The Poacher's Daughter

by Michael Zimmer

  “I’ve heard of it,” she replied tautly.

  “Your name is on it. It’s near the bottom yet, but it’s there.”

  Anger stirred within her. “Why are you telling me this?”

  “The fact that you’re a woman means nothing to the men I work for. When the time is right, they will come for you, unless you change your ways. You rode into Miles City with Wiley Collins and Shorty Tibbs. That’s bad company to be keeping right now.”

  “Wiley ’n’ Shorty are my friends, like you used to be.”

  “I’m still your friend. You may not believe it, but it’s true.”

  “I reckon you’re right, I don’t believe it. Not of someone who’d ride with ….” She clamped her lips shut.

  “I didn’t ride with the Stranglers, if that’s what you’re thinking. I don’t even know their identities.” He paused, then said: “We aren’t mercenaries, Rose. We only wish to bring justice to a lawless land.”

  “You keep on tellin’ yourself that,” she said thickly, turning her gaze to the row of bottles along the backbar. “Maybe it’ll help you sleep at night.”

  Joe sighed, then finished his whiskey. He was turning to leave when Rose stopped him.

  “Joe, you tell me one thing.”

  “If I can.”

  “Were you with that bunch that hanged Muggy?”

  “No. I’ve heard that was the work of vigilantes out of Helena, but I couldn’t state that as a fact. Muggy wasn’t a threat to the cattle trade, Rose.”

  She nodded stiffly. “That’s good. I’m … I’m glad it wasn’t you.”

  “It wasn’t me,” he reassured her, then walked out of the Silver Star.

  Chapter

  7

  It was almost 10:00 when the storm Rose had seen from the boardwalk in front of the Bull’s Head Restaurant made its debut in Miles City. She was still standing at the bar, although she’d given up her earlier goal of intoxication. The crowd had thinned out noticeably in the wake of Joe’s visit, and it was the subdued spirit of the room that allowed her to hear the wind coming off the plains several minutes before it actually arrived.

  The wind struck the side of the saloon like a giant fist, and several of the boys jumped. Tom, standing at the far end of the bar reading a recent issue of the Yellowstone Journal, put the newspaper aside and walked over to the doors. A porch lamp hanging on the verandah was swinging wildly, but before he could slip outside to extinguish the flame, the wind snuffed it for him.

  Tom swung the batwings back and fastened them to the wall, then pulled the big front doors closed. When he returned to the bar, he was shivering in his light shirt. “Dig out your mufflers, boys,” he advised the room. “There’ll be ice in the water buckets by morning.”

  In the next two hours, the temperature outside plummeted nearly forty degrees. Rose felt the storm’s frigid breath every time a door opened for a departing customer. It made her glad she was inside, and not still out on the prairies.

  With the temperature inside also dropping, the crowd began to drift away. Finally only Rose, Tom, Wiley, and a trio of hookers who sat with him at the back of the room remained. Shivering, Tom tossed the Journal on top of the bar. “I’m calling it quits, Alice,” he said to one of the whores. “Lock up when you’re through, would you?”

  “Sure, Tommy,” Alice replied.

  With the heel of his boot, Wiley shoved an empty chair part way around, calling: “Come on over here, Rosie. You look like a colicky mule, standing there all by yourself.”

  She gave him a dark look, annoyed that he’d ignored her all evening. But Wiley had something up his sleeve, and wouldn’t be put off.

  “Come on, darlin’. Be sociable.”

  She swung around to give his table the once-over. Alice was sitting on his lap, leaning against his shoulder and looking bored, sleepy, and amused all at the same time. The other two hookers sat opposite them, sharing a short Durango cigar; they’d been talking quietly between themselves until Wiley drew their attention to Rose.

  “Dammit, Rosie, are ye gonna make me come get ye?”

  “You ain’t had a word for me all night, Wiley Collins. I don’t figure you got anything to say now that I’d want to hear.”

  Laughing, he replied: “Come on, don’t sulk. Me ’n’ Alice want to talk to ye.”

