The Poacher's Daughter

by Michael Zimmer

  She sat that way for an hour while the sorrel grazed and rested. When she finally moved on, the horsemen she’d observed that morning hadn’t appeared. Rose was beginning to think that she’d maybe misjudged their intentions, but as she climbed an old buffalo trail away from the stream, a prickly sensation skittered across the back of her neck. She glanced over her shoulder just in time to see a man on foot ducking into a coulée several hundred yards away. Hauling up, she reached for the Sharps, but when she looked again, the slope was empty, without even a puff of dust to mark her stalker’s point of disappearance.

  “Dang,” she murmured, letting her hand fall away from the rifle. It gave her a chill to think that in another few minutes he might have crept within range for his light carbine. “I was watchin’ for horses,” she confessed to the sorrel. “It didn’t even cross my mind that they might try to sneak up tippy-toed.”

  She gave the stallion a taste of her fire-smudged spurs, and for the next hour they fairly flew over the land, making their way steadily northward. She kept a sharp watch over her shoulder, but her attackers never showed themselves, and it began to occur to Rose that, despite two failed attempts so far, they were probably pretty good at what they did—more cautious than timid—and that sooner or later they’d corner her if she didn’t find some way to ditch them for good.

  • • • • •

  It was another twenty-four hours to Fort Peck, what with the roughness of the terrain between the Glendive crossing and the old fur trading post that now served as a sub-agency for the vast Sioux and Assiniboine Reservation headquartered two days ride to the east, at Poplar. For the first time since leaving the Baylors, the sorrel was beginning to show signs of strain, even breaking into a sweat on the second day. His interest in his surroundings waned, too, although he did manage a curious whicker late in the afternoon when a band of mustangs passed over a ridge to the south.

  It was still light when Rose came in sight of the sub-agency on the Missouri’s northern shore, but she didn’t go in. She figured the Army might have a partial troop stationed there for emergencies, and, even under the best of circumstances, she’d never been comfortable around soldiers. In the past few weeks, coming to understand how men like Ostermann worked, Rose’s distrust of authority had deepened. She wouldn’t put it past either Ostermann or the Association to have conjured up some kind of federal charge against her. Although a local lawdog of the ilk she’d encountered in Glendive didn’t overly intimidate her, Rose reckoned the Army would be a different animal altogether.

  At dusk she rode down to the river to look for a ferry. What she found instead, and just as good in her opinion, was an Indian woman getting ready to row back across the Missouri with several buckets of early chokecherries that she’d picked for a green-cherry jam. The woman had a skiff, and Rose paid her a nickel to haul her and her gear across the river while she towed the sorrel on the end of her picket rope.

  “He’s a splashy swimmer,” Rose confided to the woman as she clambered on board, recalling the soaking she’d taken while crossing the Yellowstone at Glendive. “At least this way I’ll stay dry.”

  “As long as he does not try to climb into the boat,” the woman replied. She was Rose’s age or a few years older, round-faced and chunky, pretty with her long, dark hair and quick smile. She was the wife of one of the traders who had an establishment just outside the walls of the post—a questionably legal operation that was tolerated only because Congress hadn’t yet ratified an official boundary for the reserve. She spoke fair English due to her marriage, although speaking English was a trait more and more of Montana’s Indians seemed to be picking up in recent years.

  “If he gets close, I’ll help on the oars,” Rose promised.

  “If he gets close, you must hit him over the head with one,” the Indian woman replied. “He would capsize the boat if he tried to get in, and I cannot swim.”

  But the stallion swam the river like an old pro, shaking himself off afterward as if proud of his accomplishment. The Indian woman took her time gathering her berry buckets, while Rose saddled the horse. They walked up the bank together, not speaking until they reached the flat above the river. Here the woman asked with an Indian’s bluntness: “Where is your man?”

  “I ain’t got one.”

  “You are cante tinzawin then, a warrior woman?”

  Rose looked away uncomfortably. “I hadn’t much considered it that way before,” she admitted. “I ain’t sure I like the sound of it, to tell you the truth.”

  “You are Sunflower Girl, who rides the warrior’s path against the spotted buffalo men, the cattlemen.”

