Larkspur (5 page)

“I am friend.”

She only stared at him. If he had any brains, he told himself sternly, he’d get the hell away from her. The Sioux were plenty mean, and especially where their women were concerned. But, christamighty, he couldn’t just ride off and leave her here with that broken leg. Yet if he laid a hand on her, she might yell loudly enough to raise the dead. If there was a band of Sioux nearby, his life wouldn’t be worth a pile of horse-hockey.

He took a step nearer and smiled down at her. She brandished a small knife, motioning for him to stay away.

“I am friend. I help you.”

“Go!”

He motioned to her leg. “It’s busted. You die without help.” He spoke in what he thought was passable Sioux and gestured with his hands toward the mountain. “Wildcat, cougar in these parts. White men who are bad.”

“Go.”

“I’ll cut splints and bind your leg.”

He went to where he had left his horse. After tying it nearby, he took a small hatchet from his saddlebag. Without speaking to her again, he cut two lengths of straight, stout willow sticks, trimmed and smoothed them as best he could with the hatchet. While he was doing this, he unobtrusively watched the girl and saw her cut a strip from the bottom of her dress with her knife. He was relieved that she was accepting his help.

Kneeling down he touched the break with gentle fingers.

“This’ll hurt like hell,” he muttered in English.

“It is so.”

He looked up. “Ah . . . you understand me?”

“Little.”

“What your name?” He made conversation to take her mind off what he was doing.

“Little Owl.”

“I’m Lenning.”

“Lenning.”

Working carefully, he pulled on her leg. There was no sound from the girl as he fitted the bone in place. But when he looked at her, he saw small white teeth sunk into her lower lip, and her eyes were tightly closed. He placed the splints on either side of her slender calf and wrapped the strip of cloth tightly around it.

“You’re a nervy little gal. Where’s your camp?”

“Back there.” She pointed toward Crazy Mountain.

“How far?” When he saw her brows come together in question, he repeated the words in Sioux.

“Sundown . . . on horse.”

Good Lord! If he took her there it would be midnight before he got back to Larkspur. He had to get back within an hour, two at the most. He could give her his horse and walk. The roan would come back to the ranch if turned loose. But Indian’s didn’t consider taking a horse as stealing. And he was a mighty fine horse.

“Buck Lenning,” he muttered to himself, “you can get yourself into some mighty poor situations.”

While he was mulling these thoughts over in his mind, he saw that the girl had cocked her head in a listening position. She leaned back and placed her ear to the ground. A look of panic came over her face. She fluttered her hands in a shooing motion.

“Go! Go! Bad men come.”

Now Buck could hear the sound of horses approaching.

“Indians?”

The girl shook her head. “Bad! Bad!”

“White men? Are they after you?”

She nodded. “Bad!”

Buck looked around. This wasn’t exactly the place he would have chosen for a hostile encounter, but it would have to do. He would be on his feet and they would be mounted.

“Sit still. We’ll see what they have to say.”

Buck stood behind his horse and watched two men come down the trail. One was leading a spotted pony. The tough-looking men reined in sharply when they saw Buck. They stared at him hard before resting their eyes on the Indian girl.

“I see ya caught our squaw.” The one who spoke was not much more than a kid. He had a thin beard, narrow, deep-set, mean eyes, and wore a sleeveless vest decorated with tufts of hair.

“She be a looker, ain’t she.” The older man was heavyset—fat. His gun belt rode beneath his belly. He urged his horse forward. “Glad ya found her. We thanky for the trouble. We been lookin’ for her for a couple a hours.”

“We’ll jist take ’er off yore hands.” The kid squeezed the fire from the end of his cigarette with his thumb and forefinger and dropped it in his breast pocket.

“It was no trouble. I’ll take her back to her village.” Buck spoke matter-of-factly.

“Now why’d ya think we’d stand still for that?” The young one, to Buck’s way of thinking, had an attitude that would get him killed before he was twenty.

“Can’t you see that she’s got a broken leg?”

“Her own fault fer jumpin’ off that pony. Me an’ Lantz here cut that squaw out for ourselves. Ya want one, get ’er like we got ours.” With his eyes on Buck he spoke to Lantz. “Get her.”

“Stay away from her.” Buck’s voice cut through the quiet sharply. “You blasted fools will get yourselves killed. Her tribe will be all over you like a swarm of ants.”

