The Poacher's Daughter

by Michael Zimmer

  “Rose ….”

  “Naw, I’m goin’.” She paused, one hand on the latch. “But listen, I’m happy for you, Nora. For you and Gene both. All right?”

  • • • • •

  For the next several weeks the weather remained dry but bitterly cold, like a blue Arctic cap pulled over the land. Although Rose and Nora continued to work outside every day, cutting firewood and nursing calves—two more newborns had joined the ranks of the A-Bar-E herd—the unforgiving temperatures were starting to worry Rose.

  They’d fared well during the summer, having only a small herd that had been brought in late, but Rose knew most of the cattle ranges were suffering badly after last summer’s drought. For several years now, the best ranges had been increasingly overgrazed by the big ranchers, their vision of the whole blinded by a high market value on beef sold by the head, rather than the pound. Heaping insult upon injury were the prairie fires that had ravaged the vast grasslands, while many of the water holes and small creeks had dried up by August. For the majority of cattlemen, Rose knew, it had been a brutal summer; she doubted if many of them could afford an equally harsh winter.

  Still, not even their concern over the long freeze could distract them from the memory of Frank Caldwell’s words. The gunman’s intimation that he and Ostermann would visit the A-Bar-E sometime before Christmas had been taken seriously by the women, and, as the holiday neared, they found their gazes turning more and more to the north, the direction from which they expected the Flying Egg owner and his hired shootist to appear.

  It snowed again in December, then, after another brief cold spell, a blizzard swept down out of the Arctic regions with winds that howled like demons. When the storm blew itself out three days later, Rose and Nora rode out to check on the cattle. They found one of the calves dead—a little black and white heifer, already partially devoured by wolves—but the rest of the herd had come through unscathed. To their chagrin, they found an inordinate number of Egg cattle mixed in with their own stock.

  Nora, on Albert, eased over as close to Rose’s ornery-tempered buckskin as she dared. Her eyes, between the muffler wrapped around the lower portion of her face and the bill of a red-plaid hunter’s cap, looked like twin coals of rage. “They aren’t even trying to keep their cows off our land anymore!”

  “So I noticed,” Rose said.

  “How long do we put up with this?”

  “I don’t know.” Rose could sense Nora’s deepening frustration, and, to an extent, she shared it. But she’d done an awful lot of tossing and turning in her bunk the past few weeks, and still hadn’t come up with a reasonable response, something that wouldn’t give Ostermann the excuse he needed to sic his attorneys on them. Or worse, Caldwell.

  “The law belongs to them that pays for it, I reckon,” Rose said, after a pause.

  “And justice takes a hind teat?”

  “Generally speakin’, yeah.”

  With a curse, Nora hauled Albert around roughly, kicking him into a gallop for the cabin. Rose watched until horse and rider had grown small in the distance, then guided the buckskin into the mass of cattle to begin weeding out the Flying Egg stock. Nearly an hour passed before Nora returned. Rose was crowding a brindled Egg cow off to one side when she heard the pounding of Albert’s hoofs. Glancing around, Rose saw Nora approaching with her shotgun balanced across the saddle in front of her. Pulling up, she shook the double-barreled Remington toward Rose. “It’s time we fought back,” she declared.

  “What you got in mind is likely gonna start a range war.”

  “What other way is there when the law chooses sides. This is our home, Rose, and Ostermann has more cows grazing on it than we do. I don’t want a war, but I won’t let him take this place without a fight, and that’s just what he’ll do if we don’t stand up to him. He’ll nibble away at our land and our patience until we don’t have anything left.”

  Taking a deep breath, Rose lifted her gaze to the distant ridge line of the Bull Mountains. Then she lowered her eyes and straightened in the saddle, reaching back to touch the Smith &Wesson. “It’s them,” she said flatly.

  Nora turned to look. A long carriage pulled by four matching sorrels was moving swiftly toward them. The car was flanked by several outriders, and Rose had little doubt that one of them would be Frank Caldwell, eager to throw his weight behind whatever offer Ostermann made.

