Cruel Rider

by Charles G. West

  “I ain’t goin’ to the sawmill in the mornin’.” One corner of his mouth turned up in the little half smile that usually signaled trouble for someone. “Fetch me that bottle from the pantry. I think I’ll have me a little shooter.”

  Her nerves turned frigid at the thought, for this was his usual preparation before forcing himself upon her body. He liked to get half drunk before having his way with her. How could he? her thoughts screamed out. How could the heartless murder of his own father stimulate lust? It was macabre and sickening to her. There was no doubt that he was insane, but there was no question that she had no choice but to submit to his brutal assault. Her mind already made up to leave while he was at work, she was now obliged to change her plan. Because he was not going to go to work in the morning, she would have to leave that night. She got up at once to get the bottle, bolstered by the thought that this would be the last time she would submit to his abuse.

  As she expected, he fortified himself with half the bottle of whiskey. Once his eyes took on a glazed film, she knew the time she had come to dread was near. Suddenly, he grabbed her wrist and pulled her down in his lap, pawing her in his crude attempts to fondle. Steeling herself to his animallike exploration of her body, she again promised herself that this was to be the last time. He pulled her roughly to the bed and shoved her down on her back. When it was over, he pushed her away, rolled over, and promptly went to sleep. This was what she had prayed for.

  As quickly and quietly as she could, she cleaned herself in a basin of water, constantly looking back at the sleeping man, fearful that he might awaken at any moment. Once, while she pulled on her shoes and stockings, he grunted and mumbled something in his sleep, causing her heart to pound with fright. He turned over on his back then, and started snoring, much to her relief. After tying some extra clothes in a bundle, she tiptoed back to the bedside where Bill’s trousers lay in a heap on the floor. She hesitated for just a moment before taking the money from his pocket. All of her actions up to that point might possibly be explained away if he happened to awaken. Emptying his pockets meant there was no turning back, but she quickly decided she would rather die than endure another day of abuse from this monster. There was another place she could look for money if she only had the time. Bill had a can buried behind the front left cornerstone of the cabin. He didn’t think she knew about it, but she had seen him digging it up on many occasions when he thought she was busy in the kitchen. It was too risky to take the time to search for it now, so she took what money he had in his trousers and quietly withdrew. As she walked by the kitchen table, she paused to pick up a butcher knife. It would be useful for any number of things.

  As she hurried to the barn, the cool night air splashed across her face, providing a welcome purge of the stuffy cabin air. Bill’s horse whinnied softly when she approached, and stood obediently while she saddled it. She tied her bundle of clothes behind the saddle and led the animal out. There was no definite plan for escape. At this point, her only thought was to run, to put as much distance as possible between herself and the farm that had been her hell on earth. She would take time to think about tomorrow after she was safely away.

  When she walked out of the barn, it was to find him standing there, squarely in front of the door, his pistol in his hand. Like a belligerent demon, he stood blocking her path, the pistol hanging casually in his hand, pointed toward the ground. She could not contain the sudden involuntary shriek that caught in her throat. In a panic, she scrambled up on the horse, her only thought to try to make a run for it. Prepared for such a move, he stepped aside when the horse bounded toward him. He reached up and, grasping a handful of her skirt, pulled her from the saddle. Determined to fight for her life, she managed to grab the handle of the butcher knife as she was wrenched from the horse.

  “Fixin’ to run out on me, was you?” He threw her to the ground. “Well, say hello to Pa for me when you git to hell.” He raised the pistol to fire. She froze, paralyzed by the realization that in the next second she would face eternity. But instead of the explosion of a gunshot, she heard the clean metallic click of the hammer falling on an empty chamber. The gun had misfired. Upon thinking back to that fateful moment, she would think of it as a miracle, the direct intervention by the hand of God. But in the terrifying instant while crouched in the dark of the barnyard, she acted without thinking—a natural instinct to save her life.

