“Remember now what I told ya about men,” Gustaf said hurriedly. “I’ll wire that Lee fellow and tell him to meet ya, but if he isn’t there, go to a hotel—the best one in town. Ya can afford it for one night. When ya get yore bearings, ya can get a room in a roomin’ house to save money. Don’t sign any papers until you have someone besides Lee look them over—”
“Oh, Gus—Two nights on the train.”
“Ya’ll be all right,” he said firmly. “Ya’ve got a level head and ya’ll use it.”
His words were almost drowned out by the scream of the train whistle, then the screeching of iron wheels on the iron tracks. Sparks flew as brakes were applied, and the train came to a jerking halt. The conductor in a fine black suit stepped down from the platform at the end of the coach and placed a stool beside the step. He went into the station.
Passengers in the car looked out the windows.
Baggage was being loaded in the car ahead.
Kristin held tightly to Gustaf’s arm.
“I’ve never even been this close to a train. It’s scary.”
“There’s nothin’ to it. Keep this over your arm at all times. Even when ya sleep.” He reached out and touched the straps on her pouch bag.
“I wish I knew more about Uncle Yarby.”
“Ya know all that you need to know.” Gustaf put the basket in her hand. “Ma tucked a cup in here. There’s usually a watercooler on the car.”
The conductor came out of the station and stood beside the steps at the end of the coach.
“A . . . ll . . . a . . . bo . . . ard!” His rolling voice sent a shiver of excitement down Kristin’s spine.
The drummer stood aside and waited for Kristin to board. Gustaf held her arm and motioned for the young couple to go on ahead. Then he kissed Kristin on the cheek.
“Fly away, little bird,” he whispered.
“Have I told you that I wish you were my brother?” She almost choked on the words.
“Many times. Now get aboard.”
Kristin moved up the steps on wooden legs. At the top she turned back.
“ ’Bye, Gus. I’ll write.”
The drummer was swinging up the steps behind her, and she had to move on. The coach was only half-full, and in the middle of it Kristin found a seat next to the window. She slid into it and looked at Gustaf’s grinning face. He stood with his hands in his pockets and his cap at a jaunty angle. Tears filled Kristin’s eyes. She was leaving her dearest friend. The only person in the world that she felt cared for her. Really cared.
The train jerked and began to move slowly. Kristin waved. Gustaf walked along the platform, keeping pace with the train for as long as he could. She turned in the seat and continued to wave until he was out of sight before she turned back.
She was on her way. It was too late to back out now.
* * *
When the train left the station in Eau Claire, Kristin held tightly to the edge of the seat and watched the trees and the wire poles fly by. Gradually she became accustomed to the speed at which she was traveling and relaxed a little. When the train stopped briefly at a small town, she waved to some children standing beside the track. Later, when the train crossed a trestle, she experienced a moment of panic as she looked out the window, and down. Seeing only water, she closed her eyes tightly and prayed. She had the illusion that there was nothing beneath her. Finally, when she heard the rails singing a different tune, she opened her eyes, relieved to see piles of coal along the tracks and buildings in the distance.
The whistle blasted continuously as the train pulled into the station in St. Paul. The conductor came down the aisle.
“Thirty-minute stop here if you want to get off and stretch your legs.”
Everyone left the car except Kristin and a man who was sleeping with his head propped against the window and his hat over his face. Kristin took her cup to the watercooler. She drank a full cup before she thought about what she would do when she had to empty her bladder.
The coach was still half-full when they left St. Paul but was filled after the stop in Minneapolis. Kristin was glad she had a window seat. A pleasant-faced woman sat down beside her. After chatting a few minutes about the crowded coach, the woman said she was going to St. Cloud to visit her daughter and that she made the trip twice a year.
“I’ve never been on a train before,” Kristin confided. “I’m wondering what a person does who must use the . . . water closet.”
“Water closet? Oh, you mean the lavatory. It’s at the front of the car. The conductor locks the door while the train is in the station.”
