Everyone knew him as the Trapper. He traveled around the Heartlands at the end of 1800s, selling his high quality crafts to various clients and collecting materials from the best specimens. He was seen as a master hunter and his works were sought-after even by the snobby rich people at Saint Denis. He was proud of his work and he had no competition in the field. He was simply known as the Trapper, but few knew that his real name was Frederick Miller. That he's a war veteran, a sharpshooter, and he had been married four times.
The first had been his sweetheart when they had been teenagers, before he joined the army. After the war he returned to discover that she had ran off with some dolt. At the end he had seen it more as a favor. He had changed, having completely different views and dreams than before the war. It seemed she had done the same. The second wife was a French. A mesmerizing whore with heart of gold who left her profession to be with him. They separated after a year as she returned back to her homeland and he lacked the courage to follow. His third wife was a Mexican. She saved him when he almost got eaten by a fierce and clever cougar that he had been tracking. They got married in a week, before her family chased him away with violence and threats. The fourth wife was a Native and they hunted together for many years before she died from illness.
Even less people knew that the Trapper had a daughter. They were rarely seen together due to their troubled relationship. After she became old enough, she traveled on her own and saw her old man once in a while. Things changed after an incident which left her partly mute. She managed to find her father while clinging onto her life. Even though their shared past was difficult, the Trapper was deep down a father who was ready to sign up his soul to hell in order to help his child. He hadn't killed a man after the war but those men, which he hunted down with his daughter, were no men but lower than any beast he had ever put down.
The duo grew closer after that, she forgiving him the past mistakes and them spending more time in same areas. They traveled loosely together and met regularly to make sure both were okay.
She was the Trapper's daughter and her name was Marie Miller. She didn't use that name, however. At first because her father gave that name and, when their relationship turned better, she was already used to the name she had taken for herself. After the incident she became more hermit like the Trapper, focusing at living in the wilderness far away from towns and people. She was happy to live her life like him, by herself and honing her skills at hunting.
She hoped to one day surpass the Trapper.
Rest of the screaming boars run off while their dead kin fell. The gunshot faded and the hidden hunter stood up with a rifle in hand. The woman, dressed up in green shotgun coat and jeans, approached and crouched to examine the kill. She lifted the wide brim of her hat to see, that the shot had been a clean one. Instant kill with no suffering. Nodding she put the gun down and took out a knife. Calling for her steed with a sharp whistle she begun butchering, cutting open the boar's throat and starting separating skin from meat. Doing this at middle of a clearing, surrounded by creaking dead trees and no other soul in for miles, made her content. Now that the winter was far behind and summer turning in, she was glad to return to the state of West Elizabeth. It had the best hunting grounds in all of New Hanover and was mostly untouched by civilization. Life as a hunter was nice, simple and calm. Without other people she didn't need to worry much. Except for her father but he rarely caused any reason to.
When she heard too many footsteps for one horse, she reached for her rifle.
The hunter saw her own horse next to another one that she had never seen before. She stood up with the gun as they kept approaching. The strange horse had someone on its back, the person slumped against its neck and barely staying on the saddle. When they stopped, the woman took a look. The rider was a dark skinned man with long black hair. Dried up blood covered his hanging arm up to his shoulder where the damage was hidden under a blotted jacket. He seemed dead yet the girl cautiously poked his head with the rifle's muzzle. Nothing. She put hand onto his neck, pressing fingers to find a weak pulse. Not good. She wondered about shooting the man to end his suffering. He seemed to be a hunter too, with a bow and a quiver full of arrows, camping gear on his horse's back. She could take what she needed and either set the horse free or sell it. The spotted mare turned its black head and softly snorted. Met by pleading eyes the hunter mulled over the situation. Even her mount, who was Ardennes giant, seemed to compel with his gaze. Letting out a heavy sigh the woman abandoned the boar and took the new acquaintances to her camp. There she struggled getting the burly and still unconscious man down from his horse.
The attempt ended up him dropping on top of her.
Gasping and grunting on the ground she rolled him off. Luckily nothing felt broken, just sore. Throwing a glare at the animals she dragged the wounded next to a dead campfire and settled him onto a wolf pelt. After all that, she tried to see was there actually anything to be done. Cutting clothes enough to see the obvious injury she found multiple bullet holes. She grimaced when realizing the damage had been done by a shotgun. Poor bastard. The hunter looked at the man's horse.
"You sure?" the woman croaked and the black and white Appaloosa neighed back.
