Savage Courage

by Cassie Edwards

  “You are good at giving pleasure,” Storm said, closing his eyes and gritting his teeth as he felt ecstasy approaching again.

  “Do you want me to stop?” Shoshana asked, seeing how he was gritting his teeth as though he were in pain.

  He reached down and touched her hand, then twined his fingers through hers and showed her how to give him the most pleasure.

  “To-dah, which in our Apache tongue means ‘no,’ ” he said huskily. “Continue, but know that soon you will see the seed that is the result of your pleasuring me.”

  She watched him, mystified that a man should be so different from a woman in this way. Then she sucked in a wild breath of wonder when his body shuddered and he spent himself in her hand.

  He smiled at her, sat up, and reached for a buckskin cloth to clean her hand.

  “You had best not do that again to me tonight, or I might not be able to walk from my lodge,” he said, laughing throatily. “You will have drained me of my energy.”

  “I don’t want to do that,” she said as he laid the cloth aside. “But I do wish to talk awhile before returning to my mother’s bedside.”

  She hung her head, then looked at him again. “Then I must return to the fort so that everyone will know that I am all right,” she said softly.

  She wondered why her words caused Storm to look wary, but brushed her curiosity aside when he sat up and fetched a soft pelt from his stack of many. He placed it around her shoulders, and then took the end of the very same pelt and brought it around his own shoulders so that as they sat before the fire, their shoulders touched beneath the pelt.

  “Tell me about your mother,” Shoshana said, seeing a strange haunted look enter his eyes.

  He turned and gazed into the fire and did not respond right away; then he looked at her again. “My mother was white,” he said, drawing a soft gasp from Shoshana. “Yes, Shoshana, my mother was white. And she had such golden hair. I remember that when I touched it as a child, I thought it was made of silk. She was a golden-haired Apache princess after she was taken captive and fell in love with her captor, who was my father.”

  He gazed into the fire once again. “I have always longed to find my mother’s hair so that I could give it back to her,” he said, his voice breaking.

  “Your mother was scalped?” Shoshana gasped, drawing his eyes back to her.

  “Yes, scalped,” Storm said thickly.

  “I . . . am . . . so sorry,” Shoshana gulped out, imagining renegades coming into his village, killing and scalping.

  “You have lived the life of a white person, as my mother, who was white, lived the life of an Apache,” Storm said, his voice drawn. “How do you feel about it?”

  “I grow weary thinking about these things,” Shoshana said, sighing. “Especially thinking about the man who allowed me to live that day instead of killing me like all the others. But there is one thing about him that you must know. He spent his lifetime trying to make me happy. I know now that it was surely to help ease the guilt in his heart over all the wrongs he had committed against innocent people.”

  “Is that man truly regretful of what he did?” Storm asked guardedly as he stood and dressed while Shoshana put on the lovely beaded dress that was made by her mother’s own hands.

  “He says he is,” Shoshana murmured, running her fingers through her hair to remove the tangles from making love. “And, yes, I truly believe he is sorry,” she murmured. “Don’t you see, Storm? That is why he came here to Arizona to help find the scalp hunter who preys on the Apache.”

  “I, personally, do not believe that any man who killed as Colonel George Whaley killed could ever truly be sorry about it,” Storm said. “He killed with too much ease, too much authority.”

  “How do you know so much about him?” Shoshana asked.

  “How?” Storm repeated. “The man who brought death into your life also brought it into mine. He . . . killed . . . my parents.”

  “How do you know this?” she asked, her pulse racing. “You were so young. Surely you were not present when your parents were slain or you would not be alive.”

  “I arrived almost immediately after the massacre,” Storm said thickly. “My ahte, my father, was alive long enough to tell me what happened, and the name he had heard that day—the name of the man who had murdered and scalped my mother.”

  “Lord,” Shoshana gasped, remembering that only moments ago Storm had said that his mother’s golden hair had been taken by the man who murdered her.

  And he knew that this man was Colonel Whaley!

  She stumbled to her feet. She stepped slowly away from Storm, then turned and ran from the tepee.

  Storm followed and caught up with her. He grabbed her around the waist and turned her to face him. “Why did you run?” he demanded as his eyes searched hers.

  “I’m not sure,” she said, swallowing hard. “I just can’t accept that George Whaley, the man who raised me with such love and tenderness, had a role in killing not only my people, but also yours . . . and that he could actually scalp someone.” She lowered her eyes. “Oh, surely you are wrong,” she gulped out.

  He placed a gentle hand beneath her chin and raised it so that their eyes could meet. “To-dah, I am not wrong,” he said, his voice drawn. “My father spoke the man’s name to me. He told me that Colonel George Whaley was the one who took my mother’s scalp. My father shot his last arrow into Colonel Whaley’s leg. Had my father not sunk back to the ground as though dead, your father would have came back and killed my father, too. As it was, Father lived long enough to tell me the truth about the tragedy that day, and who was responsible.”

  “It’s so horrible,” Shoshana said, her heart sinking.

  “And you still respect the man after knowing this?” Storm asked, his eyes again searching hers.