  The carriage and riders were a quarter of a mile away and closing rapidly. Casually loosening the Smith & Wesson in its holster, Rose said: “I hope that shotgun’s loaded.”

  “It isn’t,” Nora replied guiltily. She started to reach for the pommel bag where she carried her shells, but Rose stopped her.

  “They’re too close. It might make ’em churlish if they saw you poppin’ shells into your scatter-gun. Best we can do is see can we bluff ’em. They ain’t likely to start anything today.”

  Men like Caldwell, Rose knew, didn’t function well in daylight, when others might unexpectedly happen upon their skullduggery. She figured Ostermann’s presence would also subdue the gunman’s conduct, if it were indeed the Fifth Earl of Brackenridge’s third son riding in that carriage. Men like Howard Ostermann might be cruel and ruthless, but they generally liked to be far away when the work got bloody.

  Within minutes the carriage was braking to a halt in front of them, its bright yellow wheels crunching loudly through the wind-sculpted snow. The carriage was a closed-bodied, goose-neck affair with etched glass in its windows and polished brass running lamps mounted on either side of the driver’s box for night driving. Camping gear, including a small stove and a tent with collapsible metal poles, was strapped to the car’s roof in concession to the long, empty miles separating the Flying Egg headquarters from the A-Bar-E range. The driver sat in the middle of a button-tucked, patent-leather seat on the outside, bundled in a buffalo-hide coat.

  Frank Caldwell was riding a well-put-together chestnut. Four other men rode with him, all of them strangers. The five lined up with almost military-like precision between the women and the coach, with Caldwell in the center. It was Caldwell who spoke first. Smirking, he said to Rose: “I didn’t figure you’d last long in a skirt.”

  “I wouldn’t let that concern you overmuch.”

  Glancing at Nora, he allowed a lazy smile to tilt one corner of his mouth. “You must be the little whore.”

  “Wait a minute,” Nora said. “I’ve heard of you. You’re Frank Caldwell, the one the girls call Little Stub-Horn.”

  One of Caldwell’s men snickered and Rose tensed up to reach for her pistol, but then the nearside car door sprang open and a giant gray hat poked out into the sunlight.

  Although Rose had never met Ostermann in the flesh, she’d observed enough English fops around southeastern Montana to have a fair idea of what to expect. Howard Ostermann was hardly a disappointment. He stood about five-foot-six and was lean as a longhorn, save for a little pot gut that even a full-length camel-hair coat couldn’t hide. He had dark, curly hair, a thin mustache, bushy eyebrows, and wore wire-rimmed glasses over eyes the color of Yellowstone mud. His gauntleted gloves were brain-tanned doeskin, soft as chamois and decorated with Crow beadwork, and his wide-brimmed hat could have shaded a small family, had a small family been handy and in need of shading.

  Ostermann paused dramatically on the snowy ground beside the carriage’s open door, one booted foot propped on the brass step, his head tipped back to allow him a view of the women without interference from his hat. Then, tugging proudly on his ornamented gloves, he strode briskly forward. The two men on Caldwell’s right obediently side-stepped their horses out of the way, offering Ostermann a straight shot. The efficiency of the move caught Rose’s attention, and she whistled.

  “That,” she said emphatically to Caldwell, “was some for fancy. Do them boys of yours know any other tricks, or is scootin’ out of the boss’ way their only talent?”

>   Although Caldwell declined a reply, Ostermann seemed amused. “Superlative,” the Egg owner gushed, “simply superlative. I was told you had a sharp wit. To be quite honest, I find a cutting intellect refreshing in this Boeotian country.” He came forward, holding out his hand. “I am Howard Ostermann, of the Crooked Bar-O-Bar. You must be Rose Edwards.”

  Rose stared at Ostermann’s outstretched hand for a long time before reluctantly accepting it. Inclining her head to the side, she said: “This here’s Nora Alder. She’s half owner of the A-Bar-E.”

  “Miss Alder,” Ostermann said, taking Nora’s hand graciously. Stepping back, he broadened his smile. “It is indeed a pleasure to meet you both. I’ve heard so much about you, and you especially, Miss Rose of Yellowstone. You’re something of a frontier luminary, I’m told.”

