Darkness at Morning Star

by Joyce C. Ware

  I felt a sudden surge of anger. “Those women who worked for your mother?” I blurted. “Surely Quinn can’t be right about them not wanting to stay on with Belle. Why, she’s the dearest girl in the world!”

  Bazz lifted his feet out of the stream and waggled them in the air to dry. “Well, let’s just say they didn’t see eye to eye. Mama was folks, you see, and they never got over thinking of Belle as a stranger come to take their place. At the end, that’s what she did, you know. She tended my mama as if she were her own. Up all hours with her, brewing the special herbal elixirs she craved.” He pulled on his socks. “Besides, as you heard tell last night, hardly anyone chooses to stay at Morning Star any longer than obligated—not even that long sometimes. Look at those ungrateful urchins Belle and I tried to help.”

  “You know, Bazz, maybe the Morning Star legend had nothing to do with those girls running off. Maybe the first one decided town life would be more to her liking than working out here on the prairie. And maybe the second one, if she was ditched like Belle thinks, joined her later. Judging from Morning Star, I imagine the ranches out here generally have a lot more single young men than girls, and scrawny or not, mightn’t a bunch of lonely cowboys think them pretty, seeing them all dressed up in saloon finery?”

  “Pretty? Maybe, dressed up like you say.” He reached over for his boots, then sat back, remembering. “They had little foxy faces and black, black hair. ...”

  A funny little smile came and went, his voice so soft I could hardly hear him. “Like that little breed Quinn’s got,” he said, tugging on his boots. “Without the bruises,” he amended.

  “Really? They weren’t twins, though, like Belle and me?”

  Basil grinned, crouched down, dipped his fingers in the stream and flipped water in my face. “There’s no one in the whole wide world like you and Belle, Miss Garraty,” he said. “C’mon, up with you, I’m starving!”

  Fortified by a lunch of bacon and generously buttered biscuits leftover from breakfast and washed down with cool tea, we mounted up and resumed our wildflower hunt. By the time we surrendered to the heat of the afternoon sun, we had found a stand of evening primroses—white instead of the yellow variety I was familiar with—prairie phlox, great tangles of roses and a bush of morning glory, whose long flaring trumpets had already twisted shut, as if too delicate to withstand the full light of day. This seeming fragility, Basil advised me, did not extend to the root system.

  “Once,” he told me laughing, “when Mama found a particularly handsome specimen—not tar from here, if I remember correctly—she decided she must have it for her garden. So she brought first me, then Cobby, to have a go at it. It wasn’t until between us we’d dug a hole as big as a cookstove, with no end to the taproot in sight, that she finally abandoned the idea.”

  Suppose they had succeeded in transplanting it in the Morning Star garden. I shuddered as an image of roots swollen as thick as tree trunks invaded my mind. Roots burrowing deep, seeking and leaching out the ghastly sustenance provided there.

  “... and later, the sunflowers come into bloom,” Basil was saying, unaware of my dark preoccupation. “They’re my favorites.” He paused. “Mama thought them too common.”

  The note of guilty regret in his voice saddened me. Surely there was no call for a son, no matter how devoted, to share all his mother’s likes and dislikes. I had grown fond of Basil, we had many similar interests and—thanks to Malcolm Wilcox’s patient tutoring—a common language in which to discuss them, but I feared he was the kind of man who would find all women wanting in comparison to his mother. On the other hand, if I were as unlike her as he had said, maybe I could chance the competition.

  “I like sunflowers, too,” I said, defying Lottie’s sainted image. “I shall be sorry to miss them.”

  “Oh, but you won’t. The land between the Missouri and the mountains is populated by battalions—no, whole armies of sunflowers. Actually, come July, there’s no escaping them.”

  I wondered if any had been planted in the garden at Morning Star. I did not ask: the thought of those yellow-rayed faces, grown in that cursed place to gigantic size, their cyclopean heads seeking the sun in slow revolution, as mindless and pitiless as praying mantes, repelled me. Armies of them....

  Bazz looked down at me, concern in his gray eyes. “You look suddenly pale, Serena—are you feeling the heat?”

  I smiled, reluctant to admit I was suffering more from my fevered imagination than the heat of the day.

  Wordlessly, Bazz turned his mount toward home.

  I followed his lead, a decision approved, judging from their eagerly quickened pace, by Bingo and Dancer, too.

