Darkness at Morning Star

by Joyce C. Ware

  “That’s murder,” I whispered.

  His eyes were as cold as marbles. “You seen what he done to Fawn, and if that’s not enough for you, how ‘bout those two orphans him and Belle took in?”

  “Now who’s rushing to judgment! I hate him for what he did to Fawn, but those other girls ... rumors, Quinn, nothing more.” Belle had talked of Bazz “punishing” them, whatever that meant. Like Fawn, I supposed. But cruel as he’d been, surely that wasn’t call to hang him. “You can’t hang a man because of rumors!”

  His mouth thinned and tightened. “Haven’t you any thin’ better to do than point out the error in my ways?”

  After insisting I stay another night in his quarters, saying it might improve my disposition, Quinn left. Fawn and I made short work of the cleaning up, and after I smoothed more salve on her bruises and saw her off to bed, I decided to go up to the big house with the baskets I had brought down the day before. This would be as good a time as any to put away the supplies Cobby had the men deliver to the kitchen.

  The evening was lovely—warm and still, with insect choirs humming in the grass—but I was too distracted to take proper note of it. Would I ever find the time to ride the prairie on Bingo again? How I had loved our excursions! I had accepted without question my role as pampered guest, exploring the brushy slopes and chalky outcrops, lazing by the pond, heedless of the passage of time. I had never thought Belle would prove a piper to be paid, much less what the cost of her tune would be.

  The ruined house loomed above me, a dark blot against a sky still luminously blue, pricked here and there with starshine. My footsteps slowed as I recalled Quinn’s telling of the Pawnee sacrifice to the morning star. How many times had the gruesome ritual been celebrated here? I wondered. How much innocent blood needed to be shed to insure its eternal consecration? I thought of the young captives, fears allayed by months of kindness, encouraged to hope for union with a chief’s son, dragged to a scaffold, their naked bodies pierced by a score of flaming arrows, their young flesh torn and scattered together with seed on the spring-awakened earth. Pampered guests betrayed....

  The ugly parallel struck me with a force that made me gasp aloud. The house in which I had spent so many happy hours seemed doubly cursed now, and as I opened the door to the kitchen, even the homely complaint of its hinges struck a sinister note.

  I entered and lit the lamp suspended above the work table. My nervous fingers set it swaying, the shadows advancing and retreating from the erratic circle of light, now here, now there, coming to rest upon a pair of empty baskets on the knife-scarred tabletop. I placed the two I had brought with me beside them.

  Yes, I thought, just as I remembered. Four baskets, not three. I had offered one to Sharo; might he have taken two? It seemed unlikely, but who else.... Just then, my shoe crunched on a rivulet of sugar trailing from the chewed comer of one of the sacks Cobby had brought from town. Dismissing further conjecture as profitless, I concentrated instead on storing away the supplies in the pantry’s tin-lined, rodent-proof bins and barrels.

  As I moved back and forth from kitchen to pantry, I became aware of distant creakings and groanings, very like those I had heard in the night when I first arrived at Morning Star. Mice and squirrels I had thought them then, and thought they must be now, for Belle was dead, and Bazz. ...

  I pushed the possibility away. Mice and squirrels, or the warping of rain-soaked floor boards in the rooms above, or ... Cornmeal spilled from the scoop in my hand. Or Bazz.

  I slumped against the pantry shelves. If Bazz were here, I did not want to know. I would not allow my mind to dwell on the little irregularities I had noticed: two cans of beans instead of five; a slick of moisture in a sink that had ample time to dry since my last use of it. The affection Bazz had kindled in my heart might now be as cold as winter’s ashes, but that did not, could not, warrant my betraying him to Quinn. I had no proof of his willing complicity in Belle’s schemes—a weak man was no match for a determined woman—and how could rumors of murder be woven into a rope strong enough to serve as a hangman’s noose? Vengeance is mine ... saith the Lord. I would not serve as a handmaiden to blasphemy.

  I gathered up the emptied sacks, folded them, and walked around the table to place them on shelves reserved for such uses. As I did so, I noticed a smallish dark rectangle at the table’s far end, just beyond the circle of light. I picked it up. The feel of pebbled leather between my fingers instantly identified it as Belle’s herbal, forgotten in the aftermath of the quarrel she and Bazz had had about it. The sight of the worn covers brought vividly to mind the hours she had spent here concocting her herbal salves and elixirs. They were the only times I could recall seeing her forgetful of self, seeing her ... content. I couldn’t help thinking how upset she would have been to find she had left it behind....

