She hid her face in her hands.
“Please come and find me,” she whispered, uncertain whom she was imploring. “Anyone . . . please . . . ?”
She shivered when the wolves outside in the pen began howling at the moon.
It was an eerie, lonesome sound.
It made Shoshana feel even more alone . . . and afraid.
Chapter Ten
There is a garden in her face
Where roses and white lilies grow,
A heavenly paradise in that place
Wherein all pleasant fruits do flow.
—Thomas Campion
Almost ready to give up the search for both the panther and the scalp hunter, knowing that traveling at this hour on the mountain was full of risks, Storm began wheeling his horse around. He stopped halfway when the moonlight revealed something he had not seen before while traveling up and down the mountain.
But his travels had never brought him to this part of the mountain before. He had never expected Mountain Jack to be daft enough to hide on the very mountain that was home to a proud Apache chief!
But perhaps Mountain Jack was more clever than anyone gave him credit for. Cleverness and cunning had to have played a role in his elusiveness.
Storm gazed at length at a thick aspen forest, and through a break in the trees he saw a canyon beyond, where the moon worked its light into every crevice: the shine of silken trees, moon-bent grass, and gray-blue cliffs.
Ho, yes, in all of Storm’s ventures, he had never seen this canyon, yet his exploring had never brought him so far from the pass in this direction.
The mountain was huge. It would take a lifetime to explore all of it.
Determined to discover what was in the canyon, forgetting the dangers of the night, of the panther that stalked the darkness, Storm sank his heels into the flanks of his horse and rode through the aspen forest and into the canyon.
He stopped to allow his eyes to scan the area. Nothing escaped his piercing glance.
He had to make sure this wasn’t a trap. He wasn’t ready to lose his scalp!
When he was sure no enemy lurked nearby, he rode onward. Before another minute had passed, he saw a cabin nestled in the canyon.
“This is a clever hideout,” he said to himself as he paused to again check for any sign of movement.
When there was none, he rode onward, but more cautiously now. He wasn’t sure whether the scalp hunter worked alone, or whether he had sentries guarding him. He didn’t even know if this was the scalp hunter’s lodge.
As the moon poured its silver light down onto the cabin, Storm saw that the logs were newly cut. No doubt the scalp hunter moved from place to place often in order to avoid capture.
Next Storm noticed a pen of gray wolves close to the cabin. The sight angered him, for no wolves should be penned up. They were meant to run free!
At that moment several of the wolves began to howl at the moon.
Dismounting, Storm tied his horse’s reins to a tree. After taking his rifle from its gunboot, he crept toward the cabin, his moccasined feet falling noiselessly on the ground like the velvet paws of a cat.
He circled around to a far side of the cabin. He stayed in the shadows and downwind from the wolves so that they would not be startled by his presence and make a commotion.
Now that he was so close, Storm realized that only one horse was reined at the hitching rail. One horse meant only one person was there.
His hand tight on his rifle, Storm crept slowly to a window. He looked through it. His heart skipped a beat when he saw who was in the cabin.
It was the ish-tia-nay he had seen traveling with Mountain Jack . . . the one he had seen through his spyglass! She was sitting on the floor in front of the fireplace, unaware of his observation.
He turned his eyes left, then right, making sure that Mountain Jack was not in the room. Storm realized that the scalp hunter had left the woman alone.
Again he gazed at her. Even though her back was to him, he could see the same long, sleek, black hair that he had seen earlier.
He wondered why she sat with her head hung, as one who was despondent might hold it.
Was she sad? Or was she dozing?
Needing answers from this woman about why she was there and where the scalp hunter had gone, Storm crept around to the front of the cabin.
Again he was so noiseless that the wolves did not sense his approach.
When he reached the front door, which was ajar, he boldly opened it the rest of the way, then moved quietly to stand just inside the door.
Again he gazed at the woman. She was still unaware that he was there.
Then he noticed something else that made his heart skip a beat as she moved an arm. A chain was attached to it. She was a prisoner, not the evil man’s wife!
And up this close, he could tell for certain she could not be anything but a full-blood Indian. Yet she wore the clothes of a white woman.
Now that he saw she was being held captive, he supposed the scalp hunter had made her wear a white woman’s clothes instead of her own in order to keep her people from recognizing her at a distance.
But where had he found her? Which band did she come from?
For many moons Storm had searched for the scalp hunter. Now he had finally found his lodge, but this woman’s safety must take precedence over his desire to catch the scalp hunter.
It was important that she be freed.
And because she was so beautiful, Storm could not help wanting to know her better and discover where she made her home. In his many travels between Apache strongholds, he had never seen her.
But he knew that there were bands that he had not yet found. Ho, this woman must have been stolen from one of them.
Had Mountain Jack killed many in order to have her?
Storm’s eyes widened and he felt his pulse race when suddenly the woman lifted her head and turned her eyes to him.
Now that he saw her up close, he knew that he would never find anyone else in his entire life who could match her beauty.
