Larkspur

by Dorothy Garlock

  “I was relieved to see the women with the Sioux. It meant they were going to set up camp and stay.”

  “Iron Jaw’ll expect pay. He’d take yore woman. He ain’t no young buck, but his bone is still hard enough to keep his womenfolk squealin’ half the night.”

  Laughter left Buck’s face.

  “Iron Jaw or any other man that makes a move toward her will find himself laid out . . . toes up.” He turned on his heel and walked away.

  “Hummm . . .” Gilly spat again. “Things ’round here is a gettin’ t’be mighty interestin’.”

  * * *

  During the days that followed Kristin worked as hard as she ever had in her life. Every washday she scrubbed the floor; and while it was drying, she pressed the wrinkles from the clothes with the small sleeve iron she had brought from River Falls. Lately, after the noon meal, Moss had curled up on his bed like a child and had fallen asleep.

  While she worked, Kristin had plenty of time to mull over in her mind the events of the past few weeks and had come to the conclusion that she had a lot to learn about this land and its people, including Buck Lenning.

  She had no doubt that he would have killed the Indian that day if he’d cut her hair. Life and death in this wild and unpredictable land hung on such a trivial matter. She had felt like a bone being fought over by two dogs. Yet it had been comforting, she admired, having Buck’s big, solid body next to hers, his hand warm and firm on her shoulder while the Indian fondled her hair.

  This woman is mine! The sons she makes will be my sons!

  Even thinking the words caused an unexplainable quiver in the region of her heart. She shoved the remark about being on the blanket back into the corner of her mind, not really understanding it and not wanting to think about it. It was Buck’s way of protecting her, she reasoned calmly. Their deal was that she would cook, tend house and look after his father in exchange for his protection. He was just carrying out his part of the bargain, and that was all she must read into it.

  Kristin decided that she liked Gilly Mullany, and would like him more if he would take a bath. He brought the odor of horse dung and woodsmoke into the house with him—not to mention stale sweat. It was a situation she’d have to work on very carefully. You couldn’t tell a man that he stank and needed a bath—that is if you wanted him for a friend.

  One of the first things she had noticed about Buck was that he was very clean and had kept Moss clean, too. He had shaved twice since she’d been here. Without the dark stubble on his cheeks he looked less sinister. She wondered how long it had been since he’d had a real haircut. It had to be at least a year. From the looks of it, he had chopped it off himself or Gilly had. He hadn’t mentioned being in town since the posse had come for Uncle Yarby.

  She wondered how Bonnie and Bernie had fared since her leaving Big Timber. Also Cletus and Mrs. Gaffney. She prayed that they hadn’t gotten into trouble for helping her. Thinking of town brought another worry to the forefront of her mind. Gustaf had said that he’d come out to Big Timber in a few weeks. What would happen to him if he arrived and went to Mark Lee’s office looking for her? Gustaf was used to dealing with rough men, but Forsythe’s men were the worst kind, or they’d never have framed an old man like her uncle for murder.

  She would have to ask Buck how to get word to Bonnie and Bernie to be on the lookout for her cousin and to tell him where she was.

  “Onyah.” Moss had come silently into the room breaking into her thoughts of Gustaf.

  “You’re awake. Did you have a good sleep?”

  “I’m going far away, Onyah.”

  There was a note of awareness and also one of sadness in his voice that Kristin had not heard before. A feeling of unease came over her.

  “Where do you plan to go?”

  “Honor thy father and thy mother, that thy days may be long upon the land which the Lord thy God giveth thee.”

  His voice, quoting one of the Ten Commandments, his hands clasped in front of him; eyes, faded now, as her father’s had done after his long illness, brought back a sudden rush of memories of her father when he lay on his death bed quoting Scriptures.

  “Ya did that, Onyah.”

  With misty eyes Kristin saw the old man turn wearily away and go back to his bed. Her heart thumped in sudden realization. Names Moss had mentioned came charging into her mind; Anna, her mother’s younger sister, Sean, her father’s brother. The breath she had been holding came out in a rush as another coincidence occurred to her. Buck had never called his father anything but Moss or old-timer. Never Pa or Papa—

  “Oh, my goodness,” she murmured in a stricken whisper. Then, “Uncle Yarby?”