  I riffled stained pages densely written in a childish hand. The phrasing was awkward and marred with misspellings, but her observations were keen and the descriptions of process carefully and intelligently detailed. If only Belle had had a Malcolm Wilcox to guide her! “If, if, if, Reenie....” Regretful tears blurred my eyes as her mocking chant rang again in my head.

  Even though I might never wish to use Belle’s herbal myself, I knew it must be saved. I slid it into my pocket. As I did so, I recalled her slipping Lottie Cooper’s fine red leather-bound herbal into her own, the morning of our last day together. I could see her fingers buttoning the flap, her eyes daring Bazz to further dispute her right to it. Where was it now? In the hampers packed with her concoctions? More likely in her room, to be carried with her in a hand satchel. I stood, irresolute, unable to bring myself to climb the stairs, terrified of what I might find.

  . Haunted by its bloody legacy, my early delight in the golden stone house had wholly surrendered to fear. Its inhabitants, save for me, were either dead, in flight, or in hiding, and June had not yet run its course. I would ask the men Cobby had promised to send for furnishings for the shack to keep an eye out for the little red book. For now, I wished only to return to Quinn’s quarters and the uncomplicated affection Fawn had developed for me in the course of my ministrations, simple acts complicated only in my own mind by the knowledge that their success owed as much to Belle’s salve as my nursing skill.

  I sighed, reached up to turn out the lamp above the table, then paused to light my lantern first. There was no need to invite darkness to Morning Star.

  The next evening Quinn again pooh-poohed my intention to take up residence in the hut.

  “I’d say it’s more a line-campin’ sort of place than a res-i-dence,” he said, poking fun at what he obviously considered a la-di-da choice of words.

  When I told him of Cobby’s offer to help set me up, he frowned. “I can’t spare any of the boys to give you a hand right now; ‘sides, it’s good for Fawn to have you here.”

  “But the men, what must they be thinking?”

  “ ‘Bout a pretty woman like you stayin’ here?” He pulled at his ear. “Just what you’re thinkin’ they’re thinkin’, S’rena ... and wishin’ they was me,” he added with a grin.

  I could feel warmth rise in my cheeks. “Then, all the more reason—”

  “They’d be thinkin’ it no matter where you lay your head at night.” He looked down at Fawn sitting cross-legged at his feet. “Fact is, I got me two pretty women,” he said, placing a hand on her dark head. “You’re lookin’ a whole lot better, little one.”

  Fawn smiled up at him. “Miss S’rena, she very good to me.”

  I couldn’t take my eyes from Quinn’s gently stroking, proprietary hand. Good to her? I looked away, shamefaced, as Quinn’s hand moved lower to squeeze Fawn’s shoulder. It was not my place to lodge a protest, yet by not doing so I felt implicated in her ... whatever her relationship was with him.

  “Time for me to bed down.” He rose and stretched. “Hard day tomorrow.”

  “Good!” I pronounced. “Hard enough, I hope, to keep the men too tired to think of things that don�
�t concern them.”

  A smile curved his mouth. “Never heard tell of a man too tired for thinkin’ on it.” He flexed his arms and slowly lowered them. “But we got a cavvy of horses waitin’ to make ‘em too tired to do any thin’ else.”

  “Cavvy?”

  “Yep, cavvy ... caviada, some say.” He paused consideringly. “Funny soundin’ word, ain’t it? Brung up from old Mexico, most likely ... means a bunch of range horses needin’ to be broke to saddle.”

  I nodded. “Mustangs,” I supplied smugly.

  He grinned. “We’ll make a sage hen outta you yet, S’rena. But these ain’t no ordinary broomtail mustangs. You recall that Appaloosa stallion of mine?”

  “Bucket, you mean?”

  Quinn nodded. “Finest breed of horse I ever rode. Smart, brave, strong as rawhide—I’d like to see a camel outlast ‘em. The Nez Perce bred ‘em, and the United States Army killed most of ‘em. Got fed up with bein’ outrode and outfought, so they crippled the savages by killin’ their horses.” Quinn’s mouth twisted in disgust. “Savages, hell! Why, their horses was better bred’n most people.” He shook his head.