The woman huffed as her mount comforted the mare, rubbing heads together and softly snorting. If he wasn't a gelding, his rider would be concerned.
The man felt like a lost cause as the hunter mended his wounds, picking up pellets as the best she could and then stitching the worst parts. He didn't stir even ones through the whole ordeal. Throwing a blanket over him when she was finished, she brought the campfire back to life and cleaned up her hands as also the tools. She then went to took care of the horses. The mare was very tame, its condition showing how well cared for it was. There was a thought about keeping the Appaloosa as a second mount, if the man wouldn't make it. When finished with them, the woman sat next to the campfire.
Hours passed before she was startled by the woken man. Watching his futile attempts to sit up she stayed still. Rolling onto his side he finally noticed her.
They stared at each other over the flames with one curious and other one confused. "Who-" His voice cracked from hoarse throat. She offered a leather flagon. In his condition he couldn't take it so she helped him drink. Then she pushed him to lay back down. The man was in bad shape, panting from the small exertions and sweat covered his skin. Taking a cloth she patted his face dry.
"Don't die," she whispered. It would be troublesome having a dead body in her camp. Especially someone big as him. He seemed to be a Native, if not for such a dark skin. The familiar features reminded of father's fourth wife and it was intriguing to the young woman. The man slightly tilted his head at her request. Soon he fell to sleep and the woman kept on watching him.
What should she do with him? He wasn't an injured animal but a human. What if he lives? Should she take care of him then, till he was better to go on his own?
The hunter looked at his sleeping face, which was pale but not so twisted from pain anymore. She studied his mixed features of soft and coarse, delicate and broad. He had facial scars and light stubble. His free hair was sprawled around his exotic visage and she cautiously reached for some strands. Holding bundle of them between her fingers she found the raven black hair surprisingly soft. His plump lips were parted as he took shallow breaths. All in all, even in this state, she find him alluringly- "Beautiful," she muttered and continued stroking the hair. If he was an animal, he would make a fine pelt which she would never give away. Blinking she wondered was that a weird thought. Of course she couldn't keep him, that would be silly. You couldn't just keep a wild animal you found from the wilderness. She had learned that lesson with a goose, an opossum and an actual wolf, when she was a child.
Getting up and stretching she decided to make late supper. Simple stew for two, without meat because she had been interrupted with the boar before.
When the food was simmering, the hunter felt something was wrong.
The horses sensed this too, especially the male stomping its hoof as a warning of approaching threat. Grabbing her rifle the woman swiftly disappeared into the surroundings.
From a hiding place she spied two strangers stalking among the trees and approaching the camp. Quietly taking safety off the rifle she aimed but didn't shoot.
With guns drawn the two men came closer like hunting coyotes. Light from the campfire illuminated them when they came to its reach. Seeing their clothes were notably green, the woman didn't hesitate to pull the trigger. "What the-!" The other one was quickly shot too after the other. There was then a third gunshot, which wasn't hers.
Something slashed her cheek and ear.
Slipping behind a new cover she started searching for the third intruder, peering into the darkness between the trees. She heard commotion from the camp. Another one was wrestling with the Indian man, holding a knife near his face. The injured was holding his own and managed to kick his attacker back. Coming out of her cover the hunter shot the intruder, leaving herself open for the hidden shooter which she tried finding again. Slight movement in the shadows was her only clue.
Never panic, when fixing your aim at a running or attacking prey. Don't overthink, just move and then shoot!
There were two simultaneous gunshots.
The man at the camp pushed himself up, staggering onto his feet and holding his injured shoulder. He stared at the woman who emerged from the darkness with half-face covered in blood. "Are you okay?" She gave a lopsided smile, nodding before glaring at the bodies and pointing at them: "O'Dris... Oll. After you?" He nodded. Letting her hand fall she turned to gaze the tall man.
The smile, that was restrained by her injuries, returned. If that's the case, then she's keeping him.
Charles went along, for now, and got onto Taima's back with the woman's help. The mare stretched its neck to touch him and he stroked the warm muzzle affectionally. She was a good girl, not letting those bastards catch him even as he passed out while on horseback. Watching the stranger pack up the camp and mounting her own horse he followed behing through the woods. He didn't know who she was but she had saved his life for two times now. He didn't think he was in immediate danger.
