The Poacher's Daughter

by Michael Zimmer

  “God damn you,” Rose said gently, staring down at the curled form with a mixture of anger and pity. Kneeling at his side, she jostled his shoulder, wallowing him around until he started to resist. “Pap!” she said sharply. “Come on, dang it, wake up. You’re gonna freeze to death, lyin’ here.”

  His lids slid back vacantly and his breath came in quick, shallow puffs on the chilly air, like the chuffing of a locomotive.

  “Come on,” she said crossly. “Let’s get some coffee down your gullet.” She gave him another shake. “Get up, dang it.”

  He tried to speak, but the words were too slurry to follow. Impatiently Rose hauled him half off the ground by his arm, then let him flop back. It would make him mad, she knew, but it would take anger to get him on his feet now.

  Soon she had him standing—swaying and cursing—but on his feet. She tried to guide him toward a path that would take them home via the alleys, but he balked and pointed to the gap between the Blue Heifer and the building next to it.

  “Naw, let’s go this way,” Rose said. “It’ll be quicker.”

  “Street,” he squawked like a petulant parrot.

  Rose didn’t fight it. She knew the simplest way home at this point would be the route he wanted. “But listen,” she warned. “It’s Sunday out there, and they’s church folks about. You mind your manners, hear?”

  “Street, damn,” he snapped, trying to yank his arm away.

  Tightening her grip, Rose said: “All right, but hang onto me so you don’t fall down.” She pulled his arm across her shoulders, sliding her own around his gaunt waist. Side-by-side, they made their way through the litter-filled lot.

  There wasn’t as much traffic out front as Rose had feared. A couple of buggies were wheeling toward a frame church at the far end of town, and a cowboy leading a second saddle horse was riding east into the rising sun. There were a few people along the boardwalk, but they were all saloonkeepers and swampers—no one who hadn’t seen a drunk stagger home on a Sunday morning before. She was beginning to think they might make it without incident when a man stepped out of a hotel doorway not twenty yards ahead and paused to light a cigar.

  Rose jerked to a halt, her breath catching in her throat. She’d left her Smith & Wesson at the shack because of Deputy Allen’s admonitions, and knew her pap was unarmed, too. She tried to steer him into the recessed entrance of a closed grocery, but he wouldn’t have it. It was their almost comic struggle there on the boardwalk that drew the man’s attention. Rose hoped he wouldn’t recognize her, that without her pistol and dusty male attire, he wouldn’t make the connection, but it was a futile wish.

  “Well, well, if it isn’t Wiley Collin’s little blonde whore.” He spared her pap a glance. “Find yourself another customer?”

  “Go to hell, Caldwell.”

  A thin, cold smile twitched at the corners of Frank Caldwell’s mouth. “So what brings you to the big city, besides rolling drunks?”

  Rose felt her blood rise. Pulling on her pap’s arm, she said: “Come on.”

  But her pap had planted his feet wide on the plank walk and refused to budge. Glaring at the blond gunman, he said, bold as brass: “Who’s this stack o’ shit?”

  “Aw, hell,” Rose said under her breath. She knew Caldwell was a dangerous man, and the twin bulges under his long black coat showed plainly what he thought of the city’s ordinance on firearms. Tugging desperately, she said: “He ain’t no one. Come on, quit fightin’ me all the time.”

  But Daniel had his footing now, and neatly jerked away from her shoulder. He continued to scowl at Caldwell in a way that would have been funny if it hadn’t been so provoking.

  Caldwell looked unimpressed. To Rose, he said: “Don’t tell me you’ve given up squatting on that place above the Yellowstone and moved to town?”

  Rose frowned. “I ain’t squattin’ there. That land’s mine.”

  Caldwell sauntered over, his smile fading around the cigar jutting from between his lips. “I’ve been intending to pay you and your little whore friend a visit. You still owe me for those three horses you and Collins stole last year.”

  “You’d best take that up with Wiley,” Rose said.

  The smile returned to Caldwell’s face. Or a smirk. It was difficult to tell with him. “I doubt I could hold my breath that long,” he replied, and Rose knew he was referring to the Musselshell Massacre. But how had he known that Wiley had gone to the bottom of the river, trapped beneath his own horse …?

