“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?”
Buck stepped down from his horse, took a key from his pocket and opened a padlock on the door. Always fearful of what he would find when he returned after being away for several hours, he flung open the door.
An old man with a white beard sat on the bunk attached to the far wall. His elbows were on his knees and his face in his hands. Buck went to him and knelt down.
“You all right, Moss?”
“My name ain’t that.”
“Sure it is.”
The old man’s face was lined by a lifetime of struggle against the elements. The sunken blue eyes that looked up at Buck were filled with tears.
“Who’er you?”
“You know who I am,” Buck said gently.
“I can’t find my pa.”
“He’ll be along soon. Are you hungry?”
“It snowed this mornin’.”
“Let’s go to the house, and I’ll fix you something to eat.”
“Cousin Walter burned his house down.”
“I hated to leave you here, old-timer, but I was afraid you’d wander off while I was gone, and I wouldn’t be able to find you.”
“Ollie Swenson froze to death.”
“I know—”
“It takes four pecks to make a bushel.”
“It sure does.”
“I don’t like it when you go.”
Buck peered into the old man’s wrinkled face. Was this one of his infrequent lucid moments?
“I rode over to Sweet Grass Creek to see if they’d dammed it up.”
“Had they?”
“Nothing’s been there. Not even a beaver.”
The old man got shakily to his feet and looked up at Buck. Years had worn away the muscles of his youth. The flesh on the arms he wrapped around Buck’s waist were loose and sagging. His frail body trembled. He clung to Buck as a child would cling to its mother.
“You takin’ me home?” he asked beseechingly.
“Yeah, sure. I’m takin’ you home.”
Chapter Four
Big Timber, Montana Territory
Mark Lee crossed the street to the bank and climbed the wooden stairs attached to the side of the building. FORSYTHE LAND DEVELOPMENT was painted in gold script on the glass pane of the door. The young lawyer walked into the office with a feeling of dread. The news he had for Colonel Forsythe was sure to anger him.
Lee knew that Forsythe was shrewd, cunning and a conniver of the first
degree. He also knew that he would use any method to get what he wanted, keeping himself in the background of anything smacking of crime or wrongdoing. Mark wanted a piece of the good life Forsythe enjoyed: prestige, good food, a soft bed and Havana cigars. To get it, he would play along.
When Lee opened the door, Forsythe was putting on his hat, preparing to leave the office for the day.
“Hello, Colonel. I’m glad I caught you.”
“I was just leaving. What’s on your mind?”
“I . . . just got a wire. That woman is on her way out here. She’ll be here Wednesday night.”
“What woman?”
“The Anderson woman.”
“Jesus Christ! Didn’t you send the letter to her brother?”
“Yes, but he hasn’t had time to get it.”
“What does the wire say?”
“Kristin Anderson will arrive Wednesday 6 P.M. Meet her. Take care of her. G. Anderson.” Mark read the message and handed over the paper given to him by the agent. “I thought her brother’s name was Ferd. Maybe it was Gerd.”
To Mark’s surprise Forsythe smiled after reading the message.
“Good. Meet her at the train. Get her a room at the hotel and treat her to dinner in the dining room. Give her a little taste of what money can do. Thursday morning bring her here to the office. I’ll show her a map marking the tract of land, and she’ll see how far it is from town. I’ll tell her about the Sioux raiding parties, and the low beef prices. Then I’ll produce a stack of greenbacks. It’ll be more money than she ever dreamed of having. She’ll sign the deed and you can put her back on the train in the afternoon.”
Mark sighed with relief. When he had found the twenty-year-old will in the files of the old lawyer whose office he now occupied, Forsythe had been delighted. It would be less bother to have it probated than to go through the process of trying to find the next of kin to get a clear title to Larkspur. Mark had written immediately to Kristin Anderson informing her of her inheritance and in less than two weeks had received word from her brother that they wished to sell. Anderson had taken great pains to explain that he was too busy with his lumber business to manage the land properly.
On the way back to his own office Mark Lee wondered why the woman was coming here. According to her brother, she was a spinster who lived in his home and took care of his children. Mark always felt more confident, however, after speaking with the colonel. Forsythe would charm the Anderson woman into signing her land over to him and they would be rid of her.
Kyle Forsythe was such an imposing figure. Although some considered him pompous and overbearing, others realized he was a sharp businessman whose air of aristocracy served him well. The War Between the States had been over for eighteen years, but he still used Colonel before his name. He had obtained the lesser rank of Lieutenant Colonel through the influence of Judge Ronald Van Winkle, uncle of his late wife.
Getting title to the land beyond the Yellowstone River was his all-consuming interest. He was hurrying to get his claims locked in before the territory was made officially a part of the United States. When that time came, he fully intended to be one of the largest landowners in the state with a good chance of becoming its first governor. By then he would have a tight hold on the wool market. With a bridge across the Yellowstone River, Big Timber could become the largest wool shipping point in the West. Larkspur, however, had the potential of being more valuable than grass or steers or sheep. He was determined to have it, regardless of the cost, before these yokels woke up to its possibilities.
Taking possession was another matter. Lenning was wild and unreasonable. He’d not give up without a fight. Although Mark had met him only one time, once had been enough. The man had picked him up and tossed him off his porch as if he were a stray cat. His dignity and his backside had suffered a mighty blow.
