Darkness at Morning Star

by Joyce C. Ware

  Oh sweet Jesus.

  “So, like I say, we made us a bargain, Bazz and me. He gets you and I get the gold.” He paused, and although it was too dark now to see his face, I guessed he was grinning. “Hey, mebbe I can have you first. Don’t think he much cares one way t’other long as he gets you in the end.”

  “What gold are you talking about?”

  He jerked me forward to face him. “What’d’ya take me for, Serena? I know all about the gold. How you was lookin’ fer it, an’ how Belle and Bazz found it an’ then she got killed. He wants you more’n the gold now, and I ain’t about to turn you over ‘til I get it.”

  I kept my silence. Maybe Bazz had found the gold. I doubted it, but as long as Jed believed it and needed me to bargain with, I had a chance of staying alive.

  We had crossed around the far end of the big stone house. Ahead of us, standing near the east wall of the kitchen, two horses patiently waited. On the smaller, white blotches shone like beacons in the thickening shadows.

  “Bingo!” I cried.

  The little horse threw up her head and whickered a welcome.

  “There’ll be no more of that!” Jed said, roughly pulling my arms behind my back. He tied my wrists tightly together with a thong cut from the long lash of his quirt. Hoping I might find a chance to escape when mounted, I allowed him to boost me up into the saddle and suffered his intimate caress of my bottom without protest.

  “You treat me nice and maybe I can change Bazz’s mind about you,” Jed suggested. “Your sister never had no complaints.”

  I choked back angry words and lowered my head submissively.

  Jed mounted and gathered up Bingo’s reins along with his own. “On horses good as these we could go mighty far, mighty fast.”

  “I don’t imagine Quinn’ll be too happy when he finds them stolen.”

  “Stolen?” Jed laughed. “That little paint’s your horse, ain’t she? And who’s to say ol’ Bazz-eel didn’t give me his chestnut in return for favors I done ‘im? Takin’ ‘em was easy as that chicken pie you made ... why, those cowpokes never saw ‘em go!” He laughed again, full of himself. “Quinn wore ‘em out, ev’ry last one of ‘em, even ol’ Cobby. I seen ‘em stragglin’ up to the bunkhouse, too set on eatin’ to look back.”

  My hope that his renewed confidence might lead to a relaxation of his guard was soon dashed. The prairie grasses muffled our slow, cautious passage along a rarely trodden route that sloped out of sight below the rim of the rise above the bunkhouse and corrals. Quinn might be annoyed by my absence—where the devil has the woman got to!—but the extra duties awaiting everyone at the end of this very busy day made it unlikely anyone would seriously wonder where I’d gotten to for some hours yet.

  We rode for some time in silence. As the dusk deepened, a mournful coyote dirge rose and fell along the ridgeline penciled on the darkening horizon. I was aware of Jed’s head turning at frequent intervals to check on me. Presently, our path began to angle obliquely down a slope that descended into a brushy bottomland. The odor of the willow wands crushed by our passage rose to my nostrils, fresh and moist and tangy, an odor I always think of as green. Freshly cut grass; watercress plucked from a rushing brook; new-mown hay. It was an aroma uncommon in this wide, dry prairie-land, and I knew at once where we were.

  We emerged into a small clearing. Ahead of us, half-hidden in the undergrowth, stood the old line rider’s shack I had first seen in Bazz’s company earlier in the spring.

  “Hey there, Bazz-eel?” Jed called. “I brung you sumpin.”

  After a long silence, a door scuffed open. Candlelight, flickering from within, outlined a figure sagging against the jamb. A white rag was wound around his head.

  “Bazz!” I cried. “Let me help—”

  “Daughter of Satan!” The figure shrank back. “Don’t let her wicked fingers touch my flesh....” It was Bazz’s voice, but weakness and madness had tuned it to a high, unsteady pitch.

  “I’m Serena, Bazz,” I began in as calm a voice as I could muster. “The first time I came here was with you ... we had a lovely picnic by the stream ... you told me about the forget-me-nots, remember?”

  “Serena’s dead!” he said, pointing an unsteady finger at me. “You called up the whirlwind and killed her. You killed my mama, too. You must answer for your sins.” He gestured with his bandaged head to Jed. “Bring her here.” He pushed the door wide. Candles flickered on the low table. Jed dismounted and stepped closer, pulling Bingo behind him. Next to the candles were two flat wads, thickly covered with long black hair. They looked like... had Bazz rifled his father’s store of grisly mementos?