  Chapter Twelve

  The man Buck called Moss was her Uncle Yarby.

  Kristin’s emotions ran from anger to sorrow to confusion. Why had he lied to her? What purpose did it serve? When she arrived, he had made it clear that he didn’t want her here. He could have told her then that her uncle wasn’t dead and that she had no claim to the land. She cringed inwardly when she thought back on the things she had said to him.

  Don’t forget that you work for me now, Mr. Lenning. She had made a complete fool of herself.

  As she worked, Kristin went to the doorway from time to time to look at the frail old man sleeping on the bed. He had seemed completely lucid when he spoke to her. A few other times and only for an instant, she had believed him to be of sound mind. He was a small man as her father had been. Only the second generation of Andersons who emigrated from Sweden to Wisconsin were tall, and some, like Uncle Hansel’s sons, brawny. Her brother, Ferd, was short like his father, but over the years he had put on weight. She could see no resemblance in either size or features between her brother and her uncle.

  Oh, Uncle Yarby, I would love to ask you why you made me your heir when you had so many others to choose from.

  As she prepared the evening meal Kristin came to the conclusion that she would confront Buck Lenning and tell him that she knew the man he had passed off as his father was her uncle and that she had every right to stay here and take care of him, even if the house was not on his land. She was torn between her anger at Buck for not telling her Moss was her uncle and gratitude for the care the strange dark-haired man had given him.

  It was dusk when she heard Sam’s welcoming bark and Buck and Gilly rode into the yard. Before leaving, Buck had assured her that the Sioux who had come to work for him were perfectly reliable and would let him know if a strange rider came within miles of the ranch house. She had no idea how that was to be accomplished, but it was comforting to know.

  The light from the lamp on the table and the one in the bracket over the work counter cast a warm glow over the spotlessly clean kitchen. Before dishing up the meal, Kristin went to the bedroom where Moss was sleeping. His breathing was even. She touched his forehead. It was cool. She returned to the kitchen as Buck came in the door.

  “Your father is still sleeping.”

  “Is he sick?”

  “Of course. You know that.”

  “I mean . . . sick.”

  “He isn’t feverish if that’s what you mean. He’s a frail old man, and his heart could give out at any time.” Her mouth clamped shut and she refused to look at him.

  She had given him yet another chance to say Moss was not his father, and he had chosen to keep up the pretense.

  Buck noticed immediately her change of attitude and wondered what had happened since the noon meal that had put her into such a disgruntled state.

  “I’ll go see about him.”

  “I just did. Sit down and eat.”

  Gilly came in with his hat still on his head. Kristin’s frosty eyes fastened on it, then moved to the rack beside the door. He got the message, hung his hat on the peg and went to the wash bench.

  After the men were seated, Kristin poured coffee and took her place at the table. She ate sparingly of the beef and rice she had prepared and made no attempt to enter into the conversation between Buck and Gil
ly.

  Gilly talked at length about two pesky sinkholes on the land. It was his contention that a river of the stuff ran under Larkspur and they would be lucky if the messy black muck didn’t pop up all over the land and spoil the grazing.

  Buck asked the old drover about going over to a neighboring ranch to see if Forsythe was still putting the pressure on the owner to sell.

  “Ryerson’ll cave in,” Gilly said with certainty.

  “Tell him to hold on a little longer. If he promised to go in and sign as soon as he gets a count on his herd it would give him more time. Anything to stall. A Federal marshal will come as soon as he gets my letter—if he gets it.”

  “If’n Ryerson’s got any gumption a’tall, he’ll take his family and hightail it for Helena. Forsythe will take possession of his place, but I’m thinkin’ he can’t keep it if Ryerson don’t sign it over. The courts will go ag’in’ what Forsythe is up to.”

  “He might even have the judge in his pocket. He’s got a lot at stake here.”

  “Dang-bust-it! It ain’t right. Ryerson and his boys has put a lot of sweat in that place.”