  In the darkness, he had failed to notice the knife she still clutched in one hand, so he was not prepared for the attack. In the time it took him to cock the pistol again, she lunged up at him, sinking the butcher knife in his gut. This time the pistol fired, but the shot went wide of the target. He recoiled in stunned horror. Staggering backward, he dropped the pistol, and grasped the handle of the knife with both hands in a desperate effort to extract it. He roared in pain as the blade came free, searing his insides like fire.

  Horrified by the sight, Polly scrambled for the pistol as her husband lurched toward her, the bloody knife raised to strike. When it was over, she could not recall actually pulling the trigger. The first shot, fired in haste, barely missed the target and creased his cheek. The report of the .44 handgun startled her when it shattered the chill night air. But she continued to pull the trigger, and two slugs smacked into Bill’s chest. A horrified look of disbelief transformed his face into a wide-eyed mask, and he staggered backward a few steps before dropping to his knees. Unable to contain her terror, Polly screamed. He stared at her for several long moments before pitching facedown in the dirt.

  Half out of her mind with fear, she sobbed uncontrollably as she forced herself to climb up in the saddle. She had not meant to kill him. Now she had to run. Guiding the horse to the gate, she dismounted to open it, looking back as she did to see that Bill was still lying where he had dropped. Even with the confusion of thoughts racing through her brain, she realized that she could now take the time to pack more supplies. So in spite of the desire to run, she led the horse back to the cabin. After making up a pack with utensils and what staples she could carry, she took her husband’s gun belt from a peg near the door, and returned the pistol to its holster. Next, she went to the left front corner of the cabin and, with the help of the butcher knife, probed in the loose dirt until she felt the metallic clunk she was searching for. There was not much money in Bill’s secret cache—a few silver dollars and a gold tiepin, which he had no doubt found somewhere. But it would help. Ready now to travel, she stole another glance at the body lying near the barn door before climbing in the saddle and striking out for a new life.

  With pounding heart and fearing every shadow along the dark road, she urged her horse onward toward Omaha. As the first gray light of dawn transformed individual trees from the solid dark forest curtain, she rode silently past the sawmill where her husband had worked, and the home she had known for a short time after her mother’s death. The temptation to turn in and seek comfort from her former mistress was great, but she knew she could not. No matter what the circumstances were that caused it, she was a murderer. No, she had best take leave of the vicinity—to where, she wasn’t sure. For lack of any better plan, it struck her that she could make her way to Julesburg and her aunt Hattie. She had heard her mother talk so often about her sister and her free and caring spirit. The more she thought about it, the more feasible it seemed. So it was settled. Now at least she knew where she was going.

  Chapter 2

  Most folks who had dealings with Tom Meadows would tell you that he drove a hard bargain when it came to trading horseflesh and tack. He was in a benevolent mood, however, when Polly Pike rode up to his stable. Either that, or he had a soft spot that the citizens of Omaha knew little of. Near exhaustion from travel and lack of sleep, the slight young woman must have touched a vulnerable spot in Tom’s heart. She wanted to sell her horse and saddle so she could go in search of her only living relative, she told him. She would use the money to buy a train ticket, and Tom believed she spoke in earnest. Before it was done, he had bought hor
se, tack, and some assorted pots and pans. The horse was sound, the saddle in only fair condition, but he really had no use for the cookware. He didn’t figure he had been too great a fool in the trade, but he insisted that she should tell no one how much he had paid her. The next morning, she was on the train to Julesburg.

  She didn’t know what to expect when she arrived at her destination. When her mother was alive, she would talk about her sister, always in genuine admiration. Hattie was the adventurous one, she would say, with more starch than the rest of the family combined. Polly looked forward to meeting her aunt, but how would Hattie respond to a surprise visit from a niece she had never seen? I can earn my keep, Polly thought. Just give me the opportunity.

  With no earthly idea where to find Horace Moon’s farm, she decided to go to the post office. The postmaster was sure to know everybody around. She could not help but feel a tensing of her muscles and a sudden increase in her heart rate when she left the train station and headed toward the telegraph office. The thought had occurred to her that a wire might be bringing a message alerting all stations about a woman murderer on the run. She was greatly relieved when the telegraph operator glanced up at her as she passed, and offered a polite nod. She answered with a shy smile, and hurried toward the post office.