  Jed turned, grinning, at my horrified gasp of recognition. “0l’ Bazz, here, he don’t fool around. Those little orphan girls? They had a powerful lot of hard answerin’ to do, too, but they ain’t doin’ much of any thin’ anymore.”

  I felt sick. They were scalps, yes, but not old, not Pawnee.

  “I told you to bring her—”

  “I heard you,” Jed cut in. “Seems to me I brung you a whole lot already: first I brung you the horses, then I brung you here, and now the woman you wanted—even if she ain’t the one you think she is,” he added in a mutter. “So when you bringin’ me somethin’? You promised me gold, mister. If you don’t show me quick where it’s at, I guess I’ll just take her and the horses away.”

  Jed began backing slowly, leading me and Bingo along with him, talking all the while. “Quinn’ll be after us, y’know. I reckon this little lady’ll kinda mount up the score he’s lookin’ to settle, but the way I figger it, I ain’t got near as much to lose as you. Why, when it comes to love lost, you two could teach Cain and Abel a thing or two, and that’s a fact.”

  Clinging with one hand to the door, Bazz leaned out after us, his protest a labored gasp, as futile as the buzz of a fly disputing the swatter descending upon him. He sagged, his body admitting the defeat he resisted putting into words, then laboriously pulled himself up. “Come in,” he said at last, his voice hardly louder than a whisper. “The gold’s hidden back at the house. I’ll draw you a map.”

  Jed chuckled. “See? That wasn’t so hard, was it? I’ll be along soon’s I see to the lady.” Jed cut more thongs from his quirt to tie my ankles to the stirrup leathers and to hobble Bingo. “There you go,” he said, grinning up at me, “that’ll keep you from roamin’ off the range.” He leaned close. “This won’t take long, sweet thing,” he whispered. “Soon’s I put him out of his misery, we’ll hightail it outta here.” His hand kneaded my thigh. “You can thank me proper later.”

  I watched Jed strut across to the shack and duck inside. I saw his hands reach out to grip the edges of the table. His wiry form blotted out the flickering candlelight. As I waited I wondered which of the two fates awaiting me was the worse?

  From inside the shack there arose the muffled but unmistakable sound of argument punctuated by a shout loud and sharp enough to cause Dancer to shy and Bingo’s head to fly up. Before my heartbeat had a chance to settle, I heard two shots, fired in rapid succession, and saw a figure stagger out, hands upraised toward me as if in supplication, only to collapse, twitching, in the dust just outside the door. Poor Bazz, I thought, not in regret for his death, but of the waste he had made of his life.

  A second figure emerged. He prodded the now still body with his boot. “He thought I’d be too weak to resist,” Bazz muttered, “but I showed the cocky little bastard. Never understood what you saw in him, Belle,” he added as he wedged a small pearl-handled gun under his belt.

  I shrank back as he approached, step by shuffling step. I tugged futilely against the thongs that bound my wrists; Bingo, restrained by her hobble, snorted and shifted restively beneath me. At last he stopped, and although I could not see his expression as he reached up to stroke my hair, I suspect he saw it as another souvenir to add to his macabre collection.

  “My punishment is just and sure . No one can escape it. Especially not you, Belle.”

  Chapte
r Twenty

  Bazz led Bingo and me over to the door of the shack. The pale wash of flickering light issuing from inside was enough to show dark blotches on the white rag wound around his head.

  “Bazz, you’re bleeding!”

  His fingers reached up to explore the soiled and ragged bandage. He groaned.

  “I have a jar of Belle’s white poppy elixir in my pocket... it will ease the pain.”

  He shrank back. “You’ve done devil’s work enough with your elixirs!”

  “Not mine, Bazz! Belle is dead. Look at me! I’m Serena. Can’t you tell?”

  He giggled, his pain for the moment forgotten. “Oh, my, of course I can tell!” He reached up again to stroke a lock of my dyed hair, allowing it to slide through his fingers. “I bought you the henna, remember? I helped you make my father see a desirable woman instead of a little orphan girl. What fun we had fixing you up like the stage actresses in the magazines I brought you!”