Wherever she was leading him seemed to be in long distance as his head grew heavier and mind fuzzier. Tightening his grip onto the reins he tried to pay attention to their surroundings for anymore O'Driscolls. The burning, aching pain in his shoulder helped keeping him awake while his arm rested in a sling that she had made. After the woods they crossed rocky fields full of dead trees, a road and then stepped into another forest. She steered her large, reddish-brown gelding to climb a hillock where there was light up there. With creeping suspiciousness Charles tried to feel for his sawed-off shotgun and then for his hunting knife but neither was hanging from his hips. Had she taken them or had he lost them while escaping?
At top of the hill they arrived to another camp, where there was a wooden stall, a lean-to and an old man. He was sitting around a campfire, cooking meat when he lifted his gaze to meet the newcomers. The smile of his dropped when he noticed Charles. "And who might you be?" he inquired while standing up. "Charles Smith." Nodding he turned his attention to the girl who slide down from her horse. "Found, wounded," she explained with simple words before going to stand next to Taima. Charles felt awkward while getting down with her assistance, the old man watching them. This time Charles didn't tumble down nor bruised the woman under him.
"And you brought him here because?"
She hesitated so Charles, who after a glance, talked instead: "I... Was ambushed." "Greens," she added. The strange lift his brows and Charles tried to reassure: "I only ask to stay for the nig-"
"Anyone followed?"
She shook her head, holding up four fingers: "In my cam-" She coughed, covering her mouth for a moment and swallowed. "Shot," she croaked. The tall man with a long beard nodded: "Good, good... You can stay for the night. Birch, you know what to do. We'll look that face after." The man, who was the Trapper, went back to cooking and added more meat onto the grill. The woman named Birch started unpacking the horses. Charles, not liking to just stand around, reached for things on Taima's back with his left, uninjured arm. Birch, placing hand on his chest, stopped him and he looked at her. "Rest," she told with a saddle on her shoulder. "I can manage," he assured but his hand was slapped away, earning a glare from him. She stepped between the man and the mare, staring him down even though she was head shorter. Not wanting to fight the person who had saved him, Charles grudgingly stepped away. "Wise choice," Trapper spoke with his back turned to them: "Girl has wrestled bigger beasts than you."
She chuckled and shook her head to Charles.
Despite of his decreasing protests he let Birch do as she wanted. She gave him food and drink. She checked the wounds before adding salve on to them and gave him tea with herbs to numb the pain. Then she made a bed for him under the lean-to. He felt awkward, not used to be taken care of and especially by a stranger. When the woman helped him lay down on the nest made of pelts and blankets, he nevertheless started almost immediately fell asleep. Last thing he remembered was a flicker of nostalgia as he was tucked in like a child.
Birch joined her father around the campfire, finally cleaning the blood from her face as he opened bottle of whiskey. Taking the first swig he leaned to see the damage on her. A cut crossed the woman's left upper cheek and part of her ear's rim was missing. Him pouring some alcohol and pressing the wounds with a cloth made Birch wince and squirm. "Don't whine," Trapper mumbled as he added more disinfectant. "It's not bad. You look prettier." The side-eye he received was bombastic and real. Then Birch snickered, before the stinging made her grimace again.
She looked a lot like her father who was a tall man with long face and thin nose. She also inherited his green eyes and brown hair, though her tone was darker just like her skin too.
"...What's your take on him," Trapper whispered as he finished cleaning her wounds. She glances towards the shelter where Charles was sleeping. "Pretty?"
The Trapper nodded and put the whiskey away, then took a double take. She grinned and slapped the man's hat down to cover his upset look. "Harm... Less. Now," she gave a proper answer and stabbed the last stake on the grill with her hunting knife. She ignored the hard stare as she tasted cooked snake, which wasn't her favorite. "I see. Well, if you wanna get married, avoid troublemakers like him. Just saying." Nodding, not really listening, Birch mumbled she was taking the first shift as a lookout. Nodding the man stayed awake for another hour before retreating under the lean-to. The Trapper turned his back towards Charles and hold onto a loaded pistol under his blanket till his daughter woke him up to switch places. The old man sat around the fire and watched his girl face the stranger while she fell asleep.
He of course was worried, hoping her infatuation towards the mix-raced man was just short lived interest. The father didn't want her daughter inherit his luck in love, though he didn't regret any of his past relationships. He also didn't regret taking his daughter in though it had been difficult with her. Didn't mean he didn't love her with all the fears and troubles she brought. He just hoped he had managed to raise her to be someone, who could be proud of herself and would survive through this world on her own.