  She had been right in assuming the postmaster knew everyone, but she wasn’t prepared for the information he passed along. Her uncle had died a few years back. Her aunt Hattie and another widow, Maggie Hogg, had decided to team up and leave Julesburg, supposedly to seek their fortunes farther west. There was some talk, he said, that they had planned to follow the gold strikes in Dakota Territory. The news left Polly in somewhat of a quandary, but she had not come this far to give up.

  “My advice would be to go on out to Fort Laramie,” he said, “if you’re still bent on finding Hattie. If her and Maggie was headin’ for the Black Hills, they’d most likely have gone through Fort Laramie. Most ever’body does. You could get back on the train, and ride on down to Cheyenne. Fort Laramie’s seventy or eighty miles north of Cheyenne. There ain’t no train that goes to the fort, so you’d have to find some transportation.”

  With the image of Bill Pike’s body still vivid in her mind, she knew she wasn’t going to go back to Omaha. And Julesburg held no appeal for her without her aunt Hattie. So there was really no decision to be made. She returned to the train station, and sat up all night, waiting for the train to Cheyenne.

  Arriving in Cheyenne after again sitting up all night, this time in the coach, because of an extended delay in Kimball, Polly went straight to the stationmaster to inquire about transportation to Fort Laramie. “There ain’t no public transport to Fort Laramie, ma’am,” the stationmaster told her.

  When she explained that it was urgent she find her aunt, and she had been told that aunt Hattie had most probably traveled through Fort Laramie, he offered a possible solution to her problem. “There’s an army patrol got here last night. They was waiting to meet the train you come in on. Colonel Bradley, he’s the post commander at Laramie, his daughter and grandchildren were on the train, and the soldiers came to escort ’em to the post. Might be they’d let you go along with ’em.”

  The young woman with two little girls, Polly thought, remembering the well-behaved children who sat beside their mother at the opposite end of the coach from her. “Yes,” she replied hopefully, “maybe they would.” She turned to look back at the handful of passengers detraining, afraid for a moment that the woman and her daughters were already gone.

  Reading her concern, the stationmaster walked to the door, and looked across the tracks. “They’re still waiting for her luggage,” he said. “Come on, and I’ll go talk to the officer in charge with you.” He immediately stepped off the wooden walkway, and strode toward the group of soldiers gathered on the other side of the tracks. Clutching her bundle of clothes in her arms, Polly was right on his heels. Though the stationmaster seemed oblivious to the wheezing, groaning iron monster, Polly stepped lively when they crossed in front of the locomotive, lest it suddenly decide to lurch forward and devour them. Safely across, she hurried to stay close to the stationmaster’s elbow.

  “Say, there, Lieutenant,” he called out, striding up to the officer standing by while two enlisted men tied some suitcases to the back of an ambulance. When the lieutenant turned to face him, the stationmaster said, “This here young lady is lookin’ for transportation to Fort Laramie.” When the officer’s expression conveyed little concern for civilian travel problems, the stationmaster added, “She’s all alone, lookin’ for her aunt—got no other way to get there.”

  The lieutenant’s expression softened a bit as he turned his gaze toward Polly. She, in turn, met his gaze, looking up at him hopefully. “Lieutenant DiMarco, ma’am,” he said, introducing himself. “My orders are to escort Mrs. Castle and her daughters back to the fort. I really don’t have any authority to take along civilian passengers on army vehicles. I’m real sorry, ma’am.”

  “Oh, come now, Lieutenant. I’m sure the army wouldn’t mind if you gave a young lady in distress a ride.” They were startled by the voice coming from the ambulance behind them.

  DiMarco turned at once to find the colonel’s daughter leaning over the sill of the ambulance’s open sides. “Begging your pardon, ma’am, but I don’t want to get crossways with the colonel on this.”

  “Well, she can ride with us as part of our party. If you get in trouble for it, I’ll fix things with my father.” She turned a gracious smile toward Polly. “Come join us, dear. You look like you’re about worn out. My name is Mary Castle, and this is Charlotte and Julia,” she said, laying a hand on each girl’s shoulder as she introduced them.

