too, for that matter. We’re not going to hide behind you. We’ll help any way we can.”

  “You could have gotten yourself killed tonight. You’ll do what I tell you . . . next time. And there will be a next time, you can bank on it.”

  “I know. And I’m sorry about tonight, Buck. Truly I am. I put you in danger, too.”

  “Bullfoot!” he scoffed. “I’ve lived with danger every day of my life. It’s not new to me.”

  His hands gripped hard. He drew her closer to him. His face was close to hers. He could feel her breath on his l
ips. Nothing in his life had prepared him to love a woman. It was gut-wrenching to see her day after day and know that she could never be his. From time to time, he had thought about it as he went his lonely way, but always as something that happened to other men.

  “Do you love . . . him?” he asked urgently. “Do you?”

  “Love Gustaf? Of course I do, but not—”

  Buck suddenly remembered that his hands were on her shoulders. He dropped them as if he gripped a red-hot stove and moved away from her.

  “Go back to the house.”

  He walked quickly toward the barn.

  She watched him leave with tears blurring her vision.

  Chapter Nineteen

  After Bernie and Bonnie left town, Cleve and Dillon moved to a boardinghouse suggested by the black-bearded railroad worker they had met at the café. The railroad men were not pleased that the restaurant was closed, and uneasiness was filtering through the town’s population.

  In the saloon the talk was about the marshal harassing Bonnie Gates and threatening to put her in jail for defending herself against Mike Bruza. The men quietly speculated among themselves about the killing of Cletus Fuller and the cowardly beating of a one-legged man. They feared that what had happened could easily happen to any one of them.

  Cleve and Dillon heard no sympathy expressed for Greg Meader and Shorty Spinks, who had come into town riding on one horse with Spinks full of buckshot from an old buffalo gun. No one believed that Bernie or Tandy had deliberately opened up on them as they claimed.

  For the most part the Big Timber residents kept their opinions to themselves. They were merchants who depended on trade from small ranchers and townfolk connected with the railroad. They were not equipped to stand against a man who controlled the city law enforcer and who had a crew of hired guns.

  One morning Cleve sent a wire to a friend in Kansas City telling him that all large sections of land in the area of Big Timber had been taken up, and added, “no reply necessary.” He knew his friend would understand the coded message. He and Dillon lingered in the depot and read the papers that had come in on the morning train.