Larkspur (40 page)

“I didn’t think so at the time. Folks gave me a fine welcome. Now . . . I’m not so sure.”

“Who . . . gave you the welcome?”

“Mr. Lenning and his Indian wife.”

“I’ve not heard that Lenning took a squaw.” Marshal Lyster spoke up.

Gustaf shrugged. “I only know what they tell me. Her people are”—he looked at Gilly as if seeking confirmation—“did he say Iron Jaw, or something like that? I think they’re camped not far from here. You might go ask them.”

“I don’t like you, pretty boy!” Mike struck Gustaf across the face with the back of his hand.

“It’ll be a shame to put a torch to this place.” Meader stood before the mantel. “Always did want me a clock like this. I could live here like a gawddamn gov’nor. I’d get me a couple of squaws to do fer me. Yes, sir. I’d sit here and listen to that clock tick-tock, tick-tock, tick—”

“Shut up!” Mike shouted. “Get outside and make sure there ain’t nobody sneakin’ round.”

“Why’ve I got to do that for? Ya got half a dozen out there a watchin’. Ya’ll know it if Lenning rides in.”

“Half a dozen rattle-headed saddle tramps is what I got out there. Go take a look around, ya horny goat, and get yore mind off gettin’ in that woman’s drawers. Plenty of time for that later.”

Meader went out the door; Bruza moved to the window and peered out.

“Dish up a bait a that stew, gal.” Marshal Lyster seated himself at the table. “I ain’t had nothin’ since early mornin’.”

Bonnie filled a large bowl for Lyster and another for Mike and carried them to the table.

“Your supper is ready,
Mister
Bruza.” Anger made her voice shrill.

Bruza continued to look out the window, turning every few seconds to glance at the men sitting on the floor. Bonnie sliced bread and watched anxiously as the marshal wolfed down the stew. After shoving the platter of fresh bread at him to divert his attention, she went to her brother and placed one hand on his back, the other on his forehead.

“Get away from him!” Mike barked.

“He’s been sick. I’m seein’ if he has a fever.” The knife up her sleeve slid down Bernie’s back. He grasped it in his bound hands.

“It ain’t goin’ to matter pretty soon if he’s sick or not. Get away from him.”

Bonnie backed away. Bruza came to the table. He had placed his gun beside the bowl of stew and had started to sit down, when a thump sounded from the porch. He looked at the red-faced marshal who, still eating the stew, hadn’t seemed to notice the sound. Mike’s eyes darted to the men on the floor, then to Bonnie. Quick as a cat, he was behind her, with his gun in her back.

“Open the door! Call out to Meader. Tell him supper is ready.”

Bonnie did as she was told. Her voice came out squeaky.

“Meader, supper is ready.”

“It will be impossible for him to eat with his throat cut.” The voice came out of the darkness.

“Who’s out there,” Mike demanded. “Speak up or I’ll gut-shoot this woman.”

“You know who I am, Bruza. I’ve come to kill you as I told you I would if you as much as touch a hair on Bonnie’s head.”

Del Gomer’s figure emerged out of the darkness at the end of the porch.

“Forsythe said you was in Bozeman.”

“Forsythe is a lying son of a bitch, just as you are. Let go of Bonnie and you’ll die easy. Hurt her and I’ll burn your eyes out before I cut the flesh off your bones.”

Bonnie could feel the panic in the hand that gripped her shoulder. Mike tried to pull her backward into the kitchen. She dug in her heels to make it as difficult as she could.

“Get back or I’ll shoot her!”

Del continued across the porch, his eyes on Bruza, his hand gripping the gun at his side. When he was a couple of yards away, Mike moved the gun around and fired under Bonnie’s arm. She saw Del stagger and a cry of alarm escaped her. She threw herself back and to the side to give Del a clear shot. Mike fired again. As she hit the floor she heard three shots. Three bullets slammed into Mike and drove him back into the room. She hastily got to her feet. Del hung on to the side of the door, the smoking gun in his hand.

“Bonnie . . . did he . . . hurt you?”

“No! But he hurt you. Oh, Del—” Bonnie glanced quickly at Mike on the floor, then at the marshal whose head had dropped to the table. The larkspur weed had either killed him or rendered him unconscious. She went to Del and put her shoulder under his arm. “Get inside so I can close the door. There’s others out there.”

Leaning heavily on her, he managed to get to a chair. Bonnie slammed the door shut and dropped the bar. She grabbed a big knife and hurried to cut the bonds of the men on the floor. Bernie had freed himself with the knife she had slipped to him. He cut Gilly’s bonds.