  “I wouldn’t want to crowd you,” Polly replied, looking at the rather cramped confines of the ambulance. “I could ride a horse if there’s a spare one.” She looked at the lieutenant, unsure if he was going to permit it.

  “Nonsense,” Mary Castle retorted. “We’ll have plenty of room. Won’t we, Lieutenant?”

  DiMarco grinned. “If you say so, ma’am.” He turned to offer Polly his assistance. She immediately accepted his arm.

  “What’s your name, dear?” Mary Castle inquired.

  “Polly,” she replied, then hesitated before adding, “Polly Hatcher,” using her maiden name. After she settled herself, she looked back to thank the stationmaster. “My thanks to you, sir.”

  “You’re welcome, miss. I hope you find your aunt.”

  Mary Castle found herself drawn to the young woman who had struck out on her own in hopes of finding her aunt. She was not sure she would have been so bold had she found herself in Polly’s situation. The poor girl’s husband had been killed in an accident at the sawmill where he worked, and she had no other family to turn to. Mary supposed that Polly saw herself with little choice but to search for her one living relative. Even faced with similar circumstances, Mary was not sure she would have been brave enough to face such a journey alone.

  The two young women took to each other almost immediately. Polly, at first cautious, and feeling somewhat dishonest at having to lie about Bill’s death, soon relaxed in the cheerful company of Mary and the children. As a result, the dusty, bumpy ride, as the ambulance rumbled over the prairie, became a pleasant journey with each night’s camp almost like a picnic. Lieutenant DiMarco was constantly attentive to their needs, and there was a wonderful sense of security with a patrol of fifteen soldiers to protect them. Before Cheyenne was little more than a day behind, Polly was able to place thoughts of Bill Pike in the recesses of her mind.

  During the trip, Polly learned that Mary had not seen her husband, a cavalry lieutenant, for more than two months. She and the girls had been back east to visit her husband’s parents. Now she was eagerly looking forward to seeing him again at Fort Laramie. Although her father was the post commander, she had never been there before. So in that respect, it was a new adventure for both women. Winston, her husband, had been transferred to Fort Laramie where
he would serve under her father. In letters to his wife, he had written that a campaign against the Sioux was forthcoming. The purpose was to drive the hostile bands back to the reservations once and for all. He had expressed some regrets that he had been transferred from General Crook’s command, and would therefore miss the coming action.

  “We’ve been apart longer than I like,” Mary said. “And since my father is the post commander at Fort Laramie, I decided to meet Winston there. At least, I’ll be able to see him for a little while before he goes marching off somewhere to punish the savages.” She turned to grace her daughters with a benevolent gaze. “And grandma and grandpa will get a chance to spoil their babies again.” Polly suspected that Lieutenant Castle’s transfer was greatly influenced by a doting colonel’s acquiescence to his daughter’s desires.

  The second morning of their journey greeted the travelers with a light frost on the prairie. It was unexpected because the days prior to that had been properly springlike. With full knowledge that it was still early enough in the year for just such a possibility, Lieutenant DiMarco had seen to it that there were extra blankets packed in the ambulance. After a hasty breakfast, due to the sudden chill, the party was off again, the women and children all bundled in army-issue blankets. They sat huddled close together for warmth, chattering cheerfully as the ambulance bumped across a silver prairie that glistened with the arrival of the morning sun. Polly suddenly realized that she had not been so content since she had been a child. She almost wished the journey would never end. She and Mary were very close to the same age, and for Polly it was almost like having a sister. It was only a few hours later when she saw her first Sioux warrior.

  It was certainly not the first Indian she had seen, but it was her first glimpse of a hostile. He was alone, seated on a white pony at the brow of a low line of hills to the west, approximately four or five hundred yards away. He made no move to run from the column of troopers, seeming instead to be content to watch them. At that distance, Polly could not really tell much about the warrior’s appearance, but he did not strike her as much of a threat to their progress. She turned her attention toward the head of the column where DiMarco was conferring with his sergeant. She heard him say, “Just leave him be, we’re not out here to chase after any stray Indians.”