“You have come far, Sunflower Girl. For several moons now my people have heard of your troubles with the spotted buffalo men who wish to drive you from your land, as the Long Knives drove the Lakota from theirs. But your battles were fought on the Elk River, that which the whites call the Yellowstone. Now you are here, and I am curious.”
Briefly Rose told him about the tall rifleman known as Pine Tree Manning, of what he’d done, and her wish to kill him for it. No one appeared surprised or upset. Retribution was a strong thread within the fabric of Lakota society, understood and accepted. But Old Man Bull had other questions, and Rose soon came to realize that he knew more about Western policies than she would have suspected.
Although he queried her further about Manning and her problems with the cattlemen, he quickly moved on to more germane matters, those that might eventually affect his own people. He wanted to know especially about drift fences, several of which were going up around the reservation. He understood what they were, but seemed unable to grasp the logic behind them. After a time, Rose began to suspect he was searching for a deeper meaning, one that didn’t exist on such a fundamental issue as profit and loss. She could sense his genuine fear, though, when he spoke of the consequences of partitioning off the land as if it were pieces of butchered venison that could be divvied out among friends.
Finally they were finished. If Old Man Bull’s curiosity hadn’t been sated, he’d at least grown weary of the process. Before leaving he repeated Little Swan’s promise that she would be safe in Yellow Rock Woman’s lodge for the night.
“Tomorrow the colonel’s spies will fly to him like sparrows with the news that the white warrior woman has come to the land of the Lakota, but these spies have assured me this knowledge will not reach the colonel’s ears until the sun rises. With their words, I make this promise.”
“I thank you and Yellow Rock Woman and Little Swan, and all those who’ve helped me here tonight,” Rose said solemnly. “But know, also, that I don’t intend to bring trouble to your village. Tomorrow, with the sun’s first light, I’ll be on my way.”
Old Man Bull nodded graciously, but Rose thought she detected a trace of relief in his expression. She didn’t blame him. The Indian wars were still fresh in the minds of too many people, both red and white. Harboring someone of her reputation would not bode well in the eyes of the Fort Peck sub-agent.
Pushing to his feet, Old Man Bull said: “I wish you success in your hunt, daughter, for in your victory there is hope for all.”
“And in my failure?”
He smiled gently. “In your failure only a little will be lost. It is in the failure of those who love something but will not fight for it that the greatest loss occurs. You have battled well, and in that you have won, so that it does not matter if in the end you lose.”
Rose was still mulling that one over long after the old chief had gone. It was only later, in her blankets staring at the dying embers of the fire, that she realized tears were trickling down her cheeks.
Chapter
42
The sorrel was waiting outside Yellow Rock Woman’s lodge the next morning when Rose exited the teepee. Young Wolf—she refused to use the Christian name the soldiers had given him—had curried the stallion’s coat thoroughly, combing out his mane and tail until he fairly sparkled. As a parting gesture, the young Sioux had fastened a swallow’s feather to the horse’s mane, tying it behind the trimmed bridle path where it would flutter in the wind. It represented fleetness and agility, Beth explained contemptuously as the boy stalked haughtily away.
Eyeing Young Wolf’s retreating form, Rose said: “I noticed your pap didn’t come home last night.”
An involuntary gasp escaped Beth’s lips. Edging backward, she said: “I have to go. James is leading a patrol up Porcupine Creek today, and I want to watch him leave the post.”
“Beth, I’m sorry,” Rose said, but the young woman was already turning away, her stride lengthening.
Starting to run, she called: “James looks ever so gallant, riding his fine chestnut!”
“Beth!” Rose shouted, but the girl was already racing toward the post, the hem of her skirt hiked high above her knees. Watching, Rose wondered what Beth’s future would truly be like, once her dashing James was transferred away from the isolation of northeastern Montana.
Yellow Rock Woman came out of the lodge carrying Rose’s saddle. Rose moved to intercept her, but Yellow Rock Woman laughed and twisted away.
