The Poacher's Daughter

by Michael Zimmer

  “You all right?” he asked, inclining his head toward her patched boot. “You are limping, I noticed.”

  “It ain’t nothin’,” she assured him.

  “I would remind you there is a doctor in town. Two, in fact. I prefer Paus, across the street.”

  “Thanks, but it’s already been looked at.” She didn’t add that the attending physician had been wearing moccasins, and that her ministrations had been supervised by the first wife of one of Sitting Bull’s more noteworthy Hunkpapa captains.

  “So, if not a doctor, then your account?” Sutherland ventured.

  “I was hopin’ we could settle up,” Rose acknowledged.

  Sutherland pulled a ledger from the top drawer of his desk and flipped it open, paging slowly backward until he came to the A-Bar-E entry from the preceding year. On a separate sheet of paper, he tabulated the interest, double-checked the figures, then looked up questioningly. “One hundred, twenty-two dollars. That is agreeable with your figures?”

  “To tell you the truth, I ain’t tallied it, but I trust you.”She looked out the front window at the hills south of town, already shading to tan. She would miss this land. It was a big, wide-open country, hard on even the strongest of hearts, but she couldn’t imagine anything—anywhere—comparing favorably. Taking a deep breath, she said: “Plain and simple, I just ain’t got the money, Mister Sutherland. I reckon you’ve heard what’s been goin’ on?”

  He nodded. “Even the dirtiest secrets reaches the public’s ears eventually.”

  “They burned me out again, too.”

  “I have heard.”

  “I ain’t got nothin’ no more except my horse and gear and that land, and I ain’t keen on givin’ up my horse. I reckon Howard Ostermann’s won this pot, at least as far as drivin’ me off my place, but he don’t own the land yet, and I’d like to see that he doesn’t get it. Would you take it, Mister Sutherland, if I signed it over, and consider my debt clear?”

  Sutherland’s eyes widened. “Your land!” he exclaimed. “For the debt?”

  “The deed was stolen, but it’s registered in Bozeman and ought to be on the books in Helena, too. I ain’t sure how all that works.”

  “No,” Sutherland protested. “No, no, no, Missus Edwards. That is not even a poor business decision. That is an absurd one, through and through. You mustn’t even consider it.”

  “Time’s short. I’d rather you got that property, but sure as heck someone’s gonna, because I can’t keep it. Not anymore.”

  The shopkeeper’s expression relaxed. “What kind of a man do you take me for, Missus Edwards, that you think I would accept your ranch under such circumstances, and for such a piddling debt?”

  “It’s all I got. What ain’t been stolen has been burned.”

  “I will tell you what I think, what I have been thinking for some time. I will buy your land and run my own cattle, if you are sure you want to sell.”

  “I ain’t got much choice,” she stated glumly.

  “I think,” Sutherland admitted, “that you are right, although it saddens me to say so. Even to me, word comes that Rose Edwards’s name has risen to the top of the Regulators’ list. Who these people are who put names on lists, I don’t know, but I think you do, and I think the list is real. Too many people have died for that list not to be real. So now your name is at the top, and I don’t think you can stay unless you wish to die, and that, I fear, would happen pretty quick. They would bury you out there, where no one would find you. It would have to be out there, is what Mama and I think. To bury you where your grave could be found, your death mourned, would cause too much embarrassment.” He shrugged apologetically. “Forgive my bluntness.”

  “Naw, it weren’t blunt,” Rose lied, feeling tight-chested all of a sudden. “I just hadn’t considered it like that before. It makes sense, though. I don’t reckon fellas like Howard Ostermann or Maxwell Frakes would look too kindly on something like that smudgin’ up their reputations.”

  “No, they wouldn’t,” Sutherland agreed. “So I think … Mama and I … that the thing for you to do is to sell your property and go away. Far enough away that Howard Ostermann or Maxwell Frakes or any of those people who make lists won’t ever be afraid of you again. But hear this, Missus Edwards, and believe me. It does not matter who you sell your property to. It does not have to be me. But it should be sold so that the money is yours to take with you, wherever you go.”

