Larkspur

by Dorothy Garlock

  She sat beside him, wondering if he had a family somewhere who loved him. What kind of childhood had formed the man who killed for money? There were two men inside the handsome body of Del Gomer: the cold-blooded killer, and the gentle, lonely man who was capable of loving and willing to die for the one he loved.

  She would never know the answers to the questions that would haunt her for the rest of her life.

  When she left the room, she closed the door. In the kitchen, a flickering candle set beneath the table gave just enough light so that she could see her brother at one window and Gustaf at the other.

  “It’s over.” Her words fell into the quiet.

  After a pause Gustaf’s voice came from the parlor end of the room.

  “His guts must have been on fire. Some men would have been screaming their heads off, but I never heard a peep from him. He really loved you, Bonnie.”

  “Yes, and I don’t want to hear one bad word about him.” Bonnie’s voice choked.

  “You’ll not hear it from me. The man knew what he was doing when he walked right into that gun.”

  “He was a strange man,” Bernie said quietly. “I hated him for wanting Bonnie and . . . he gave his life for her.”

  They were silent while the clock struck midnight. Four hours had passed since they had sat down to supper. So much had happened.

  Gilly came from the other room.

  “I been on the porch listenin’. Somethin’ goin’ on out there. Heard a couple horses take off on the run. Could be that Bowlegs got back and cut their horses loose or else Buck come home. If he did, he’ll give a whistle.”

  “Oh, I hope he did. I hope to God he’s got Kristin.”

  Gilly opened the back door. The repeated whistle of the redbird was followed by the call of a squalling hawk.

  “I ain’t never heard that call before. It ain’t no Indian. It ain’t Buck either.” Gilly was plainly puzzled. The call was repeated, then silence.

  “Do you think someone’s tryin’ to fool us to get in here?” Bernie asked.

  “I ain’t knowin’. Ain’t that someone callin’?”

  “Buck! It’s Stark! Cleve Stark!”

  “That’s a relief. We know Mr. Stark.”

  “We ain’t knowin’ fer sure it’s him.” Gilly was cautious. He stuck his head out the door and yelled, “How’er we knowin’ that?”

  “That you, Gilly? Dad-blameit, ask Bernie if me and Dillon met with him and his sister in the back of the restaurant one night last week.”

  “It’s Stark.” The twins spoke at once.

  “Come on in,” Gilly yelled.

  Three men walked their horses into the yard and up to the back porch.

  “Lord, Gilly, it was easier to get through that bunch waitin’ to burn you out than to get in here. Where’s Buck?” Cleve stepped down from his horse.

  “Gone. What happened . . . out there?”

  “Nothin’ much. We played a few tricks on them and they decided to head for Wyoming.”

  “Light the lamp, missy.” There was a tired, but relieved tone in Gilly’s voice. “Come on in. We got us some talkin’ to do.”

  “We heard shots a hour ago, then the lights went out. Figured ya come out on top, or Bruza would’ve called in his dogs.”

  The Mexican looked down at Bruza, who lay where Del’s bullets had slammed him.

  “Yi, yi, yi. He was a bad one, Señores.”

  “This is Pablo Cardova. He rode with Bruza and his bunch for a while—”

  “Then what’s he doin’ here?” Bernie’s voice had a belligerent tone.

  “It’s a long story. He’s really here . . . for another reason. Fellers out there thought he was on their side. Who’s that?” Cleve asked, jerking his head toward the man who sat at the table with his face in a bowl, the contents of which were slopped out onto the table.

  “Marshal Lyster of Big Timber,” Gilly said with a grimace. “He’s eatin’ his supper.”

  “Somebody’s been busy. Found three men outside with their throats cut.” He stepped over Mike. “Got coffee?”

  “Got plenty of coffee, but don’t touch the stew.” Bonnie shook down the ashes and added more wood to the cookstove. “I’ll have to dump it in the outhouse to keep the dog from eating it.”

  “That bad, huh?”

  “Ask Marshal Lyster. He’ll tell you.”

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Kristin and Buck left Iron Jaw’s camp at sunup. As they were preparing to leave, Black Elk and his sister, Little Owl, came to where Buck was saddling his horse.

  “Is all well with your wife, Lenning?”