  Bazz’s smile faded; his hand clutched my knee. “Your lip rouge and low-cut dresses kept Paw out of Mama’s bed well enough, but I never meant you to make sure she never left it! What a fool I was, not seeing you as you really are.”

  “I’m not Belle,” I whispered hopelessly. “I’m innocent of what you say.”

  “Innocent?” he rasped. “You were cursed from the day you were born. You’ll see.”

  My heartbeat stuttered. What new horror was brewing in that hurt, fevered mind?

  Bazz moaned and raised his hands to his head. “I must rest now. Just for a little. We must get to the pond before sunrise.” He shook his head slowly. “No, star rise. Something happens at first sight of the morning star ... something.... The pond! If you’re still afloat at sunrise I’ll tie you to a stake and heap branches all around and the next morning at star rise ... whoosh!” He flung his hands up to indicate the leap of flame.

  I listened in mounting despair as Bazz’s sick mind spun a bizarre new fabric from the threads of a hodge-podge of old beliefs and myths. “And if I drown?”

  “You won’t, Belle, because I know you for a witch, but if you did ...” He paused to pinch the bridge of his nose with his fingers. “If you did,” he repeated slowly, “then I’d bury your bones in the garden, with the others. This time I’ll do it myself.”

  He looked up at me as if hoping to be complimented. I did not ask what would become of my hair; I already knew.

  As he turned to go inside. Bingo’s reins trailed from his fingers. Please, God, let him release them, I prayed. Hobbled though she was, I hoped Bingo would respond to the pressure of my legs well enough to give me a chance at escape. Behind my back, I crossed aching fingers.

  Bingo, sensing the release of pressure on the reins, pulled back, ever so slightly, against them. To me her motion was barely perceptible, but it was enough to focus Bazz’s wandering attention. He jerked her forward, looped the reins through the notch where a door latch had once been set, and tied them securely. I uncrossed my fingers. I wouldn’t be going anywhere soon.

  I don’t know how long I sat there shivering, fighting my fears. Jed’s body lay no more than three feet away, close enough for the rusty smell of his blood to reach my nostrils. Had I been cowardly not to try harder to escape? Pride usually checks the impulse to surrender to fate, but courage isn’t as simple a thing as we usually imagine. Although sometimes rashly brave, more often it assumes a variety of guises. Our daily lives see a score of small measures taken, confirmations of our moral strength and integrity, of our nerve and physical endurance. Bazz’s weakness had made him cautious and crafty; I would need cunning to best him and patience to wait for the right opportunity.

  I must have nodded off in my saddle, for gray was beginning to rim the eastern edge of the night sky when Bazz emerged again from the shack. He had changed his clothes. I felt my eyes widen at the sight of a tweed suit and vest more appropriate for a wedding than a witch hunt. On his head, which was wrapped in the same grubby, bloodstained cloth I had seen earlier, a black derby hat balanced precariously. He looked ridiculous, but my impulse to laugh was checked by the hectic look in his eyes and the pearl-handled gun in his hand.

  “The time has come to meet your judgment, Belle,” Bazz proclaimed. He transferred the gun to the holster protruding beneath the skirt of his jacket, undid Bingo’s hobbles, gathered up both her and Dancer’s reins and pulled himself, gasping, into his saddle. I held my breath as he swayed there, head lolling, but I waited too long. He soon recovered himself, and when he wrapped the reins around his wrist, securing them in case of another spell of weakness, I knew it was too late.

  We rode in silence. The slow pace allowed my senses to savor whatever time remained to me: the scent of the night-dewed grasses seemed uncommonly sweet; the fresh morning air, quickened by the expectation of a new day, brushed a cool caress across my cheeks.

  As the spreading blush of dawn dimmed the stars, it became apparent Bazz had already forgotten the place of the morning star in his motley mythic fabric. I had no intention of reminding him; I could only hope he was too weak to long endure.

  Once rooted, hope is a stubborn plant: I could sense its leaves unfurling in my heart, its buds about to open. I must have been missed by now, I mused. Would Fawn think to tell Quinn of my intent to visit the ruined house? If he searched there would he realize, as I had, that Bazz had survived the storm? Had Cobby or Sharo noticed Dancer and Bingo’s disappearance from the pasture? My buds of hope burst into gaudy bloom. Even if I could not escape the inevitable, I could at least attempt to delay it.