  “Well, I ain’t goin’ nowhere right off, but if you’re of a mind to buy the A-Bar-E and wouldn’t consider it a burden, I’d sure like to sell it. I don’t know what you’d call fair, but Ostermann offered me a thousand dollars for the place last winter.”

  Sutherland’s lip twitched in contempt. “Missus Edwards, Howard Ostermann offered to steal your land, not buy it. How many acres do you own, exactly?”

  “The deed said six hundred and forty, although it ain’t been surveyed.”

  “Then not even two dollars an acre did he offer. I am a businessman, Missus Edwards, not a thief. I know the value of your land, especially its water. Whoever owns the A-Bar-E controls five thousand additional acres, and that is worth considerably more than one thousand dollars, don’t you think?”

  “What’d you have in mind?” Rose asked cautiously.

  “For the land you have title to, I will offer five dollars an acre.” He turned over the piece of paper he’d tallied her bill on and scratched out some figures. “What is that for a section, say … three thousand … two hundred.” He looked up. “Would that be satisfactory, Missus Edwards … three thousand and two hundred dollars?”

  “Holy smokes,” Rose squeaked. “Are you sure?”

  He smiled. “Yes, I am sure, if that is suitable with you.”

  “Mister Sutherland, that suitables me to a T. Have you got that kind of money on hand?”

  The storekeeper’s smile disappeared. “No, I would have to raise it, and that will take time. Three weeks, perhaps a month.” A frown creased his forehead. “You can wait that long?”

  “Not here in Billings, but I aim to hang around Montana for a spell.”

  “Listen to me, you should leave this country. I will say it again … if you stay, they will kill you.”

  “I got unfinished business, Mister Sutherland. I ain’t goin’ nowhere until I’ve seen it through.”

  “Your mind is made up, then?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You intend to fight?”

  “Uhn-huh.”

  “Then I am glad. May God forgive me, I am glad.” He glanced around the store, shared a look and a nod with his wife, then motioned for Rose to follow him to the counter. “Come,” he said. “I will show you something.”

  She followed him down the counter, he behind it, she in front. Midway, he stopped and reached underneath, bringing out a short-barreled Merwin Hulbert revolver in a sturdy shoulder holster, plus two boxes of .45 cartridges.

  “This I got on trade a couple of weeks ago,” he explained, setting it before her. “Mama and I talked about saving it for you. We knew you would come back … if you were able.”

  But Rose was already shaking her head. “I appreciate the offer, but I’m short on cash and long on debt as it is. I can’t afford another pistol.”

  “No, you misunderstand. I am giving this to you. A gift.”

  She shook her head again.

  “Please,” Sutherland said. “This is important. To me, this is important.” He took a deep breath, as if collecting his thoughts. “Listen, I want to tell you something. What you do when you fight these men, men like Ostermann, Frakes, it is against the law. We all know that. But it is right, too. It is fighting an injustice that masquerades as law. Maybe there is a better way, I don’t know. I don’t know how the poor can fight unjustness when men like Ostermann and Frakes hold so much sway with their expensive attorneys.

&
nbsp; “I am a coward, Missus Edwards, but I’m not a fool. I see what is going on. We all do. But I am too old, too scared. I have a wife, children, a business, home, friends, a position in the community. All these things I have, and I know that to stand up to these people is to risk losing everything. So I am a coward, and when Ostermann or Frakes come into my store, I bob my head like a good little peasant and say … ‘Yes, Mister Ostermann,’ or ‘Yes, Mister Frakes, what can I do for you today?’

  “But let me tell you something, it does not feel so good to be a coward. Not at night, in bed, when my wife lies sleeping. Others feel as I do. I know this because I talk to them. But they are also afraid … to lose their businesses, their places in the community. They are afraid to band together, yet they are even more afraid to stand alone.

  “We are not a rich people, Missus Edwards, those of us who own the small businesses, the little farms, but still we have something we do not want to lose, that becomes precious to us because it is so vulnerable. I think maybe that is why so often it falls to the poorest among us, to those who have nothing left to lose, to fight our battles.”