  Heat of another kind greeted our return. A dust-raising brawl in the corral near the barn, egged on by the cowhands lounging along the rail and shouting encouragement, turned out to be between Quinn and Sharo, Cobby’s protégé, although that was hardly a term Cobby himself would use, even if he knew the word.

  Jed, seeing my arrival, detached himself from the others and slouched over to take Bingo. “Sharo’s got his hands full, miss,” he said. I didn’t care for his leering smile. “Started as a dust-up, but looks to me as it Quinn’s plannin’ on cleanin’ the kid’s plow.”

  “What on earth—”

  I hadn’t meant my exclamation as a question, but Jed chose to take it that way. “S’all over that little breed filly. Seems the kid took exception to Cooper’s rights to her. I coulda tol’ him the boss’d help him chew gravel, talkin’ outta turn like that.”

  “Why didn’t you?” I demanded.

  His leer widened. “Not as much fun in it.”

  Knowing he was trying to spark a little fun out of me, too, I counted to ten before speaking. “Since you kindly volunteered to put Bingo away, see you cool her off well first.”

  His expression was a caricature of dismay: not only had I called his bluff but deprived him of seeing how the fight turned out. Satisfied, I turned back to see Cobby stumping into the corral on his stubby legs, laying into the two flailing men as if he had four arms instead of two.

  “Awright! That’s enough of that, now. You, there, you stiffs,” he called, addressing the onlookers along the fence, “git back to work! Show’s over.” He shooed a limping Sharo out of the enclosure. The boy’s face was bloodied, his clothes dust-caked and torn. “A washing-up’d improve you some,” Cobby called after him, his tone kindlier than his words.

  “You can turn Dancer into the pen now, Bazz,” Cobby said, “seein’ we finally got these human critters drove out of it.”

  Bazz led Dancer by Quinn without so much as a glance in his direction, distaste evident in the set of his mouth.

  “He’s of the girl’s blood, Quinn,” I heard Cobby say to him as they approached. “Half-blood leastwise.”

  Quinn dismissed Cobby’s argument with a downward slash of his newly raw-knuckled hand. Then, seeing me, he grinned; seeing the swagger in his walk, my already heated blood boiled.

  “You’re almost twice Sharo’s age and weight,” I said. “Do you call that a fair match?”

  He wiped the blood from his cut lip. “Riled again, eh, S’rena? The kid held his own well enough, but if you’re that all-fired concerned about him, why’n’t you go play nursie? I’ve already got someone to look after me.”

  This last was said deliberately loud enough for Sharo to hear. He spun around, lunged for Quinn, stumbled, and as Cobby came trotting up to calm him, I could see angry tears tracking through the blood and dust on the boy’s face.

  Quinn, ignoring them, retrieved his hat from the post where he’d left it, brushed it off, set it on his head and strolled on by with that smooth, hip-hitching gait of his toward his quarters—and Spotted Fawn— as if he hadn’t a care in the world.

  Bazz walked up beside me. “I swear, Serena, Dancer’s more of a gentleman than Quinn.”

  Having spent most of the day in the company of his well-mannered horse, I was inclined to agree.

  “Cobby said Shar
o and Fawn are of half-blood,” I said. “Does that mean they’re related in some way, like you and Quinn?”

  He frowned. “It means they’re mongrels, half-white, half-Indian. Breeds, we call ‘em. Not even their own people will take them in. What’s worse is that the Indian half of these two is Pawnee. Paw wouldn’t have tolerated Pawnees at Morning Star, and I advise you to have nothing to do with this one,” he said, inclining his head toward the injured lad. He put his arm around my shoulders. “Come along, Serena, you’re still a little pale. My fault for keeping you out in the hot sun so long.”

  Knowing what it’s like to have no home and no one to call your own, I resisted Basil’s well-meant solicitude. “I’m always a little pale, Bazz,” I said. I smiled as I gently detached myself. “You go on up to the house. I’ll join you later after I’ve seen to Sharo.”

  “But Serena—”

  “You know how women are, Bazz; we can’t resist tending wounded creatures, be they kittens, puppies or people. You said yourself how good Belle was with your mother; well, in that respect, we’re two of a kind!”