  The rising sun’s red crescent peeped above a crumbling outcropping of rock on the rise above us. Behind it, sheltered from the wind, was a luxuriant tangle of prairie roses where Bingo and I had often seen young rabbits playing hide-and-seek amid its thorny protection. It was, I recalled, no more than an hour’s ride from the pond. I decided to try to engage Bazz in conversation.

  “Do you intend to travel far?” I called.

  Bazz straightened in his saddle and turned cautiously to look at me. “Travel?”

  “Yes. I was admiring your smart new suit. A traveling suit... for trains and busy big cities.”

  He pulled up on Dancer and allowed me to ride closer. “You think so? It’s not new. I bought it... I don’t remember ... some time ago ...” His words trailed off as he looked down at himself. “Not much use for ranching.”

  “Denver perhaps?” I prompted, “or San Francisco?”

  His face lighted up. “Yes, San Francisco! Do you think they’d like our songs there?”

  He looked at me hopefully, clear-eyed, for a moment remembering who I was. Then the light went out, and his brow creased in puzzlement. “Why am I asking you? A rooster crows a prettier tune than you. Belle.”

  In desperation I began to sing, hoping my voice would strike the same chord of recognition it had with Quinn, but it served only to agitate him further.

  “Stop!” he cried, pressing his ears with his hands, pulling taut the two pairs of reins he held. Unable to make sense of the conflicting signals being given them, the horses sidled nervously. Could I chance jabbing Bingo with my heels! “What filthy devil’s pact gave you an angel’s voice?” he shouted as he lengthened the distance between us. His rage had revived his caution; I dared not test it.

  “Bazz, please listen—”

  “No! No, no, no, no. ...” As he tossed his head from side to side, the derby toppled from his head, freeing the tattered end of the rag around his head to strike his eyes, his cheeks, his neck. “Enough of your wicked tricks and words!”

  I saw him fumble for his gun beneath his jacket. “The pond,” I whispered urgently. “It can’t be far now.”

  His hand stilled, then emerged empty. “The pond, of course. Water is the cure for witches.”

  Deciding silence was safer than plunging into another conversational abyss, I now welcomed the space that again opened up between us. At length, we topped the rise above the pond. I had never seen the sky so blue. The co
ralline shadings of dawn had faded, leaving it pure as a robin’s egg, unsullied by the clouds the afternoon would bring. It was, I thought, the very vault of heaven; a perfect day on which to die.

  A soft-blowing breeze fingered my hair; a moment later the pond’s shimmering surface shivered below us, as if in ecstatic gratitude for the azure perfection it reflected. How could anything so beautiful cause me harm?

  Bazz led us down the gentle slope to the grassy ledge above the water, where he pulled up in consternation. The thick fringe of cattails, their smooth, green tubes now ripened to coffee brown, barred easy access to the little dock Cobby and Quinn had built so many years ago. He began to back Dancer out of the narrow, level passage, paying out Bingo’s reins in the process. Threatened both by Dancer’s hindquarters crowding her from the front and the short but steep drop-off on her right. Bingo scrambled up the slope to gain turning space, then plunged down and around the willow at the shallow end of the pond. The loosened reins, pulled from Bazz’s hand, danced after us, accompanied by his rasping shout of rage. Sunlight glinted off the barrel of the little gun he pulled from beneath his coat.

  My elation was short-lived. Hearing a shot, I instinctively bent low, my cheek brushing Bingo’s wiry mane. A second bullet tunneled into her outstretched neck, a scarlet gash on white. I felt Bingo’s stride falter. She crumpled beneath me, trapping me between her heaving sides and the ground. I cried out, more in frustration than pain, falling silent as Dancer’s hoofbeats slowed, then stopped, only inches from my prickling scalp.

  “Water would have been better.” Bazz’s voice was murmurous with regret. I closed my eyes.

  “Sere-e-e-na!”

  My name, bellowed from above, sounded like a war cry. Hoofbeats, thunderously approaching, trembled the ground beneath me.

  I could see very little. My legs were crushed by Bingo’s weight, and my tied arms afforded me no leverage. I managed, however, to turn my head by sliding my face along the smooth, slick grass. I became aware of Dancer moving off in front of me, his long chestnut legs curving around the end of the pond to stand beneath the willow that had so often sheltered Bingo and me. A moment later, I heard Quinn’s voice.