As soon as Gustaf was freed, he jumped to his feet, grabbed the marshal’s hair and lifted his face. Lyster was still alive and gasping for air. Gustaf uttered a few angry words in Swedish and shoved the marshal’s face down hard in the bowl of stew.

“Eat, you bastard!”

Bonnie hurried to Del and tried to remove his coat. He was holding his hand tightly to his side.

“Don’t, my love. It’s no use.”

“Don’t say that!”

“I came as soon as I . . . knew.” His voice was raspy.

“Bernie, help me get him to a bed.”

Gustaf and Bernie carried Del to the little room and placed him on the bed. Bernie covered the window with a blanket and Bonnie brought the lamp from the kitchen.

“Is the marshal dead?” she asked.

“I hope so. What did you put in the stew?”

“Dried larkspur. Kristin said it would kill cattle so I thought it would kill buzzards, too. She said Buck cautioned her about it. He kept the jar to use to kill lice on furs— Oh, Bernie, we’ve got to do something for Del.” Bonnie opened Del’s shirt and gasped at the amount of blood. “Take off his shoes. I’ll get towels and water.”

In the darkened kitchen, she was careful to step around Mike’s body when she went to Gilly, who was watching out the back window.

“Do you think they’ll come?”

“Ain’t sure, missy. One thin’ sure, that feller saved our bacon. We’d a been done for when Bruza got a look at the marshal, all keeled over.”

“Is he dead?”

“If the larkspur didn’t kill him, Gus drowned him in that stew.”

“I was thinking they’d all eat at one time.”

“Worked out just dandy. Ya done good, girl. Marshal might’a shot us all when he saw Bruza go down. I hope Tandy stays put in the bunkhouse,” he added worriedly.

“We could open the door and yell across to him.”

“Don’t do that. They may not know he’s there, missy. Gus is watchin’ out the front. We’ll know if the bastards get close with a torch.”

Bonnie gathered up towels and hurried back to Del’s bedside. Bernie had taken off his shirt and his shoes. He looked at his sister and slowly shook his head.

“Maybe Gustaf can do something.”

“I’ll send him in.”

Bonnie pressed a towel to the wound almost in the middle of Del’s stomach. It was immediately soaked with bright blood. She placed another on top of the first one. All the time Del’s eyes followed her.

When Gustaf came in, he lifted the towel to look at the wound below Del’s ribs then covered it quickly and added another towel. Del appeared to be oblivious to Gustaf and the pain he must be suffering.

“Is this . . . your bed, Bonnie?”

“It’s where Miss Anderson and I slept.”

“It’s . . . I’m . . . getting it all bloody.”

“Don’t worry about it. It’ll wash.”

“Mister.” Gustaf knelt down beside the bed. Del’s silver eyes turned to him. “I’m not a doctor, but I’ve seen quite a few gunshot wounds. I don’t think there’s a thing we can do for you. You’re bleeding inside. If I were in your place I’d want someone to be straight with me.”

“It’s . . . what I . . . thought. I got rid of a couple out in the grove. The one that came out . . . is at the end of the porch. Don’t let them get Bonnie.” He gasped for breath, then added: “Shoot her . . . if you have to. I know what they’d do—”

“We thank you for what you’ve done. They were going to kill us and . . . do worse to Bonnie. We’ll . . . take care of her now.”

Bonnie knelt down beside Gustaf and took Del’s hand. Tears rolled down her cheeks. She never knew when Gustaf left them and she was alone with the dying man.

“You . . . cryin’ for me, Bonnie?”

“It was dumb of you to keep comin’ when you knew he’d shoot you.”

“I . . . knew he’d not shoot the one . . . shielding him. That’s all I . . . cared about.” It was difficult for him to breathe, but he continued to talk. “I heard what happened at the café. I’m glad you . . . burnt him.”

“Del.” She held his hand to her cheek. “I wish I could have loved you after . . . after I knew—”

“You loved me before?”

“Yes. And . . . still a part of me loves you.”

“It’s all . . . right. Don’t cry . . . sweetheart.” His eyes remained glued to her face. Blood came from his nose and streaked his cheek. She gently wiped it away.

“I’m the way I am and you’re the way you are—”

“This is more than I . . . expected. It’s a good end for a man . . . like me. I’m here with the woman I love, in her bed and . . . she’s cryin’ over me.” He smiled; one of the few smiles she’d seen since she had met him.