When he saw fear leap into her eyes, Storm took a step closer, then stopped as she gasped and cowered in his shadow.
“I am a friend,” he said tightly. “Do not be afraid.”
Chapter Eleven
Do! I tell you, I rather guess
She was a wonder, and nothing less!
—Oliver Wendell Holmes
As soon as Shoshana saw the stranger, she was frightened. Although she was glad that someone besides Mountain Jack had arrived, she wasn’t sure what to think about this tall and muscular Indian, who carried in his left hand a seventeen-shot Winchester rifle.
She guessed that this must be the Indian who had been high in the mountain earlier, possibly sending signals to his warriors.
Was . . . he . . . Apache?
Although she still felt fear like the cold blade of a knife in the pit of her stomach, she could not help noticing how uniquely handsome he was with his high cheekbones, his well-formed nose, his black eyes that blazed with fire and energy, and his strong jaw.
He had firm lips. His hair, which he wore in a thick braid, was black, thick, and coarse. He had a lean, supple, sinewy body . . . a broad chest and slender waist.
“Still you say nothing?” Storm said as he took one step closer to the maiden. “I spoke in English when I said I was a friend. Again hear me well when I tell you that I pose no threat to you.”
Then he recalled the powerful weapon that he held in his left hand and knew that it, alone, could put fear into the heart of any man or woman.
“I am armed thusly because there are others who pose a threat to me, as well as animals that I must protect myself from,” Storm explained. “While on a hunt for a panther that killed two small ones from my stronghold, I saw you with the scalp hunter. Since I have been searching for the scalp hunter for many moons now, I could not give up tonight until I found him.”
His gaze swept down to where she was held prisoner by the chain at
her wrist, then slowly looked up at her again. “When I first saw you with Mountain Jack, I thought you were with him of your own choosing, yet I found it hard to believe that any woman would want such a man for a husband, especially . . . especially a woman who is of my own Apache blood,” he said guardedly.
He stooped and lifted a portion of the chain in his free hand, gazed at it, and then again at the woman. “Now that I see you are a prisoner of the whiskered scalp hunter, I realize how wrong I was in my first impression of you. Let me help you. Let me release you. I will take you to safety.”
No longer so afraid, Shoshana moved slowly to her feet, her gaze holding his as he rose to his full height.
Yet he was a stranger, and she could not put her full trust in him just yet. Since the day she had been taken away from the horrible ambush on her people, she had never been around Indians except for those who worked as scouts for the cavalry.
She knew the name of only one Apache in this area; she wondered if this could possibly be he.
“Are you Chief Storm?” she blurted out without any more hesitation.
“Ah, so you do know of me,” Storm said thickly. “How have you heard of me? What is your name, and where do you make your home? I have never seen you before this day with Mountain Jack.”
His gaze swept slowly over her again, then he looked intently into her eyes. “You are of Indian blood, yet you wear the clothes of white people,” he said, his voice tight. “Why is this?”
“It’s a long story, but I will tell you this much . . . yes, I am Apache,” she murmured, her heart beating loudly at the knowledge that he was Chief Storm, the proud, elusive Apache chief who made his home high on this very mountain.
She gazed more intently into his midnight-dark eyes. “My home?” she murmured. “For many moons I have lived with white people as a white woman. You see, long ago I was taken from my true people. I was only five on that terrible day when my village was attacked by the cavalry. For so long I was not able to remember anything about that day. And then . . . and then . . . a dream came to me that told me of the tragedy. When I awakened, I recalled most of what had happened; slowly the rest came to me in more dreams.”
“Do you dream often?” Storm asked, amazed by her story.
This beautiful woman had suffered the same as he, yet he had been able to flee those who had killed so many that day.
Although her life had been spared, she had been forced to live apart from her people. He didn’t know which was worse, being slain by white-eyes or taken and made into one of them.
“Yes, I dream often,” Shoshana murmured. “I dream of my mother, who I’d always believed was killed that day. Now, I’m not so sure. The dreams give me hope that one day I may find her again.”
“Why are you here in Apache land now?” Storm asked softly. “Where have you made your home since the age of five?”
Shoshana felt the tension between them lessening as she explained about having lived at various forts, and then mainly in Missouri.
“I was treated like a princess,” she murmured. “But after discovering my true heritage, I have never forgotten who I really am, and where I belong.”
“And you are in Apache land now for what purpose?” Storm asked, stepping closer, lifting the chain again and examining the spot where it was attached around her wrist. Soon he would have her free.
“The man who adopted me, who once was in the cavalry, himself, has returned to my homeland to help the cavalry find the scalp hunter. He has accepted this commission even though he has been slowed down, not only by age, but by his wooden leg,” Shoshana said.
At those words Storm’s eyes shot up and stared strangely into hers.
“This man,” Storm said, his heart pounding at the mention of a man with a wooden leg who was in the cavalry. “What is his name?”
“His name?” Shoshana asked, seeing his eagerness to hear her response. She wondered now if she should tell him. Could Chief Storm somehow know about George’s past atrocities against the Apache?
