Heat of a Savage Moon--The Moon Trilogy--Book Two

by Jane Bonander

  Heat of a Savage Moon

  Jane Bonander

  Copyright

  Diversion Books

  A Division of Diversion Publishing Corp.

  443 Park Avenue South, Suite 1004

  New York, NY 10016

  www.DiversionBooks.com

  Copyright © 1993 by Jane Bonander

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  For more information, email info@diversionbooks.com

  First Diversion Books edition December 2013

  ISBN: 978-1-62681-185-0

  More from Jane Bonander

  Secrets of a Midnight Moon

  Forbidden Moon

  Fires of Innocence

  Dancing on Snowflakes

  Wild Heart

  Warrior Heart

  Winter Heart

  Dedicated to my late husband, Alan, for his love, patience, and belief that I could do it.

  Special acknowledgment to Prefessor Dorothea Theodoratus, Sacramento State University, who invited me along to experience the timeless, haunting beauty of the Big Head.

  To be ignorant of what happend before you were bron is to be forever a child.

  —Cicero, 108-43 B.C.

  Some of the agents, and nearly all of the employees, we are informed, of one of these reservations at least, are daily and nightly egaged in kidnapping the younger portion of the females for the vilest purposes. The wives and daughters of the defenseless Diggers are prostituted before the very eyes of their husbands and fathers, they dare not resent the insult, or even complain of the hideous outrage.

  —from a San Francisco newspaper, 1856

  Author’s Note

  During the course of my research, I learned of the atrocities heaped upon the Indians of Northern California, many so hideous and revolting, it’s almost impossible to believe one people could do such things to another. And to presume one man has a right to take what has belonged to another for thousands of years is, at the very least, arrogant. In Anthony Jennings Bledsoe’s Indian Wars of the Northwest (San Francisco: Bacon and Co., 1885) p. 7, he says, “The Indians of Northern California have been here for at least five thousand years.” “Recent evidence,” adds Jack Norton in Genocide in Northwestern California (San Francisco: Indian Historian Press, 1979), “has indicated that Indians occupied areas of Lake County for ten thousand years. This means that before Abraham was visited by Yahweh, before the Great Pyramid was conceived, thousands of years before Solomon or Caesar existed, or any other specific identifiable event occurred in Western history, the natives of Northern California lived within their beautiful lands.”

  These people, who were treated by many pioneers as subhuman, began and ended each day with prayers. They were urged to “keep a good heart,” “do not think badly of people,” “be kind and respectful of the old” (Norton, p. 27). Cicero was right. If we don’t know what happened before we were born, we’ll always be ignorant.

  Jane Bonander

  Prologue

  Dakota Territory—1868

  It was Aunt Billie’s voice that woke her. She sounded funny, whispering like that. Snuggling deeper into her bedding, Rachel Hammond ignored the hand that shook her shoulder and pretended to sleep. It was a game. They played it every morning.

  “Don’t tickle, Auntie,” she murmured around a grin.

  Cold air rushed over her as her covers were yanked off. She drew up her legs.

  “Rachel, honey,” Auntie whispered again. “Up. You must get up!”

  Rachel squinted up at the lamp in her aunt’s hand, then at her face. Auntie looked scared. Immediately Rachel’s stomach felt strange, kind of hollow and sick.

  “We have to hurry, Rachel, Your mama and papa are waiting by the door with George and the baby. Come quickly,” she ordered, no longer whispering and certainly not smiling. “No time to lollygag.”

  As Rachel slid to the edge of her bed, Auntie grabbed her hand and pulled her upright. She wanted to ask what was wrong, but she knew better. Staying quiet was better. Stay quiet, watch and listen. She’d learned that early on.

  Auntie nearly dragged her down the hallway. Rachel stumbled, stubbing her bare toe on the wood floor. It hurt a lot, and she winced, but didn’t cry out. She’d just turned eight; she was getting too old to cry.

  Mama and Papa stood by the door. Mama clutched Rachel’s six-month-old brother, Lucas, close to her chest. Papa looked worried. His face was white beneath his whiskers and his eyes were bright and unnatural looking. That made Rachel’s stomach hurt ever more.

  “C’mon, Rachel,” her cousin George shouted as he slid his arms into his jacket. “Gotta get outa here before the Injuns come.”

  “George, hush.” Papa’s voice was harsh and cold. “No need to scare the girl.”

  She saw the rifle in her father’s hand, then tossed her mother a fearful glance. Mama gave her a wide smile. It didn’t help the feeling in Rachel’s stomach, for Mama’s face was wet and her eyes shiny. When she turned away, Rachel realized her mother was crying. “Mama?”

