It was about seventy-five miles from Miles City to Glendive, a trip Rose made on the Baylor horse in less than twenty-four hours. Although such a distance covered in such a short period of time was hardly unique, she doubted if there were many horses that could have done it with the same high level of energy as the sorrel. The stallion’s endurance was impressive, even a little awe-inspiring.
Glendive sat at the bottom of a kettle-like valley, right on the river. Rose knew from word along the Owlhoot that the town had suffered its share of problems with rustlers and Regulators alike, but her bitterness had grown complete in the days since leaving Albert with Fred and Della, her heart scabbing over like the dark, scaly residue that continued to flake off her toe whenever she removed her sock. In this new temperament, she had little empathy for the innocents of Glendive.
She was guiding her horse toward one of the saloons on Main Street when a voice hailed her from a nearby building. Rose wheeled the sorrel, her hand dropping to the Smith & Wesson, but she could discern no threat in the manner of the heavy-set bald man standing in the doorway of a tiny saddle shop, a knee-length leather apron mounded over his round belly. He had curly red hair, a ruddy complexion, and a smile that seemed genuine, if a little nervous. Cautiously she let her hand fall away from the pistol. “What do you want?” she demanded.
“I’m Axel Carrington. I doubt if you remember me.”
She heeled the sorrel closer. “Nope,” she said, after a second look. “Where’d we meet?”
“Above a little town called Rosebud, a couple years back. Me and some trail pards took it upon ourselves to relieve you of the gold we was certain you were carrying, but you got the drop on us.”
“I’ll be damned,” Rose said. “I remember that. You was travelin’ with a colored cowboy and a skinny kid that needed his face washed.”
Axel nodded sheepishly. “I’ve felt ashamed about that ever since.”
She glanced at the shop behind him, a sign above the door proclaiming: GLENDIVE SADDLERY, A. CARRINGTON, PROP. “It looks like you went honest,” she said.
“I wasn’t cut out for an outlaw’s life.”
“You got off to a poor start, for a fact.”
“I have a corral out back. You’re welcome to use it if you want. Truth is, I’d kind of like to buy you a drink or a meal or something. I figure most folks would’ve shot us for what we tried that day. It always impressed me that you didn’t.”
She nearly refused, until it occurred to her that she was looking for some specific information, the kind a local citizen might be leery of parting with to a stranger. Dismounting, she said—“All right.”—then led her horse down the alley between the saddlery and a tinsmith’s shop.
She stripped her gear from the stallion’s back and turned him into the corral. As she did, she took note of an empty woodshed nearby, and thought that, if nothing better turned up, she’d sleep there tonight. After seeing to hay and water, she walked back to the street just as Axel emerged from his shop, having exchanged his apron for a herringbone suit coat and bowler hat. A CLOSED sign was propped in the window.
Walking down the street, Rose couldn’t help noticing how anxious the burly saddlemaker seemed. She didn’t know whether it was on account of her being a woman or her growing reputation as a shootist, but she found it annoying. It was to ease her own irritation more than Axel’s discomfort that, when he reached for a chair in the Cattleman’s Café to pull it out for her, she chose another and seated herself.
Axel seemed to breathe a sigh of relief as he quickly sank into the chair across from her. A stout woman with gray hair appeared to take their orders. When she was gone, Rose got down to business.
“You know a bird named Pine Tree Manning?”
Axel nodded. “Uhn-huh.”
According to Axel, Manning had been in Glendive as recently as ten days ago, and was well-known in the area. Although a suspected participant in several lynchings from the previous summer, the law had left him alone. He’d moved on more than a week ago, Axel said, but no one seemed to know where.
“Was you inclined to guess, which direction might you suggest?” Rose pressed.
“I couldn’t begin to say. You might poke around some of the saloons, although I’d be suspicious of anything I learned there.”
Rose leaned back in her chair. “I’ve been huntin’ that rooster for some weeks, and this is as close as I’ve gotten. I’d hate to lose him now.”
“He was employed by the Cattleman’s Association for a while, although I’ve heard he’s gone independent.”
