“A mouthy piece of horse dung named Miller.”
“Why’d he come here to hurt Bernie?”
“Because he knew you wouldn’t be here.”
“He didn’t even have a gun in his hand when you killed him,” she said accusingly.
“He had you in his hands. He knew better.”
Del looked out the door before he went out and down the stairs. He walked quickly between the two buildings and back toward the livery and the pole corrals. When he reached the fence, he dumped the body over the rails. The horses nickered and shied away. Del reached through the bars and snatched the towel he had wrapped about the bloody head to protect his clothes.
“Dirty bastard,” he muttered. “You knew what you’d get if you put your hands on her.”
* * *
It was an hour past midnight.
Kyle Forsythe lay in his bed with his hand cupped about the naked breast of his housekeeper, Ruth DeVary, and ignored the sniffles the woman was trying to conceal. He cared not a whit if she bawled all night. He teased her by rolling her nipple around between his thumb and forefinger, plucked at the pelt of hair between her legs and yawned sleepily.
In his younger years he had been able to achieve an erection each and every night that a woman was available. Tonight he had exhausted himself trying to gain satisfaction. Lately it had been taking longer and longer for him to reach his climax and he hated it. It must be the woman’s fault. Finally, frustrated, he had slapped her hard across the face with his open hand. After that, either she had worked harder, or else his dominance over her had created a spark that had fired his blood. In a matter of minutes he had rushed to completion.
He would have to remember that.
His thoughts traveled back to all the women he’d had. Barmaids had been enamored of his good looks and his station in life. Society women, including his late wife Cindy Read Forsythe, had fallen in love with him. He’d charmed an Arkansas hill woman and had married her under the false name of Kirby Hyde. After he’d tired of her, he’d gone off to war, and let her believe he’d been killed. Later she’d had a child she claimed was his.
Good grief! Time had passed quickly.
The ringing of the bell on the door broke into his thoughts. Hell! What now?
“Ruth!” He elbowed the woman beside him. “Go see who’s at the door. Tell them to come back tomorrow. Then get back here. I may want you again.” In the back of Kyle’s mind was the slap he’d given her. He wanted to try it again and see if that was what had aroused his limp flesh.
Ruth hurriedly left the bed. She donned a dressing gown before she lit the small lamp and carried it out into the hallway and down the stairs to the door. The night caller was persistent. The bell continued to ring up to the time she opened the door and saw Del Gomer standing there.
“Mrs. DeVary.” Always polite, Del tipped his hat. “I want a few minutes with Colonel Forsythe.”
“He’s in bed, Mr. Gomer.”
“Then tell him to get up.”
“He told me to tell whoever was here to come back in the morning.”
Del pushed gently, but firmly, on the door and she backed away as he came into the foyer.
“I’ll see him down here or upstairs.”
“Please . . . don’t, Mr. Gomer—”
The lamp she was holding cast a light on the swelling on the side of her face and on an eyelid that drooped. He lifted his hand and trailed his fingers across her cheek, then took the lamp from her hand.
“Where is he?”
“First door on the right. Please . . . don’t say anything—”
His cold-eyed stare stayed on her face until she turned her head away.
Ruth followed him up the stairs, not knowing whom she feared the most, Del Gomer or the colonel.
Forsythe sat up in bed when Del entered the room.
“Del? Godamighty! What’s happened?” As he spoke he swung his legs over the side of the bed.
“Mrs. DeVary tried to keep me out. But as you can see, I’m bigger than she is.”
“Yes, yes, of course. If I’d known it was you— Ruth, get my pants.”
“Don’t bother, Mrs. DeVary. He needn’t dress to hear what I’ve got to say. Did you send Cliff Miller over to the Gateses?”
“Why . . . why . . . ah . . . what do you mean?”
“You heard me.” Del took a few steps into the room and set the lamp on a table.
“Well, I told him to . . . wait until the girl was gone, then see what . . . he could find out from her brother.”
“What did you want to know?”
“How the Anderson woman got out of town, where she went and who helped her.”
“I could have told you that.”