The fat man cackled. The other man threw his leg over his saddlehorn.

“He’s got some mouth on him, ain’t he?”

“Ain’t a Sioux in five mile. Get her, Lantz.”

Buck stepped back from his horse. “It appears to me you boys are looking for trouble.”

“Trouble? From you? I ain’t seein’ no backup.” The young one grinned, showing a missing front tooth.

“Ain’t you that Lenning feller from out at Larkspur? ’Pears to me ya’ve got trouble enough without takin’ on more.”

“You’re no trouble.” Buck uttered the words softly. “Where I come from you’d not stand knee-high to a short frog. The way I see it you’re not very smart or you’d not be sitting there bunched up for shootin’ with
one
gun. I’m plannin’ to use
two.”
His words fell like stones in the silence. “Drop the rope on that pony.”

“The hell I will!” The kid’s lips drew back in a snarl. “Ya can’t take both of us.”

“It’d be like shootin’ fish in a barrel. If you’re figgerin’ on making a try for this girl, you’d better think about spending the next week or two here on the mountain. It’ll take about that long for the scavengers to pick your bones clean. I’ll not waste my time buryin’ you.”

The fat man shifted in his saddle. He was suddenly aware that he had turned his horse so that he was sideways and would have to turn half-around to get off an effective shot.

It was obvious to Buck that the kid fancied himself a gunhand. More than likely he had already killed his first man—some poor soul who knew more about a plow than a gun. He wore his gun slung low with the holster tied down. He was the one to watch. Buck decided not to wait for him to make the first move. His hand flashed down and came up with his gun.

“Unbuckle your gun belts . . . now! Drop them or I’ll open up and you’ll be buzzard bait.”

Lantz cursed. “Air ya knowin’ who yo’re goin’ against?”

“Yeah. A couple a two-bit turd-heads that aren’t men enough to get a woman without grabbing a helpless little girl.”

“Helpless? She’s ’bout as helpless as a nest a rattlers!”

“I hope she bit you good. Now drop your belts. I’ve said it the last time.”

“Yo’re gettin’ yore way this time, but I’ll be seein’ ya again.” Lantz unbuckled his gun belt and dropped it in the dirt. “Colonel Forsythe’s got plans for ya.”

“Forsythe’s got scrambled brains if he thinks he’s going to get the Larkspur. Now you, fat man,” Buck snarled. The man unbuckled his gun belt and let it drop to the ground. “Turn and walk your horses back down the trail. Not too fast. I’ll be right behind you.”

Buck mounted his horse, jerked the pony’s lead rope from Lantz’s hand and flung it to the girl who sat on the ground. He made a motion with his hand for her to stay. He walked his horse behind the two men for a quarter of a mile to the place where the trail ran alongside a steep bank of the creek.

“Stop here,” he commanded. “And get down.”

“What for? Ya goin’ to shoot us over a squaw?”

“Take off your boots.”

“Godamighty!”

“I ain’t a doin’ no such.” The fat man hauled himself down out of the saddle.

“Suit yourself.” Buck drew his gun. “I’ll fill ’em full of holes with you in ’em.”

Lantz sat down on the ground and pulled off his boots. The fat man leaned against a tree and toed his off.

“Sit down.” Buck stepped from his horse. He stood for a moment staring down at the two. They both had big holes in their socks. The fat man’s big toe stuck through the end of his. Buck picked up the boots. “Phew! Don’t ya ever wash yore feet?”

“What’er ya doin’?” Lantz demanded.

Buck walked to the edge of the bank and sailed first one boot and then the other far out into the rocky stream.

“I’ll get ya. I swear to God—”

Buck ignored the outburst. “By the time you find your boots, you’re feet will be cleaner than they’ve been in years.” He took off his hat and hit each of their horses hard on the rump. “H’yaw! H’yaw!” he yelled. The startled horses bolted and took off down the trail.

“It’s goin’ to be a pleasure a-burnin’ ya out.”

Buck turned on Lantz. “What did you say?”

“The Colonel ain’t lettin’ ya have that land.”

“You speaking for him now?”

“I . . . hear talk—” Lantz turned his eyes away from Buck’s direct stare.

“Ya ain’t got no claim now the old man’s dead.”

“Keep talkin’.”

“Well—”

“Shut up, Lantz. Don’t tell him nothin’.”