  “I’m not sure if I ever truly did respect him after the truth was revealed to me in bits and pieces in my dreams,” she said softly. “But the fact remains that I am alive because of him.”

  “Are you well enough to ride?” Storm asked, reaching a hand to her cheek. “I would like to take you somewhere tomorrow.”

  “Yes, I am well enough, and, yes, I would love to go with you,” she murmured.

  They embraced; and then he walked her back to her mother’s tepee. “I shall see you tomorrow then?” he asked, framing her face between his hands.

  “Yes, tomorrow,” she said, then flung herself into his arms. “I do love you so. And . . . and you make me feel safer than I have ever felt before in my entire life.” She gazed up at him. “You . . . you . . . make me whole,” she murmured. “You make me feel Apache again!”

  He smiled at her, gave her another kiss, then walked away from her as she disappeared inside her mother’s lodge.

  As she sat down beside the fire, she tried to come to terms with what she had just learned. Now that she knew so much more about George Whaley and the evil he had committed, she felt sick at having ever considered him her father.

  Had she allowed herself to forget too easily through the years? Surely she never should have given that man her love and respect.

  Tears filled her eyes as she gazed at her old, bent mother, who was not as old in years as she appeared in the flesh. Oh, how that terrible day had changed her.

  A part of Shoshana now detested George Whaley more than she could have ever thought possible. How would she behave when they came together again after she left this stronghold?

  Would he see that she could not help detesting the very ground he walked upon?

  “The wooden leg,” she whispered to herself.

  An even more disturbing thought came to her. He had gotten that injured leg after he had taken her into his home. Even the act of saving an innocent child had not changed his mind about killing more Apache.

  Suddenly she felt a loathing for George Whaley she had never known was possible. She was now more determined than ever to return to the fort, for she had a few things to say to this man she now knew was a de
mon.

  She hung her head and tears fell from her eyes as she realized how much she had allowed herself to forget. She knew that her mind had shut out the past because she was a child who needed love just as any child did. She had just accepted it from the wrong person.

  Thank heavens Dorothea Whaley had also been there to love and nurture her as she was growing up.

  “But you are gone now,” she whispered as she wiped tears from her eyes. Her jaw firmed. “But your husband, Colonel George Whaley, is still alive and I have a score to settle.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Not as all other women are

  Is she that to my soul is dear.

  —James Russell Lowell

  On his steed, his hands tightly wound around the reins as he traveled with the soldiers in single file up the small mountain pass, George could not stop worrying about what their Apache guide had said just before he headed back down the mountain, alone. The guide had warned everyone that they should return with him to the fort, not go farther into the mountain.

  His eyes and voice frantic, he had said that all who traveled on this mountain today were in danger of being attacked by “ghost sickness.” He’d explained that ghost sickness overwhelmed a person with extreme nervousness and fright. He said he had already been struck by it. That was why he was retreating.

  He claimed that this ghost sickness was often brought on by the hooting of a nearby owl at night. The whole camp had been disturbed by an owl all night after the storm had passed. It had not ceased its call until daybreak.

  George had awakened just in time to see the owl flutter away, higher up the mountain. It had been huge and white, its wingspan even larger than any eagle he had ever seen.

  George had further questioned the guide about this ghost sickness. The guide had said that the Apache had an excessive dread of owls, and that if an owl hooted near one’s camp, it was an omen of the most frightful import. The Apache believed the spirit of the dead entered into the owl and came back to warn or threaten them.

  Not believing in such superstitious hogwash, George had ignored the guide—even when the man refused to travel onward.

  “We must travel on foot until the pass widens again,” said the soldier who had taken over the duties of the guide. “Let’s head toward that growth of aspen trees over there. There seems to be a path worn in the grass that leads to those trees. We may just find something interesting.”

  They followed the path, leading their horses behind them, and when they came to the aspens and made their way through them, what they found on the other side made George’s heart skip a beat. From this vantage point he could see a well-hidden, newly built cabin nestled on the floor of a canyon, with a cluster of trees on each end standing like sentinels, guarding whoever lived there.

  “Surely it’s the scalp hunter’s cabin,” George said, his heart pounding.

  He struggled up into the saddle again and rode with the others until they reached the cabin and surrounded it.

  “Come out with your hands in the air!” Colonel Hawkins shouted. “Don’t try anything funny. You’re surrounded.”

  “I don’t think anyone is there,” a soldier said as he sidled his steed close to George’s. “I see no horse, and there isn’t any smoke coming from the chimney.”

  George gazed at the chimney and saw that the soldier was right. There was no smoke.

  He looked cautiously around the cabin and saw no horse. What he did see was a pen that had been built near the cabin; it was empty.

  He was close enough to it to get the scent of animals and guessed that whoever lived in the cabin usually had some sort of animals locked in there. The gate, however, was open now.

  “Let’s go inside the cabin,” George said, dismounting. “I think it’s safe enough.”

  Well armed, George and the others crept to the door. George took it upon himself to open it, anxious to see if there might be any sign of Shoshana inside.