“Then why didn’t you?” Impatience drove through his usual caution when dealing with Del.
“You didn’t ask me.”
“I’m asking you now.” Kyle tried to hide his apprehension behind an assertive manner.
“You better make sure that the next son of a bitch you send over to the Gateses’ keeps his hands off Bonnie, because not only will I kill him, I’ll come looking for the man who sent him there.”
“I never told Miller to—”
“It’s too late now to tell Miller anything.” Del turned to the woman hovering in the doorway. “Good night, ma’am. I can find my way out.”
“We’ll talk when you get back from Bozeman, Del.”
At the door Del paused. “I’ll not be going to Bozeman. Not tomorrow anyway.”
“Not . . . going? Why not?”
“I’m not going.”
“Our deal was that you’d go and do the job for five hundred dollars.” Forsythe’s face had reddened considerably. He was mad clear through, but strove not to show it.
“Five hundred for killing a judge.” There was a sneer in Del’s voice. “I’ve been paid a thousand for killing a schoolteacher. But I said I’d do it and I will, but if you can’t wait a week or two, get someone else.”
There was a sudden stillness in the room. Del Gomer’s expression never changed. His cold eyes held on to Forsythe for so long that Kyle thought his head would explode from the tension. Then the tall, quiet-faced man turned and left the room.
Kyle waited to speak until after he heard the soft click of the door downstairs being closed.
“Blow out the lamp. Look out the window and make sure that arrogant bastard is gone. The son of a bitch is so wild for that slut over at the eatery he’s lost his reason. He doesn’t need to think I can’t find someone just as good with a gun as he is! There’s plenty of gunmen who can blow him out from under that ten-dollar hat. Bastards! Give them an inch and they’ll be pissin’ on the dirt you’re laying under!”
At the window Ruth listened to Kyle’s ravings and was sickened by what she heard. He had hired Del to kill a judge and sent that disgusting Cliff Miller over to beat up a crippled man. She had known that Franklin Kyle Forsythe was ambitious, greedy, and ruthless, but she’d not known to what extent he would go to get what he wanted.
“He’s gone.”
Kyle flopped back down on the bed, angry that Ruth had seen his fear.
“Damn bunch of blunderheads. Well . . . are you coming to bed or not? I’ve not been pleased with your attitude lately, Ruth. What you need is a damn good smack on your bottom to remind you that you work here.”
Kyle Forsythe scowled in the dark. Yeah, it’s what she needs.
As soon as Ruth sank down on the bed, he pounced on her, rolled her over, pulled up her nightdress and began slapping her bare buttocks with the palm of his hand.
Chapter Ten
Buck struck a seldom-used trail and followed it to the ridges above Larkspur. The trail passed through a dense stand of aspen, then turned upward. He came out onto a small grass-covered plain dotted with bunchgrass and clumps of scrub oak. Twice, rabbits leaped up and scurried away. A hawk, soaring high above the treetops, watched for his chance to dive and carry off a luckless small animal fo
r a meal. Buck rode on, the hooves of the big gray making no sound on the soft grass.
Cutting across a narrow meadow, Buck found what he had been searching for; fresh prints of a horse bisecting the trail he was taking. Turning the gray, he followed. In the meadow grass, the tracks were too indistinct to tell him much about the horse, but he didn’t need to see the tracks to know where the rider was going. He was heading for the plateau above the trail leading to the ranch and was riding toward his objective in as straight a line as possible.
Wheeling the horse, Buck took off up a draw into the steeper hills, carefully scanning every open space before he crossed it. He knew only too well how little was required to conceal a man. A low bush, clothing that blended with the surroundings, and immobility were the essentials for remaining unseen.
When he was well above the trail behind the ranch buildings, he cut across and moved cautiously down through the trees. He studied the area, carefully examining each clump of bushes, each approach. These were uneasy days, for one of Forsythe’s men could be waiting behind any rock or bush. He looked to see how the shadows fell, how the birds flew. Each might give an indication of where an enemy lay in waiting.
