The Poacher's Daughter

by Michael Zimmer

  “I didn’t think you was awake,” Rose confessed.

  “I’ve been waiting for you.”

  “Damn,” she said again.

  “It was fairly stupid of you to think I wouldn’t recognize you on the street. There aren’t that many women running around Montana in pants.”

  She tried to pull back, but he tapped her cheek warningly with the tip of his blade. “No, you stay close.”

  “It ain’t you I’m after, if that means anything. It’s your partners I’m wantin’.”

  “I don’t have any partners.”

  Rose’s calm evaporated in a blaze of anger. Leaning forward, she shoved the Smith & Wesson’s muzzle hard against the half-breed’s chest, and in the unexpectedness of the move, she was able to draw the hammer back to full cock. “I know you got partners,” she said. “I followed ’em up here from my place on the Yellowstone.”

  Although it was obvious he knew he’d lost his advantage, he met her gaze evenly. “That was a neat trick, coming toward me instead of away,” he said. “I didn’t expect it.”

  “Where are they. And I want ’em both.”

  “Go to hell.”

  “I’ll send you to hell if you don’t answer my question.”

  “Do that,” the half-breed taunted, nonchalantly resheathing his knife. “At least it’ll be dry there.”

  Rose stepped back, her knuckles white as she leveled the Smith & Wesson on his forehead. “I ain’t gonna ask you again.”

  Even then he refused a reply. She shifted the pistol to remind him it was there, but he wouldn’t be intimidated. He returned her gaze without malice, a cocky half smile perched on his lips.

  “Son-of-a-bitch,” she grated, wheeling and stalking away. Before she could turn back a flash of steel sped past her face, followed by the thud of metal striking wood. She spun on her heels, thrusting the Smith & Wesson before her, but the half-breed was sitting calmly on the wagon’s tailgate with both hands in plain sight.

  “It was stupid of you to turn your back on me, too,” he said.

  “It was stupid of you to give up your knife,” she countered. Glancing behind her, she saw the blade’s tip buried at least an inch into the grub box of the next wagon, its rosewood handle still quivering. Straightening, she lowered the Smith & Wesson’s hammer. “Maybe it was foolish,” she allowed. “I ain’t been thinkin’ clearly of late.”

  “That’s not much of an excuse. I could have as easily put that blade in your heart. Skin isn’t nearly as hard to pierce as oak. Besides, I have a pistol, too.” He moved his blanket aside to reveal a holstered revolver within easy reach. “I could have already shot you three or four times tonight.”

  “All right,” Rose said testily. “You’ve made your point. Now what?”

  “Larson Web.”

  Her pulse quickened. “What about him?”

  “You want him and Garcia. So do I, and I know where they are. I want to make a deal.”

  “What kind of deal?”

  “Food and bullets for information.”

  “Food and bullets?”

  “I’m out of both.”

  She looked doubtful. “How’d that happen?”

  “I lost my outfit crossing the Missouri on the ice last spring. The damned river swallowed everything I owned except my knife and pistol and the clothes on my back. It took a good saddle horse and a pack horse and a winter’s catch of pelts. I’ve been shearing sheep ever since, but that’s no work for a proud Métis, so I quit. Begging hand-outs ain’t much of a life, either.”

  “What do you know about Garcia and Web?”

  “I know they came into town a couple of days ago and did some quiet bragging. Not to everyone, but to me, since they think I’m a friend. They told me about a woman down on the Yellowstone. Know her?”

  “Nora?” Rose asked tonelessly.

  “They didn’t mention a name, but Garcia said it was you he was wanting. If they hadn’t been feeling flighty about some posse nearby, they probably would’ve waited.”

  “Where are they now?”

  “They left Fort Benton yesterday.”

  “Where’d they go?”

  He shook his head. “For cartridges and food and your word that I get to kill Web.”

  “Uhn-uh, I want ’em both.”

  “Then go make a deal with the devil,” he said indifferently.

  “I got my reasons. It ain’t nothin’ personal against you.”