  He pushed the Merwin Hulbert, its holster and cartridges, across the counter. “You take this. Maybe it will save your life someday. If it does, then it will have been worth it to me. And remember also what I said about the others. You are Rose of Yellowstone now, and Rose of Yellowstone should not be afraid to ask for help from a small rancher or homesteader, or a small businessman. She should not be afraid to ask for help from any man who sweats at his labor, because they will know, and they will give what they can.

  “Meanwhile, you go and do what you have to do, and I will not ask what that is. When you come back, I will have the money and the papers for the A-Bar-E drawn up and ready to sign. How does that sound?”

  Slowly Rose closed her hand over the Merwin Hulbert, but in her heart there was no pride, and on her tongue there was only bitterness, as if she’d swallowed something sour. “I reckon that sounds all right, Mister Sutherland,” she said, but thought: You ain’t so different from Frakes or Ostermann, not in the long haul.

  “Herman,” Herman Sutherland said expansively. “You call me Herman from now on. You don’t be calling me ‘Mister’ no more.”

  She nodded, but his words echoed in her mind: Those who have nothing left to lose.

  Sutherland daubed his eyes with the hem of his apron. Down the counter, his wife wiped hers with a handkerchief. Rose stared woodenly out the front door. Pulling himself together, Herman said: “You will need some supplies, too, no?”

  “I could use a few. Food, cartridges for my rifle and pistol.” She hesitated. “And one other thing. I want a ridin’ skirt. You know what that is?”

  “Why, certainly,” Sutherland replied, looking surprised and pleased at the same time. “I have several right back here.” He motioned toward an aisle brimming on both sides with stacks of board-stiff overalls and scratchy wool shirts. At the far end was a dressmaker’s wire-framed dummy, fitted with a bright purple riding skirt and matching vest. “Mama,” Herman called to his wife, “you would help Missus Edwards pick out some new clothes, wouldn’t you?”

  “Of course,” Mama Sutherland replied. She came down the outside of the counter, snagging Rose by the elbow as she passed. “Come, we will fit you like a proper young horsewoman.”

  She did, too. Although Rose was hoping for a skirt in the same shade of green as the one Nora had given her for Christmas, she had to settle for blue corduroy, instead. While she was at it, she added a new blouse of soft lavender and a light beige jacket, trimmed in a compatible shade of blue to match her skirt—all to replace the man’s shirt, vest, and trousers she’d worn since the day Jed Plover showed up at her garden.

  She slipped into the Merwin Hulbert’s shoulder rig, and with Mama Sutherland’s help, adjusted it so that it rode comfortably out of sight beneath her left arm. She left her old clothes piled on the dressing room floor. Returning to the counter, she found that Herman had already put together a sack of supplies.

  Taking in her outfit, he nodded approvingly. “Very good. A woman should wear woman’s clothing, don’t you think. Mama, don’t you agree that a woman should wear woman’s clothing?”

  Mama did indeed agree, voicing several of the more important reasons, all of which seemed to hinge upon a woman’s aspiration to ensnare a man in matrimony. It was an argument Rose had strong feelings about, having once been ensnared herself, but she kept her opinions to herself as she signed Herman’s credit slip. With the Sutherlands’ well wishes snapping at her heels like a feisty terrier, she beat a hasty retreat for the door.

  Outside, she tied the sack of supplies behind the cantle, then stepped into the saddle. Keeping Albert to a walk, she returned to Jepson & Lane’s. Turning into the alley beside the livery, she was unprepared for the sight that greeted her—her pap sitting on an empty fruit crate in front of his shack, as unkempt as any bum.

  Rose could tell at a glance that Daniel Ames had fallen off the wagon. His clothes were filthy, his neck and jaw stiff with stubble; his long gray hair hung about his face in greasy strands, and even from the alley, Rose could see that his hands were trembling. It made her heart sink to see him that way. Pulling up beside the last corral, she reluctantly dismounted.

  Daniel Ames didn’t look up until she came over, and even then his bloodshot eyes had to struggle for focus. Squinting into the westering sun, he said: “What happened to your foot?”

