Larkspur (4 page)

Kristin laughed. “I doubt that I’ll be bothered all that much.”

“You’ll be noticed, you can bet your boots on that. You’re pretty, Kris. I’ve been telling you that for years.”

“Oh, pooh! You say that because you like me.”

“I’d say it if I didn’t like you. I’ve been up and down the river a dozen times and seen all kinds. You’re a handsome woman and you got brains, which is more than that worthless piece of fluff Ferd married has.”

Kristin laughed. “You talk as though men will be following me as if I were the Pied Piper.”

“Who’s he?” Gustaf screwed his bill cap down tighter on his blond head.

“Way back in the thirteenth century the town of Hamelin in Germany was plagued with rats. A mysterious stranger came and offered to rid the town of the pests. He played his pipe, and the rats came swarming out of the buildings and followed him to the river, where they drowned.”

Kristin knew how Gustaf loved a story so she continued.

“When the town leaders refused to pay the piper, he returned and once more played his pipe. This time all the children in town followed him. He led them to the mountains and they were never heard from again.”

“Yo’re pulling my leg. It ain’t true . . . is it?”

“It’s a legend. Robert Browning told the story in his poem,
The Pied Piper of Hamelin.”

“Don’t that beat all?”

“Oh, Gustaf!” Kristin looked at her cousin with tears in her eyes. “You’re my dearest friend. I’m going to miss you.”

“Well, I should hope so. Not every young lady has such a handsome cousin.”

“Nor such a . . . boastful one.” Kristin sniffed back the tears.

“I’ll come out to Big Timber as soon as I can cut loose from the farm.”

“Gustaf! Will you? When did you decide that?”

“ ’Bout two minutes ago.” He grinned. “I always wanted to see what was over the mountain.”

“How will you come? Will you have the money?”

“A man needs no more than two hands and a strong back to get to where he wants to go.”

As they approached the outskirts of Eau Claire they heard a train whistle. Gustaf pulled his watch from his pocket.

“That one’s not yours. We’ve got an hour.”

Five minutes later Gustaf was unloading her trunk and box on the depot platform. Kristin stepped down from the buggy and walked with him into the station. Her heart was beating so fast that she could hardly breathe. The agent spoke to Gustaf.

“Hello, Gus. This the young lady going out to Big Timber? Ain’t never sold a ticket to that place before. Guess it’s a wide spot in the road from what I hear. Got baggage?”

“A box and a trunk out on the platform.”

“I’ll tag ’em. Here’s your ticket, young lady. When you get to St. Paul, the train will sit there for half an hour. Stay put while another engine hooks on. You’ll ride that car to Fargo, where you’ll change cars, maybe even trains. Your baggage will follow you and be unloaded at Big Timber.”

“Will it be night when I get to Fargo?”

The agent consulted a schedule. “Midnight. Westbound leaves at 5:00
A.M.
Don’t worry though, ma’am. The station agent will be there. Show him your ticket, and he’ll see that you get on the train. You’ll have another layover at Miles City and reach Big Timber Wednesday evening about six o’clock.”

Back out on the platform Kristin stood beside Gustaf and looked down the tracks. The heavy hand of loneliness gripped her, wrapping its icy fingers around her heart. She reached for Gustaf’s arm.

“Am I doing the right thing, Gus?”

“To my way of thinking ya had two choices.” Gustaf’s eyes settled on her anxious face. “A person’s got to go forward or stand still. Ya could have stood still and been a servant in your brother’s house for the rest of yore life. Yo’re too much of a woman for that. Uncle Yarby gave ya a chance to get out. You’d a been a fool not to take it.”

“You’re right, of course.”

“If I had thought ya couldn’t take care of yourself, I’d not have let ya go. You’ve got money to live for a few weeks and still enough to come back.”

“I can’t come back.”

“Yes, ya can. Ya can come to the farm.”

“There’s so many there that—”

“—Just till ya get settled. But ya won’t have to do that. I’ll come out to Big Timber in a few weeks. Maybe ya’ll give your poor relation a job.”

“Oh, Gus!” She leaned over and kissed his cheek. “You’ve always seen the bright side of things.”

“Of course,” he said jauntily. “I’m a fine fellow.”

From a distance came the sound of the train whistle. A drummer came out of the station and set a large bag on the edge of the platform. On the side of the bag was printed: AMERICAN THREAD COMPANY.

A richly dressed young couple with eyes only for each other stood with hands clasped—a new hatbox and carpetbag at their feet. In comparison, Gustaf looked shabby in his baggy pants and soft-billed cap. But to Kristin he was a rock, her anchor in a sea of sudden confusion.

“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

S
omeone 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 Lenning 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.