“Howdy, ma'am.” He tipped his wide felt hat. “Name's Jeremy Lake.” The slim, bow-legged cowboy introduced himself to her and shook hands with the merchant. Dusty
denim breeches scratched noisily as he seated himself beside her.
“Peabody's my name,” the merchant said. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, I'm sure.”
“I'm Miss Sarah Farminton,” the schoolteacher put in, primly straightening her cuffs.
The coach rolled away in a cloud of dust.
“And your name, ma'am?” the cowboy asked.
“I'm Samantha Ashton. How do you do, Mr. Lake.” After these polite formalities she turned her head to gaze outside, indicating clearly she wished no further conversation.
“Heerd talk back yonder there's been some Injun trouble'round abouts.” The cowboy eyed her, hoping to spark her curiosity.
She ignored him, pulled out a book, and scanned a few pages.
“Could be, we'll be in for some trouble,” he continued.
The schoolteacher looked faint.
“I certainly hope not!” Peabody blustered. “And I don't think this kind of talk is good for the ladies.”
The cowboy just smiled, enjoying the discomfort his remarks were causing. He leaned his lanky frame back against the seat and pulled his hat low, eyeing Mandy with what he assumed was discretion. An appreciative smile curved his lips as his gaze rested on her bosom.
Mandy continued to ignore him. She decided to take an afternoon nap. Having finally convinced her body to sleep sitting up, she drifted off, dozing fitfully. She didn't fully awake until the first rays of morning crept across the hills. She stretched and yawned, still half asleep. She was just
smoothing the wrinkles from her burgundy traveling suit when the Indians came.
Wild shrieking screams jolted Mandy fully awake. Her heart began to pound. Pandemonium broke out in the coach as the driver whipped up the horses and the coach careened madly along the narrow winding road. The slim cowboy helped Mandy keep her seat, pulled his revolver, aimed, and fired a steady stream of bullets at their pursuers.
Miss Farminton sobbed hysterically. “We're all gonna die. I just know it. We're all gonna die. I should never have come to this godforsaken . . . ”
“Shut up!” the slim cowboy warned her. “Keep your mouth shut and your head down. Peabody . . . you got a gun?”
The merchant sputtered, then finally found his tongue. “Why yes . . . ”
“Then use it!”
Mandy was doing her best just to stay in her seat. She could see the Indians behind them. They were naked, except for breechcloths, and heavily painted with war paint. Some wore feathers in their braids, some carried decorated leather shields.
The coach roared along, gaining a little distance. It looked as though they might make it when fresh cries sounded ahead. Mandy saw more of the dreadful painted warriors in front of them and small groups descending from the surrounding hills.
Soon the coach was surrounded with half-naked savages on horseback, and Mandy had never been more terrified in her life. She saw the driver fall from the coach, an arrow
protruding from his back. The team bolted wildlyâthe guard apparently wounded or dead. Suddenly the din of gunfire quieted inside the coach. Only the hum of churning wheels filled the air. The cowboy slumped heavily across her skirt, blood oozing from a wound in his chest. Peabody just kept firing. His gun was empty, but the hammer kept clicking against the empty chambers, Peabody staring straight ahead as if in some kind of trance.
The coach slowed as the Indians climbed atop the stage and took control of the frightened animals. Mandy and Miss Farminton just looked at each other, then at Peabody, who was still clicking the empty revolver. Terrified, they gripped each other's hands.
“We must be strong, if we are to survive this,” Mandy whispered. Then the door of the coach flew open and a broad, sweat-covered savage, his face a mask of red, thrust his head inside. He shrieked gleefully and pulled Mandy out. The opposite door was flung open by another Indian, and Miss Farminton was pulled to the ground. Then the Indians did the same with Peabody, who stared straight ahead with empty eyes.
The Indians ransacked the coach, then searched Peabody. They threw down the strongbox. They were disappointed to discover it contained only mail. With their little success, one brave returned his attention to Peabody, who started to sob. Three warriors beat him viciously. Blow after blow rained on his head; fists and feet punched his stomach. The Indians began shredding his clothes in their struggle to see who would get to wear his houndstooth vest.