  Squinting his eyes as he stepped into the dark room from the bright sunshine out doors, George could not make out anything at first. But as his eyes adjusted, what he saw made his stomach turn. There was blood in more than one place, and hanging from the rafters were several fresh scalps.

  “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Colonel Hawkins asked as he stepped to George’s side. “That we’ve found Mountain Jack’s cabin?”

  “Yes, I believe so, but we haven’t found him, or my daughter,” George said, sighing heavily. He began walking slowly around the room, limping as he leaned on his cane, his eyes not missing anything.

  His heart seemed to stop dead inside his chest when he stepped on something that was very familiar to him.

  “Lord . . .” he gasped, paling.

  He knelt and grabbed up the red bandanna, the very one that he had given to Shoshana right before she left with Major Klein.

  “What is it, George?” Colonel Hawkins asked as he came to his side. “What have you got there?”

  George held it out for the colonel to see. “This is mine,” he said thickly. “I gave it to Shoshana right before she left the fort.”

  He gulped hard as he brought the bandanna up to his nose; his daughter’s scent was on it. He would recognize the smell of her soap anywhere. She and her mother had used it to wash their hair for years.

  “There is no doubt whatsoever that Shoshana was here,” he said, his eyes flashing angrily. “But . . . where . . . is she now?”

  “Come and look at this,” a soldier said, lifting a chain as George turned toward him. “This was used to imprison someone. I wonder if—”

  “If it might have been Shoshana?” George said, completing the soldier’s words.

  He thrust the bandanna in his rear pants pocket and gazed at the chain as the soldier held it up for his inspection.

  A cold stab of fear mixed with repulsion filled George’s being. He looked quickly away from the chain. Seeing it and the bandanna gave him thoughts he did not want to think.

  His Shoshana had been chained by this madman scalp hunter?

  If so, where was she now?

  He lowered his head so that the others wouldn’t see the tears that came to his eyes at the thought of possibly losing her forever.

  He suddenly remembered the very first day he had seen her, how sweet and tiny she was, how alone and frightened, after so many around her had died.

  He thought of how she had clung to her mother, crying over her. He had felt an instant love for the child that day, and even a strange sort of pity for those she had lost.

  He had raised her with all the love he would have given his own daughter.

  He had always regretted that he had been forced to leave on another attack against the Apache the very next day.

  He had already decided to head back for Missouri, where no Indians could take Shoshana away from him. But he had had second thoughts about leaving for Missouri right away when he was told that he risked losing his status as colonel and being court-martialed if he did not ride that one last time with the military. Afterward, he was promised, he could be transferred to a quieter, more peaceful place.

  “George?” The colonel’s voice broke through George’s thoughts.

  “What do you want to do?” Colonel Hawkins asked. “I can see the dread in your eyes . . . the fear. I know what you’re thinking.”

  “No, I don’t believe you do,” George said tightly.

  “George, I think we should get back to the fort and send troops out immediately in all directions to try to find Mountain Jack before he goes into hiding again,” Colonel Hawkins said. “I believe he’s on his way to where he sells scalps.”

  “And what about Shoshana?” George asked, his voice drawn.

  “Hopefully, the scalp hunter has spared her life,” Colonel Hawkins mumbled.

  George went pale and felt sick to his stomach at the various possible fates that might have befallen Shoshana. If Mountain Jack hadn’t already taken her scalp, he might be planning to sell her as a slave
.

  “Damn him to hell,” George gulped out, then rushed outside as fast as his wooden leg would take him. There he vomited, the thought of what his daughter might be enduring devastating him.

  “George, we’ll find her,” Colonel Hawkins said as he handed George a cloth to wipe his mouth with. “Be brave, George. Come on. We’ve wasted enough time here.”

  George wiped his mouth clean, tossed the cloth into the brush, and then, with a tight jaw and angry fire in his eyes, mounted his steed.

  When he found that damn scalp hunter, there would be no mercy showed him, especially if he had harmed Shoshana in any way.

  George had not saved that small, helpless child so long ago only to lose her to such vermin as Mountain Jack and those who aligned themselves with him.

  “You’ll regret the day you left the military to take up scalp hunting,” George growled between his clenched teeth.

  Chapter Twenty

  And this maiden, she lived

  With no other thought

  Than to love and be loved by me.

  —Edgar Allan Poe

  Shoshana was glad she felt up to riding again, her lump having faded to a slight yellowish discoloration on her brow.

  She was especially happy to be riding with Storm, on their way to see something he had said he wanted to show her.

  Just as they were ready to ride from his village, she noticed something that intrigued her. It was a huge pen of turkeys.

  She glanced over at Storm. “I see that you raise turkeys to eat,” she said, recalling the turkey dinners she had eaten every Christmas, no matter where George had been stationed.

  She could even now smell the delicious aromas wafting from the kitchen as the cook prepared the special meal while Shoshana sat beside the tree, unwrapping gifts.

  That seemed another lifetime now, but she was content to be who she had become. She had no wish to return to that other life.

  “We do not eat turkeys,” Storm said. “We use their feathers for many things. Did you know that Chiricahua was taken from the word Chiquicaqui, which means mountain of the wild turkeys?”