  “I have my reasons, too. Besides, Web didn’t touch your friend. That was Garcia and another man.”

  Rose’s grip tightened on the Smith & Wesson. “You’re lyin’, ’breed. Web was your friend. So was Garcia. For all I know, you was the third man. You’re tryin’ to trick me into followin’ you out of town so’s you can cut my throat.”

  “Web killed my brother,” he returned matter-of-factly. “A couple of years ago, right after you and the Collins gang shot your way out of Two-Hats’s. Web was drunk and got the idea Remon was going to pull down on him, but he wasn’t. He was sitting at a table adjusting his holster so that his pistol wouldn’t dig into his ribs. He didn’t even know what Web was up to when he pulled his gun.”

  “It don’t savvy that you’re tellin’ the truth,” Rose said guardedly. “If that old man killed my brother, I’d’ve shot him right there.”

  “There wasn’t much I could do without getting myself killed in the process. Web and Caldwell were close, and that damn’ Mexican was thrown into the pot, too. I took my brother home to bury. When I got back, they’d disappeared. I hunted for them for a while, then gave up. I’d been trapping the Milk River country until I lost my outfit this spring.”

  “Gol-dang it, are you lyin’ to me, ’breed?”

  “Am I?”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Jacques.”

  “Jacques what?”

  “Jacques is all you need to know.”

  “Bastard. Why didn’t you shoot Web the other day, if you wanted to so bad?”

  “It was in a trading post … a white man’s trading post.”

  “And Garcia just up and told you everything they’d done, in front of the trader and everyone?”

  “Web was drinking alone at the counter and still sober. Garcia was drunk. Not so drunk he would talk to just anyone, but he still said more than he should have. We were sitting alone at a table in the corner where no one could overhear us.”

  Rose’s shoulders slumped. “Does the old man know you’re after him?”

  “I don’t think so. I don’t think he even knows Remon was my brother. He thought we were friends, but I guess he doesn’t think a Métis would kill to avenge a friend. Or maybe he doesn’t care. He’s a crazy old coot.”

  Although Rose still harbored plenty of doubts, she let the Smith & Wesson’s muzzle dip toward the floor. Jacques slid off the tailgate and walked over until he was standing only inches away. Then he reached over her shoulder and jerked the buffalo knife free from the wagon’s grub box.

  “I know where they went,” he said, his voice barely a whisper, his breath warm on her face. “I want Web, but I need an outfit. How badly do you want Garcia?”

  “What about a horse?”

  “I have a horse. I need cartridges and food.”

  Rose holstered the Smith & Wesson. “All right, but I get Garcia.”

  “As long as it’s understood that I kill Web.”

  It was, and, as soon as Rose told him so, they shook hands on the deal.

  Chapter

  34

  The rain had stopped by the time Rose led Albert outside the next morning. The sky was pale but clear in the dawn’s light, and a light frost whiskered the iron bands on the water barrel.

  Jacques waited nearby with a gray gelding that was the sorriest excuse for a horse Rose had ever seen, outside o
f a few dead ones. It was small and ewe-necked and had a long, ugly scar across its chest, the skin puffy and without hair. Proud flesh, her pap had always called such poorly healed injuries. Although it didn’t necessarily handicap an animal’s performance, it almost always lowered its value to a point where a seller practically had to give the animal away. That must have been a godsend for Jacques, Rose reflected as she eyed the balance of his broken-down outfit. Still, having been poor most of her own life, she wasn’t in any mood to lavish out sympathy.

  “I hope we ain’t got far to go,” she said scornfully. “I ain’t lettin’ that jug-headed gray ride behind me on Albert, I don’t care how wore-out it gets.”

  “This horse will be walking strong when that ancient nag of yours is sucking wind on its knees,” Jacques retorted mildly.

  Rose shook her head. “I had me a jack rabbit pony like that once. I was gonna put it in the kettle for a stew, but the dang’ thing saved my life a couple of months ago.”