“He ain’t goin’ to be so smart when—”

“Shut up, gawddammit!”

Buck mounted his horse. “You’re welcome to start lookin’ for your boots soon as I’m outta sight.” He turned his horse up the trail, then turned back. “If I was you, I’d hightail it out of the country. That little Indian gal is Red Cloud’s sister.”

Buck allowed himself one of his rare grins as he rode toward where he had left the girl. He didn’t know if she was kin to Red Cloud, but saying it turned the fat man’s face two shades whiter than a snake’s belly.

The girl was where he had left her. She had managed to stand. She stood on one foot, holding on to a sapling. Buck picked up the gun belts he had forced the pair to drop and slung them over his saddlehorn.

“Can you ride?”

“Pony take me to my people.”

He picked her up carefully and set her astride the pony. She grimaced with pain, but made no sound.

“I’ll ride with you a ways. Then I must go back.”

He mounted his horse and took the lead rope from the girl. Watching to make sure that she was able to keep her balance, he led the pony up the craggy mountainside and down to the flat plain before he stopped and dismounted.

“Can you make it from here?”

She nodded.

He took the smaller of the two gun belts from his saddlehorn, removed the pistol and checked to see if it was loaded. It was.

“Can you shoot?”

She nodded again.

He shoved the gun back down into the holster and swung the belt around her small waist. With his knife he poked a hole in the leather and slid it through the buckle. The girl sat in total silence.

“If you need it, hold it in both hands and pull the trigger. If you should fall off and can’t get back on the pony, shoot the gun every once in a while. Some of your people may hear and come help you.”

The girl reached out and touched his shoulder.

“You
good
white man. Red Cloud, my uncle, will thank the man from Larkspur.”

“Your
uncle?”
Buck chuckled. “What’a ya know. I didn’t miss it by much.” When the girl looked at him with a puzzled frown, he explained. “I told those two saddle bums that Red Cloud was your brother.”

“Red Cloud old man. Black Elk my brother. Crazy Horse was cousin.”

“You got powerful kinfolk, little lady.” He mounted his horse. “I got to be gettin’ back.” He tipped his hat. “Good-bye, Little Owl.”

“Good-bye, man from Larkspur.”

Buck watched her ride away. She sat with back straight, head up. The thought of the fat man and the kid violating her made his skin crawl.

He turned his horse back down the trail, cut across the hills and headed back to Larkspur. The sun was directly overhead. He’d been gone for a good three hours, and it would be another hour or two before he got back to the house.

These were uneasy days. He rode down through the pines to where he could look across a magnificent sweep of country. Larkspur land lay at the foot of a two-mile-long ridge. Aside from the sweet grass meadows the place was pretty well covered with gambel oak and ponderosa pine. Aspen followed the folds of the ridge and trailed down to the meadows.

“No wonder Forsythe wants it so bad.” He had spoken aloud, the habit of a man who spent long hours alone. “Well, he’ll pay hell getting it.”

Pushing the horse, he came out on the high meadow and followed the stream down to the good bottomland. There was a fair stand of grazing under the scattered trees that stretched back to the mountains from the edge of the meadow. Below, another meadow was bordered with grooves of aspen. The range had everything a man needed; logs for the buildings and corrals, stone for the fireplaces. Larkspur was closed-in land where few range hands were needed and where hay could be cut to lay up against the cold of winter.

There were places in the Crazy Mountains where small valleys or ravines opened out into the meadows which allowed him to control the grazing in the small valleys that cut deep into the mountains. He had found such a place and built upon it so that there was no access except right through his ranch. Moreover, he had built each of the outbuildings like a fort, and it was easy to move from one to the other without exposing himself to rifle fire from the outside.

The buildings were bunched amid the pines. He knew every stick and stone of the place. Seeing what he had built with his own two hands and with the sweat of his brow never failed to give him a deep sense of pride.

This was home;
the only real home he’d ever had. He had sunk his roots here, and here he would stay till the end of his days, be it tomorrow or forty years from now.

Hurrying the roan on down the lane, he scanned the area he had brushed with a branch before he left and was relieved to see no new tracks. He rode past the house and around to where a room had been built on the end of the bunkhouse.

“Howdy, Sam,” he said to the shaggy black-and-brown dog who sat beside the door with his tongue hanging out the side of his mouth. “Anyone been around?”