Savage Tempest (3 page)

Nearby, a lone horse, a magnificent chestnut stallion, grazed in a small corral. Joylynn had constructed it herself after arriving at this abandoned log cabin only a few weeks ago.

Joylynn, nineteen, her long auburn hair flowing over her shoulders, had dropped off to sleep as she sat rocking before the fire in the hearth.

Dressed in a loose dress to make her more comfortable in a pregnancy that was barely showing, she slept peacefully, her hands resting in her lap.

Suddenly her hands curled into tight fists, her closed eyes twitched, and she moaned as she began to have a recurring dream that plagued her most nights now. In her dream she was reliving the
dreadful moment of her rape by an outlaw highwayman. He had held her up while she was on her Pony Express run. His stench of sweat and cigars made her wince even in her dream.

It had been a beautiful spring morning and Joylynn was between towns, riding her chestnut stallion. She was one among many who made the Pony Express run traveling from town to town to deliver the mail.

She was proud to be a part of history-making, a player in what some were calling one of the most colorful episodes of American history. The 1,800-mile route required about ten days to cover, with the bags of mail changing hands up to eight times between the 157 stations.

Joylynn had even had the pleasure of meeting one of the Pony Express's most famous riders, William Cody—Buffalo Bill.

As Joylynn rode along, she knew this might be one of her last jaunts, for there had been rumors that the service might cease with the completion of the transcontinental telegraph system.

Although women riders were rare on the Pony Express, Joylynn had proved that she wasn't like most other women. Because of an abusive stepfather, who beat her mother almost daily, Joylynn had fled her family, but not before she was old enough to fend for herself.

Working on her father's farm before he died of a sudden heart attack, she had plowed alongside her
father, hoed the gardens way into the night, and developed the muscles and grit of a man.

Even her stepfather had known better than to fool with her, for he realized she could very well defend herself against his blows.

When she had heard about the Pony Express, it seemed the perfect escape. She was an expert rider and owned a fast horse; the chestnut had been a gift from her real father a short time before he died. She had signed on, even though men hooted and hollered and poked fun at her, saying she was a mere woman and women couldn't stand up to the grueling work of being a Pony Express rider.

She had proven them wrong . . . until that one fateful day when she had been taken advantage of by a man who crudely reminded her that she
was
a woman. He had taken from her by force what men wanted from women, the pleasure of her body.

She had almost reached her final destination that day, proud to complete another run, when she spotted the fearful highwayman everyone was talking about. He seemed to come out of nowhere, appearing in Joylynn's path with a pistol aimed at her belly and his mouth twisted into a nasty sneer.

This was a bold, bad man, restless and roving, as lawless as a prairie wolf, a terror to friends and foe. He was easily identified by the many grotesque moles on his face, which had given him the nickname Mole.

Because he was proud of his reign of terror, Mole didn't even hide behind a mask anymore.

With thick trees and brush on both sides of the road, Joylynn had no choice but to stop. She had not seen him quickly enough.

Joylynn grabbed her rifle from the gunboot at the side of her stallion, but Mole quickly shot the firearm from her hand.

She asked what he wanted of her, but she knew that he had stolen a pack of mail only a month ago from another rider, then shot him dead before riding away.

She saw no chance of getting out of this ambush alive, so she set her jaw and awaited her fate. She was powerless without her firearm, and if she tried to make a run for it on her horse, she knew that Mole would shoot her in the back, then steal her pack of mail.

As Joylynn continued to dream, with tiny beads of sweat now on her brow, she could even smell the man as he had sidled his horse closer to hers and ordered her to follow him.

Her heart pounded as the nightmare continued. She had had no choice but to follow Mole. He led her down the road a piece, then nodded to a path that diverged into the woods. When the trees grew so thick she could go no farther, Mole told her to dismount.

Joylynn saw her life flashing before her eyes, because she believed that Mole had brought her there to kill her. But having no other choice, Joylynn dismounted.

Mole dismounted, too.

As he got closer to her, she could see even more clearly the many ugly, dark brown moles on his face, and the strangeness of his eyes. They were the palest blue she had ever seen, more white than blue . . . and bottomless.

As he removed his sweat-soaked, wide-brimmed Stetson hat, Joylynn saw that his hair was prematurely gray, for everything else about him was young. It was curly and worn long to his shirt collar. His lips formed a thin line, which seemed locked in an ugly sneer.

When he told her to undress, that he wanted to watch her, she died a slow death inside. It was at that moment she knew he was after far more than the mail. He was after her virginity, for she had never been with a man yet. He . . . was . . . going to rape her!

She stood her ground, said an adamant no.

He slapped her hard across her face, then threw her on the ground, his one hand still holding his pistol.

Suddenly Joylynn awakened with a start. Looking desperately around her, she was infinitely relieved that she was only dreaming, that she was in the security and warmth of her own home. The end of the dream was too hard to bear . . . the true memory of what had actually happened to her.

Tears filled Joylynn's eyes as she slid a hand to her belly. What grew inside her was memory
enough of that day. Why did she have to constantly relive the worst time of her life in her recurring dreams?

She knew why. She could not let herself forget even one thing about that man who had raped her. Afterward, he had stood over her ravaged, naked body, one foot on her belly as he took the time to smoke a cigarillo.

Once he had finished his smoke, he had viciously strangled her, leaving her for dead. He had left the heavy bag of mail behind. All he had wanted that day was her body.

But somehow she had survived his strangling, gasping for air after he had left the forest.

Defiled, in pain, with his fingerprints marring her throat, she had finally managed to get on her horse, which Mole had carelessly left behind. Perhaps he was so satisfied with what he had achieved, her horse had slipped his mind.

Joylynn had decided not to complete her mail run. She had not wanted anyone to see her in that state . . . to know she had been raped.