  “Leave her be,” one of the cigar-smoking whores said. She was a dark-haired woman in a black dress cut to expose her slim, white shoulders—a fashion statement she was no doubt regretting tonight, Rose thought. Then Alice spoke sharply and the dark-haired woman flushed and dropped her gaze.

  “Rosie!” Wiley bellowed, startling everyone. “Come ’ere, gawd dammit.”

  Rose stilled the tart reply that came to her tongue, reminding herself of the long journey she and Wiley had just completed together, and of the grub she’d eaten at his and Shorty’s expense. Clutching her beer in one hand, she walked sullenly over to the table. Wiley watched with a widening grin that Rose had come to expect whenever he was forcing his will over another human being. Stopping several feet away, she hooked a thumb in her gun belt. “What do you want?” she asked crossly.

  “Ye feelin’ pretty good, are ye?” Wiley asked.

  “I’m feelin’ like a she griz’ in heat, if it’s any of your dang’ business,” Rose retorted. It was an expression she’d heard Calamity Jane use once in Billings, but, as soon as the words were uttered, Rose felt an immense embarrassment. It was the whiskey talking, she knew, and damn if it wasn’t going to get her in trouble if she wasn’t careful.

  Wiley roared gleefully, causing Alice to grab the edge of the table, but she was also laughing, as was one of the other whores. Only the dark-haired woman with the bare shoulders seemed unamused. She was staring at Rose with a mixture of anger and disgust that only increased Rose’s shame.

  “By God, I believe you’re right about her,” Alice said.

  “Damn right I’m right,” Wiley replied.

  “Why don’t you go to hell?” Rose muttered.

  “You tell ’em, honey,” the dark-haired whore said.

  “Shut up, Nora,” Alice said without looking around.

  “Where ye gonna sleep tonight?” Wiley asked. “That skinny ol’ blanket of yours ain’t gonna cut this kind of cold.”

  “I figured I’d bunk out in the stable with Albert,” Rose replied cautiously, sensing a trap. “I’ll be warm enough if I burrow down in some hay.”

  “The stable’s generally crowded on nights like this,” Alice said. “There’ll be six, eight, maybe a dozen men out there. ’Course, maybe you’d like that.” She grinned smugly. “Sharing a blanket with a couple of husky drovers’d keep you warm, all right.”

  Rose grabbed the back of the chair Wiley had kicked around for her, gripping it hard as the room took an unexpected dip. Her anger had deserted her, leaving only her stubbornness for defense. “I reckon not,” she said, forcing the words. “I’ll find some place, though.”

  “Well, maybe me ’n’ Alice have solved ye problem,” Wiley said innocently. He indicated the dark-haired whore with a tip of his head. “We figured ye could bunk with Nora. My treat, of course.”

  “Treat?” Rose repeated, confused.

  Alice and the other whore laughed, and Alice said: “We cater to everyone, honey.”

  Rose took a dragging step backward, but the chair seemed welded to her hand, heavy as an anchor. She couldn’t believe that Wiley could be so cruel. Hadn’t she proved herself enough to men like him. What more did they want?

  “What about it, Rosie?” Wiley persisted. “Sure as hell ye didn’t show much interest in men on the ride down.”

  “No,” she said, barely getting the word out.

  “No?” Wiley mimed surprise. “Are ye tellin’ me ye’d rather freeze to death than sugar up with Nora?”

  “Don’t listen to him
,” Nora said angrily. “He’s just hoorawing you to see what you’ll do.”

  “You bastard,” Rose said quietly to Wiley, her lower lip trembling. “You dirty bastard.”

  Alice laughed. “Well, hell, there ain’t much you can do if they ain’t bred that way, but it was fun while it lasted.”

  It might have been fun in the beginning for Wiley, too—a joke to see how she’d react—but it was clear his mood had changed. “How much?” he asked Nora bluntly.

  Sensing the shift in Wiley’s temper, Nora kept her reply neutral. “It’s five dollars for the night.”

  “It’s five dollars for the night after midnight,” Alice corrected. “It’s ten dollars for the whole night.”

  Wiley pushed Alice off his lap, then struggled to his feet. He extracted a $10 bill from his wallet and let it flutter to the table. “The whole night then,” he said, staring at Rose as if he hated her.