Forsythe had said not to worry about Lenning, and Mark Lee was perfectly willing to let Forsythe handle him. From what he had heard and knew about the man, he was one mean son of a bitch when pushed
* * *
Dazed with fatigue, Kristin looked out the window at the lonely, empty land. She had not seen a farm since Fargo, at least not one like the farms in Wisconsin. The only milk cows she had glimpsed were in small pastures on the edge of the few towns or villages they had passed.
The first night of her trip she had not slept a wink, and had only dozed occasionally on the train the next day. At Miles City she had gone with the three other women passengers to a dormitory-type rooming house that sat alongside the railroad track. She had paid the exorbitant sum of a half a dollar for a cot in the room with the other women and had slept for just a few hours. But at last she had been able to wash the smoke and grit from her face, neck and arms.
Today, after they stopped at a small town named Billings and took on firewood and water, the conductor told her the next stop would be Big Timber. She both welcomed and dreaded the end of the trip.
As the train approached the town, it seemed to Kristin to be a mere blob on the vast landscape. But as they neared, she could discern a well-laid-out town sprawled alongside the tracks. Of course, it was a mere village compared to Eau Claire, but it was larger than several of the towns they had passed since leaving Miles City.
As Kristin set her straw hat firmly on her head and fastened it with her hatpins, she heard the engineer announce the train’s arrival with several blasts of the train whistle. There was the now-familiar sound of scraping of iron against iron as the train slowed and jerked to a stop. She caught a glimpse of the sign on the end of the gray-painted building that served as the station. BIG TIMBER. She was here at last.
Kristin followed two men to the end of the car. She acknowledged their courtesy with a nod when they stepped aside so that the conductor could assist her down the steps. The platform was crowded with people and baggage. Holding tightly to her bag and her basket, Kristin moved over to stand next to the building. She looked about her in dismay at the roughly dressed men. Most were wearing guns. Two women were preparing to board the train. One consoled a small child who cringed and cried. At the car ahead the baggage man was unloading boxes and trunks onto a high-wheeled cart.
Kristin walked to the end of the station and looked up the road toward the town. It lay between two rows of buildings and held a stream of spring wagons, buckboards and saddle horses. She would walk if Mr. Lee didn’t show up to meet her.
She felt strangely calm and confident.
Almost everyone had left the platform when a man came out of the station and looked around. He was dressed in a dark suit and wore a high-crowned hat with a wide white band. Finally his eyes fastened on Kristin. She tilted her chin and looked away. Don’t make eye contact with any strange man. She remembered Gustaf telling her that. Kristin turned her back to him. He couldn’t be Mr. Mark Lee. He was far too young and too handsome.
“Are you Miss Anderson?”
Kristin turned to face the man who had stared at her. Their eyes were on a level. He was short. His tall hat had made him seem taller at first glance. He had dark eyes and hair and a carefully groomed mustache. As far as she could see there was not a speck of dust on his dark suit.
“I’m Kristin Anderson.”
“Mark Lee. I got your brother’s wire saying you would be arriving today.”
“My brother sent a wire?”
“It was signed G. Anderson.”
“My cousin, Gustaf, sent the wire. He took me to the train.”
“He said take care of you, and I will. I’ve reserved a room for you at the hotel. Pardon me for one moment while I make arrangements to have your baggage sent over, and then we will go there. I’m sure you’re eager to refresh yourself.”
Kristin waited while he spoke to the agent. Mr. Lee seemed nice enough, even though he wasn’t what she expected. The only lawyers she knew were the two in River Falls, and they were gray-haired old men. She watched him return to her and realized that he was quite proud of himself. He walked with a kind of a swa
gger. Gustaf would say he was a dandy.
“Your trunk and box will be brought to the hotel presently. Shall we go?”
He took the basket from her and, with a hand beneath her elbow, escorted her around to the front of the building where a fancy buggy was hitched to a fine mare.
“How was your trip?” he asked after he had settled her in the soft leather seat and climbed in beside her.
“Long. Dirty. But interesting.”
“Have you traveled by train before?” The mare trotted up the well-traveled road to the main part of town.
“No.”
“Traveling in the East by train is much pleasanter than it is here in the West, where the cars are uncomfortable and the stops far between.” He laughed. “I doubt that you will find this desolate country to your liking. I certainly don’t. I’d rather be where things are happening than here in the midst of all this space filled with nothing more worthwhile than a few skinny steers.”
“I think it’s a fascinating land.”
“It would be if there were something worthwhile on it. Out here the land is parched, the Indians hostile, and the people worn-out from the struggle to keep body and soul together.”
“Someone must like it or there wouldn’t have been enough people to build a town.”
“Business brings men West. Men can endure most anything as long as they’re making money. Most of the women I’ve met can’t wait to get away from here.”
“And you? Are you eager to leave?”
For a moment her question surprised him, and he was silent. Then he turned a charming smile in her direction.
“I’ve no intention of spending my life here. I’ll be going back to Chicago very soon. Perhaps tomorrow or the next day. We can travel back East together.”
Kristin was silent. She wasn’t in the habit of making quick judgments, but something about Mark Lee didn’t ring true. It struck her that he didn’t want her to like it here and was planning on her leaving right away. Why?
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