  “Son-of-a-bitch,” she breathed. “It was you, wasn’t it. Up there on the Musselshell?”

  “It could have been anybody, from what I heard,” he returned blithely.

  But Rose knew she was right. “Why, Caldwell. Because of three lousy horses?”

  Taking the cigar from his mouth, he said: “Did you know I’ve been working for Howard Ostermann since March?”

  The chill that had invaded Rose’s veins when she first spied him turned suddenly to ice.

  “I’ve been wanting to explain the new property lines to you all summer,” he added, “but Mister Ostermann decided he’d do that himself. I suspect he has some further business to discuss with you concerning that land.”

  “You bastard,” she said softly.

  “Mister Ostermann is visiting friends in New York City right now, but he’s expected back before Christmas. Maybe we can pay you and your little Miles City tramp a call when he returns. Spread around some holiday cheer, as it were.” His smirk grew as he returned the cigar to his mouth. “Oh, by the way, I ran into an old amigo of yours a few months back. You remember Billy Garcia, don’t you?”

  “I remember him,” she said cautiously.

  “Ol’ Billy’s feeling mighty put-out with you. Seems you shot the top of his ear off that night up at Two-Hats’s. He hasn’t forgotten.”

  “He ought to consider himself lucky,” Rose replied pointedly. “There were other appendages I could’ve aimed for.”

  Caldwell laughed. “Now, that’s true, and I’ll be sure to tell him the next time I see him. I’m certain he’s looking forward to seeing you, too.”

  “I’ll be around.”

  “Don’t be too hasty. Listen to Ostermann’s offer. You might decide it’s the wiser course. Especially when you consider the alternatives.”

  “Get outta my way, Caldwell,” she said. “I want to go home.”

  But Caldwell was looking at her pap now. “Hello, Dan’l.”

  “You leave my little girl alone, Frank,” Daniel warned.

  Stepping close, Caldwell blew a cloud of cigar smoke into the older man’s face, causing him to sway back, blinking. Laughing, Caldwell stepped around him and continued on his way.

  Moving to a bench in front of the grocery, Daniel lowered himself to the seat, then eased his legs out straight. He was breathing heavily, as if he’d just run around the block. “So it’s true,” he said, looking at his daughter. “About you running with Collins and that trash, stealing horses and shooting up the territory like wild Indians?”

  “Wiley Collins wasn’t trash,” Rose replied dully, “and you ought to know better than to listen to saloon gossip.”

  If she was worried that her words might upset him, she needn’t have been. Her pap had a one-track mind at this stage of sobriety, and right now it wasn’t on saloon gossip. “I reckon that gold’s real, too, ain’t it. You’re just lyin’ about it so you won’t have to share it with your old pap.”

  But Rose wasn’t listening to him now. She was watching Caldwell make his way along the boardwalk. It had shaken her to her boot soles to learn that he was working for Ostermann at the Flying Egg, although when she thought about it, it made sense. Caldwell might be a killer, and he’d certainly been a major operator along that upper segment of the Outlaw Trail, where horses and cattle were spirited back and forth across the border with Canada, but she doubted if th
ere were many men who understood the business better—and not just the routes and contacts, but all the little tricks of the trade. It made her nod her head in admiration for Ostermann’s foresight. She’d never met the man, but she knew now that he’d be a formidable opponent, putting to the test all the theories she’d developed about the big ranchers over the past couple of years.

  Her pap’s scratchy voice interrupted her thoughts. “Where at did you rub Frank Caldwell the wrong way?” he asked.

  “It don’t matter,” she replied absently.

  “Kitten,” her pap replied seriously, “you’d better get that notion out of your head right now, because when a man like Caldwell marks you for a target, it damn’ well matters a lot.”

  • • • • •

  On Monday, the court fined Daniel Ames $75 for shooting bison in a federally protected area. As anticipated, the evidence from all three buffalo became the property of the city of Billings, signed for by none other than Deputy Phillip Allen himself. Add that little tidbit to the fact that his fine was the exact same amount as his bail, and there wasn’t a soul in all Montana Territory who could have convinced Daniel that the whole shitaree was anything other than a dirty, rotten scam.

