Savage Tempest Read online

  “And . . . where am I to find this woman?” High Hawk asked softly, relieved when he saw his father’s eyes soften.

  “This woman I speak of will be directly in your path on a night of the full moon. Tonight is such a night,” Rising Moon said, glancing upward toward the smoke hole.

  He smiled when he saw how the sky had darkened while they had been in council. His smile deepened when he saw the light of a full moon bathing his face.

  He turned his eyes back to High Hawk. He reached a hand out and rested it on his son’s bare shoulder. “Go, my son,” he said thickly. “Seek and you will find her.”

  High Hawk nodded, then fell into his father’s embrace when Rising Moon opened his arms.

  “My son, my son,” Rising Moon said, his voice breaking.

  Their embrace continued for a moment, then High Hawk rose to his feet and left the tepee without another word.

  Just as he emerged from the tepee, his ina, Blanket Woman, blocked his way.

  It was obvious to him she had heard all that had transpired between father and son. And he could tell by the way she was gazing up at him with flashing black eyes, she did not approve of something that had been said, or perhaps all of it.

  As he waited to hear what she had to say, he could not help admiring her. For a woman of her age, she still held beauty in her face, with only a few wrinkles crossing her copper brow.

  She was named Blanket Woman because of her ability to make the prettiest blankets of all the women in their Wolf band.

  She also made lovely dresses such as the one she wore tonight. By the glow of the huge outdoor fire behind them, he saw that she wore an exquisitely beaded and fringed doeskin dress and heavily beaded moccasins.

  She wore her raven-black hair in one long braid down her back.

  “I heard what your ahte asked of you,” Blanket Woman said, her eyes flashing in the moonlight. “I disagree with him. It is wrong to abduct a woman, no matter what the reason. My son, stealing any woman, white-skinned or not, is a dishonorable act.”

  She framed his face between her hands. “My son, you must stand up against your ahte about this,” she said softly. “Refuse him. And if you do this for your ina, I will see that you are named chief after your father no longer holds that position.”

  She slid her hands away and smiled softly. “As you know, my son, your ahte’s weakness is your ina,” she murmured, her eyes twinkling. “He never goes against my wishes. Go. Hunt and bring back many beautiful horses, but not a white woman.”

  Torn now between the differing wishes of his parents, High Hawk embraced his mother, then went around and informed his favored warriors about his plan to steal horses. He purposely did not tell them about the other challenge of the night . . . the white woman.

  As they all went to their personal lodges to choose which weapons and horses would fit the night’s planned activities, High Hawk entered his own tepee and chose his weapons.

  He sheathed his favorite knife at the right side of his waist, grabbed a rifle and the bag that he carried with him on his horse at all times, then hurried to his personal corral at the back of his lodge. This was where he kept the most valuable of his horses.

  Elsewhere, he had two other corrals, hidden from anyone who might think of stealing his powerful steeds.

  He took his favorite from the corral, a roan with a black mane and forelegs, and readied him for riding with his Indian saddle. He slid his rifle in the gunboot at one side of his horse, and secured his bag of provisions to the other, but just as he started to mount, he saw his brother, Sleeping Wolf, walking toward him.

  His brother’s back was so twisted, he could not help dragging one foot as he walked. Although it hurt High Hawk to see what a struggle it was for his brother to walk, High Hawk had grown used to it and never allowed his brother to see pity in his eyes.

  He smiled at Sleeping Wolf as his brother stopped beside him.

  “Where are you going, my brother?” Sleeping Wolf asked, noting the rifle and the sheathed knife, and the bag of provisions that his brother always carried with him. He was prepared with food and water and weapons for any eventuality.

  “On a search for horses,” High Hawk said. He placed a hand on his brother’s shoulder, the one that was more level than the other.

  “You already have so many,” Sleeping Wolf said. He always took comfort from his brother’s touch, even if only for a moment. He did not envy his brother his handsomeness and perfect body. He admired and loved him.

  “A proud warrior cannot have too many steeds,” High Hawk said, trying not to think about the other reason he was leaving his village tonight.

  “I do not have any,” Sleeping Wolf said, hanging his head. “But of course I do not need any because of my inability to ride them.”

  High Hawk took his hand from his brother’s shoulder and placed it beneath his chin. He slowly lifted it so that Sleeping Wolf’s eyes met his.

  “My brother, you know that my horses are also yours,” High Hawk said. “Even though you cannot ride, they are yours anyhow.”

  Sleeping Wolf smiled. “I do ride often, my brother,” he said softly. “In my dreams I am whole and able to ride. It is good to feel the wind against my face and to feel my hair blowing behind me.”

  “You do feel those things in your dreams?” High Hawk said, marveling that his brother could imagine such feelings that he had never felt in reality.

  “When I am dreaming, I feel no pain, but I experience everything in my dreams that I cannot when I am awake,” Sleeping Wolf said, nodding. “My brother, I have even flown in the sky with eagles!”

  “I am glad that you can dream such dreams and experience things even I have not known,” High Hawk said. “I have never dreamed of flying with eagles.”

  “The eagles are our brothers,” Sleeping Wolf said, slowly nodding. “You will dream one night that you, too, fly with them.”

  “I hope so,” High Hawk said, looking past his brother as his warriors rode up on their steeds, some with bows and quivers of arrows, others with firearms.

  He then hugged his brother, feeling a surge of compassion when he touched sleeping Wolf’s twisted back and heard him groan as he returned the hug.

  “My heart is with you tonight as you ride,” Sleeping Wolf said. “I wish you well, my brother. I wish you a successful hunt.”

  “I will bring home horses for us both,” High Hawk said, his mind drifting suddenly to what else he would be hunting tonight.

  A white woman.

  His ahte had said she would be standing in the path of the full moon.

  Sleeping Wolf nodded and stepped back as High Hawk mounted his steed.

  High Hawk wheeled his horse around, waved at his brother, then rode off with his warriors.

  High Hawk gazed heavenward. “Tirawahut, Great Spirit, lead me in the direction that I should go tonight,” he whispered. “I cannot please both parents.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  The moon shone down on a small cabin, nestled in the forest far from humanity. Smoke spiraled lazily from the stone chimney, making its way through the tall trees that surrounded Joylynn Anderson’s home.

  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 beauti
ful 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, rais
e 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. . . .

  CHAPTER THREE

  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.