  “She is good.”

  “Little Owl has a gift for her.”

  Black Elk urged his sister forward. She came awkwardly, using a forked stick as a crutch. Shyly, she held out a pair of elaborately beaded moccasins.

  “For woman from Larkspur,” she said in halting English.

  Kristin accepted the moccasins, looked at them closely, and hugged them to her breast. The smile she gave to Little Owl was radiant.

  “Thank you. Oh, thank you! They’re beautiful. Did you make them?”

  Little Owl’s large questioning eyes went to Buck.

  “You make?” he asked slowly, then to Kristin. “Speak slow and she’ll understand.”

  “I make. Give to Lenning’s woman.”

  “I want to put them on.” Kristin looked at Buck. He nodded. She sat on the ground and unlaced her shoes. With the moccasins on her feet she stood, lifted her skirt and looked down. “Oh, my. They are so comfortable and . . . pretty.” Her pleasure was so obvious that Little Owl began to smile. Kristin reached out and clasped her hand. “Thank you. I wish to be your friend.”

  “Friends,” Little Owl repeated.

  “Can she come to the Larkspur sometime, Buck? Oh, I wish she could. I’ll make her a gift . . . out of that sky blue yarn.” Her eyes laughed into his.

  “You are welcome at the Larkspur,” Buck said to Black Elk as he put Kristin’s shoes in one of his saddlebags. “My home is your home. My wife would be friends with your wife and your sister.”

  “Soon we leave for lands in the West. It is a long journey to the Larkspur. My wife is not strong. My sister’s leg has not healed.”

  “Can we come back, Buck?” Kristin asked. “I’d love to come back before they go.”

  “We’ll see.”

  He placed his hand at the back of her neck and followed the one long braid down over her shoulder. Early that morning he had watched in fascination as she pulled her hair to the side and wove the short strands in with the long hair to make the braid. She showed him how she would wind the braid around her neck and pin it until the cut side had grown out.

  “The braid is not quite so fat,” she had told him, “but no one will know . . . but you and me.”

  When they were ready to leave, he took his coat from her shoulders, slipped it on and lifted her up onto the horse. He stepped into the saddle and settled her in front of him. With her back against his chest, the coat and his arms around her, they waved good-bye to Black Elk and Little Owl.

  “Thank you for helping to find me, Black Elk. And thank you for my lovely moccasins, Little Owl,” Kristin called as they rode out of the Indian camp. She felt Buck’s lips moving on the side of her face and her heart pounded with a happiness she never dreamed would be hers.

  “A month or so ago I found Little Owl down on Sweet Grass Creek with a broken leg. I’ll tell you about it sometime.”

  “She’s very pretty.”

  “Not as pretty as my . . . wife.”

  “I love hearing you say that. How could something that started off so terrible, have such a grand ending? Buck, I’m so happy, I may burst open at the seams.”

  “Don’t do that, love.”

  His arms tightened. He had just spent the most wonderful night of his life. It was almost beyond his understanding that this lovely creature could love him and want to spend her life with him.

  “W
hat’s grand is that you’re mine, and I can hug you and kiss you . . . and touch you”—his hand slid under the coat and cupped her soft breast—“whenever I want to.”

  “Only when we’re alone, my love.” She pressed his hand with her own. “Feel my heart pound?”

  “Is that your heart? I thought a scared bird had got caught in there.” He chuckled, his breath warm puffs against her ear.

  “Will you want to kiss me when I’m old and gray . . . and have no teeth?”

  “By then I’ll have whiskers down to the knees and won’t be able to get up out of my chair.”

  “That’ll be all right, my love. I’ll sit on your lap so you can kiss me.” Their happy laughter mingled.

  Although the sorrel was a powerful animal, it was carrying double weight. Buck wanted to reserve the horse’s strength should they need it in a hurry, and he stopped often to give it a rest. During these times they stood close together, her arms around his waist, his arms and the coat wrapped around her. This new freedom to touch her, to know that she loved him, filled Buck with indescribable joy and contentment.

  The sun was past the high point in the sky when they rode onto Larkspur land.

  “I hope everything is all right at home.” Kristin spoke as they came down from the upper mesa and entered the valley.

