The Poacher's Daughter

by Michael Zimmer

  “Aw, he’s all right. I don’t know about them other two, though. To tell you the truth, that tall one scared me.”

  “That was Pine Tree Manning. The other is Amos Skinner. Pine Tree is a Hill Country Texican by birth, and they say he’s handy with that Forty-Sixty Marlin. He’s got such big hands, he can almost handle it like a pistol. All I know about Skinner is that he used to deputy around Bismarck, before coming out here to ride for Bean.”

  “Well, he seemed gentlemanly enough, him and Joe both, but that Manning character looked mean to me. I’d hate to get crosswise of him and not have a good club handy.”

  They reached the ferry just in time to see Wiley departing from it on the Yellowstone’s northern bank. It took twenty minutes for the craft to return and carry them across, then another hour to catch up with Wiley. They didn’t stop or even speak when they did, but pushed on along a faintly defined trail, each lost in their own thoughts. The wind continued to pick up as the morning progressed, and the sky looked pale and cheerless after the deep sapphires of summer.

  They came to a shallow basin shortly before noon, and Wiley reined his horse to skirt it on the west. Toward the middle of the basin were some low cottonwoods and scrub willow. They’d almost ridden past them when Shorty abruptly hauled up.

  “What is it?” Wiley asked.

  “I reckon it’s a dead man,” Shorty replied.

  Rose followed the direction of his gaze toward the trees. They were about a quarter of a mile away, and at first she didn’t see the corpse hanging from a stout lower limb of the farthest cottonwood. When she did, it gave her a start, for she’d expected to see someone lying on the ground, not dangling from a rope.

  Shorty turned his horse off the trail.

  “Where are ye going?” Wiley called after him.

  “I want to see who it is.”

  “It don’t matter who it is.”

  “Then stay here,” Shorty said.

  Muttering under his breath, Wiley reined after Shorty, and, although Rose didn’t really want to see who it was, either, she followed. They were still a hundred yards away when Shorty started to curse. A minute later, Wiley began swearing as well. Then Rose recognized the body of Sam Matthews, and something inside her chest seemed to lurch violently.

  “Joe Bean’s men must’ve been waiting for him outside the Silver Star last night,” Wiley speculated. He dismounted and walked around the gently swaying corpse, looking for sign. “Ground’s too hard,” he announced after a couple of minutes. “I can’t see anything.”

  “Why … why’d they bring him all the way out here?” Rose asked. It made her feel queasy all over again to think of Sam hanging out here in last night’s storm while she’d eaten Kentucky butter cake with Nora. Sam’s face was swollen horribly, almost black from lack of circulation. His hands were tied behind his back but his feet were unfettered, so Rose knew he’d been strung up from the back of his horse. It was the way the vigilantes had done it with Muggy, too.

  Shorty’s face was livid when he looked at Rose. “There’s the work of your good friend, Joe Bean,” he said harshly.

  “You don’t know it was Joe,” Rose said in a quavery tone. “It could’ve been someone else … Regulators or such.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Shorty grated, yanking his horse around.

  “Now where ye goin’?” Wiley demanded.

  “I’m going on,” Shorty said. “You stay and bury him. I’m tired of cleaning up other people’s messes.” He slapped his mount’s hips with the ends of his reins, putting the horse into a lope.

  “God dammit, he was ye friend!” Wiley called, but Shorty didn’t even look back. “That bastard,” Wiley said softly, then glanced at Rose. “I meant Bean, not Shorty.”

  “You think Joe did this, too?”

  “Darlin’, I know the son-of-a-bitch done it. He as much as told us so in the alley this morning.”

  “But he didn’t know we’d come this way. Dang it, we ain’t hardly followin’ a trail.”

  “’Tis trail enough, and sure he knew. Maybe not certain sure, but enough to chance this.” He looked at the corpse of Sam Matthews, and his voice turned heavy. “’Tis a warnin’, Rosie, and nothin’ less. One man crossed off his list and ye ’n’ me ’n’ Shorty told that we’ve moved up on it. Slick, huh?”