  The question caught her off guard. Even sober, her pap wasn’t known for his concern for others. “I got shot,” she replied.

  “By who?”

  “Billy Garcia.”

  “You shoot him back?”

  She hesitated, then said: “I reckon I did.”

  His voice turned gruff. “Ain’t no reckoning to it. Either you shot him or you didn’t.”

  Sighing, Rose said: “Yeah, I shot him. I killed him, but not because of my toe.”

  Daniel sniffed and nodded, then leaned back against the splintery wall of his shack. “Doesn’t matter what the reason, it just saves me the trouble of doing it for you.”

  Wrinkling her nose, she said: “I can smell you from here. What happened?”

  He laughed hoarsely. “I been puking my guts out is what happened. Got it all over me. I can barely stand myself.”

  “You ought to go down to the river and wash yourself. There ain’t no call for this.” But her scolding brought only a quick wiggling of Daniel’s eyebrows, signaling a potential mood shift.

  “Don’t be telling me what to do,” he said in a threatening tone. “How’d you get a Mexican mad enough to shoot you?”

  Rose shrugged and wandered over to a clump of grass upwind of her father’s position. She sank down, cross-legged, and picked up a couple of small railroad cinders that she bounced in her hand like dice. “It’s a long story,” she said.

  “Then you’d best not tell it. I’d just forget, the shape I’m in.”

  “Why’d you start drinkin’ ag’in. I thought you was huntin’.”

  A menacing look came over Daniel’s face, and Rose tensed in case she had to make a run for it. Instead her father’s reply almost bowled her over. “That worthless shit of a brother of yours stole my rifle.”

  “Brother. Who?”

  “Luke.”

  She sat up straighter. “Luke’s here?”

  “No, god dammit. If he was, I’d still have my rifle.”

  “But he was here?”

  Looking away, her pap growled something unintelligible. Then he said: “They let the little bastard outta prison. I guess they let him out. Maybe he broke out. He didn’t say. He showed up last spring and bummed food off me for a week, then stole my rifle and hopped a westbound freight for Oregon. Gone to look for his brothers, I figure.” He wagged his head. “Now all my kids have turned against me.”

  That
was her cue, Rose would realize later. Her place to jump in and reassure her father that no one had turned against him—she, least of all—and that they all loved him dearly. But her thoughts had taken a different track, and she missed it completely. “Did he ask about me?” she said.

  Daniel gave her an irritated look. “Nope, not once.”

  She nodded and blinked, and her eyes started to tear up despite her resolve not to lower her guard. Her pap’s vision had sharpened during their conversation, though, and he spotted her misery instantly. Grinning wolfishly, he said: “Turned against you, too, didn’t he? How’s it feel, missy?”

  “Just shut up,” she said, unmindful of the consequences.

  But her pap had lost interest in Luke. He was watching Rose shrewdly, one eye narrowed. “Got yourself in a hell of a fix with that Cattlemen’s Association, didn’t you?”

  “It ain’t nothing I can’t handle.”

  “I don’t see why you have to be feuding with those people, anyway. You’re pretty enough to’ve married one.”

  She gave him a startled look. “I don’t reckon pretty is reason enough to throw my life away. I’d sooner marry a snake than a remittance man, and I’d probably feel safer with my back turned.”

  “You’d have been better off with a remittance man than Muggy, I’ll tell you that. I always did regret the way he took advantage of you. You should’ve had an easier life, Kitten.”

  “Easier ain’t always better,” she replied.

  “You’d think differently if you’d lived through some of the hard times I have. Why don’t you go fix me some breakfast. There’s beans in back, maybe a little slow elk if it ain’t gone to rot.”

  Rose shook her head. Getting to her feet, she said: “It’s suppertime. You ought to take a gander at the sun on occasion, if you’re too drunk to hear the roosters crowin’ at dawn.”

  “Was there a rooster handy, I’d have fried chicken instead of tough beef. You know a skinny-assed kid named Bud Tracer?”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “He said he knows you. Acted put out by it, too.”