The waitress returned bearing platters of steak, potatoes, and black-eyed peas, with bread, butter, jam, and cups of coffee on the side. Rose and Axel dug in with the concentration of people who’d gone hungry more than once in their lives, and didn’t speak again until they had finished.
On the street afterward, Axel fired up a long black cigar that, even upwind, brought a grimace to Rose’s face. “Dang, Axel, I’ve smelled dead things that didn’t stink that bad.”
“I get ’em for a penny apiece,” he replied defensively. “A saddler can’t be choosy.”
But Rose had already turned her attention elsewhere. Looking west toward the setting sun, she recalled something her pap had said. “What was the name of that skinny fella you was ridin’ with the day you tried to waylay me?”
“Bud?”
“Yeah, Bud. Did he have a last name?”
“Probably, but he never mentioned it. We didn’t ride together long, and he was touchy. The Nigra’s name was Charlie Sims. I liked Charlie fine, but I was glad to see Bud go his own way after we reached Miles City.”
Rose nodded. She’d only known Jacques by his first name, too—that was just the way it happened sometimes. “I reckon I ought to get about my business,” she said.
“Will you be staying in Glendive?”
“Not if Manning ain’t around. I’ll mosey through a couple of saloons tonight, but if I don’t turn up something new, I’ll head on over to the Little Missouri country.”
“I wish I could’ve been more help.”
“You’ve been help enough.” She shoved a hand toward him. “Thanks for the meal, and for the use of the corral.”
Axel accepted her hand solemnly. “Were you to stay, I’d see about courting you,” he said with a trace of hopefulness.
Jed Plover had expressed a similar desire, Rose recalled, but she hadn’t put much stock in his words, either. “That’d be something to study on, was I stayin’,” she replied. “But I ain’t.”
He withdrew his hand. “Good luck, Rose.”
“Good luck to you, too,” she said, already walking away.
She went to the Empire Saloon first, where she’d been headed when Axel diverted her. Her optimism was low as she entered the long, narrow building, but she’d barely started her first beer when the general conversation of the room shifted to the news that a fresh spate of rustling had flared up near Fort Peck, on the Missouri. Word in the Empire that night was that an Association man by the name of Dietrich had been bushwhacked by cattle thieves west of the fort, and that hired guns were descending on the area like buzzards on a dead horse. Although no mention was made of Manning, Rose considered Fort Peck a promising lead, and certainly better than drifting aimlessly up and down the Little Mo.
She left the saloon without taking time to finish her beer. Although tired, she wanted to check over her gear while there was still some light left, that way, she’d be ready to leave first thing in the morning. To her surprise, she found that the sorrel had been freshly groomed in her absence, his hoofs cleaned, mane and tail combed. An unfamiliar saddle sat on its horn beside her own. It was a lighter rig than her old Mother Hubbard, and although it looked used enough to be broken in and comfortable, it was in noticeably better condition than her old hulk.
Axel was sitting on the steps behind h
is shop, whittling on a piece of stove wood. He was silent a moment, giving her time to contemplate the new rig. Then he said: “That old saddle of yours must weigh close to sixty pounds. The other one there is lighter by twenty, at least. It’ll make a difference over the long haul, and I’m guessing that’s what you’ve got ahead of you.”
Stiffening, Rose said: “I thank you for the offer, but I can’t afford a new saddle.”
“It ain’t for sale. I’m giving it to you. That sorrel’s a strong horse, but the kind of riding you’ll be doing would take the starch out of the best animal.”
“No,” Rose replied stubbornly. “I’m obliged for the meal, but this is too much.”
Axel tossed his stick aside, then folded his knife. His words came hesitantly, as if dredged from parts of himself he didn’t probe too often. “The thing is, I appreciate what you’re doing. I remember the way Pine Tree Manning used to walk the streets of Glendive like some kind of king, lording it over the rest of us. Truth is, it’d suit me just fine if someone knocked him down a peg or two.”
