Larkspur by Dorothy Garlock

one man could have arranged it. Cletus Fuller. That stubborn old fool was going to mess around and get himself killed. Only a couple of people in town knew what was going on out here, and Cletus was one of them. The wily old man must have had a pretty good reason for getting her away from Forsythe. But how was he going to take care of Moss and her, and hold on to the ranch until Cleve got here?
    With Sam following him, Buck crossed the yard to the room at the end of bunkhouse, unlocked the door and swung it open. Moss was sitting at a table painstakingly plaiting thin strips of leather into a lariat. It was a skill he’d not lost. Buck kept him supplied with the narrow strips of rawhide because he was afraid to let him use a sharp knife.
    “Hello, Moss.”
    “I’m obliged.”
    “You’ve done a lot this morning.”
    “The steers will go loco eatin’ that larkspur.”
    “I remember you telling me that, old-timer.”
    Buck placed his hand on the Moss’s shoulder. It had been hard to watch his old friend’s mind deteriorate to the point where it was impossible to converse with him. Moss couldn’t remember what he had done minutes before, but sometimes he’d get a glimmer of something that had happened years back and blurt out a name or a place or some bit of information like that about larkspur.
    Buck watched Moss’s nimble fingers working the strips of leather. He was content for the moment. Buck went back outside and looked in the direction of the shack Yarby had built when he first came to the territory and bought and paid for the land with money he had made in the gold fields. What would that woman do if Forsythe sent his hired guns out to burn him out? Would she fall to pieces?
    It was strange having a woman to worry about.
    Weeks back, Buck had thought it likely that Forsythe would send men to rustle his herd. As a precaution, he had sent Gilly Mullany and two Indian drovers to drive the herd onto Indian land in the mountains and had struck a deal with the Oglala: a hundred head of cattle for grazing rights. He had always played square with the Sioux, respecting their right to their land.
    Gilly was a drifter who had wandered in a few years ago, a man who had had many disappointments in life and who feared being old and alone. He had proved to be a good hand who never undertook to make a decision on his own, but was content to follow orders. He would stick to the last ditch if it came to a fight, but would not seek one. Because of the way the ranch buildings were situated, Buck felt that he and one other gun could hold off an attack for a good long while. Had it not been for the grizzled old cowboy, the two Indian boys, and the Sioux squaw who came down from time to time, he’d not have been able to take care of Moss and tend to his stock this past year.
    The woman’s being here complicated matters.
    Colonel Forsythe had moved in several years ago and had begun to take over the ranches in what was generally known as the sweet grass country. The Larkspur was the key. A year ago Forsythe had thought he had it, but Buck had managed to foil his plan. If Forsythe secured possession of the Larkspur, he’d control a large chunk of the best grassland in the territory and could shut off water rights to a number of small ranchers, all of whom were scared or unable to put up much of a fight against him.
    Buck looked toward the grove. Miss Anderson would be all right for a short time. He was sure of that, or he’d not have let her go over there alone. The prissy town-woman had been so tired she could hardly stand, yet she had headed off toward the grove as if she were marching to Zion.
    Amusement crinkled the corners of his eyes and lifted the ends of his wide mouth as he wondered what she thought, now, about the house she had inherited from her Uncle Yarby.
     
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    Kristin’s arms felt as if they were being pulled from their sockets. Had the box been this heavy when she had carried it from her bedroom