  When the meal was over and before Kristin cleared the table, she took the table lamp and went to the other room, leaving the kitchen area only dimly lit by the bracket lamp over the workbench. She placed the lamp on the table beside the bed and bent over Moss. He had rolled onto his back, his eyes were open as was his mouth. He was gasping for breath.

  “Buck!” She dropped to her knees beside the bed and took Moss’s limp hand.

  Buck was beside her in a matter of seconds. She looked up at him with both anger and anguish on her face.

  “How could you? I’ll never forgive you. Never!”

  Buck’s dark brows puckered. He didn’t understand her anger, but now was not the time to question her.

  “What’s wrong with him?”

  “I don’t know!” She moved her hand over his face close to his eyes and he didn’t blink. She lifted his hand and it fell lifelessly to the bed.

  “Moss, can you hear me?” Buck put his fingers alongside the sunken cheek and turned Moss’s head toward him.

  There was no response.

  “He’s in a . . . stupor.”

  “Will he come out of it?”

  “Not if it’s apoplexy.”

  “I’ve heard of that. It means he can’t move.”

  “My papa had it . . . at the end. So did Uncle Hansel. It’s something to do with the blood going to the brain. The doctor said it paralyzes parts of the body. See . . . he can’t close his eyes.” Tears ran down her cheeks as she cried silently.

  “What can we do?”

  “Nothing that I know of.” She pulled the blanket up around his shoulders.

  “Might be it’s fer the best.” Gilly had come to peer over her shoulder. “Feller ain’t ort to live out his days not knowin’ nothin’ like Moss’s been doin’.”

  Kristin turned on him. “Best for who? Would you think it best if you were lying there?”

  “Ya can bet yore buttons on it, ma’am. I’d a hoped somebody’d put a bullet in my head long ’fore now.”

  Buck brought a chair for Kristin, then moved to the other side of the bed. He stood for a long while with his forearm resting on the head of the iron bedstead. He had known this was coming. Moss was a mere shadow of his former self. Still, Buck wasn’t prepared for the end to come so soon. He looked at the top of Kristin’s bowed head.

  How long had she known? She had been as patient and as loving with Moss as if he had been her father.

  The wind came up and rattled the glass window and rippled the tin on the roof. It was as if it had come to carry the soul of the man away. It was a lonely sound—a death sound. Kristin shivered.

  Buck left the room and went to where Kristin’s shawl hung on the peg beside the door. He returned with it and gently draped it about her shoulders, then went back to the kitchen.

  Her Uncle Yarby was dying. Kristin watched the breath going in and coming out of his open mouth. She reached up and gently closed his eyelids. People should not have to die with their eyes open and staring. Holding his thin hand between hers, she began to talk softly to him.

  “Uncle Yarby, I wish I could have known you. You’re an awful lot like Papa even though he didn’t have white hair and a white beard. You really remind me of Gustaf. Gustaf is bigger, much bigger. But both of you have happy dispositions.

  “When the letter came, telling me that you had left your land to me, I felt as if you were telling me to spread my wings, fly away and take charge of my life as you had done. Fly away, little bird. Gustaf said that. It’s something you would have said.

  “For the first time since Papa died I was given a chance to get out from under Ferd’s thumb. Now I’ll never be able to thank you properly. This Larkspur land of yours is a beautiful place. I promise you, Uncle Yarby, as long as I live, Colonel Forsythe will not have it . . . not legally anyway. It was despicable of him to accuse you of such a terrible crime. Surely God will punish him.

  “I don’t know why Mr. Lenning didn’t tell me about you. I have to think that he had some reason that was logical to him. Even if you don’t understand what I’m saying, I want to say it anyway. Thank you, Uncle Yarby. Already I’ve come to love this beautiful land and shining mountains.”

  Buck stood in the doorway. It didn’t occur to him that he shouldn’t be listening. She was hurting, and he wanted to be near her. In the far recesses of his mind, and knowing Moss as he did, he was sure the old man welcomed this release from life. The man he had been was no more—only an empty shell remained. He owed the little man his life. As long as there had been breath in the frail old body, he would have cared for and protected him. His only regret was that he hadn’t trusted Kristin from the start, but, hell, how was he to know? He had lived for a year and a half trusting no one but Gilly and his Indian drovers.