  Sunflower Girl. It was the name Fights His Enemies had used, back below Harker’s Fort. “How’d you know I was called that?”

  “Everyone knows Sunflower Girl and her red horse.” She glanced at the darker sorrel, her expression sorrowful. “Time is like the circle that never stops.”

  Rose nodded grudgingly. “He wore out on me down in Wyoming.”

  “This is a good horse, too. A warrior’s horse?” She smiled.

  “He’s strong, for a fact,” Rose acknowledged. “I reckon good is a matter of opinion.”

  “Not fast?”

  “No, he’s fast enough. He just ain’t much of a conversationalist, is my complaint.” She stepped into the saddle, her leg dragging on the bedroll.

  “You are tired, Sunflower Girl?”

  Rose hesitated, then said: “You know what they call me. My other name?”

  The woman nodded. “But you are Sunflower Girl to my people. My name is Little Swan. I am wife of Long Hair Douglas.”

  “The trader?”

  “Yes. My man is away now, receiving pelts from the Grandmother’s children who come south to trade.”

  A grin flitted across Rose’s face. She suspected Little Swan’s husband would be none too pleased to learn how cavalierly his wife was passing along information about his trading for furs smuggled in from Canada, although, in Little Swan’s defense, Rose doubted if an international boundary meant much to a people whose own borders had once followed the courses of rivers and mountain ranges, rather than arrow-straight lines staked out with stone cairns and iron pikes.

  “You’d best not tell too many people what your husband’s up to,” Rose advised. “White man’s law is a funny thing.”

  Little Swan looked puzzled. “Funny?”

  “Strange.”

  Little Swan nodded. Strange was a concept she seemed to understand in regard to the white race. “Yes, it is true that my man does not like for me to speak of these things, but are not your enemies my enemies?”

  That was a new thought, especially recalling her sentiments during the Sioux wars. Yet after some reflection, Rose tentatively agreed. “I reckon that’s true, at least part way.”

  “Yes, I think it is true. You make war on the spotted buffalo men, and that is a good thing. Even the old ones agree. But now you are tired, hungry?”

  Rose exhaled slowly. “Yeah, I’m bushed.”

  “Come with me. Tonight you will eat in the lodge of my mother, Yellow Rock Woman, and my brother will care for your horse. Tomorrow you may go, before the colonel’s spies hear of you, and the colonel’s lieutenant comes to see for himself that you are here. But tonight you will be safe, and you will eat well.”

  Rose glanced behind her. In the diminishing light the Missouri lay like a dull pewter sheet, its surface rippled with undertows. Yet as broad and deep as it might be, she knew it wouldn’t stop her pursuers. It would hardly slow them down.

  “Someone follows?” Little Swan guessed.

  “Likely. Two men, I figure. They’ve been doggin’ me for a couple of days now, although they ain’t been overly enthusiastic about it.”

  “A successful hunter takes his time, is that not true?”

  Rose nodded morosely. The same thought had occurred to
her.

  “Come,” Little Swan repeated firmly. “These hunters will not find their prey tonight.”

  She led Rose east, away from the post, to a treeless plain perhaps a mile away. Here, scattered haphazardly across the flattened grass like Chinese lanterns, were twenty or more canvas teepees, glowing softly from the fires within. As the two women entered the village, Rose dismounted to walk at Little Swan’s side. Growling dogs emerged from the shadows, and here and there Rose spied a solitary human, frozen in whatever late chore they had been about. But there were no playing children or outside fires around which families sat and talked and laughed—scenes Rose remembered well from when she’d accompanied her pap on his trading expeditions out of Fort Benton.

  “What’s goin’ on?” she asked.

  Little Swan gave her a questioning look.

  “It’s awful quiet.”

  Little Swan’s lips drew taut. “It is not good to laugh when your enemies are near, is it?”

  “The soldiers?”

  “Even though we have made peace with the Long Knives, it does not yet feel like peace.”

  Rose nodded. That was a concept she understood.

  Stopping outside a nondescript lodge about midway through the village, Little Swan called out in Sioux. A moment later an older woman in buckskins stepped out of the low, oval door. She eyed Rose silently, then glanced at Little Swan.