  “It’s Missus,” Rose corrected. “I’m a widow, and I don’t hold much with that Yellowstone stuff.”

  Ostermann laughed heartily. “Ah, but sometimes our reputations do precede us, do they not. Based on half-truths and groundless fears, as unflattering as they are inaccurate. Take my own situation, for example. The local populace seems to have created an image of me as a monster who breathes fire and eats children. They are convinced my intentions are dishonorable, that I wish to re-create the feudal lifestyle of my ancestral homeland. Yet nothing could be further from the truth. If I am guilty of anything, it is of being a competent businessman, in possession of skills I’ve cultivated every bit as diligently as Mister Caldwell does his as a shootist. The fact that my father funded my education, or has the good sense to offer monetary assistance from time to time on my own sound recommendations, lessens my accomplishments not one whit.

  “Yet above that, and I do recognize the immodesty this must imply, I truly believe I have been blessed by the Lord’s own hand with an uncanny ability to see into the future. Not as a soothsayer, but as a visionary. I see a future as it might be, and the emphasis on might is notable here, Missus Edwards, because if left in the hands of the insipid, that vision quickly becomes lost. I see possibilities the common man, with his limited economic opportunities and a mind stunted by labor and a lack of formal education, is incapable of seeing.”

  He shifted position, taking a stance that might have better suited an actor or politician, but which Rose feared would be lost on his present audience, most of it half frozen and clearly bored, having in all probability heard this recital many times before.

  “I see a Montana dotted with cities, Missus Edwards. Can you see that?” Here, Ostermann flung an arm toward the distant horizon, causing everyone to look in that direction. “I see a skyline defined not by emptiness, but by the smokestacks of factories supplying goods to a worldwide market. I see a state where a territory now exists, hills populated with the homes of honest employees rather than degenerate natives riddled with lice and disease. The world, Missus Edwards, not Montana, but the world is in the midst of an industrial revolution that will redirect the evolution of mankind, and not a dozen people in this entire territory can understand that. Cattle. Posh. Cattle are not the future of this land, merely its genesis. Cattle to feed the worker, of course. Wool from the backs of sheep to clothe them, certainly. But at its center, at its very heart, the clanging gears and spinning belts of industry. That, Missus Edwards, is the true future of this grand but currently desolate territory. Mechanical industry.”

  He looked at Rose and smiled, and for a moment she was afraid he was going to bow, or that someone might applaud. But only silence—deep and disturbingly charged—greeted the conclusion of Howard Ostermann’s monologue.

  “Does that surprise you, Missus Edwards?” he asked after a moment. “A future so unlike the one you must have envisioned. Or have you ever considered the future, and by that I mean the forward development of society?”

  But it wasn’t Rose who answered him. It was Nora. “I lived in Chicago, Mister Ostermann. I saw the future you’re talking about. The air there was black with smoke from the factories. It left a gritty taste in my mouth day and night. People died of it. Not the rich. They lived outside the slums. But the poor, the men, women, and children whose backs your factories were built on.”

  Ostermann’s smile remained undamaged. “Small-mindedness, Miss Alder, though hardly a surprise from a prostitute. Please, take no offense at my dismissal. I do appreciate the necessity of the oldest profession, I just don’t consider a whore’s opinion pertinent.” He clapped his hands as if to call them to attention. “Now then, shall we proceed. Missus Edwards, you have approximately six hundred and forty acres under a somewhat dubious title filed in Bozeman in Eighteen Eighty-One. While I’m confident a skilled attorney could render such a document invalid, I would prefer an outright purchase. Since I’m equally certain you are both aware that even twice that acreage would be insufficient to maintain a profitable cattle station in such a semi-arid region as southeastern Montana, I can only assume your recent acquisition of shorthorns is a ploy to escalate your asking price.”

  Ostermann’s smile widened, so smugly self-righteous, Rose wanted to laugh.

  “Does that surprise you, Missus Edwards, that I would see through your little charade so easily. I can assure you, the minds of most men … and dare I include women? … are as easily read to me as the London Times. But I digress. I do recognize the value of your property, and especially its water, and I’m willing to pay handsomely. Does, say, a thousand dollars pique your interest. I should think that it would.”