  Nora’s hand darted like a bird in flight, snatching up the bill. She tucked it between her breasts, then got to her feet. “Come on,” she said to Rose.

  Rose didn’t know what to do. At that point, she was half afraid even to let go of the chair for fear she’d fall on her face.

  Reaching out, Nora placed her hand gently over Rose’s. “It’ll be all right,” she promised. “You’ll freeze to death, otherwise.”

  Rose rubbed her free hand over her face, as if wiping away cobwebs. “Oh, Lordy,” she murmured, as Nora led her toward the Silver Star’s back door.

  • • • • •

  The temperature outside must have stood close to freezing, but, with the wind, it felt even colder. Rose was glad of Nora’s hand on her own, for the night was pitch dark, without even a glimmer of moonlight penetrating the thick clouds that had rolled in with the wind. As foggy-headed as she was, Rose was certain she would’ve gotten turned around and lost her way. Fortunately they didn’t have to go far, and within a couple of minutes they were climbing the back steps of a two-story frame house. Nora shoved the door open and Rose followed her inside.

  “Whoa,” Rose breathed, backing against a wall as soon as they were inside.

  “Christ, it’s cold,” Nora said, shivering in a thin shawl she’d draped over her shoulders when she left the saloon.

  Rose remained pressed against the wall, as if afraid to let go. She’d blamed her clumsiness outside on the uneven footing of the path they’d followed from the saloon, but damn if the floor didn’t seem just as tricky.

  Nora crossed the room—a kitchen, Rose saw from the light of a bronze table lamp in the front parlor—and opened a cupboard to bring down a pair of thick china mugs. Lifting a coffee pot from the warmer on the stove, she said: “Want some. It’s still hot.”

  “I ain’t generally this foolish when I get drunk,” Rose said.

  Nora laughed. “What’s that got to do with coffee?” She poured two cups without waiting for a reply. “Besides, sometimes a good drunk is just what the doctor ordered, although I gave it up as a remedy after my first hangover.”

  “That’s probably sound advice. I hope I remember it in the morning.”

  Nora sat down at the long kitchen table with her coffee. “Grab your cup,” she said. “I ain’t your mama.”

  Rose brought her coffee to the table, then lifted the mug to her face, allowing the aromatic steam to leach some of the chill from her cheeks. She took a tentative sip and, when nothing untoward happened on the way down, tried another.

  “You want some cake?” Nora asked.

  Rose looked up. She hadn’t had cake since her wedding, and that had been burned nearly black on the bottom. “Well, maybe a smidgen,” she said.

  Fetching plate and fork, Nora cut a wedge that she set in front of Rose, then returned to her seat. “It pretty good,” she said. “It’s called Kentucky butter cake.”

  “Did you make it?”

  “No, Callie made it. She’s the colored girl who works here.”

  “Where’s ‘here’?” Rose asked, paring off a bite with her fork. As her eyes adjusted to the dimness, she was able to make out what looked like a well-put-together kitchen. Visible in the parlor was a plushly upholstered chair with doilies on the arms and an iron and glass ash-stand at its side. A gilt-framed picture of a fat tabby cat playing with a ball of yarn hung on the wall behind it. The wallpaper was a light, powdery blue, with little bouquets of flocked periwinkles running through it vertically. On the floor, a corner of a heavy Oriental rug extended under the chair, covering all but the outer rim of polished hardwood.

  “Alice’s,” Nora said flatly. “It’s a parlor house, but everyone calls it Alice’s.”

  Rose nodded. A parlor house was basically a polite way of saying whorehouse, although it generally implied a better class of working girl.

  “Alice. Is that Wiley’s friend at the Silver Star?”

  “Uhn-huh. She’s part owner. So is Tom, but the real money comes from some well-heeled cattleman who’s already gone back to New York for the winter. They say he’s got a wife back there who’s scared shitless of horses and wild Indians, and has never been west of the Hudson River.” Her lips curled in disgust. “I consider such a woman a bigger whore than I am.”