  Unwilling to assist, Bazz departed alone, his shoulders stiffening with disapproval as I, persisting in my obdurate intent to play—how had Quinn put it?—”nursie,” asked one of the men to bring a pail of clean water to the barn. Cobby supplied strips of sheeting and a jar of Belle’s salve, and together we ministered to Sharo’s injuries, which were more painful—bruises, really—than serious.

  “Bazz ‘pears to have taken to you some,” Cobby offered as he wrapped a bandage around Sharo’s salve-slathered knee. He seemed surprised.

  “You think me too plain?” I inquired.

  “Plain? You?” His astonishment that I could think such a thing both pleased and confounded me. I was quite sure Belle didn’t suit his taste in womenfolk.

  “Well, he keeps saying how pale I am. ...”

  “Ladylike, I calls it,” Cobby said. “Not like some,” he muttered, bending down to tear the bandaging strip down the middle with his teeth. “He usually favors the little dark ones, like his maw,” he added, securing the bandage with the ties he had made. “Pretty as a kitten, she was.”

  “How long is it, Cobby?” I asked as I gently washed the dirt from Share’s cut, bruised face. “Since she died, I mean.”

  “I know what you meant,” Cobby said gruffly. “Six years. No need for it, either. The sickness was mostly in her head if you ask me. Ross never understood that, never tried to, and that made it worse.”

  “Then, I guess it was lucky Belle was here to care for her.”

  Cobby grunted. “Yep, passed away six years ago this month, she did. The bad things usually happen here in June. Startin’ with haulin’ up those fool stone pillars the year after the house was built. That pair with the slits? The way Ross fussed with his compass gettin’ ‘em set just right, never sayin’ why, drove us all loco. One feller busted his leg, another dern near broke his head, but it had to be done that day, Ross said. Like I say, June ain’t a good time at Morning Star. Wasn’t no diff’rent for poor Lottie.” He smoothed salve on Sharo’s face, his calloused fingers as gentle as feathers. “There you go, young feller,” he said briskly. “From now on, you be mindin’ your own business.”

  “I thank you. Cobby, and you, too. Miss Serena, but Spotted Fawn is of my blood. I would be less than a man if I turn away.”

  A grimace of pain twisted Sharo’s mouth as he pulled himself to his feet, but his dark gaze remained steadfast. Although I admired his pure, young heart, I couldn’t help but regret the disillusionments awaiting him.

  Cobby squinted up at him, then pulled his pipe from his pocket and studied it thoughtfully. “If that’s how you see it,” he said at length, “I reckon I’ll put your name on that jar of salve.”

  Sharo, holding himself proudly erect despite his twisted knee, nodded. “I’ll go see to Bingo now.”

  “But Jed already—” I broke off. Sharo’s expression told of his reservations about Jed’s reliability more than any words could have done, and more diplomatically, too.

  “Thank you, Sharo, I’d appreciate that.”

  “He’s a good ‘un, breed or not,” Cobby said as we watched him cross to the barn. “The hands, none of ‘em’d have him for a bunkie, but he’s welcome enough.”

  “All things considered,” I said dryly.

  He eyed me shrewdly, nodded, and thrust his stained empty pipe in his mouth.

  “Then, why can’t Quinn Cooper—”

  Out came the pipe. “Quinn’s got a lot of his paw in ‘im. Ramrod proud. Ross tried to take the bucks outta him first time he come. Couldn’t, and made up his mind he couldn’t be rode. I told Ross to give ‘im more rope, but then that trouble with Bazz almost drownin’ come up....” He inspected his pipe. “Lottie never could stand havin’ him around.”

  “Quinn’s a half-blood, too, isn’t he ... like Sharo and Fawn?”

  “Quinn’s only a quarter-blood. Accordin’ to Ross, his maw was half-Comanche. Fierce people, the Comanche. But it wasn’t his bein’ a breed bothered Lottie; it was Ross bein’ his paw.”

  “Where did Quinn go?”

  “Up Nebraska way. Big limey outfit up there hired him on. Made line boss ‘fore he was twenty, then top screw. Pro’bly be foreman one day if he’d stayed.”

  “Why didn’t he, Cobby? He could have sent someone else down to Morning Star for the cattle.”

  Cobby shifted uncomfortably. “Not for me to say, miss. He come back a sight more bridle-wise, but I saw that same look in his eyes ... that wantin’ look. Never said nothin’—plays a lone hand, Quinn does—but I could tell.”