  “That can make a horse harder to eat,” Jacques agreed. “I had a fine bay mare a few years back that brought me out of the Peace River country in the middle of a bad winter. The day I shot that horse and carved a steak out of her hip was one of the saddest of my life.” He swung into the saddle, and Rose smiled in spite of herself.

  They went to I.G. Baker’s first and outfitted for the journey ahead. Then Jacques led her down the Mullan Road toward Helena. At first Rose thought Web and Garcia must have doubled back, but as soon as she and Jacques topped out on the plateau above town, Jacques abandoned the well-graded former military artery to angle northwest across the high plains. There was a road of sorts under them here, too, though rutted and winding.

  “It’s a part of the Whoop-Up Trail,” Jacques explained, and Rose felt a thrill of excitement. She’d heard of the Whoop-Up all her life, that nebulous, spidery route over which illegal furs and robes were smuggled south out of Canada, while whiskey and other contraband went north to stimulate the trade. This was her first time on it, however. In all his years hunting and trading out of Fort Benton, her pap had always ranged south of the Missouri, down into the Big Lonesome country.

  Although it had been frosty early on and snowing only yesterday, the temperature climbed steadily. By noon it was not only warm, but humid after all the rain. Rose’s shirt stuck to the flesh along her ribs, and the deer flies were troublesome for such an open country. She kept her eyes on the worn trace created by years of surreptitious wagon traffic, but didn’t see anything that indicated the road had been used recently.

  “Are you sure they went this way?” she asked Jacques that afternoon. They were squatted on their shanks beside the trail, eating a snack of cold biscuits and raw bacon while their horses grazed nearby.

  “They went north,” he replied absently.

  “North covers a lot of territory,” she reminded him.

  Jacques shrugged. He’d been that way ever since they turned onto the Whoop-Up, as if his thoughts were elsewhere. Although Rose told herself it didn’t matter, it still annoyed her. She could understand if he didn’t trust her enough to tell her where they were headed, but she didn’t see any reason for his prolonged silences. She’d spent too many years alone not to appreciate a lively conversation when the opportunity presented itself. She was tempted to broach the quiet several times, but her own natural stubbornness eventually won out, and she rode through the afternoon without a word.

  Toward nightfall they came to a grove of box elder trees shading a narrow creek and unsaddled their horses. Rose kindled a fire while Jacques stood nearby looking surly. She was still nursing the flames with smaller pieces when he tossed a sack on the ground beside her.

  “There’s flour in there,” he said brusquely. “Fix some squaw bread.” He yanked her rifle from its scabbard. “I’m going hunting for some real meat. Bacon ain’t fit for pilgrims.”

  Rose surged to her feet. “Put that rifle back,” she snapped. “And you can fix your own damn’ biscuits. I ain’t your mam.”

  Jacques gave her a dismissing look. “You’re the woman, ain’t you?” He started to walk away.

  Rose’s anger boiled over in a flash. Taking a running kick, she caught the sack perfectly with her square-toed boot, lifting it in an arc to slam against Jacques’s shoulder. He whirled with a snarl, but Rose had already palmed her Smith & Wesson. She pointed it at him with her thumb on the hammer, her index finger curled tautly over the trigger.

  “Cook that god-damned bread yourself, you two-bit son-of-a-bitch.”

  “Someone should have taught you some manners when you were a filly,” Jacques growled. “I’d do it myself if I had a club.”

  Rose cocked the Smith & Wesson. “There ought to be a club somewhere amongst these trees,” she replied coolly. “Why don’t you go find one, then see how far you get tryin’ to teach me your manners?”

  For a long moment, Jacques didn’t say anything. Then he straightened, letting the Sharps hang loosely in his hands. “I think you’d shoot me, Rose of Yellowstone,” he said.

  “I’m tired,” she allowed, “and I been pushed hard of late.”She lowered the Smith & Wesson’s hammer. “And you’re right, I’d have shot you. Now put the damn’ rifle back and fetch some more wood. I’ll cook supper tonight, but, by dang, you can fix it tomorrow.”