  When Rose didn’t reply, he walked over to one of the pack horses and pulled a shovel out from under the canvas. “There’s a pick in there, too, if ye be of a mind to help, but if ye heart ain’t in it, then ye can catch up with Shorty. I got an idea,” he added quietly, “that Shorty could use a woman’s ear about now, for, despite what he says, Sam Matthews was a friend to us both.” He shook his head. “I reckon Joe Bean knew that, too.”

  Chapter

  9

  It was an arduous climb out of Crooked Creek Cañon, and Rose halted on top of the divide to rest her horse. Before her lay the valley of the Pipestem, the far-off river a flat, gray sheet of ice, curving through its center in a giant oxbow. On the near side, from the divide, the land dropped sharply for perhaps a hundred yards, then sloped more gently toward the valley floor a couple of miles away. Flanking the Pipestem on the opposite bank was a line of broken cliffs ranging from five to twenty-five feet in height, the country beyond it sweeping up into the foothills of the Big Snowy Mountains far to the west.

  Along the narrow strip of land between the river and the cliffs were scattered groves of cottonwood and bastard maple, with red-barked alders in the low places and the brittle, thorny branches of chokecherries growing at the breaks in the cliffs. And over it all, a mantle of snow as white as a distant swan.

  They’d been out for a couple of months now, and were a long way from Miles City, or any place else for that matter. Rose figured that suited Wiley and Shorty just fine, for they’d both been thoroughly spooked by their discovery of Sam Matthews’s body. Although neither admitted it, she knew the memory of Sam’s corpse was like a ghost haunting the old hunter’s shack where they’d taken refuge.

  It was Wiley who’d brought them here, having come across the cabin the year before while running horses into Canada, just after he and Shorty split up. Rose had watched the two men closely as Wiley related the story of finding the cabin, keen for some hint as to what had brought about the rift between them, but she hadn’t learned anything, and didn’t want to ask.

  The cabin was about fourteen feet wide and twenty deep, with a stone fireplace against the rear wall. A loose-fitting door on leather hinges faced the Pipestem about fifty feet away, and there were a couple of small windows without glass. The roof was sod, with clumps of bunch grass and cactus growing on top, furrowed by run-off and littered with old, sun-bleached bones tossed up by previous occupants. A corral was located off the south side with a lean-to built against the cabin’s wall for shelter. There was grass in the curves of the oxbow for the horses, and enough downed timber nearby to keep them in firewood all winter.

  It kind of surprised Rose that neither man had made any advances toward her, especially after they’d settled into the cabin, although she was grateful that they hadn’t. Her life had become complicated enough since Muggy’s death.

  Leaning forward to rest her gloved palms against the Mother Hubbard’s broad horn, Rose squinted into the distance. Several miles to the south, where the Pipestem curved out of some round-breasted hills, a lone horseman had appeared. Rose watched closely for several minutes, for the image of Sam’s body was strong in her mind, too, but she relaxed when the rider started across the flat, bare land between the bends of the river. A Regulator wouldn’t ride out in the open that way, nor would he come alone. When she spotted the dog, her mood brightened. It meant the horseman was probably Manuel Obreto, a sheepherder wintering his flock in the next valley to the south.

  “Looks like we’re gonna have company tonight,” Rose said to Albert, heeling the gelding toward the edge of the b
luff.

  Although Albert snorted his displeasure at the steepness of the slope, he went over without too much fuss, and when the land leveled out with better footing, Rose kicked him into a lope. She pulled up at the cabin half an hour later, just as Manuel dismounted. The dog, a black and white shepherd with one blue eye, was rumped down in the snow out of the way, its pink tongue lolling, breath fogging the air in front of its shiny black nose.

  “Hello, you gol-darn’ bean-eater!” Rose called.

  At that same moment the cabin door swung open and Shorty stepped out. “What the hell’s all the ruckus about?” he demanded.

  “Señorita Rose, Shorty. Buenos días.”

  “Obreto!” Shorty exclaimed. “By God, you ought to make some noise when you ride up. I might’ve shot you.”

  Manuel was smiling broadly; even the dog wiggled with excitement. “Shorty, you were sleeping, no?”

  “Aw, just a nap, though it’s likely a good thing.” He glanced at the sky, already fading into twilight. “I’ll probably be up all night now, listening to your lies.”

