Larkspur (30 page)

“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 lips. 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

A
fter 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.

Just as they expected, a man came in, opened the cage door and spoke in low tones to the telegrapher. After a moment or two he was given a sheet of paper. Dillon followed the man when he left.

Cleve spoke to the telegrapher.

“You on Forsythe’s payroll?” he asked bluntly.

The man was so surprised that he almost choked on the wad of tobacco in his jaw. His lips worked, and his frightened eyes darted first to the window and then to the door before he answered.

“Why . . . why do you ask that?”

“You gave the man a copy of my wire.”

“Mister, I have to live here.”

“Tell me about it.”

“I’ve got a wife and five kids. Does that tell you anything?”

“Plenty.”

“When asked, I tell some of what they want to know, but not all. That way I keep my family safe and my pride intact.”

“Good idey.”

“I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t hang around here. They’ll get the wrong idea.”

“The word’s out, huh?”

“Reckon it is. It seems you and your friend are on the wrong side of the fence.”

“I won’t ask what wires they’ve sent or received about me.”

“I wouldn’t tell you if you did.”

“I’ve got to trust you enough to tell you that I’m a United States marshal, and I’m tryin’ to break the hold the man’s got on this town and on the land surrounding it.”

“Good luck to you. You’ll need it.”

“I’ll be back in a day or two to send a wire down to Fort Kearny. At the same time I’ll send one to a friend over at Trinity. When they ask, give them one or both. It’s up to you.”

“I hear you.” The man turned his back.

Cleve joined Dillon on the street in front of the meat market.

“Went straight as a string to Lee’s office,” Dillon said as they passed the dressmaking establishment and crossed the street to step up onto the boardwalk that fronted one of the two mercantiles.

The inside of the store was cool and dim. Both walls were lined with shelves. On the dry-goods side were bolts of cloth, a J. & P. Coats thread case, ribbons, ready-to-wear and medicines.

On the other side, a long greasy counter sat directly in front of the grocery shelves stacked with canned goods. At one end stood the lord of the counter, the mechanical cheese cutter. One turn of the wheel moved the golden disc of cheese around to a “nickel’s worth.” One stroke of the handle sliced it off. Flanking the cheese counter were barrels of rice, beans and crackers. Over the cracker barrel the sign said: “ONE HANDFUL, ONE NICKEL.”

Dillon headed for the cheese counter. He rounded a corner and bumped into a lady wearing a large-brimmed hat covered with a thin veil that floated down over her face. The encounter tilted her into the table holding chewing tobacco, snuff, cigars, vanilla extract, baking powder and epsom salts. A package slipped out of her hands.

“I’m sorry, ma’am.” Dillon gripped her arm to steady her but released it quickly when he heard a little cry of pain. “Did I hurt you? Golly-bill, I’m sorry.” He stooped to get the package she had dropped. “I was in a hurry to get to the cheese,” he finished lamely.

“I’m all right. Don’t fret. I . . . should have been looking where I was going.” She stepped around him and hurried out the door.