  “This is my mother,” Little Swan said, then switched to Sioux. Her mother spoke. Little Swan replied, then turned to Rose. “This is Yellow Rock Woman. You will sleep in her lodge tonight. I must return to the trading post, where my husband’s second wife waits. She will worry that I drowned if I do not return soon.”

  “You ain’t stayin’?” Rose asked in alarm.

  “No, but my younger sister will be here, as will my brother, who has seen ten summers. Both speak the white man’s tongue well. They will translate all that needs be said.”

  Rose nodded dubiously. Despite Little Swan’s assurances, she felt uneasy.

  Yellow Rock Woman spoke into the teepee and a girl of fifteen or so, then a boy Rose took to be Little Swan’s brother, exited the lodge. Yellow Rock Woman spoke briefly to the girl, who hurried off.

  “She will tell Old Man Bull of your visit,” Little Swan explained. “He is chief here, and will want to speak with you. My brother is Young Wolf, but the soldiers call him Robby. He will take care of your horse.” Readjusting her grip on the buckets, Little Swan started to walk away.

  “Hey!” Rose called after her.

  Little Swan turned expectantly.

  “Uh … thanks. I just wanted to say thanks.”

  “Trust Old Man Bull. He will know what to do.” Flashing a quick smile, Little Swan added: “All will be right.” Then she walked away, disappearing into the shadows.

  Yellow Rock Woman spoke to the boy, who sullenly took the sorrel’s reins and led him away, allowing Rose only enough time to slide the Sharps from its scabbard. When Yellow Rock Woman motioned toward the lodge, Rose muttered—“What the heck.”—and stooped to enter.

  In all her years on the frontier, Rose had never been inside an occupied teepee. Not even when her pap had traded among the Piegans for buffalo robes had she dared explore the Indian culture too closely, for fear of violating some tribal custom. But she knew plenty of men who had embraced the lifestyle, and she’d learned a passel just listening to their stories. She knew, for instance, to move to the left upon entering the lodge, as was proper for a woman, and to stay behind the two middle-aged women already seated there, rather than pass between them and the fire.

  Rose took her place just to the right of the spot facing the teepee’s door, close to the tiny, ceremonial lodge altar—in this case a flat, painted stone about the size of a loaf of bread—that the family used for daily prayers. Tucking her legs modestly under her and to one side while keeping her knees together, she opened the Sharp’s breech to finger the long brass cartridge from its chamber. Sliding the shell into an empty loop on her belt, she removed that and her revolver belt and placed them behind her, out of the way. It was a gesture of respect and trust, although she kept the Merwin Hulbert holstered under her left arm, hidden by her jacket. Rose figured that even if Yellow Rock Woman noticed the short gun, she would understand, and not be so impolite as to make a fuss about it.

  Seating herself on Rose’s right, Yellow Rock Woman reached for a white, enamelware bowl and a spoon made from the horn of a buffalo. A cast-iron kettle sat at the edge of the fire on three stubby legs, containing a stew of meat and wild vegetables. Dishing up a serving, the older woman passed it and the spoon to Rose.

  “Lordy, that looks good,” Rose murmured as she accepted the bowl. She glanced at Yellow Rock Woman. “Thankee, ma’am.”

  Yellow Rock Woman’s answer was in Sioux, for which Rose had no reply other than a polite nod. After an uncertain pause, she began to eat, and soon her rapid progress brought knowing smiles to the faces of the three Indian women.

  By the time Rose finished her first bowl, Little Swan’s younger sister had returned. Her name was Beth, and one of her first utterances was to declare her love for a young shavetail stationed at the sub-agency, a West Point man about which her family had yet to learn.

  “His name is James,” Beth gushed with a teenager’s bubbly exuberance, “and we’re to be married as soon as he’s transferred back East. He’s hoping for a post in one of the larger cities on the coast. Oh, I’d love New York, although Boston or Philadelphia would be nearly as good.”

  “What do you know about them places?” Rose asked.