  They’d run into Manuel soon after arriving in the valley, and for a while Rose had thought it was going to turn out badly between them. Shorty was a Texan by choice, if not birth, and the Alamo and Goliad were etched vividly in his psyche. And Wiley hated sheep with a fanaticism Rose couldn’t begin to fathom. Even Manuel was stand-offish in the beginning, thinking these were ordinary cowboys and not to be trusted. But the valley’s solitude had soon worn down the walls of distrust, and now they got along fine. Manuel was careful to keep his sheep away from their cabin, and Rose and Shorty made an extra effort to trap the hills surrounding Obreto’s flocks. They’d taken eight wolves that first week, and Manuel had brimmed with gratitude ever since.

  Lifting a slope-shouldered clay jug from his saddlebags, Manuel held it above his head. “See, Shorty, I told you. Chokecherry wine.”

  Shorty laughed and left the stoop in just his shirt sleeves, even though the temperature was bitterly cold. He took the jug and pulled the cork, sniffing the contents. Then he wrinkled his nose. “Smells like cough syrup.”

  Manuel’s smile remained unchanged. “You drink a little, see if you think it is syrup.” He led his shaggy bay horse over beside Albert and flopped the stirrup across the seat. “You will have a little, too, no, señorita?”

  “Maybe,” she replied. “When we get inside.”

  “Whew!” Shorty exclaimed, lowering the jug. He looked at Rose, his eyes twinkling. “Manny ain’t lyin’, this is good.”

  “Just see you don’t swill it all,” Rose said, pulling the headstall over Albert’s ears and allowing him to spit out an easy-on-the-mouth snaffle bit. “It’s been a long time since I drank anything besides strong coffee and crick water.”

  “Well, this ain’t crick water, I’ll guarantee you.” Shorty turned toward the cabin, keeping the jug with him. “You two come on in when you’re finished. I’ll rustle us up some grub.”

  That was something else that had changed since settling on the Pipestem—Shorty taking over the cooking. It wasn’t that he liked the job, he’d explained carefully one fall evening. It was just that Rose’s cooking seemed to set a tad heavy on his stomach. Probably nothing more than the spices she used, he’d assured her, but if he’d been worried about hurting her feelings, he needn’t have bothered. Rose welcomed the switch cheerfully, and didn’t even call him a liar when they all knew the only spice she ever used was salt. Besides, there were other ways she could make herself useful—stock to look after, wood to drag up, pelts to care for.

  They’d collected quite a few hides so far, and each one had to be stretched on a willow frame, then fleshed with a scraper to remove the excess fat and meat. When they were dry and stiff, Rose cut them from their frames and laced them into bundles. In the spring they would be folded and pressed into packs—forty hides to a pack, two packs to a horse—but for the time being the bundles were hung from the rafters where they would be out of reach of the mice that ruled the cabin when no one was home, or after the trappers had settled into their bunks for the night.

  Rose turned Albert loose to graze, knowing he wouldn’t stray far. Manuel hobbled his bay before freeing it. Then he and Rose went inside.

  It was cool in the cabin, even with a fire burning. Frost clung to the interior walls around the door and windows, and the pelts swayed gently in a breeze that slipped in through the loose chinking under the eaves. Rose dropped the hides she’d taken that day on the floor beside the door, then lugged her saddle over beside her bunk, where she shucked out of her heavy coat. Manuel’s dog squeezed into the cabin on its master’s heels and immediately started sniffing the pelts.

  “You, leave those alone,” Manuel scolded. The dog slunk away, flopping down in the corner.

  There was a rough-built table with benches in the center of the room. Rose poured coffee for herself and Manuel, then sat down opposite him. Manuel was a short, wiry man with thick black hair and a full mustache. He must have been fifty, but around Rose he acted as shy as a boy.

  “Where’s that wine?” she asked suddenly. “I think our guest could use some bug juice to warm his blood.”

  “Oh, I’d say Manny’s warmin’ up just fine,” Shorty replied drolly. Still, he left his cooking to fetch the jug.

  In the corner, the dog lifted its head, ears perked toward the north wall. “I reckon that’s Wiley,” Rose said, noticing how Manuel’s face suddenly tightened.