Might he want vengeance if he knew what George Whaley had been guilty of those long years ago? Might Chief Storm not understand how she could have continued to care for him after learning of his role in the attack on her own band?
“Yes, his name,” Storm said thickly. “What . . . is . . . his name?”
“George Whaley,” Shoshana said, tightening inside when she saw a strange light enter the handsome chief’s eyes.
“Chief Storm, do you know the name?” Shoshana murmured. “Do you know the man?”
Although Storm prided himself, like all Apache, on speaking the truth, he knew that a lie was necessary now in order to give him time to decide what he must do.
Ho, fate was working in his favor today. It was unbelievable but true that this woman was the adopted daughter of the man he had despaired of ever finding. This woman must be the joy of George Whaley’s life. Without her, surely he would be half a man.
If she was taken from him, would he not be devastated? Would he not know the true heartache of suddenly losing someone he loved so dearly?
It was hard to see how a man could kill so many Apache, then take one to keep for himself, to raise as his own beloved daughter. Yet it seemed she had not known anything but the love of this evil white man since the day of her capture.
Ho, he must lie to this woman, in order to finally achieve the vengeance he had promised his father so long ago.
Yes, he would promise that he would take her back to George Whaley, but he never would. He would keep her in his stronghold. Instead of killing the man, Storm would deprive him of his daughter. Whaley’s loss would be a heartache that he could never get over; he would experience a loss such as the Apache had known due to the evil of this man.
Heartache could bring a man down quickly . . . especially an older man.
Realizing that Storm was finding it difficult for some reason to answer her question, Shoshana decided to change the subject. There was another question she was longing to ask him.
“Will you take me to your stronghold?” she blurted out, surprised that she trusted a stranger enough to ask such a thing of him, especially a stranger who surely hated all whites with a passion.
But she wasn’t white!
She was Apache!
“You see, I ache to be among my Apache people,” she explained. “Please? Will you take me?”
She desperately wanted to mention the name Fawn; to ask if he knew her, yet now that she could, she was afraid to know. If she discovered that her search had been for naught, that her dreams meant nothing and that her mother wasn’t alive after all, she would be devastated.
As long as she had hope, she felt she could go on. But if she discovered that her mother didn’t exist, it would break her heart.
Yes, she would delay the knowing awhile longer.
Storm was stunned by her request. What courage she possessed! It made him admire her beauty all the more, but nothing would change the plans he now had for her.
Not even the fact that he felt something for her even though they had just met.
No woman had raised this sensual heat in him before. This daring beauty was the first.
But he must remember why he was taking her with him. It was for vengeance, not to have someone to fall in love with!
“Ho, I will take you,” he said, hiding his smile of victory.
“Thank you, oh, thank you,” Shoshana said, her excitement causing a hot blush to rush to her cheeks. She gazed down at the chain as he studied it. “But how can you free me?”
“A key must be somewhere in this cabin,” Storm said, turning and wincing when he saw the bloody scalps still hanging from the rafters.
“I already searched and didn’t find one,” Shoshana said wearily. “I hope you can.”
“I will look until I find it,” he said, giving her a look over his shoulder. How fortunate it was that her scalp had not joined the others. Her hair was as black and as thick and beautiful as any he had eve
r seen.
Surely upon Mountain Jack’s return, he planned to rape, then scalp her.
Realizing that lingering at the cabin for much longer might endanger them both, Storm looked high and low for the key.
He didn’t find it inside the cabin.
“I shall look outside,” he said, walking toward the door. “He would not leave it where you could find it easily.”
Shoshana sat back down on the floor before the fire as Storm stepped out into the moonlight.
His gaze swept slowly over everything, then fell upon a small shed that hugged the cabin not far from the front door.
He went there. It was dark, so he could only feel with his hands.
He smiled victoriously when he found several keys on a ring which hung from a nail on the wall beneath a layer of old pelts.
Smiling, he took the ring of keys into the cabin.
“Perhaps the one we are looking for is here,” he said, setting his rifle against a wall.
He knelt before Shoshana.
One by one he tried the keys, then smiled into her lustrously dark eyes as the chain finally fell away from her wrist.
“Thank goodness,” Shoshana sighed. She rubbed her raw wrist and smiled at Storm as he unwrapped the chain from around her waist. “Thank you so much. Had you not came along, I . . . I . . . am not certain what my final fate would have been.”
“But I am here and you are free,” Storm said as he grabbed his rifle, amazed that the lie about her being free slipped across his lips so easily . . . lips that never lied.
He felt guilty over what he was planning to do with her, when she was so sweetly sincere about thanking him for having freed her.
But he must block everything from his mind except the vengeance he had waited so long to achieve.
“You did not tell me when I asked what name you go by,” Storm said, stepping out into the moonlight and looking guardedly around them for any sign of the scalp hunter’s return.
“Shoshana,” she murmured. “It is the name I was given as a child by my mother. The man who took me from my mother allowed me to keep the name, but only because his wife, who has long since passed away, loved its prettiness.”
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