  • • • • •

  Leaning forward in her saddle, Rose scowled at the hard ground, but no matter how intently she stared, all she could make out was a tiny scuff mark in the dirt.

  “How do you know it ain’t them?” she asked.

  “It just isn’t.”

  “It’s going in the same direction,” she bluffed.

  “No, it’s not. Besides, Web and Garcia were riding geldings, one of them with a bent nail in its shoe. This track was made by a mare with good shoes. She’s dropped a few foals in her time, too.”

  “How would you know that?”

  “Mares are wider in their hips, so they can birth more easily,” he replied as if speaking to a very young child. “A stallion, or even a gelding, is wider up front, for fighting. Like a man’s shoulders are usually wider than a woman’s, and a woman’s hips are usually broader than a man’s. Most grass-eaters will track the same way, the rear hoofs stepping on top of the tracks left by the front hoofs, so that the print on top is either to the inside or the outside of the print under it, depending on the sex.”

  “Then where the hell are the tracks?”

  Jacques laughed. “Under your nose, White Eyes. Someday I’ll show you how to see them.”

  “I don’t reckon that’ll be necessary,” Rose replied tartly. “And don’t go gettin’ no notions for someday. After I kill Garcia, I aim to go back south and find the scoundrel that helped him and Web.”

  “He was Indian,” Jacques said casually, reining away. “Garcia called him Pine Tree.”

  “Pine Tree!” Rose jogged Albert alongside Jacques’s gray. “Pine Tree Manning?”

  “What?”

  “Did Garcia call him Manning?”

  “He called him Pine Tree.”

  Taking a deep breath, Rose said: “Well, I don’t suppose it matters. There can’t be that many roosters runnin’ around with a handle like Pine Tree, white or red.”

  “Who’s Manning?” Jacques asked.

  Shorty’s voice whispered in her ear from the alley beside Broadwater and Hubbells, in Miles City: Pine Tree’s a Hill Country Texican, and they say he’s handy with that Marlin rifle.

  “Just a man,” Rose replied, a faraway look coming into her eyes. “Just another god-damn’ man.”

  • • • • •

  Rose and Jacques became friends, in spite of their best efforts not to. Jacques was an ex–buffalo runner who’d learned the trade hunting for Hudson’s Bay Company. His mother was a Turtle Mountain Chippewa, his father a Scotsman who’d died while Jacques was still a boy.
Jacques had received a rudimentary education at a mission school in Winnipeg, but he’d been on his own since he was fourteen. His brother Remon—a half-brother, actually—had found him about five years ago, and the two had thrown in together. The rest Rose already knew, more or less.

  Jacques had garnered a lot of stories in his ramblings, but the ones Rose liked best were those he told about the Chippewas—their culture and religion, family and tribal tales passed down through the generations. During the day he would show her a few tricks about tracking—how to interpret signs she would have dismissed as meaningless beforehand, how to see what was there, plain as day, when viewed with the proper knowledge.

  For her part, Rose told Jacques of growing up along the mining frontier of western Montana, and what she knew about the infamous Plummer gang that had, for the most part, all been hanged while she was still a girl. She also showed him a few of the gun tricks Sam Matthews had taught her—the behind-the-back flip, the border shift, and the road agent spin.

  They crossed the border into Canada a couple of days later. Not anticipating it, Rose didn’t know what to think when she spied a pile of rocks about three feet high, with a flat iron stake poking up from the middle. Riding over, she saw the words UNITED STATES embossed on the near side, CANADA on the other.

  “What were you expecting?” Jacques asked, watching her curiously. “A red, white, and blue line painted across the prairie?”

  “I wasn’t expectin’ nothin’,” she admitted, “let alone a post stickin’ up in the middle of nowhere.” Far to the east she could see another cairn and stake. “Is it like that all the way across?”

  “As far as I know.”

  She gigged her horse over the line, then whoaed. “Now I’m in a foreign country,” she announced, looking left, then right. After a pause, she added: “I would have expected more.”

  “It ain’t no more thrilling going the other way,” Jacques replied, heeling his gray across the boundary after her.