  Rose glanced at Caldwell but the gunman refused to meet her eyes. He did smile, though, acknowledging Ostermann’s presumptuousness, as well as her own dangerous predicament.

  Tugging impatiently on his gloves, Ostermann awaited her reply. Apparently he was expecting it immediately.

  Looking at Nora and noting the stubborn set of her jaw, Rose suddenly grinned. “I reckon we’ll hang and rattle a while,” she told the Egg owner.

  “We’ll hang until hell freezes over,” Nora added defiantly.

  The cocksure smile left Ostermann’s face. “I see. I was told you were independent. Apparently you fancy yourself something of a businesswoman, as well. Let me assure you, such tactics could cost you more than you wish to lose. You know as well as I that men of Mister Caldwell’s abilities are a necessary tool in this environment, but I suspect you also realize that the real power lies with those of us who have the means to … shall we say, coax the law into a proper direction. I daresay I could have title to your property inside of three months if I so choose, and for much less than what I’ve offered here today.”

  “You can’t just take our land,” Nora said angrily. “What right do you have to come here and threaten us like this?”

  Ostermann looked genuinely puzzled. “I need your land,” he began vaguely, then shrugged and added: “I want it.”

  Rose waited for him to elaborate, but it appeared that Ostermann had said all he was going to say. At his side, Caldwell guffawed. “It’s a hell of a note, ain’t it?” he said to Rose.

  Ostermann half turned to hold up a gloved hand. His gaze remained on Nora and Rose, shifting rhythmically between the two. After nearly a full minute, he said: “Surely you realize the futility of refusal. You, Missus Edwards, of all people. While I know nothing personally of the efforts some men have made to eradicate the territory’s lawless element, haven’t you at least heard … rumors … of your own position within that effort?”

  “I ain’t a part of that crowd no more. All I want is to go about my business without no trouble.”

  “I’m afraid that won’t be possible.”

  Rose sighed. “Do you love this land, Mister Ostermann?”

  “Love it?” He looked around as if he’d heard a strange noise. “You cannot love an inanimate object, Missus Edwards, no more than you can love your horse.”

  “Oh, but I do.” She gestured toward Nora’s mount. “That there’s Albert. I consider him one o
f the finest friends I’ve ever had, and there ain’t much I wouldn’t do for him. I feel the same about this land. This is my home, Mister Ostermann, and you’re tryin’ to take it away from me. I don’t cotton to that.”

  “Don’t be preposterous,” Ostermann said. “Such theatrics won’t work on me, Missus Edwards.”

  “Then I reckon this here palaver is finished,” Rose said, gathering her reins. “Mister Ostermann, we’ve been more’n lenient with your cattle comin’ onto our range, but we don’t intend to ignore the problem forever. If you want to run cows south of the Bull Mountains, you’re gonna have to establish some kind of line camp where your boys can keep an eye on ’em, keep ’em off our grass.”

  A tic jumped in Ostermann’s cheek. “That will not be a continuing problem, Missus Edwards.” He walked stiffly to the carriage, there to pause with one foot on the brass step that would take him inside. “We will not meet again. Any further negotiation will be through my agents.”

  “Good-bye, Mister Ostermann,” Rose said calmly.

  With a curt nod, Howard Ostermann disappeared inside his coach. Five minutes later the rig was little more than a black smudge against the white landscape, rolling swiftly away with Caldwell and his men loping in its wake.

  Chapter

  26

  Christmas dawned clear but frigid. Even in the wan light before sunup, Rose could see the gray fog of her breath with every sleepy exhalation. She remained in bed until the first bright rays of the new day tinted the ice on the window glass, then threw her blankets back and quickly dressed.

  Nora was still asleep in her own bunk across the room when Rose slipped outside to care for the stock. She turned the mules and Albert loose for the day, then fetched hay and broke ice in the water trough for the buckskin, which she kept penned. Tomorrow she’d switch the rotation so that the buckskin could graze loose while Albert or one of the mules remained in the corral.