“You should let her do it,” a voice said from behind. Turning, Rose saw Little Swan coming from the direction of Old Man Bull’s lodge. She wore a white woman’s dress of cotton paisley, with dainty, square-toed shoes. “It is a woman’s job, is it not?” she added.
“If it is, what’s that make me?” Rose asked glumly as Yellow Rock Woman lugged the saddle to the stallion’s side.
“Cante tinzawin,” Little Swan said. “Brave-hearted woman.” She shifted a white cotton sack in her hand, letting it bounce against her leg. “I have brought food and … other things.”
“You didn’t have to do that. You and your mam’s done a bunch already.”
“You have far to travel to catch the man called Pine Tree.”
Cocking a brow, Rose said: “Did Old Man Bull tell you that?”
“He told me the man you seek is in the town called Piñon.”
“Piñon!”
Little Swan looked puzzled by Rose’s reaction. “This that I tell you is a bad thing?”
“Naw, it’s just that I’d heard he was around Fort Peck. I was hopin’ to flush him somewhere close by. Piñon, shoot, that’s clean over on the other side of the Musselshell.” The thought of the huge circle she’d ridden brought a grimace to her face. “I wasn’t all that far from Piñon comin’ back from Canada some weeks ago. Had I known, I could have waited for him there and saved myself a passel of ridin’.”
“Why did you think he was here?”
Rose told her about the man named Dietrich, killed by rustlers, and the rumor of trouble about to descend on the area. Little Swan was smiling before she finished.
“This man, Dietrich, was killed almost a moon past, at a ranch west of here, off the reservation, where the soldiers go to drink whiskey. There are women there who the soldiers share, and it is said that Dietrich, who many times came into my husband’s post to trade, tried to take a woman away from a soldier. Dietrich was found the next day with his head crushed. The soldier had witnesses and was not charged in the Long Knives’ court-martial.”
“He wasn’t an Association man, then?”
“He was a fur trader sometimes, but mostly he drank bad whiskey and made the women of my village uncomfortable with his eyes. It is agreed among the soldiers and the Lakota alike that his death is a good thing for both races.”
With the sorrel ready, Yellow Rock Woman took the sack of food from Little Swan’s hand and fastened it behind Rose’s bedroll.
“You figure Old Man Bull’s right about Piñon?” Rose asked.
“Old Man Bull would not have said it if it was not true,” Little Swan replied.
Rose sighed, but she already believed Little Swan, and she trusted Old Man Bull. “Well, Piñon it is, then,” she said, accepting the sorrel’s reins from Yellow Rock Woman and stepping into the saddle. She gave the older woman a brief smile. “Tell your mam I’m obliged for her kindness,” she said to Little Swan. “Yours, too.”
“My mother can see your gratitude, but I will tell her, anyway.”
Rose gave the two women—mother and daughter—a short salute, then reined away. She didn’t look back to see if Little Swan or Yellow Rock Woman would wave. She figured it would be too much to expect if they did, and too keen a disappointment if they didn’t.
• • • • •
Rose nooned that day on a sandy spit along the Missouri. Taking a seat on a sun-bleached log, she op
ened the sack Little Swan had prepared and began rummaging through it. She found strips of jerky tied in a bundle, half a loaf of hard bread, and a jar of last year’s gooseberry jam. At the very bottom she discovered a pair of tiny pelts stretched on willow hoops. Mystified, she drew the hides into the light.
“Sweet Jesus!” she cried, falling backward off the log and scuttling away. She didn’t stop until her left hand splashed into the cool waters of the river. On the sand beside the log lay a pair of scalps, the bone-white flesh still moist from the skull.
“Christ!” Rose hissed, then fell onto her back, breathing hard. “Son-of-a-bitch.”
Staring at the blue cap of the sky, she knew that Old Man Bull’s promise from the night before—his reiteration of Little Swan’s assurance that everything would be all right—had come true. At least as far as the old warrior had been able to guarantee it. The men who’d attempted her assassination in Glendive, then followed her west across the Big Lonesome to the banks of the Missouri, would never bother her again.