The women looked away, as Peabody, now naked and
still sobbing, was carried to a patch of dry earth and staked in the sun.
“I can't survive this. I know I can't.” Miss Farminton's voice was almost inaudible.
“You can and you will!” Mandy whispered harshly. She knew she must be strong for both of them.
The leader busied himself searching the wagon and the strongbox. Then he stalked boldly up to the women. Grinning gleefully, he grabbed the lapel of Mandy's suit and ripped it down the front. The others joined in, shoving the two women into the dust and tearing at their clothes. The braves stopped only momentarily, to fight over the spoils. Fear gnawed at Mandy like a great vicious beast. One of the braves pulled off her jacket, holding it up triumphantly. The sun glinted off the tiny jeweled cat. She thought of Hawk, and the thought gave her courage. She clutched at what remained of her shredded garments, her hair wildly tangled, her face covered with dirt. She knew they would tear the rest of her clothes away at any moment.
An idea began to take shape in her mind. It was a long shot, but she had nothing to lose. She remembered stories James had told her of Hawk's Cheyenne training. Steeling herself for whatever might follow, she willed herself to be calm.
“Stop this at once,” she said brazenly. The leader stopped what he was doing and looked at her incredulously; the others paused.
“You have no right to do this. I'll take that back, right now!” She snatched away her jacket and stuffed her arm back into a sleeve. One of the braves ripped it off again,
cursing her in a language she didn't understand. She gritted her teeth, steeled herself, and slapped him hard across the face. In the silence that followed, Mandy heard her heart beating so loudly she was certain they could hear it too. But she stood her ground. She fixed her hands on her hips and stared into the dark eyes of the Indian warrior. If this didn't save her, maybe he would be mad enough to kill her and spare her the horrible suffering.
“Are you out of your mind?” she heard Miss Farminton whisper.
The brave stepped toward her, his eyes narrowed into slits. Sweat gleamed on his paint-smeared skin. He spat guttural words at her, then hooted and struck her a vicious blow across the cheek that knocked her sprawling into the dirt. The salty taste of blood filled her mouth. She thought of all she'd been through since she left her home, then prayed to God for the strength she needed. She took a deep breath and rose to her feet. Blood trickled from the corner of her mouth as she reached for her torn garment.
“That is mine!” she fought back. “You have no right to it!” The Indian struck her again, knocking her back into the dust.
She couldn't let him win.
She stood up again, staggered a little, then, gaining her composure, reached for the garment.
“That is mine,” she told him, her voice weaker but still determined. He hit her again. She stumbled, then fell. Her head ached, and she felt a wave of nausea, but they made no move to kill her. She had to keep going. She started to rise again, straining with the effort. The Indian towered above, ready to strike.
“Heyoka!”
the leader shouted, stepping between the two.
He glanced at her with a strange light in his eyes. He gave the men more orders; they grumbled, but left her where she lay. Through her hazy vision, she could see Miss Farminton staring at her incredulously.
The Indians readied themselves to leave. One of them jerked her to her feet, bound her hands tightly in front of her, and hoisted her up on one of the stage horses. They did the same to Miss Farminton. With a few last hoots and hollers, they headed into the hills. Mandy could see a dark plume of smoke rising and knew they'd set the coach afire. She rode astride in what remained of her torn traveling suit. The tiny jeweled kitten had been lost in the scuffle, making her feel more alone than ever. With no saddle, and in her weakened and shocked condition, it took every ounce of her strength just to stay atop the horse.
They rode throughout the day, stopping only briefly to water the animals. The ride was torturous. The insides of her thighs felt raw and sore; the side of her face ached where the Indian had slapped her so brutally. The terrain was so steep she had to wrap her legs tightly around the animal's sides and twist her fingers in its mane to stay on its bony back. Mandy remembered her first week with Hawk and James. The hardships she'd endured with them were nothing compared to this, and yet because of those hardships, her chances for survival were greater.