Rose remembered Herman Sutherland’s similar views, and how after a while the sentiment had grown distasteful. What right, she wondered with sudden indignation, did men like Herman or Axel have to share in her quest, no matter how peripherally. Did they think a monetary contribution made on the sly could make them legitimate participants. That in not standing up to be heard, but clandestinely patting the backs of those who did, did they believe they were equally deserving of whatever accolades the risk takers might eventually reap—assuming the risk takers didn’t lose everything in the end?
Rose had owed Herman Sutherland money, and there had been a slim but tenable connection to the Baylors, but she didn’t owe Axel Carrington a damned thing.
“No,” she said bluntly, picking up the Mother Hubbard and heading for the gate. “I like my old rig, and, if you want to pull somebody’s pegs, do it yourself.”
Earlier she’d contemplated spending the night in Axel’s woodshed, but now she was determined to move on before full dark. There would be plenty of places along the Yellowstone to pitch her bedroll.
With her eyes on the sorrel, Rose couldn’t have said later what it was that alerted her to trouble. Certainly it wasn’t the stallion, whose attention was riveted on a string of mares with colts, grazing on a hillside some distance away. Nor was it Axel, who was behind her and silent. Perhaps it was some sixth sense, some delicate sharpening of perception a person picked up naturally in times of jeopardy. All she knew was that, without thought, she suddenly dropped her saddle and spun in a crouch, palming the Smith & Wesson as she did.
Unlike when she’d pulled down on John Stroudmire, this time the pistol slid free quickly and smoothly. She cocked and fired in as fluid a motion as any she’d ever seen from Sam Matthews or Wiley Collins, her bullet smacking into the corner molding of the tin shop next door, shearing off a piece of wood beside the head of the gunman who’d been hiding there among the weeds, taking aim with a revolver.
The gunman swore and fell back, his shot going wide. Rose fired into the cover of weeds a second time, more for effect than any hope of a solid hit. Then she started running, wanting a better position for her third shot, an uncluttered view. In all the chaos, she didn’t even see the second gunman.
The other shooter was lurking in an irrigation ditch behind the corral, about sixty yards away. He opened up with a small-bore carbine even as the echo of Rose’s second shot bounced off the bluffs behind the town. Had it not been for the latticework of corral posts and poles, he might have dropped her with his first round. Had he been a better shot, he would have hit her anyway. Instead his bullet struck one of the gateposts, causing the sorrel to squeal and take off pitching.
With nowhere else to go, Rose dived for the dirt. Rolling swiftly over the hardpan, she came even with the rear of the tin shop just as the sloping shoulders of the first gunman ducked around the far corner. She almost fired anyway, but held up at the last instant. Scrambling to her feet, she raced toward the empty woodshed. Her heart was thumping wildly as she tried to keep an eye on both the weed-lined ditch and the rear of the tin shop, but no shot followed her into the shelter of the open-faced hut, where she ducked behind a large, squat chopping block.
Rose broke open the Smith & Wesson and flicked out the empties with her thumbnail, then replaced them with fresh rounds and snapped the hinged cylinder closed. The whole process took only seconds. From the saddle shop, Axel called: “Rose. Are you all right. Rose?”
She squirmed to a side wall and put her eye to a crack between two planks that offered a view of the irrigation ditch. It looked deserted, as far as she could tell in the deepening twilight. On hands and knees, she quickly crawled to the other two walls, but saw no evidence that her attackers were still around. From the saddle shop, Axel continued to call her name.
Cautiously Rose got to her feet and moved to the broad entrance of the shed. The sounds of a crowd gathering on the street out front began to drift over the rear lot. From it came a new voice, louder and more authoritative, calling for Axel, demanding an explanation.
“Rose!” Axel exclaimed as she stepped clear of the shed. He slipped out the back door of his shop toting a single-barreled shotgun. Rose lifted the Smith & Wesson—it was already cocked—and Axel jerked to a stop. “Rose?” he gulped.
“Put it down, Axel.”
He looked uncomprehendingly at the shotgun. When Rose repeated her command, he stooped to obey. “I only wanted to help,” he explained, straightening. But she already knew that. She just didn’t care.