  It was a fact Rose wouldn’t have argued the subject with him, although as morning slid into early afternoon, she was discovering more pressing matters that needed her attention. Such as that after registering the A-Bar-E brand with the Montana Stockgrowers Association, then ordering a $5 branding iron from the Jepson & Lane smithy, she had less than $30 remaining in Shorty’s old buckskin poke. No more—and $150 worth of supplies waiting for her at Sutherland’s Mercantile, goods she and Nora would need desperately if they were to survive the winter.

  Seeing no other alternative, Rose swallowed her pride and went to see Herman Sutherland about getting the merchandise on tick. Having been carried before and knowing she was considered a good risk, Rose wasn’t surprised when Herman agreed to her proposal, but there was no pleasure in it for her. Although Sutherland probably carried half his clientele on credit from time to time, and made a small but fair profit by charging three-quarters of a percent interest, it always chafed her to buy her provisions that way. She never went on tick that it didn’t seem like she was slipping backward a little.

  It was late when they finished loading the wagon, tying everything down beneath a sheet of canvas for protection against the weather. Even though the sky was overcast and threatening, Rose was determined to make her start back to the ranch as quickly as possible. By pushing, she hoped to reach her old campsite east of town by nightfall, then make it home before sunset the following day. But she had to swing past Jepson & Lane first and pick up the new branding iron. And if her pap was around, she wanted to say good-bye. She wasn’t optimistic about finding him, though. He’d stormed out of the courtroom that morning in a fit, flinging curses like they were handfuls of candy in a Founder’s Day parade. But she had to try. It would eat at her all winter if she didn’t.

  Skinny Jim met her at the livery with the branding iron in hand, his heavy coat buttoned to his throat against the deepening cold. A smile creased his ebony face as he held the iron up admiringly. “Sure is a pretty thing,” he remarked.

  Rose didn’t try to suppress her grin. “Dang, who’d’ve ever thought it.”

  “A Bar E. Someday that mark’ll be on a million head, I expect, and I’ll get to say … ‘I held the original iron.’”

  Laughing, Rose accepted the branding iron, her blue eyes sparkling as she turned it over in her hands. “Lordy,” she said reverently. “Ain’t that handsome?”

  “It sure is,” Skinny agreed. “It surely is.”

  Then the moment passed and Rose gave Skinny an embarrassed look. “Well, shoot, where’s that blacksmith. I want to thank him personal.”

  “He ain’t here,” Skinny replied. “He had business up Livingston way, but he gave me this here iron this morning and asked me to pass it along.”

  “Well, you pass my thanks right back then. He done a good job.”

  “I sure will,” Skinny Jim promised, but something had changed in his tone. “You figuring to go see your pa, are you?”

  “I thought I would. Is he home?”

  “Yeah, but he’s in a foul mood. Mean, like he gets sometimes.”

  Rose’s muscles drew taut, recognizing the intent of Skinny’s words. “Drunk?” she asked.

  “Ought to be by now.”

  “Gol-dang it, where’s he get money for booze?” She didn’t expect an answer. She knew men like her pap had their ways, and figured she was probably better off not knowing what they were. Hefting the iron, she said: “Take care of yourself, Skinny.”

  “Thank you, miss. I will.”

  She shoved the branding iron under the tarp, wedging it between a couple of one-hundred-pound sacks of flour, then started down the alley at a deliberate stride. She was anxious to get this over with, knowing from past experience that the sooner she left Billings, the sooner she’d lose that smothery feeling she always got around her father.

  She was dressed as she’d been on her arrival—skirt, blouse, coat, hat, boots—but in the wake of her encounter with Caldwell, she was toting the Smith & Wesson at her waist, Deputy Allen be damned.

  The door to the shack stood open despite the cold, but there was no smoke from the tin stovepipe, no glow of lamplight in the window. In the sepia-toned twilight, the place looked deserted and forlorn. A gusting wind sweeping down the Yellowstone batted the weeds in the yard and sent a chill down Rose’s spine. She knocked tentatively at the door.

  “Go away,” Daniel snarled.

  “Pap, it’s me. I come to say good-bye.”

  “Then say it and get. I ain’t got no rich husband left me a sack of gold when he died.”