  “James has visited all of them, and he’s told me everything. So has Missus Canby, at the mission school. She lived in New York City, and I’m her star pupil.”

  “Why don’t you and your soldier beau get married here?” Rose asked, although she figured she already knew the answer to that.

  “There’s too much prejudice here,” the young woman replied by rote. “Even the redskins would have a fit. They can’t seem to understand the Army just wants to help them.”

  Rose didn’t know how to respond to such a blunt and, to her mind, misguided statement. To her relief, she didn’t have to. Beth was quickly off on a tangent covering several somewhat vague perceptions of the Catholic, Protestant, and Methodist principles regarding interracial marriage.

  Rose had still been middling hungry when Beth returned, but she quickly lost her appetite with the young woman’s incessant jabber. She finally set her bowl aside—empty, though hardly licked clean in a manner to show her recognition of the difficulty in procuring food, and her appreciation for their sharing what they had—and tactfully declined when Yellow Rock Woman inquired by sign if she wanted more. It was during a brief pause in Beth’s second-hand assessment of New York’s theater district that Rose managed to ask the girl what name her mother called her.

  Making a face, she replied: “Sweet Grass, but my real name is Beth, short for Elizabeth.”

  “Uhn-huh,” Rose murmured. There was a sound from outside, then the rustle of canvas as the flap was lifted away from the door. Young Wolf—Robby, to the soldiers—dumped Rose’s saddle just inside the entrance, then swiftly darted from view before his mother could stop him.

  Giggling, Beth said: “Robby thinks it’s beneath a man’s dignity to carry a woman’s burden, especially her saddle.”

  “Shoot, I could’ve carried it,” Rose said, irritated with herself for not having thought of it.

  “Don’t be silly,” Beth replied. “It does him good to see what his new life will be like.”

  Rose studied the girl quietly. “It don’t seem to be doin’ him much good so far,” she said finally.

  Affecting a pouty expression, Beth said: “Oh well, you’re just a dumb frontier girl. James says that in proper society, it’s the man’s place to labor, the woman’s to live elegantly. James promise
s we’ll have servants.”

  “Men or women?”

  The question momentarily stumped the young girl, then her face lit up with inspiration. “Irish,” she proclaimed.

  Yellow Rock Woman spoke firmly and Beth abruptly fell silent. It made Rose wonder if Little Swan had been mistaken about her mother’s command of English, or if perhaps the older woman had observed Rose’s annoyance through her facial expression. Then she heard the clop of approaching hoofs, and realized it was neither.

  Tensing up, Rose cast a wary eye toward the sloping wall of the lodge. The horses stopped about ten yards away, followed by a brief, masculine discourse in Sioux among the riders. Rose glanced at Yellow Rock Woman, but the older woman smiled reassuringly and patted Rose’s knee. After a few minutes the hoofs—Rose figured they accounted for at least four horses—moved away at a trot. Seconds later she heard the whisper of moccasins outside. Then the door was swept aside and a creviced male face the color of stained cherry wood peered inside. He spoke gently to Yellow Rock Woman, who quickly bid him welcome. Stepping inside, he moved around to the right and sat down across from Rose. He was a fine figure of a man—tall and wiry, dressed in smoked buckskins, his long, steel-gray hair braided, then wrapped in strips of otter fur.

  Despite her tender years and obvious contempt for things Indian, Beth’s voice took on a note of respect when she introduced the visitor as Old Man Bull, a tribal chief of some importance and the Sioux’s primary negotiator with the soldiers. “He wishes to speak with you,” Beth added, eyes cast toward the fire.

  “Sure,” Rose said. “Tell him howdy.”

  Old Man Bull smiled reciprocally when Beth translated Rose’s greeting into Hunkpapa. He beamed and nodded, and, had Rose been uninitiated to frontier mannerisms, she might have considered him a buffoon for his exaggerated motions. But she knew he only meant to speak clearly, that his every intent be fully understood, and so she waited civilly as he completed a visual inspection of her that was thorough but in no way sexual. After a time he spoke, and Beth translated as Johnny Long had done for Fights His Enemies, her young woman’s voice soon fading into the background of Rose’s mind until the words belonged to Old Man Bull.