In the alley between the saddle shop and the tinsmith, curiosity seekers were warily advancing. “Axel?” someone called. “Where you at, boy?”
“Back here,” Axel replied. “Someone send for the sheriff.”
But the sheriff was already there. Entering the rear lot at the head of a small crowd, he quickly swung a short-barreled revolver toward Rose, its silver plating flashing in the dusk. “Drop your pistol,” he ordered.
“Son-of-a-bitch,” Rose grated.
• • • • •
Darkness had fallen completely by the time the Glendive sheriff finished his lantern-light inspection of the back lot. Sitting beside Axel on the rear steps of his shop, Rose chafed at the delay. She knew that whatever chance she might have had to examine the tracks for herself had been lost with the light and the sheriff’s heavy-booted canvassing. She was pretty sure the sheriff knew that, too. Approaching Rose with grave solemnity, he assured her that he would initiate a thorough investigation in the morning, and not rest until the perpetrators were either caught or he was satisfied that they’d left town.
“If they’re around, I’ll find ’em,” he promised just before he left.
But Rose had reached the limits of her patience, and went over to retrieve the Mother Hubbard. Axel followed her to the corral, peering through the rails while she saddled her horse. “You’re leaving?” he asked.
“Figured I would. I got my doubts them shooters hung around any longer than it took to fork a bronc’. Was it me, I’d go lay out in the hills and wait for me to come along at first light.”
“They wouldn’t know which direction you’d take.”
She considered telling him about Fort Peck and the trouble brewing up there, then decided against it. “I figure they’ll know,” was all she said.
She pulled the gate open and led the sorrel through it. Hooking a toe in the stirrup, she heaved herself wearily into the saddle.
“You need to rest,” Axel said.
He had a point, Rose knew. She’d been on the go for better than thirty-six hours, and had covered more than seventy-five miles in that time. But after what had happened tonight, she knew she needed to push on. It wasn’t just her and Manning any longer. Joe Bean’s Regulators were going to start closing in pretty soon, too.
Staring at the saddlemaker, s
he said: “You got a good start here, Axel. Likely you’ll make something fine out of it if you don’t wander off the trail again.”
He nodded. “I don’t plan to.”
If there was anything more to say, Rose couldn’t think of it. Reining her horse around, she rode down the alley to the street, then turned west toward the Yellowstone.
Chapter
41
Rose crossed the Yellowstone in the dark about a half mile below the town, hoping to lose herself in the wide-open spaces to the north. She made a fireless camp around midnight, and awoke the next morning feeling frosty and unpliable. Shoving aside her blankets, she sat up to discover that the splotch of green that was the town of Glendive was still visible, no more than seven or eight miles away. The sight perturbed her, for she’d hoped to have left the burg behind during the night. Stomping into her boots, she quickly readied the sorrel.
It was on a final, backward glance just before pulling out that movement far below caught her eye. Swinging around, she squinted into distance. She wished she had a pair of field glasses like Wiley used to carry; with them, she might have identified the two horsemen prowling the slopes below her. Still, she figured the odds were good that these were her ambushers from the night before. Or if not, then others like them.
“I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if they brought in six or eight hardcases,” she told the sorrel.
There was no response from the horse, whose gaze was fixed to the southwest, nostrils flared as he tested the wind. Following his line of sight, Rose saw a trio of mustangs grazing on a ridge a couple of miles away, foals playing at their sides. With a scowl, she pulled the stallion around. “You ’n’ Wiley would’ve made a fine pair,” she groused. “He couldn’t tell the difference between his pecker and his brain, either.”
Staying close to the winding coulées that tracked the low hump of the Big Sheep Mountains to the west, Rose made her way to the top of the divide separating the drainages of the Yellowstone and Missouri Rivers. She crossed over late in the morning, then dropped down to a creek where she pulled the saddle from her horse and picketed him on grass above a still pool. Keeping her rifle with her, she hiked up the bank to a box elder tree, then settled down with a clear view of her back trail.
The Poacher's Daughter Page 41