  Rose’s lips narrowed. For a moment she considered just walking away. Then she ducked through the entrance, stepping quickly to one side so that she wouldn’t be silhouetted in the door. It didn’t take long for her eyes to adjust to the dimness.

  “You never did listen worth a shit,” Daniel growled. He was sitting on his bunk with a clay jug of whiskey balanced on the frame within easy reach. His eyes were bloodshot, his expression murderous.

  “I come to say good-bye,” Rose repeated doggedly.

  “Going back to your whoring?”

  “Don’t do that, Pap. Only idjits say things like that.”

  His eyes glazed over in rage and he tried to rise, but the effort proved too taxing and he fell back. “Little trollop,” he puffed. “How’d a girl of mine turn out like you?”

  “I got my own land, some cattle. I didn’t turn out bad.”

  “Everything you’ve got was leeched off some man. Poor ol’ Muggy, givin’ up his life so you could squander it all on crazy dreams. I don’t know what a gal wants to own land for, anyway. You ought to be findin’ yourself a husband, havin’ me some grandkids. It ain’t right, the way you’ve been livin’.”

  Rose licked her lips. “That ain’t true. You know Muggy never gave me nothin’ but heartache.”

  “You’re lyin’ now,” he said. “I know for a fact he gave you that land. Gave it to you by getting’ his neck stretched by vigilantes. Gave you that gold dust, too, so you can just forget any seventy-five dollars I owe you … that I don’t owe you. God damn good-for-nothin’ cow. How long did I feed you while you was growin’ up. Huh. How long?” He struggled to his feet, then stumbled over to grasp the back of a chair. “How many pounds of beans have you ate at my table?”

  Rose’s breath was coming quick and thin, her hands shaking. She remembered Shorty dying in her arms, and Wiley shot up and drowning in the Musselshell; she remembered the Indian she’d killed, the baby she’d miscarried, and the wolves she’d skinned. And, by damn, she remembered the buffalo she’d skinned, too, helping out when her pap and brothers had shot too many to peel themselve
s—that on top of the hides she was responsible for back at camp, keeping them turned and free of bugs, and having supper on when the men got in and the mules cared for, and then there was a flash that was like a mist of red paint sprayed in her eyes and a harsh jerk of muscles across the back of her head. She blinked and looked at her father and laughed, laughed at him—in his face—and said, shouting: “You god-damn’ old drunk. You god-damn’ worthless bum. How many beans have I ate at your table? You ain’t even owned a table except this one since I was little, and this you stole off someone’s junk pile.” She smacked the rickety piece of furniture with her fist, hard enough to make it jump. “God damn you, I tried. I tried, but nothin’ I ever did was good enough!”

  Daniel’s face turned pale as whey. From somewhere upcañon, thunder rumbled like an old-time buffalo stampede. For perhaps a full minute, neither spoke, the silence between them almost electric. Then her pap started around the table, using it as a crutch. His face was mottled red now, his breath like a rasp drawn across wood. “You ungrateful bitch,” he hissed. “You worthless little tramp of a daughter. I should’ve smacked you silly years ago.”

  She sidled toward the door, having to will herself not to bolt, as she would have done when she was ten. “How dare you act as if I owe you anything?” she whispered fiercely. “How dare you treat me like a clod of dirt. Who do you think you are. Who do you think I am, that you can talk to me that way?”

  “Come here!”

  She refused, standing white-knuckled just inside the door, her pulse pounding. “I worked my butt off for you. I did a man’s work and never got nothin’ for it except beans. Nothin’!”

  Daniel lunged across the short space separating them. Expecting it, Rose darted for the door, but she’d misjudged her father’s swiftness, the anger that propelled him. His fist struck her cheek like a mallet and she slammed into the doorjamb with a sharp, indrawn cry. Her toe caught the threshold and she stumbled outside, sprawling in the dirt. Dazed, she rolled onto her back. A keening wind stung the hot, throbbing flesh under her eye, and the sky was dappled with tiny flakes of snow that danced so lively in the gray light she wasn’t at first sure if they were even real. She tried to stand up but her pap loomed above her. She felt his fist strike her again but the pain seemed less severe now, the blow muffled, distant. She didn’t remember drawing the Smith & Wesson, and was as startled as he was by its solid roar.