• • • • •
Rose raised Piñon on the fourth day after leaving the Fort Peck reservation. It was midafternoon, and she was pleased with the time she’d made, even as she was aware of the heavy toll it had taken on the Baylor horse. Even the best animal needed more rest and feed than Rose had allowed the sorrel on their journey across the rugged Missouri River terrain, and she was feeling guilty as she sought out a stable and made arrangements for the stallion’s care.
Afterward, she moseyed up the street with the Sharps and saddlebags over her shoulder, her bedroll tucked under one arm. She was looking for a hotel where she could get a room for the night and stow her gear, but hadn’t gone two blocks when she came to an abrupt stop. Standing in the middle of the boardwalk, oblivious to the peevish glances of other pedestrians as they squeezed past her, she stared across the street at the Yellow Rose Saloon and Hotel and knew. In her heart, she knew.
Shifting the rifle and saddlebags to her left arm, Rose loosened the Smith & Wesson in its holster, then did the same with the Merwin Hulbert. After that she started across the street, dodging through the brisk traffic without really seeing it. Although conflicting emotions were clamoring for her attention, she ignored them all as she climbed the wooden steps to the saloon. Her gaze darted swiftly as she entered the building, but Manning was nowhere to be seen.
The saloon’s interior was dim but pleasantly cool, the large room crowded for that time of day. A knot of gamblers was clustered around a faro table at the rear of the room like iron shavings on a magnet; a roulette wheel against the front wall held a similar group enthralled. At the far end of the bar, nearest the stairs that led to the second floor, eight or ten cowboys were whooping and hollering and having a grand old time, all of them young and boyish and gaudily dressed.
Moving to a relatively empty section of the bar, Rose ordered a beer, then asked permission to leave her stuff behind the counter.
“Sure,” the bartender said. He took her bedroll and saddlebags and placed them on a shelf out of the way, but when he glanced at her rifle, she shook her head.
“I’ll hang onto this.”
Returning with her beer, he said: “We’ve got a couple of empty rooms upstairs, if you’re interested.” He grinned suggestively.
Cold-shouldering the innuendo, Rose said: “How many of them rooms is rented out?”
“One’s all we’d need.”
She shook her head impatiently, knowing he hadn’t yet caught the drift of her questioning. “I’m lookin’ for a man,” she said, complicating the issue further.
The bartender’s smile stretched toward his sideburns. “I’ve never had any complaints.”
“God dammit, I’m lookin’ for Pine Tree Manning. Do you know who he is?” The smirk vanished, but, when he didn’t snap a reply or tell her to go to hell, Rose knew she’d finally cornered his attention. “I figured as much,” she said softly, reading his answer in his expression. “Which room is he in?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He started to move away, but Rose reached across the bar and grabbed his sleeve. “Do you know who I am?”
“I do now.”
“Is Manning upstairs?”
He glanced toward the stairs leading to the second floor, then growled: “All right, but don’t tell him who told you, understand?”
She let go of his shirt. “You’ve got a deal.”
Chuckling harshly, he said: “I’ve got a deal with a dead woman.”
“Which room?”
“Number Two. Top of the stairs, first door on the left.”
Rose lowered the Sharps’ breech to double check the load. There was a round already chambered. Not so long ago she would have kept the rifle empty until she wanted to use it, but her life had changed radically, and an empty gun now was no better than a stick.
She headed for the stairs, only peripherally aware of the bartender hurrying down the back of the bar to pass along word that Rose of Yellowstone was in town. It wouldn’t be more than a couple of minutes before the entire lower floor knew she was there. Those who knew Pine Tree Manning might guess her intentions, but few would note the slim stranger with the hawk-like nose who entered the saloon just as she started up the stairs. Fewer still would attach any significance to his furtive climb after her, once she’d disappeared around the corner at the top.