  Suddenly, their Indian friend, Elbee, was at the door. He had a rifle, too. “We have to hurry. They’re coming. Now.”

  “Who’s coming, Elbee? Who’s coming?” Rachel’s voice rose with fear, for Elbee wasn’t smiling. Elbee always smiled, especially when he saw her. He picked her up, holding her easily with one arm.

  “I’ll take her, Elbee,” Papa said, reaching for her.

  The Indian shook his head. “I can carry her easier. You take care of the missus and be ready to shoot. I’ll protect the girl.”

  Rachel saw a brief flash of uncertainty in her father’s eyes. Then, because there was no time to argue, Papa stepped forward and kissed Rachel’s cheek. “Be a good girl, Rachel, mind Elbee. Your mama and I love you.”

  Rachel lunged for her father, but Elbee held her tight. She felt like crying, but she wouldn’t. She wasn’t a baby anymore. But she wanted to be with Papa!

  Once outside, everyone fled into the cornfield. The corn was dry and pale, snapping and cracking beneath Elbee’s feet as he ran. An occasional leaf slapped Rachel in the face, but she pushed it away, mindless of its dry, cutting edges. The corn was so high that if Elbee hadn’t carried her, she would have gotten lost among the tall, spiky stalks.

  Lucas started to cry, and Mama tried to keep him quiet, “shushing” him jerkily as she ran.

  Rachel bounced against Elbee’s shoulder, her eyes glued behind her, on her home. Suddenly, flames erupted on the roof of the cabin, shooting high into the night sky. “Papa, the cabin’s burning,” she shrieked.

  Mama, who ran beside Elbee, faltered and looked back. “Oh, Lyle!” she cried. “My things. My beautiful things!”

  Papa turned, grabbed Mama’s free arm and pulled her along. “Things, Faye,” he said sternly. “They’re not important. I’ll buy you new things.”

  Aunt Billie and George ran ahead of them.

  “Them dirty Injuns,” George shouted, his high-pitched voice wobbling as he ran. “I’ll kill ’em. I’ll cut their stupid guts out!”

  Rachel continued to stare at the burning cabin. Her lower lip quivered and she sucked it into her mouth, biting down hard. Indians were back there.

  She stole a glance at Elbee’s face and wondered what he was thinking. Th
ose were his people burning down her house. She looked away, back toward the cabin again. She didn’t see anyone, only the orange and yellow flames that ate up her home.

  Shots rang out. Elbee didn’t even duck. Rachel put her face down, against his shoulder. After a moment, she looked at her parents and her aunt. No one had stopped; they continued to run on through the corn.

  More shots. Aunt Billie groaned, arched her back, then stumbled to the ground.

  “Ma!” George fell to the ground beside her.

  “Auntie? George?” Fear pressed into Rachel’s throat and her stomach felt like someone had punched it. “I wanna see George!” She tried to wiggle out of Elbee’s grip. He held her tight.

  Elbee slowed down some. “Your ma all right?” he asked when George poked his head up through the corn.

  George was crying. “She ain’t movin’, Elbee. She ain’t movin’.”

  “Come on, boy. They’ll just get you if you stay.”

  “No! I’m gonna kill ’em. They shot Ma! They shot Ma!” George stood, then turned and ran the other way, stumbling back toward the burning cabin with his fist in the air.

  “George! George!” Rachel screamed so hard, she thought her eyes might pop out. “Stop it, George! Stop it!” She was crying so hard now she nearly choked. “Wh… why is he going back, Elbee?”

  Elbee glanced back but didn’t answer her.

  Another burst of shots, and George yelped with pain. He struggled on for a few steps, then another volley of shots hit him and he fell into the tall corn.

  Rachel wiggled against Elbee and hit his shoulder with her fist. “George,” she cried. “I want to see George.”

  “Shut up, girl. You wanna die, too? Shut up or they’ll know where you are.”

  She no longer felt safe with Elbee. Something about him had changed. “Elbee, I want to get down. Please, Elbee.”

  “Shut up.” He squeezed her hard and she bit back a whimper of pain.

  Her eyes stung; tears ran down her cheeks. She tried to catch her breath and made wet, hiccoughing noises in her throat. Looking ahead of them, she saw Mama and Papa. They had stopped and were waiting for her and Elbee to catch up.

  Suddenly, Elbee raised his gun and fired. Rachel’s mother screamed; her father swore. Lucas continued to cry.

  “Rachel!” Mama’s voice split the night air, and Rachel wiggled wildly in Elbee’s grip.