The wind shifted, rustling the leaves, and a faint scent of tobacco smoke reached him. He dismounted, ground-tied his horse, and moved silently through the shadowy woods. He was playing a high-stakes game with an unknown enemy and the prize was life. One wrong step, and he could lose. And he had only one life.
Each of the four days that Kristin had been at the ranch he had scouted this area. He knew that sooner or later Forsythe would become tired of waiting and send his henchmen. Each evening he had looked forward to returning to a house that had miraculously been turned into a home almost overnight. A welcoming smile and hot meal would be waiting. He would sit at the table over his coffee and watch Kristin move about his house, listen to her light chatter about things she had done, and watch her patient handling of Moss.
From the day he had first seen her she had never been far from his thoughts. Something within him, some feeling in his blood, some perception beyond the usual, told him that this was his woman. He wanted to be with her for the rest of his life, live with her here on the Larkspur, love her, provide for her and protect her. She would think, he was sure, that he wanted her for Yarby’s land. That’s what he would think if the situation were reversed. What would she think if she knew the truth about Yarby? Hell and tarnation! Why hadn’t he told her right from the start?
Because she might’ve insisted on going back to town, you stupid mule’s ass.
Buck stood stock-still in the thick growth, suddenly aware of how dangerous it was to let his mind wander. He attempted to wipe all thoughts of Kristin and Yarby and Larkspur from his mind. He had to concentrate on the man who was bent on killing him.
Buck’s face, darkened by many suns and winds, was still, remote and lonely; it did not show the anger he felt at being hunted. Whoever stalked him planned to murder him, then ride down and kill a helpless old man and a woman. He stifled his rage. Anger could cloud his senses and cause him to make a wrong move.
His eyes scanned the slope below him. He studied each bush, each tree, each boulder. It was quiet; not even birdsong broke the silence. He started to step out and continue downward, then stopped and stepped back. Long ago he’d learned to trust his instincts. He didn’t know why he hesitated, but suddenly things were not right.
He heard the shot and felt the wicked force of a bullet tear across the top of his shoulder and lose itself in the woods beyond. He hit the ground rolling and another bullet sailed over the top of him. He crawled quickly to the left, rolled to a downed log and stretched out alongside it. The shooter peppered with bullets the bushes where he had been. A bullet struck the log behind which he lay with an ugly whap.
He eased his gun out of the holster and waited.
Silence. Then he heard a voice shrill with excitement.
“Got ’em. If he ain’t dead he’ll soon be. I aimed true and got ’em. I seen it hit and I seen ’em fall. I heared the whap of that last bullet. Yessiree, we got that re . . . ward in our pocket.”
“Lantz? You doin’ all the shootin’?”
“Who else? Said I’d pay back, didn’t I? He’s ’round here some’r’s. Got ta get me some proof ta take back to that high muckety-muck land man what thinks we don’t ’mount to much.”
Lantz and the fat man. Through a fog of rage, Buck’s mind began to work.
Buck could hear the sound of boots crushing twigs as Lantz moved closer to the log, and he bunched his muscles to spring. He waited until he could hear breathing then lunged up practically in Lantz’s face. Buck put three bullets in him in quick succession. Lantz fell backward with blood all over him.
“Damn you! Damn you to . . . hell—!” Lantz clawed at his chest and died.
Expecting to feel the jarring bullet from the fat man’s gun, Buck spun in a half circle to see him frozen in place, a rifle dangling from his hand. With death looking him in the face, the fat man knew his only chance was to drop the gun and raise his hands. His face was a sickly yellow.
“Don’t . . . don’t shoot—”
“You sorry piece of horseshit!” Buck’s finger tightened on the trigger and a bullet cut into a fleshy thigh an inch below the man’s male organ.
He screamed, grabbed his privates, stumbled backward, and lost his balance. He fell heavily to the ground.
“Get up, you back-shootin’ son of a bitch! Get up or the next one will be between your eyes instead of between your legs.”
Buck stared at the fat man through a powerful red rage. His breath rasped in and out. Blood from the wound in his shoulder stained his shirt. Splatters of Lantz’s blood shone on his face.