Chapter
43
Rose paused on the upper landing, staring down a long, narrow hall with three rooms on either side, a window at the far end for ventilation. A parrot-green runner muffled the heel thud of her boots as she moved toward room Number Two. Pausing in front of the door, she thumbed back the Sharps’ big side-hammer, then stepped forward and slammed her boot into the wood beside the knob.
The door sprang open, crashing into the wall and embedding the knob there, offering her a clear view of the room’s interior. Pine Tree Manning sat, cross-legged, in his underwear in the middle of an unmade bed, the fabled .40-60 Marlin lying atop the wrinkled sheet at his side. Part of a deck of cards was cradled in his left hand, the rest were fanned out before him in a game of solitaire. He looked up in surprise as the door was hurled inward, momentarily frozen as his eyes met hers across the room.
Rose had no need to gloat, no desire to remind him of the crime that had brought death to his door. She fired from the hip, and the Sharps’ heavy slug drove him into the headboard. The playing cards still in his hand flew toward the ceiling like flushed quail, raining back around his head and across his lap.
A woman screamed and bolted from a chair beside the bed. She had curly red hair and was naked save for a pair of vertically striped red and white stockings that came up midway on her white thighs. She stopped dead in her tracks when Rose leaped inside. Switching the Sharps to her left hand, Rose palmed the Smith & Wesson with her right. Dutch Weinhart—he who had participated in the lynching of Wiley Collins and Dirty-Nosed Dave Merritt back under the Crazy Mountains—was standing at the window smoking a cigar. He wore pants and boots but no shirt, and his suspenders hung off his shoulders. His gun belt lay coiled on a nearby table; he was already reaching for it.
“Dutch, don’t!” Rose cried, but Weinhart had no intention of obeying, and, as the bearded killer’s fingers wrapped around the pistol’s grips, Rose wondered why she’d even offered him the opportunity. She squeezed the Smith & Wesson’s trigger, and Dutch howled and grabbed his side. Then he spun toward her, flinging the holster away as he brought his pistol up and around.
Calmly, as though everything was happening in slow motion, Rose fired twice more. Both bullets struck Dutch squarely in the chest, and he staggered backward with a startled expression on his face, crashing through the window with the cigar clamped firmly between his teeth.
Shards of broken glass were still rattling off the sill when the red-headed woman made her break. Spotti
ng the charge from the corner of her eye, Rose reacted instinctively, clubbing the hooker with the Smith & Wesson’s barrel as she tried to dodge past, turning toward the door as she did. The woman fell like a snow-white otter into an emerald pool, but, although Rose regretted her action, there was no time to dwell on it. Lifting the Smith & Wesson, she fired again—fired even as Pine Tree Manning started to peel away from the headboard, dead but not yet fallen; even as the red-haired woman began her skid across the harsh, time-worn green carpet; even as the sound of falling window glass continued to ring throughout the room.
At the door, a slim man with a hooked nose sagged against the jamb, his free hand clawing at his shirt just below his sternum, where Rose’s bullet had struck him. His finger tightened convulsively on the trigger of his Colt and the pistol spat smoke and lead toward the floor. Below its muzzle, the red-headed woman jumped as his bullet struck her in the neck. She cried out and reached for the corner post of the bed as if to pull herself away, but her strength failed before she could reach it and her arm dropped limply to the floor.
Across the hall, Dutch Weinhart’s old pard, Ted Keyes, burst out of room Number One with his pistol drawn. But Keyes lacked the killer’s instinct that guided men like Manning and Weinhart. His eyes widened at the sight of the stranger crumbled on the floor, fear rushed into them when he looked at the dead hooker beside the bed, and finally they rose to where Pine Tree Manning lay sprawled across the mattress with both arms hanging off the side, and a tiny sound, like the far-off screeching of a locomotive’s brakes, escaped his lips. Rose pointed the Smith & Wesson at Keyes’s chest, and for perhaps a full five seconds, neither of them moved. Then Keyes darted down the hall quick as a cat, so swift, in fact, that Rose missed her chance to snap off a shot.
The Poacher's Daughter Page 43