  Kristin was quiet now. Buck went to sit down on the other side of the bed. She didn’t look at him. Didn’t speak. She held on to Moss’s hand, as if to assure him that he wasn’t alone.

  Time passed slowly. Buck heard Gilly put wood in the cookstove and open the oven door to allow the heat to take away the chill of the night, then the back door closed as he left to go to the bunkhouse.

  When the clock struck midnight, Kristin realized the rasping sound of labored breathing had stopped. She looked quickly at Buck. He slipped his hand under the blanket and over Moss’s heart. He met Kristin’s eyes and slowly shook his head. She stood and carefully pulled the blanket up over the still face, then quickly left the room.

  Buck stayed beside the body of his dead friend for a while. Without his realizing it, tears he hadn’t known he was capable of shedding came to his eyes, and one rolled down his whiskered cheek.

  “Good-bye, old-timer. You’re the pa I never had, the brother I never had, the true friend few men ever find. I hope that wherever you are, you’re the old mossback you were when we first met. It may be that you’re with Anna, the woman you talked about the time you got drunk and I had to hold you to keep you from going out into a raging snowstorm to find her.” Buck wiped his eyes on the sleeve of his shirt. “Don’t worry about Kristin and the Larkspur, old-timer, I’ll take care of her whether she wants me to or not. And I’ll see to it that she has your part of the Larkspur. In a way she’s a lot like you—gutsy and determined. It took grit for her to come out here by herself. You’ve put the world in my hand, old-timer, and I’ll do my best to keep it.”

  When Buck went into the kitchen, he found Kristin filling the dishpan with hot water from the teakettle. He set the lamp on the table and carried the soiled dishes to the workbench. They worked together without speaking. She washed the dishes; he dried and put them away. Just before they finished, he put several pinches of dried tea leaves in the crockery pitcher, filled it with hot water and set a plate over the top so it could steep, as he had seen Kristin do.

  Kristin slowly and meticulously cleaned the kitchen area. Whe
n all was done, she hung the dishpan on the end of the wash bench and the wet towels over the string she had hung over the stove. She turned to see Buck holding two cups of tea.

  “I’d rather go to . . . my room.”

  “Drink the tea. If you don’t want to talk now, we won’t. But soon you have to listen to why I did what I did.”

  “You deprived me of the few days I could have spent knowing him—as my uncle.”

  “I’m sorry for that.” Buck set the two cups of tea on the table and waited until she sat down, then went to the other side of the table and straddled a chair.

  “Why?” Kristin looked up from the cup that she bracketed with her two hands. His light eyes were unusually bright. She could almost believe they were teary.

  “I didn’t know you . . . and I had to be careful that no one but me and Gilly knew Moss was alive.”

  “I understand that. But later—”

  “I was afraid that if you knew your uncle wasn’t dead and that you had no claim to the land—you’d leave.”

  “You think I would have gone off and left you to take care of him when he was my kin and had thought enough of me to leave me his land?”

  “Later I knew you wouldn’t have done that, and I was waiting for the right moment to tell you. I had finally got up the courage and was going to tell you tonight.”

  “Did you start calling him Moss after I arrived?”

  Buck almost smiled . . . remembering.

  “I’ve always called him that. He called me the youngun, and I got to calling him an old mossback. That’s how it started.”

  “I figure Uncle Yarby to be about sixty.”

  “Ten years ago he would have been fifty. I was just sixteen years old when I was shot and left to die by a man who wanted my horse. It was in the dead of winter, and I’d have frozen to death before nighttime. Moss’s old dog, Sam’s pappy, led him to me. I was too heavy for him to lift, so he made a sled out of pine branches and pulled me over the snow to that shack over there in the woods. He told me later I almost died on him a couple of times, but he’d not let me because the ground was frozen. He couldn’t bury me and he didn’t want to spend the rest of the winter with a stinking youngun.”