  Rose didn’t know how to respond to such blunt talk. Although she used coarse language herself on occasion, it made her uncomfortable to hear it from another woman. It upset her notion of the way people—city people, in particular—lived and acted. Then she shoved the forkful of cake into her mouth and all thoughts of urban propriety vanished like a puff of smoke. The cake tasted like a sweet piece of heaven on her tongue, rich with butter and topped with a dark sauce that reminded her of crunchy molasses. “Umm, this is good,” she mumbled.

  Nora watched her curiously for several seconds, then said: “Who are you, and what are you doing riding with a saddle sore like Wiley Collins?”

  Rose swallowed audibly, taken by surprise. “I’m Rose Edwards. My place got burned out and Wiley and Shorty was the first ones to come by, so I just throwed in with them for a spell. It ain’t no big deal.”

  “Wiley told me about your place. He told me about your man, too. He sounded no-account, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

  Rose felt a moment’s vexation at Wiley for having spoken of things she might not have wanted spread around. The truth was, it embarrassed her that she’d lost her home and husband to vigilantes. She felt it reflected poorly on her character.

  “He was just a man, my husband,” she said finally. “I hardly knew him.” Which was accurate enough to cause her a feeling of regret. She lifted another forkful of butter cake to her mouth but the taste had gone flat, thinking of Muggy.

  “That says a bunch,” Nora agreed. “I had a man turn out bad, too. I was young and foolish, not even fifteen years old, and that rotten piece of meat was thirty if he was a day. We never married, although I thought we were going to. Then one day he caught a train for Saint Louis and I never saw him again.” She laughed. “It bothered me for the longest time that he never said good-bye. Damn, I was dumb.”

  “I never got a chance to say good-bye to Muggy, either,” Rose said.

  “Did you love him?”

  She thought about it for a minute. “Yeah, maybe, at first.” She shrugged. “I was awful wet behind the ears back then.”

  “Weren’t we all. But you hadn’t ought to sell yourself short by riding with Collins now. We all make mistakes. That’s no reason to get yourself shot.”

  “Shot?”

  “Happens to all his partners sooner or later. All except Tibbs. Those two lead charmed lives.”

  “Wiley and Shorty?”

  “First it was Nick Janke got himself killed, then Jimmy Frakes, and both of them damn’ good boys. It seems like someone else is always taking a bullet meant for Wiley Collins.”

  “How’d you hear about Jimmy?”

  “Wil
ey talks too much, even when he ain’t drunk.” It was clear Nora didn’t think much of either Wiley or Shorty.

  “He must’ve been talkin’ a blue streak tonight,” Rose said irritably. Here was another topic she felt was inappropriate to discuss, at least until someone notified Jimmy’s family. Then her curiosity got the better of her. “Who’s Nick Janke?” she asked.

  “Just a boy, not much older than Jimmy. Nick had been riding with Wiley and Shorty for a couple of months when three men tried to hold up a Deadwood stagecoach. The messenger cut loose with his shotgun. When it was over, he’d been shot in the jaw and one of the hold-up men was dead. It was Nick he’d killed.”

  “That don’t hardly sound like Shorty,” Rose said uncomfortably.

  “I don’t know who else was there. I just know Nick rode with Collins and Tibbs for a while, then got himself killed about the same time those two split up.”

  “Well, road agentin’ is a dirty business, and it don’t sound like something Shorty’d do, is all I’m sayin’. It’s one thing to throw a long rope now and again, like they do, but I don’t believe Shorty would sink so low as to rob a coach.”

  “Some would say throwing a long rope is pretty low,” Nora replied. “There was a time when an established outfit might turn its back to a little rustling to see some hard-working drover get a start, but those days are gone. Cattle is a big business now, and businessmen … especially those from back East or working for some syndicate out of England or Scotland or Germany … they don’t see things the same way you or I might. Besides, Wiley Collins never threw a rope with any intention of starting his own outfit. It’s always been fast money for him. Is that worth risking your life for? Wiley Collins’s greed?”

  It wasn’t, and all the more so if Wiley liked to throw down on a stage from time to time. She supposed Nora was right about his rustling, too, although she had no illusions as to why she continued to ride with him. She did it because of Shorty, pure and simple. Well, maybe not so simple, she amended to herself.