Realizing someone would come to check on her if she didn't arrive at her destination in time, she managed to hang the mail bag in a tree, low enough to be seen. Whoever came searching for her would find the mailbag and see to it that the mail was delivered to its rightful destinations.

Joylynn had then gone home and bathed and made plans. She had left for parts unknown to anyone.
All she wanted was to hide from the world. If she was pregnant as a result of the rape, she would have to make a decision about what to do with the baby when it was born.

She did know that she could not raise a child of rape. And she was also certain that she would find the sonofabitch who had done this to her.

Finally, she had reached a place where she could make her temporary home, far from anyone who knew her. The abandoned cabin, set deep into the forest, suited her needs perfectly.

She had been lucky. Although everything was dusty and old, the cabin was partly furnished. There was enough furniture for her to get by for the short time she planned to live there.

Even a kerosene lamp, half filled with kerosene, had been left in the cabin, and also books, yellowed, with some pages missing.

She had gone to the closest town and bought enough supplies to last many months, and a wagon with which to transport them. She had even bought seed to plant a garden. Then she had left civilization behind.

“And here I am, in Nebraska, and definitely pregnant,” she whispered to herself.

She had counted herself to be twelve weeks along and was now beginning to show, but only barely. Someone who knew pregnancy well would recognize that she was with child.

But no one else could tell, not yet anyhow.
Though soon they would be able to. That was why she was staying hidden now, with enough food and supplies to last until after the child was born.

She had finally made a decision about the child. After the baby was born, she would take it to the nearest church and leave it on a pew at the front of the church so that the minister would quickly see the tiny bundle wrapped in a blanket.

She could not, would not, raise this child.

Angry that she had had the nightmare again, Joylynn went outside in the moonlight to get a breath of fresh air, and to check on her chestnut stallion, which she had named Swiftie.

She had built a small corral not far from the cabin for her beloved steed. If not for her horse, she would be all alone in the world.

Yes, they were best friends. She was glad that the evil man hadn't taken Swiftie that day, for without her stallion, she was not sure she could have survived this life of isolation and loneliness.

Tears shone in her eyes as Joylynn stroked the stallion's sleek mane. When a loon cried its eerie call somewhere close by the creek, the sound made Joylynn's loneliness twofold. In her mind's eye she saw her father, his rusty-red hair blowing in the breeze as he rode his white mare alongside Joylynn after giving her the beloved chestnut stallion.

Those days were oh, so long gone. She wondered what the future now held for her. In her eyes it looked nothing but bleak. . . .

The moon was high and bright in the sky as High Hawk and his warriors rode toward home, with several head of horses secured behind them.

High Hawk felt he had stolen enough horses for the night, at least enough to appease his father. Once again, he had raided the Sioux, proving his cunning at stealing horses from the enemy.

To his people, captured horses were the legitimate spoils of war. The wealth of the Pawnee was in their horses.

He smiled at how easy it had been to take the animals. At least a hundred powerful steeds had been grazing on land a short distance from the Sioux village.

It had been as easy as a falcon sweeping from the sky to capture a snake within its talons.

High Hawk had been careful, though, not to steal too many steeds. It would not do for the
Sioux to notice the theft and go on the warpath to look for the horse raiders.

Now that they were far enough away from the the Sioux village, High Hawk wanted to wash the war paint from his body before venturing toward home. Up ahead, he saw the shine of water.

“We will stop and wash up in the river,” he said, bringing his horse to a stop.

The warriors dismounted, then led their steeds and the stolen horses to the stream, where they could drink while High Hawk and his warriors washed themselves clean of the paint.

When that was done, High Hawk spotted a bluff not far away. It would give him the opportunity to survey the land below. He would look as far as the eye and the moon would allow. If all still seemed well, and he saw no one following them, he and his men would continue their journey home.

“I will go and see if anyone follows us,” he said, grabbing his rifle from the gunboot at the side of his horse. “You stay. Watch the horses.”

His warriors nodded.

High Hawk hurried up the slight incline until he came to the bluff. It commanded a far stretch of land, as well as a forest of trees just below him.

He cupped one hand above his eyes and slowly scanned the countryside in all directions.

The moon was still bright.

The air was clear.

The breeze was soft and sweet and silent except for a lone loon making its strange call in the distance.

Suddenly the wind changed, bringing with it the clearly identifiable smell of smoke.

Stiffening, knowing that where there was fire there was man, High Hawk stepped closer to the edge of the bluff and slowly scanned the land beyond. Then he surveyed the trees below him again.

His eyes widened when he saw a slight clearing in the forest this time.

He clutched his rifle tighter when he saw a small cabin in the clearing, where smoke spiraled up from a chimney.

And then he saw movement outside the cabin. He could not tell from this distance if it was a man or a woman.

His eyebrows raised when he heard the whinny of a horse and then saw the animal in a small corral near the cabin.

The horse was too far away from him to see if it was worth stealing.

But the truth was that he could always use one more horse, especially since it was there, so close, and ready for the taking.

He tried again to spot the figure he had seen. Who was this person who had established a home so far from everyone else? Didn't this person understand the danger of being so isolated?

Too curious not to go closer, to see who this person
was who lived so alone, and to get a better look at the horse, High Hawk hurried back to his warriors.

“I have seen movement down below,” he said, seeing how each man placed his hand quickly on his knife or gun. “I cannot tell if it is one person or many. Nor can I see the color of their skin. But a house made of logs sits amid the trees, and only white people live in such homes.”

He smiled devilishly. “I also heard a horse whinnying,” he said. “If I find that it is worth taking, I will add one more steed to those we stole tonight.”

“Do you wish to go alone, or do you want us all to go with you?” Three Bears asked, always eager to join his best friend on exciting jaunts. “Or do you wish for only one of us to join you?”