  Until now the thoughts of Forsythe and his plans to grab the Larkspur away from them had been shoved to the back of her mind. The discovery that Buck loved her made all else pale in comparison. With or without the Larkspur, they would be together from now on. That was all that mattered to her.

  “We’ll know soon.”

  Buck’s eyes moved constantly from one side of the trail to the other. Out in the open they scanned the edge of the woods. He had not smelled woodsmoke since leaving the Indian camp and was reasonably sure his homestead had not burned while he was away.

  At the edge of the woods, just beyond the creek and with a good view of the house, Buck stopped the horse. His sharp eyes discerned that there were more horses in the corral, a lot more, than should be there. The possibility existed that Gilly and the others were being held hostage by Forsythe’s men until he returned. The Indian camp behind the homestead appeared to be deserted.

  Out of rifle range and with a clear escape route behind him, he put his fingers to his lips and whistled.

  “There are sheets on the line. I wonder why Bonnie washed. Do you think something is wrong?” Kristin asked fearfully.

  “I don’t know, sweetheart. I’m not riding in there with you until I’m sure it’s safe.” He whistled again.

  A minute later a group of men and Bonnie came out the kitchen door and into the yard. It was easy to identify Gilly’s white hair and Bernie’s peg leg when he came from the bunkhouse. Sam came running, barking a welcome. Still Buck waited for Gilly’s signal that it was safe to come in. When it came, he put his heels to the sorrel and they crossed the grassland to the ranch house.

  “Our house, Buck. Our beautiful house. I was afraid I’d never see it again.”

  “Wave to Bonnie, honey. They’re anxious to know if you’re all right.”

  “Are you still blaming Gustaf for letting Runs Fast take me?” Kristin asked as she waved.

  “No. He’s not wise to our ways, and Runs Fast knew all the tricks. I’m kind of mad at Sam. But I guess he got used to the smell of Bowlegs and the other drovers and didn’t pick up on Runs Fast’s smell.”

  Gustaf was there when they rode into the yard, as were three strangers and Gilly, Bonnie and Bernie.

  “It’s Cleve Stark, honey. Remember me telling you I had sent for a Federal marshal?” Buck murmured the words in Kristin’s ear.

  “Kris! Thank God you’re all right.” Her cousin was there when the horse stopped. She put her hands on his shoulders and he lifted her down. “Hellfire! I’ve been so scared I haven’t spit for two days.” He hugged her. “I’m downright sorry I let that Indian carry you off—”

  “—And I’m so sorry I didn’t go into the house with you,” Bonnie said, and grasped her hands. “Lordy, but we’ve been worried. Gilly kept sayin’ that Buck would find you and bring you back. Goodness, I’ve so much to tell you.” Words rushed from Bonnie’s mouth.

  “I’ve got lots to tell you.”

  As she spoke, Kristin’s eyes rested lovingly on Buck. He was shaking hands with one of the men. Another man, much younger, stood nearby and pumped Buck’s hand vigorously when introduced. A swarthy bowlegged Mexican with a drooping mustache watched, then shook hands with Buck.

  “Kristin, come meet Cleve Stark, Dillon Tallman and their friend, Pablo.” Buck held his hand out to her. “We’re going to be married as soon as we can get to town and find a preacher.” He made the announcement proudly while looking over Kristin’s head at Gustaf. To his surprise, her cousin’s face broke into a huge smile.

  Blushing prettily, Kristin shook hands with Cleve Stark, then the handsome young blond giant, who gave her a devilish grin.

  “Pleased to meet ya, ma’am. And . . . this bowlegged, grinnin’ jackass beside me waitin’ his turn to hold your hand ain’t no friend a mine.”

  “Señora, pay no mind to the kid. He love me.” The Mexican clasped her hand warmly, then backed away and grinned up at Dillon.

  Kristin felt Gustaf’s hand on her arm. He pulled her close and hugged her.

  “Best news I’ve heard in a month of Sundays, little cousin.” Gustaf was genuinely pleased. It was what he’d hoped for. She deserved the best. “How’d you get Buck to propose, love? Did you poke needles under his fingernails? Why else’d a man propose to an ugly old thing like you? And, Buck, as her almost-twin, I give my blessing. Glad to get her off my hands and turn her over to you.”

  “Gus! Stop teasing!”