“You can’t . . . use it while the train is stopped?”
“No. You see the ah . . . waste falls out the bottom of the train and is strung out along the tracks.”
“Oh, my goodness! I couldn’t go up there while people are in here watching me. They’d know exactly what I’m going to do.”
“That’s the drawback. I used to take my little girl and pretend it was she who needed to go when it was usually both of us. If you can wait, there’s a lavatory in almost every station.”
“Oh, dear. I don’t get off until I get to Fargo.”
“You needn’t wait that long, my dear. The train will stop at St. Cloud for fifteen minutes. Get off the train when I do. I’ll show you where to go.”
“The train may leave without me.”
“We’ll tell the conductor. He’ll make sure you’re on before he gives the signal to move out.”
By early evening, Kristin was used to the rolling, rocking rhythmic movement of the train and began to enjoy the trip. She had eaten bread, cheese and a fritter and was saving one of her four apples to eat later. She was one of the lucky ones who had a seat to herself after the stop at St. Cloud.
As twilight approached, she daydreamed about what she would find at the end of her journey. Would she be welcomed by Mr. Lenning, Uncle Yarby’s manager? Would he have a pleasant wife who would understand that she had no desire to interfere with the running of the farm . . . ranch? And that she just wanted to see her land?
Walk on it.
Feel it.
Laws! It was hard to believe that she owned land.
Chapter Three
Montana Territory
Someone was watching him.
Buck Lenning rose to his feet slowly, careful to make no sudden moves. He had been on his knees drinking from the clear cold stream when he saw pebbles from a spot on the bank fall with tiny splashes into the water. He had no idea who or what was there in the willows ahead and to the right, but the pebbles had not fallen without a cause.
His senses had been honed to sharpness by a lifetime of constant vigil. Something was not right. Trouble had a breath all its own, and he could feel it trembling on the back of his neck. Bending low to make himself as small a target as possible, he moved up the bank to his horse.
Was an Indian or a Mexican skulking just out of sight? Unlikely. Mexican bandits were scarce in this part of the country, and an Indian warrior would not have been so careless. Whoever it was, if ambush was his reason for being there, he had missed his chance.
Lenning had left the grasslands of the Larkspur and cantered along the Sweet Grass Creek bottom for a couple of miles. When it turned back up toward Crazy Mountain, where tall pines were scattered here and there among birch and aspen, he followed its course. Willows skirted the banks of the creek where he had paused to drink and to water his horse.
While looking over the back of his saddle, he pretended to adjust the cinch. Suddenly a brown thrasher flew out of the willows and swept past his head like a darting arrow. He continued to scan the bank along the creek. Then his sharp eyes saw color where none should be. A tiny bit of red had caught his eye.
Fixing the position in his mind, he led his horse a short distance before he mounted and headed him in the opposite direction. A hundred yards down the trail he turned up toward the mountains and came back to approach the willows from the hillside.
Buck L
enning had not planned to be away from the ranch for long. He hated to spend the extra time investigating, but logically he must assume that whoever was hiding along the creek bank was an enemy and needed to be flushed out. Moving slowly, he walked his horse back to a place above where he had seen the pebbles fall into the water.
When he noticed that something or someone had been dragged along the soft green grass, he swung down out of the saddle. Moving with catlike grace he followed the sign toward the creek and the dense growth of willows. He heard no sound, and the only movement was a cool breeze stirring the tops of the pines.
He might not have seen the slender, young Indian girl at all had he not spotted the red cloth tied to the ends of her long braids. Her dress of soft brown linsey blended with the patches of grass beneath the willows. She was frightened but defiant as she watched him with large dark eyes. Considering what happened sometimes to young Indian girls when come upon by some white men, he did not blame her for being afraid.
The reason she had been dragging herself over the grass was obvious to Buck. Her leg was broken below the knee.
“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 know
in’ 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.
Larkspur Page 3