  Shorty was rolling a cigarette. “You’ll have to give me your recipe for chokecherry wine someday, Manny.”

  “It takes a lot of sugar,” Manuel replied. “The patrón always says … ‘Manuel, what do you do with so much sugar. Do you feed it to the sheep?’ … and I always tell him … ‘No, just a little for my coffee.” He laughs because he thinks I use so much in my coffee. He would not laugh if he knew I made the wine.”

  Manuel’s patrón had a ranch down on the Powder River in Wyoming Territory. He kept sheep on the side because they were a good investment, but hired Manuel to take care of them, and never came around himself or allowed sheep on his own range. It was an odd pact, but Manuel liked it fine. He was on his own most of the year, and never had any trouble with the patrón, other than his questioning Manuel about the amount of sugar he ordered each fall.

  “I’d still like to try,” Shorty said. “My folks used to make a heap of peach wine back in Georgia, before the war.”

  A horse trotted into the yard, and Rose heard the creak of saddle leather as Wiley dismounted by the corral. A few minutes later he shoved through the door, stamping the snow from his India rubber overboots. He tossed his own pelt over the two Rose had brought in, then elbowed the door shut. Although he glanced at Manuel, all he said was: “’Tis another damned cold day out there, and I’m gettin’ mighty sick of it.”

  “There’s stew on the fire,” Shorty said. “We’ll eat soon.”

  “Then a little drunk, eh?” Manuel nodded a wary greeting. “Hello, Señor Wiley.”

  “If ye’re plannin’ on gettin’ drunk on my whiskey, ye can damn’ well think again,” Wiley replied.

  “Aw, lay off a fella,” Rose said. “Manuel brought his own jug.”

  “Whiskey?”

  “Better than whiskey,” Shorty said. “Manny brought some of that chokecherry wine he’s been bragging about.”

  “I’ll be damned,” Wiley said, looking pleasantly surprised. He took off his coat and overboots, then came over to sit beside Rose. “Well, has the drunk commenced?”

  “Not yet,” Rose replied, then slid the jug toward him. “But you go ahead and get ’er started. The rest of us’ll catch up after supper.”

  “What the hell?” Wiley said, scowling at the jug.

  “It is small,” Manuel admitted, “but the wine, she packs a punch. Besides, we should not get so drunk that we miss the party, eh?”
>
  All eyes turned toward him. “What party?” Shorty asked.

  “At the Lost Gulch there is to be a Christmas party, four days from now. I thought maybe we would go together. I leave my flock with the camp tender, you leave your traps?”

  Interrupting their trapping wouldn’t be a problem, as far as Rose was concerned. They could run them early the next morning, then either leave them sprung or bring them in until they returned. And Manuel had been fortunate to have his camp tender show up when he did. Rose had met him once, a curly-haired Scotsman with pale green eyes and a haunting skill on the bagpipes. He was an independent who contracted with several of the smaller outfits, traveling constantly between flocks to keep in touch with the shepherds and make sure everything was all right. He used a wagon rather than a saddle horse, and carried extra supplies that the herders might need between their twice-a-year resupply with the flock owners. If he hadn’t shown up, Rose knew Manuel wouldn’t have left his sheep even to tell them about the party, let alone contemplate riding over to enjoy it.

  “Lost Gulch?” Shorty said doubtfully. “You sure there’s enough people there for a party?”

  Lost Gulch was a miner’s camp on the eastern slopes of the Big Snowys, a day and a half ride to the west. Although it hadn’t panned out the way the original inhabitants had hoped, a few die-hards remained. The last Rose had heard, the town boasted a saloon, a small general store, a livery with a blacksmith shop, and maybe thirty to forty more or less permanent residents.

  “Hell,” Wiley said after a pause. “It wouldn’t take many to throw a decent shindig, as long as they’ve got plenty of booze.” He glanced at Manuel. “Their saloon still open?”

  “Sí, and there is a whore, too, although she is old and does not have much hair left.”

  Laughing, Shorty said: “The hell with bald-headed whores. They’ll have fresh beer and new faces, and I’ll bet word will spread. Lost Gulch could be booming by the time we get there. I say let’s go.”