  “But you say some did survive.”

  “A few of us, who know the breed and value it, are doin’ what we can. Brian Niven had a small herd—I bought Bucket and a couple of mares from him when I left.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “That was certainly decent of him.”

  Quinn’s jaw set hard. “I paid his price. No favors asked; none given. Niven knows he don’t have time to do right by them. Backers of a big spread like that put their money in cows, not spotty-rump Injun ponies.”

  “How do you find the time?”

  “I don’t find it, S’rena, I make it, ‘cause I’m the only backer I got. I don’t need no others; don’t want none, neither.”

  His lips tightened; his eyes hardened with purpose. I was beginning to understand why he’d been so set on paying Bazz oft.

  “I don’t rough-break my horses—not my Appaloosas, anyway. They got spirit and heart enough to take you clear over the moon, and any man tries quirtin’ and steelin’ it out of ‘em ain’t welcome at Morning Star.” He frowned. “I sure hate to see critters suffer for men’s cussedness.”

  I wondered if he, too, was thinking of Jed. “How do you find buyers for them? I imagine with all the time you put into them, they must command premium prices.”

  He laughed. “They surely do, S’rena, but this string’s already spoken for. Rich slicker back East fancies havin’ a barn full of genu-wine cow ponies so he can play at wild west with his pals. Saw an Appaloosa in some show somewhere, sent the word out to find him some, and old Brian, he passed it on. ‘Spirited enough for the men, gentle enough for the ladies.’ That’s what the feller ordered; that’s what he’ll be gettin’.” He paused. “Can’t have all of ‘em he wants, though.”

  “Holding out for more money?”

  Quinn looked startled. “What d’ya take me for? I got my breedin’ stock to think of”

  Fawn, who had dozed off, woke with a cry, frightened by Quinn’s suddenly raised voice.

  “Godalmighty, girl!” Quinn exclaimed, almost stepping on her as, sleep-dazed, she shrank away from the tall figure looming above her. “How long’ll it take you to get some starch back in your spine?”

  I choked back the angry words that clamored to be said. “I don’t like to see a child suffer for a man’s cussedness, either,” I finally managed.

  Quinn blinked. Then, as the import of my altered version of his earlier words registered, his eyes narrowed. “Child? I recall you tellin’ me this poor little critter ain’t been a child since—” He broke off. “Fawn? Best go to your room now. You still ain’t up to snuff—I reckon none of us is tonight,” he added, drawing a weary hand across his brow.

  Fawn got to her feet, squared her slim shoulders and glared at him defiantly, clearly unwilling to miss the rest of this interesting exchange.

  “The starch seems to be returning,” I observed.

  “Git now,” Quinn muttered gruffly, shooing her with his hands. “Show’s over. Miss S’rena’ll be in to see you directly.”

  He waited until the door clicked behind her. “Your mind’s all made up ‘bout me, ain’t it? Always has been, never mind what you’re feelin’.” He stepped toward me.

  “Nonsense!” I protested. I moved back, only to stumble over the edge of the buffalo-skin rug. I reached out to regain my balance, grabbed at his extended hand and as quickly pulled away, as if from a flame. “I think you’re good at your job ... I think you’re better than most, probably.” Why couldn’t I control the tremor in my voice?

  “I’m not talkin’ about what I do, S’rena, I’m talkin’ about me. And I don’t care what you think ... thinkin’s not feelin’....” His voice was low and soft and deep. “That day at the pond, remember?”

  I stepped back again, and came up against the table. I could go no farther.

  He lifted my chin. “You ain’t no child,” he murmured, looking deep into my eyes. A long, work-roughened finger traced the fullness of my lips; his other hand slipped around my waist. “No child was ever this soft...” My breath quickened, betraying my stirred senses. “Or this willing....”

  His mouth covered mine, capturing the moan I had never meant to escape. As before, at the pond, his warm lips and persuasive tongue worked their rough magic; as before, he was the first to break their spell.