The fat man rolled to his knees and managed to get to his feet. Blood ran down his leg and spattered on his boot.
“Pick him up,” Buck demanded.
Keeping his legs spread, the fat man waddled over to the bloody body of his friend.
“Take off his gun belt first and put his gun in it.” He nodded toward the gun Lantz had dropped when Buck shot him. “Put it over there with the rifle, then pick him up.”
After two tries the frightened man managed to stand with Lantz flung over his shoulder.
“Put him on his horse.”
Buck followed the man as he staggered through the woods. One time his knees buckled, but he righted himself before he and the body he carried hit the ground.
The horses had been hidden in a copse three hundred feet from where the men had waited to ambush Buck. Buck noted that they had arrived at that point by approaching from two different directions; the only smart move they had made.
“Throw him over the rump of the gelding.”
“That’s my horse—” The man protested, but after a glance at Buck’s angry, face, obeyed.
“Mount up.” The man went to take the reins of the blue roan tied near by, and Buck spoke again. “Leave it. The horse is mine now.”
“You’d send me off without a gun? There’s Sioux all over these mountains.”
“Yeah. Maybe you’ll run into some of Little Owl’s kinfolk. The only reason I’m letting you go is that if I kill you, you and that other piece of shit will lie here, rot and stink up my land. I’m letting you take him out of here—but not back to Big Timber. Head for Canada or California. If I see you again, or even hear that you’re anywhere near the Larkspur, I’ll come looking for you and shoot you down like a dog.”
The horse was skittish. He smelled the fresh blood and felt the unfamiliar burden on his rump. Finally, the fat man was able to mount and when he eased himself down into the saddle, his face contorted with pain and he yelled. The frightened horse danced in place so that the fat man had to grab Lantz’s belt to keep him from sliding off the horse.
Buck whistled for his horse, then mounted the gray and followed the fat man to the freight road that led to Helena. He wondered how long he would ride with the dead body of his frie
nd. He didn’t care where he was dumped, as long as it wasn’t on the Larkspur.
* * *
After the first day, Kristin had not felt like an intruder in Buck’s home. The man was an enigma. Kristin had no doubt that he was hard as nails, yet he was the soul of patience with his father. He was evidently proud of his home, but had furnished it as if he’d never lived in a house before. He told her the day they had come to an agreement that she was free to make any changes she wished in the kitchen as well as in the other rooms. He readily admitted he knew little about furnishing a house. He also shyly confessed that he had chosen the pieces from a catalog and had sent the order to Bozeman.
When he told her that, Kristin’s eyes had darted to the green velvet chair, then smiled into his.
“It . . . looked different in the catalog,” he said with a sheepish grin.
“It would be lovely in a parlor as would the globe lamp. Do you mind if I move the lamp to the other room?”
“Might as well. I’ve never used it in here.” At that moment there was something vulnerable and endearing about him. Kristin was to think about it as the days went by.
Buck was away from the house for most of the day. When he wasn’t scouting, he was doing work he hadn’t been able to attend to before Kristin came to watch Moss. One day he moved his horses to a higher meadow and hoped his men would return before they were found by rustlers or a roving band of Sioux who were unaware of the agreement he had with Iron Jaw.
He spent one day dragging deadfalls from the woods to the ranch yard, and for an hour or two each morning he chopped wood and stacked it along the south side of the house. Another time he worked on the ducts that brought water from the spring to the stock tanks inside the corral. In the evening he washed in the bunkhouse before he came to the warm, cozy kitchen where Kristin waited with a hot meal.
Kristin’s days were spent cleaning while watching that Moss didn’t wander out of the house. With an apron tied about her waist, she swept and scrubbed, rearranged the kitchen and the provisions, and washed the windows with vinegar water until they sparkled. After finding a roll of oil-cloth, she cut a length and put it on the table. In the center she set a handsome, newly polished cruet set she had discovered gathering dust in a far corner under the wash bench. She waited for Buck to mention it, but he never did.
Larkspur Page 12