  Proud, fierce and covetous. A dangerous combination. “Was Ross Cooper’s death an accident. Cobby?”

  His gnarled fingers clenched. “Lordy, Miss Serena, why’d you wanta ask me sumpin’ like that? It happened in June’s all I know.”

  “Does that mean you think there’s a curse on Morning Star, like Quinn says?”

  Cobby stepped back from me. The look in his eyes was troubled, almost haunted. “Don’t matter if I do or don’t. Morning Star .. . well, I’m snubbed to it, permanent. Come this time of year, I jest keep lookin’ over my shoulder.” He pointed his pipestem at me like an accusing finger. “If you keep shovin’ off your range like you done with me just now, you’d best do the same.”

  Chapter Eight

  We didn’t see Quinn at supper that night or for two nights thereafter. Basil figured he was licking his wounds; Belle’s comment to that, delivered in a righteous tone that made us laugh, was if there were any justice in this world, he’d probably poisoned himself. When he reappeared the third evening, there didn’t seem to be a mark on him.

  “Been using my salve, have you?” Belle said after looking him over.

  Quinn looked at her from under the brim of his black hat and grinned. “No need. Belle. Fawn got ways of her own.”

  “Oh, I reckon she has,” Belle said, a sly smile curving her lips. “Don’t seem to have improved your manners none, though.”

  “How’s that, Belle?”

  “A gentleman takes his hat off in the company of ladies.”

  “Well, as you’ve kindly pointed out to me before, I’m no gentleman, and sorry to say I’ve got my doubts about the rest of what you said, but...” He swept his black hat off with a flourish, loosing a thick lock of dark hair upon his tanned forehead. “Evening, ladies and gentleman.” His mocking grin lit up the dim room. “Got any of that fancy wine of yours?”

  He sat down and waited expectantly, but soon realized none of us were about to jump to do his bidding. “Want I should go up and see if you still got any hid under your bed, Belle?” He started to get up. “No trouble—”

  “Damn you, Quinn! Everything’s a joke to you.”

  His grin faded. “Not everything, Belle. Not everything by a long sight.”

  Basil thrust him a small tumbler half-full of sherry. “If you want a wineglass, I’m afraid you’ll have to supply your o
wn.”

  “You mean there’s special kinds?” I couldn’t tell if he was serious. “This’ll do just fine.” He raised the glass to his lips and downed it in a single gulp. “Right tasty. Not like whiskey, of course, but I can see why the ladies like it.”

  I could sense Bazz bristling.

  “Back East, men like it, too,” I said.

  “Back East, S’rena, men are s’posed to like a lot of things the ladies like. The ones that don’t... well, why do you suppose all those wagon trains keep headin’ west?”

  “For the same reason Paw did,” Bazz broke in. “To get what the lady he liked best expected of him. Not much difference that I can see.”

  “You got a point, little brother, except the way Cobby tells it, your maw would’ve married Paw anyway. It was your grandpa Wohlfort who had the expectations. Cobby says Paw never did like bein’ tied to another man’s saddle horn, and once he broke free... well, he wasn’t about to be tied down permanent by no ribbons and lace. Your poor little mama got herself caught between ‘em.”

  I assumed, although it surprised me, that Quinn’s mention of Lottie Cooper was meant to be sympathetic; Bazz inferred no such thing.

  “You called her a silly cow!”

  “She damn near got you drowned, and I got the blame fer it!” Quinn rose to his feet, rigid with anger.

  Bazz’s head bobbed and weaved like a snake about to strike.

  “Dear Lord!” I cried. “It’s been twelve years!”

  Quinn blinked, and slowly relaxed; Bazz raked a trembling hand through his auburn hair, then plunged his hands in his pockets ‘and turned his back. His ragged breathing rasped in the ensuing silence.

  “What I came for,” Quinn said at length, “was to say I expect to settle your claims in two weeks, and when I do, you’d better be ready to clear out.” The weather-etched lines on his face seemed grooved in stone; his tone brooked no argument.

  Belle lunged toward him, her small fists raised. “Two weeks?” Her voice was shrill with agitation. “How do you expect us to be ready in two weeks? There’s no one to help us pack, not enough boxes to pack in and nothing to haul them out of here in if we had ‘em.”