“I never thought it would end like this.”

“There’s always an ending. See a man in Bozeman named Joseph Long. I made a will while I . . . was there last week. I had a feeling—” His voice was weaker, his skin almost yellow as his life’s blood seeped away. “You won’t have to work . . . so hard.”

Bonnie held back the words of protest that came to her mind.

“How did you know I was here?” she asked.

“Forsythe. He’s . . . crooked as a snake. He beats that nice woman he lives with.” His voice trailed and his eyes drifted shut, but opened quickly. “She got word to me that . . . he’d sent Bruza and Lyster . . . here.” He gasped for every word. “I was afraid . . . I’d be too late. ’Bout rode that horse to death.”

Bonnie stroked the hand she held in hers. It was not the hand of a laboring man. It was smooth, the fingers long and slender, the nails cut close. The fingers had pulled the trigger . . . how many times? How many men had they killed? She could feel his calm, silver eyes on her face like caressing hands.

“Why me, Del? You’re a handsome man. Well-mannered, well-dressed women must have been after you.”

“They weren’t you. You didn’t want anything. Your smile was the same for me as it was for old Cletus, for a little kid, or Mrs. Gaffney. I love . . . your laughing eyes, your sweet mouth, your loyalty to your brother. I . . . never knew what it was to . . . have a sister . . . or a brother.” His voice picked up strength as if he were determined to say what he had to say. “Bon . . . ie, Bon . . . ie. I love to say your name.”

Each time he closed his eyes, she wasn’t sure he would open them again. She leaned over and soothed the hair back from his forehead with her fingertips. Then pressed a gentle kiss on his lips.

“Thank you . . . for loving me,” she murmured. “You saved my life and my brother’s life back in Big Timber and again here.”

“I . . . could do no less . . . for the woman I love.”

“I’ll remember you . . . always.”

“Will you kiss me . . . again?” His eyes were beginning to cloud. Bonnie wiped away the blood that came from his nose and pressed her warm lips to his cool ones.

“Bon . . . nie, remember . . . me—”

He closed his eyes, but almost immediately they opened and fastened on her face. His hand continued to grip hers.

Minutes passed. After a while Bonnie realized the eyes staring into hers had not blinked and the hand she held lay lifeless in hers. She felt grief, loss . . . pity. She sat beside him for a long while. Then she heard the clock strike the half hour.

“Good-bye, Del. I’ll not forget you,” she murmured, and gently closed his eyes. With a wet cloth, she washed his face, the long slender hands, and covered his face with the sheet.

Bonnie blew out the lamp and sat down in the chair beside the bed. What had caused a man, handsome and educated, to become a hired killer? What had caused him to love her, to give his life for her? She couldn’t despise him, and she couldn’t love him. But what she had said to him was true, a little part of her would always care for him.

She sat beside him, wondering if he had a family somewhere who loved him. What kind of childhood had formed the man who killed for money? There were two men inside the handsome body of Del Gomer: the cold-blooded killer, and the gentle, lonely man who was capable of loving and willing to die for the one he loved.

She would never know the answers to the questions that would haunt her for the rest of her life.

When she left the room, she closed the door. In the kitchen, a flickering candle set beneath the table gave just enough light so that she could see her brother at one window and Gustaf at the other.

“It’s over.” Her words fell into the quiet.

After a pause Gustaf’s voice came from the parlor end of the room.

“His guts must have been on fire. Some men would have been screaming their heads off, but I never heard a peep from him. He really loved you, Bonnie.”

“Yes, and I don’t want to hear one bad word about him.” Bonnie’s voice choked.

“You’ll not hear it from me. The man knew what he was doing when he walked right into that gun.”

“He was a strange man,” Bernie said quietly. “I hated him for wanting Bonnie and . . . he gave his life for her.”

They were silent while the clock struck midnight. Four hours had passed since they had sat down to supper. So much had happened.

Gilly came from the other room.

“I been on the porch listenin’. Somethin’ goin’ on out there. Heard a couple horses take off on the run. Could be that Bowlegs got back and cut their horses loose or else Buck come home. If he did, he’ll give a whistle.”

“Oh, I hope he did. I hope to God he’s got Kristin.”

Gilly opened the back door. The repeated whistle of the redbird was followed by the call of a squalling hawk.

“I ain’t never heard that call before. It ain’t no Indian. It ain’t Buck either.” Gilly was plainly puzzled. The call was repeated, then silence.