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 the best materials from various creatures. 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.

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 and discovered her gone. 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 changed too. 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 an 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 rarely. 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, who hurt his daughter, were no men. They were lower than any beast he had ever put down.
The two of them grew closer after that, forgiving most of the past mistakes and them spending more time in same areas. They traveled loosely together and met regularly to make sure both of them were okay.

She was the Trapper's daughter and her name was Marie Miller. She didn't use that name. At first because her father gave it 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 him.

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, went 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. Putting the gun down she called for her steed with a sharp whistle and begun butchering. Cutting open the boar's throat she let the blood out and started 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 feel content. Now that the winter was far behind and summer turning in, she was glad to return to the state of West Elizabeth, to the Big Valley. 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.
Her own horse was walking next to another one, which she had never seen before. She stood up and waited with the gun as they approached. The strange horse had someone on its back, the person slumped against its neck and barely staying on the saddle. She took a look after the animals stopped in front of her. The rider was a dark skinned man with long black hair. Dry blood covered his hanging arm up to his shoulder where the damage was hidden by a stained jacket. He seemed dead yet the hunter cautiously poked with her rifle. Nothing. She put hand onto his neck, pressing her fingers to find a weak pulse. Not good. She wondered about shooting the man and end his suffering. He seemed to be a hunter too, with a bow and a quiver full of arrows, and 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. Should she try saving this man? Or let nature take its course?
Letting out a heavy sigh the woman abandoned the boar and took her new acquaintances to her camp.

There she struggled getting the burly and still unconscious man down from his horse. He slipped and dropped on top of her and both of them fell onto the ground. Gasping and grunting she rolled him off. Luckily nothing felt broken, only sore. Throwing a glare at the animals she dragged the wounded next to a dead campfire and settled him onto animal 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 recognizing work of a shotgun. Poor bastard. She looked at the man's horse.
"You sure?" the hunter croaked and the black and white Appaloosa neighed.
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 while she mended his wounds. She picked up pellets as the best she could and then stitched close the worst parts. He didn't stir even ones through the whole ordeal. Throwing a blanket over him 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 waking man. Watching his futile attempts to sit up she stayed still. Rolling onto his side he came to finally noticing her.
They stared at each other over the flames, curious and confused. "Who-" His voice cracked from hoarse throat. She offered her canteen. In his condition he couldn't take it so she helped him to drink. Then pushed him to lay back down. The man was in bad shape, panting from such small actions and sweat was coveriing 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 for the young woman. The man slightly tilted his head at the 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 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 his hair. If he was an animal, he would make a fine pelt. One that she wouldn't 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 an opossum, a goose 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 of the interruption with the boar.
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. Grabbing her rifle the woman swiftly disappeared into the surroundings.

From her hiding place she spied two strangers stalking among the trees. Quietly taking safety off the rifle she aimed but didn't shoot.
With guns drawn the two men approached like coyotes. The light from campfire illuminated them. Seeing that their clothes were notably green, the woman didn't hesitate to pull the trigger. First of the men died. "What the-!" The other one quickly followed after the other. There was a third gunshot, which wasn't hers.
Something slashed her cheek and ear. It burned.
Slipping behind a new cover she started searching for the shooter, peering into the darkness between the trees. She heard commotion from the camp. Fourth intruder was wrestling with the Indian man, holding a knife to his face. The injured man held his own and managed to kick his assailant back. Coming out of her cover the hunter shot the attacker, leaving herself open for the hidden shooter that she tried finding again. Slight movement in the shadows was her only clue for a second.

Never panic, when fixing your aim at a running or attacking prey. Don't overthink, just move and shoot!

There were two simultaneous gunshots.

The dark skinned 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 shadows with half-face covered in blood. "Are you okay?" She gave a lopsided smile, nodding. Looking at the bodies she glared and pointed at them: "O'Dris... Oll. After you?" He nodded. Dropping her pointing hand she turned to gaze the tall man with delight.

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 nuzzle his leg and he stroked her back 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 her 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 for anymore lurking O'Driscolls. The burning, aching pain in his shoulder helped keeping him awake while his arm rested in a sling. 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 up 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. He stood up and inquired: "And who might you be?"
"Charles Smith."
Nodding he turned his attention to the girl who got down from her horse. "Found, wounded," she explained with simple words while hurried to stand next to Taima. Charles felt awkward while getting down with her assistance. The old man watched them with unreadable expression. This time Charles didn't tumble down nor bruised the woman under him. "And you brought him here because?"
She hesitated so Charles, after a glance, talked instead: "I was... Ambushed." "Greens," she added. The strange man lift his brows and Charles tried to plead: "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. "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 rump with his left, uninjured arm. Birch stopped him by placing hand on his chest. "Rest," she told with a saddle on her shoulder. "I can manage," he assured but his hand was slapped away and he glared at her. 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.

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 onto them and gave him tea with herbs to numb the pain. 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 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. The Trapper 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. He poured some alcohol and pressed the wounds with a cloth. She winced and squirmed. "Don't whine," Trapper mumbled while adding 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 tones were darker.

"...What's your take on him," Trapper whispered as he finished cleaning the wounds. She glanced towards the shelter where Charles slept. "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 ate 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. The man agreed and stayed awake for another hour before retreating under the lean-to.
The Trapper turned his back towards Charles and held 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 as 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 Birch 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.