  I stood there, not knowing where to look, what to say, my hands fluttering about my head, smoothing errant strands of my crinkly, hennaed hair. Quinn walked to the door, took his wide-brimmed hat from a peg and set it on his head, its rakish slant testifying to his satisfaction. He paused in the opened door. “Maybe you got a little bit more thinkin’ to do, S’rena.”

  I stared after him for a long moment. Then, after I was sure he was well away, I stepped outside and plunged my face in the rain bucket. I came up gasping and spluttering like a landed fish, my swirling emotions shocked into subsidence, my mind clearing. Once inside, I patted my face dry and went straightaway to Fawn.

  “It rain?” she said, looking at my moisture-dewed hair.

  “No, it not rain,” I said testily. She dropped her gaze, and I sighed, knowing I had hurt her feelings. I sat down beside her and reached for the jar of salve on the table next to her bed. “I just... washed my face a bit too enthusiastically. I must look a fright.”

  “Not you,” she returned gravely. “Only hair. Silver nicer.”

  “Yes, it is,” I agreed, “and it will grow in again one of these days—just about the time all of these bruises of yours are gone,” I said as I began applying the ointment. “These new ones, I know how you got them,” I began cautiously, “but the ones you had when you arrived ... did Quinn ... I mean, how—”

  “Yes, Quinn!” Fawn cried. She sat up, her gleaming hair falling like a shawl across her face. She parted it with her fingers and peered out at me. I found her smile perverse. I sighed. The jar of salve rolled out of my lap; I kneeled down to fetch it from beneath Fawn’s bed.

  “Quinn very brave.”

  I flung my head up. Fawn was on her stomach, looking down at me. I raised myself into a sitting position on the floor. “Brave?” I repeated stupidly.

  “And... and ...” She pointed to her head, then laid a finger alongside her nose.

  I guessed wildly. “Two-faced?” She frowned and shook her head. “Thoughtful? Clever?”

  She clapped her little hands together. “Yes, yes, very clever, very brave.” She sat up, crossed her legs and gave a satisfied little nod. I waited for her to continue, but it soon became clear she had said all she thought needed to be said. I, on the other hand, needed more. Much more.

  “Fawn, why don’t you begin at the beginning? Where did you meet?”

  “Quinn or bad men?”

  Be patient, I told myself. “Quinn first.”

  “At hotel. I sweep, make beds, clean ... clean ...” She described a bowl in the air with her h
ands and pretended to spit into it.

  “Spittoons?”

  “Yes! You clever, too!” She laughed with delight. “Quinn come. I sweep his room, make bed, he give tip, he go away. Then bad men come.” She held up three fingers. “Want me go with them. I say no. They come to me at night. I fight, but they hit me very hard. They make me walk, walk, walk, and then we make camp. My feet very bad. They tie my hands ... I too tired to fight.”

  Her voice fell and her body slumped. I could almost feel myself in that trailside camp with her, alone with those brutal men.

  “Then Quinn come by. He see me”—her eyes flew wide with exaggerated recognition—”but he not know me.” She laid her finger alongside her nose again. “Quinn have cards, whiskey. They play and drink, and Quinn lose and lose and lose. Quinn say he want to see me dance. They laugh, untie me, make me dance. My feet... I hop like crow. Everybody laugh, drink, play more cards, but,” she lowered her voice, “forget to tie me.” She paused.

  I was impressed by Fawn’s natural sense of drama. “And?” I prompted.

  “Quinn turn pockets out, say he broke. So he bet Palousie horse... not for money, for me. Bad men laugh. But he win!” Fawn stood on the bed and mimed someone shouting, then reeling drunkenly and falling down. “They go loco!” She frowned fiercely and pointed her finger at me. “Quinn point gun. I tie them up, take guns. We leave very fast. Two days we come Morning Star.”

  In my mind’s eye I again saw her slight form, abused and exhausted, scuttling from Quinn’s wagon to his quarters. “Couldn’t he at least have stopped long enough for you to eat?”

  Fawn stared at me, then shook her head deliberately from side to side. “Bad men very angry,” she explained in a kindly tone, as if to a slow-witted child.

  I nodded. “Of course they were. I understand, Fawn.” I won her in a poker game, Quinn had said. And so he had. Won her and saved her life. The evidence of my eyes and ears had again been proven wrong, and yet....