She pitied Miss Farminton, who had already lost consciousness. The Indians had tied her body across one of the horses. Mandy willed herself to have courage. Her only hope would be escape. If she could survive the next few days, she might have a chance.
By the time they made camp that night, the leader had
to pry her fingers loose from the horse's mane. He dragged her off, but she couldn't stand. Instead, she crumpled to the ground on useless limbs. They left her where she fell. One of the braves brought her a bowl of something warm to eat. It tasted slimy and foul, but it was sustenance, and she knew she would need it.
As her aching body began to respond, she looked around for the other woman. Miss Farminton was conscious and whimpering pitifully some distance away. Mandy focused her vision on the men around the campfire. The paint on their faces, the sweat on their bodies glistened in the moonlight, making them look like messengers from Satan.
There seemed to be some sort of argument going on. A horrible fear snaked through her as she realized she was the object of their debate. The leader kept shaking his head, moving between her and the rest of the braves. Finally, pulling his knife, he seemed to be challenging his companions. They backed down, grumbling. He spoke a few more words then pointed to the teacher. Mandy gasped.
Please, God, don't let them hurt her.
The braves swarmed around the woman. Brutally, they ripped the remainder of her clothing away. She sobbed and screamed, but made no move to defend herself. One after another the men satisfied themselves with her frail body, hitting her with their fists as they pawed her. Mandy watched, sickened by the horror but unable to turn away, fully expecting to be their next victim. But the men did not approach her. They seemed satisfied with their debauchery and finally drifted back toward the fire. She closed her eyes. After what seemed hours, she mercifully fell into an exhausted sleep.
The next day they continued the journey, except today
when they left the camp, the Indians led an extra mount. The lifeless, battered body of Miss Farminton lay discarded beneath a scrubby sage.
They rode hard, and Mandy clung tenaciously to her horse. They were entering even more mountainous terrain. By nightfall, after cresting a rocky ridge, they reached a small Indian village that nestled beneath it.
The women rushed from their teepees, followed by barking dogs and smiling children, to surround the victorious warriors.
After looking her over and pulling at her tangled mane of hair, the women dragged Mandy from her horse. They tore the balance of her clothes away and battled each other for pieces of the dirty cloth and lacy undergarments. Mandy refused to give in to her mounting hysteria. She knew exactly how she lookedâher hair was filthy and matted, her face bruised and swollen, her eyes sunken and hollowâbut she was alive.
The women beat her with sticks and forced her into the center of the village, where finally she crumpled to her knees. They hauled her up and bound her to a pole in the middle of a grassy knoll. She felt ashamed and humiliated, but held her head high, trying to keep as much of her dignity as possible.
The leader came forward, speaking in a manner that, she gathered, indicated a certain possessiveness. Inside she cringed, wishing they'd killed her that first day after all. Instead, she met his gaze fully and spat in his face.
With a deep, feral growl, the man slapped her hard across the cheek. The blow made her ears ring. She slumped forward, sinking slowly into blissful oblivion.
When she roused herself, she heard voices around her arguing in bitter debate. Her head lolled against her shoulder. They are planning to torture me, she thought. They're arguing about which horrible means they will use. With a great effort she raised her head.
A huge warrior stood before her. He wore only a loincloth. His torso glistened with beads of sweat. His corded bare legs were tensed as if he were angry. She stared into his eyes: ominous black circles set in a mask of bright yellow paint. Geometric patterns in black and yellow marked his upper body. Mandy shuddered inwardly in fear and revulsion. The ache in her temple thudded violently, but she controlled her terror. She tried to focus on his face, but her head lolled again, and she stared at his broad chest instead. She willed herself to look up, but couldn't quite focus her eyes. Maybe he would kill her. Death would be a welcome alternative to the torture she was certain they had planned.
She wet her cracked lips and forced her voice to respond. It came out in a hoarse whisper. “If I get a chance . . . I'll kill you. If you try to force yourself on me . . . I'll fight you till my death.” It was all she could manage before her head slumped forward again.