  “Keep her pregnant, Buck,” Gustaf chortled happily. He was enjoying himself and had more to say. “Get a dozen cows for her to milk, put her behind a plow, switch her once in a while with a willow switch and she might make you . . . ah . . . a fair-to-middlin’ wife.”

  Kristin hit him on the forearm with her fist. She tried to present a picture of outrage, but her laughter burst from her lips. Her shiny blue-gray eyes sought Buck’s, as they had done a hundred times that day and found them resting lovingly on her face.

  “Excuse my cousin, gentlemen. Sometimes he acts like he doesn’t have a lick of sense. And excuse me, too, I need to wash and get into some clean clothes. And . . . I’m starving—”

  “Don’t eat any of Bonnie’s stew.” Gustaf spoke loudly from behind his hand and winked at Bernie.

  “It ain’t fit fer a dog to eat, and that’s a fact,” Bernie added.

  Kristin noticed the glances that passed between her cousin and Bonnie’s brother. She was pleased to see that a bond of friendship had been forged while she’d been away.

  “Shame on the two of you for teasing her. I’d let them cook their own meals, Bonnie.”

  “I hate to admit it but this time, they’re right. There’s hot water on the stove, Kristin. You men stay out here for . . . at least a half hour,” she tossed the orders back over her shoulder as she and Kristin walked toward the house.

  * * *

  Bonnie asked and received permission from Buck to bury Del Gomer on the plot of ground above the ranch buildings where Yarby Anderson had been laid to rest.

  “He has no friends in town. He has no friends . . . anywhere. I can’t bear the thought of him being loaded in the wagon with the others . . . and being hauled away . . . like he didn’t amount to anything. He was a man, a bad man, but he had a good side, too.”

  To some it may have been sacrilegious to read a passage from the Bible and to sing a hymn over a hired killer. On the knoll, beneath the towering pine, it didn’t seem to matter what he had been in life. When the brief services ended, those whom Del Gomer had saved, along with Buck and Kristin, stood by while Cleve and Dillon filled the grave.

  When they had finished, Bonnie placed a sprig of evergreen tied with a scrap of ribbo
n on the mound of fresh soil.

  “Good-bye, Del. And . . . thank you,” she murmured, and turned away.

  Earlier, Cleve and Gilly had taken Buck to the barn to view the bodies of six men laid out in one of the stalls. The stew had been wiped from Marshal Lyster’s face but was still visible on his shirtfront.

  “Hell, the larkspur that spunky gal fed him might a got to him ’fore he drowned in the stew. I ain’t knowin’ or carin’.” Impatience made itself known in Gilly’s tone. “The bastard was gonna kill us. There ain’t a mark on him. Nobody can prove we done in a marshal.”

  Cleve had already showed Buck the papers they took from Lyster’s body—papers that said Kristin Anderson had sold the Larkspur land to Forsythe Land Company.

  “They were desperate to get rid of Miss Anderson,” Stark said. “Without her alive to deny she signed the papers, they would have had no one to dispute their claim.”

  “I may be indebted to Runs Fast,” Buck said, a muscle twitching in his whiskered cheek. “How did they get this close to the house?”

  Gilly answered. “Luck, I guess. You and Bowlegs were gone at the same time.”

  Bonnie and Kristin took the sheets from the line and remade the bed Del had died in. The bloodstain on the kitchen floor would remain there. No amount of scrubbing would remove it completely.

  “Don’t fuss, Bonnie. I’ll cover it with a rag rug.”

  Kristin refused to let anything put a blight on her happiness. She was back in the house she loved, with the man she loved and, miracle of miracles, he loved her. Her friends and her cousin had come through a terrible time and were unhurt. God had been good to her.

  After supper, with all present including Tandy, Cleve talked of getting Buck’s letter and what he had learned about Forsythe’s affairs.

  “Judge Williams of Bozeman was going to Helena to check the records of people who had signed intent to take up land, or bought it outright and later had willingly sold out to Forsythe. He had a tight grip on the town. The marshal, the banker and the only lawyer in town were in cahoots with him. He had money inherited from his wife to work with, and a sizable number of thugs working for him. That number was reduced by six last night, and the dozen we scared off are probably in Wyoming by now.”