  “Rachel, run!”

  Elbee shot again, and her mother was quiet.

  “Mama! Mama!” Terrified, Rachel squirmed to get out of Elbee’s grip. She pushed at his face, his nose, scratching and clawing to get free. Instinctively, she grabbed a hank of his long black hair and tugged for all she was worth.

  The Indian grunted, briefly losing his grip on her. She slid to the ground and staggered away through the corn, the dry stalks cutting into the tender skin on her legs as she ran. She had to get to Mama. Mama was hurt! Elbee… why had Elbee hurt her? Elbee had always been their friend.

  Frightened and confused, Rachel raced toward her mother, intuitively knowing that she couldn’t call out to her.

  Mama! she screamed in silence. She couldn’t let Elbee hear. If she found Mama, she would have to stay quiet, or Elbee would find her and hurt her, too. Suddenly she hated Elbee. She hated him! But, she thought, hurt and confused, how could she hate him when she’d loved him for so long?

  Papa shouted something at Elbee. Swearing… saying those words he’d told her and George never to say. Rachel slowed down and listened. Elbee screamed, the sound sending icicles up her back. There was another shot, and her father’s angry voice stopped, almost in the middle of a word… So did her baby brother’s wailing.

  Oh, Papa! Lucas! She wanted to go to them, too. But now she knew she had to hide. She’d find them later. Everything would be all right. They were just being quiet so Elbee wouldn’t hurt them anymore. They’d want Rachel to be quiet, too. And Lucas was probably asleep. Crying always made him tired.

  And Auntie and George were just hurt. They’d all be fine, once the Indians went away. They were only pretending—everyone knew to stay quiet and play dead.

  But why would Elbee hurt them? He’d worked alongside Papa in this very cornfield. He’d eaten at their table. He’d given Rachel presents that he’d made himself…

  She continued to run through the corn until she saw the riverbank. Realizing where she was, she felt a little twinge of hope. She was close to the little cave where she and George had often hid from Mama and Auntie when it was time for chores.

  Watching for the familiar outcropping of rocks, she crept along the edge of the field, keeping the river in sight.

  There it is. Rocks pointing into the air like church steeples. She felt safe. A little safe, anyway. Her chest hurt so much she could hardly breathe, and her bare feet burned from running through the corn. Finally slipping into the dank opening of the cave, she collapsed on the ground.

  Drawing her legs up under her, she listened. And waited. Maybe Elbee and the others would go away.

  Then a new realization wormed its way into her head. Maybe they wouldn’t. Maybe they’d come looking for her.

  Spontaneous sobs choked her. Oh, how she hated that awful Elbee! Mama’d always told her that hate was bad. But she couldn’t help it. She hated him!

  She swiped her sleeve across her eyes and stared at the opening to the cave. She was so scared…

  As she sat alone in the dark, she remembered what Mama had taught her whenever they read stories about Jesus. Jesus promised that when people die, they go to heaven and meet all the people they’ve loved who have died before them. Rachel had been scared, telling Mama that she was afraid to die.

  Mama had put her arm around her. Don’t be afraid, Rachel. I’ll be there waiting for you.

  Mama’s devotion should have been enough for her, but it wasn’t. Finally, after stewing and hurting inside, she finally asked, But Mama, what if I get there and can’t find you?

  She remembered Mama’s face crumpling into tears as she pulled Rachel against her chest. Don’t worry, darling. I’ll find you…

  Sucking in a shaky, tear-filled breath, Rachel glanced again at the opening of the cave. Oh, she hoped everyone was just pretending to be dead. But if they weren’t…

  Mama always told Rachel that when she was scared, she should pray. And she was so scared…

  …If I should die before I wake,

  I pray the Lord my soul to take…

  Chapter One

  Northern California—late January, 1880

  The air was still and deathlike in the murky glimmer of dawn. A mourning dove perched on the crumbling chimney atop a cottage at the edge of the Pine River Indian Reservation. Its funereal oooh-oo-oo-oo floated on the invisible currents of the morning air.

  From her hiding place inside the fireplace wall, Rachel Weber strained to hear the haunting cry of the dove. It kept her from slipping into a mad place from which she might never return. She closed her eyes, squeezing them tight, desperately wanting to block out what she’d seen.

  It didn’t help. Visions of the bloodbath filled the empty space behind her eyes and she forced them open, staring, instead, at the tiny ray of gray light that filtered in through the small hole in the stone fireplace wall.

  Eventually she’d have to face what had happened. Eventually, but not yet. Not yet. She shivered, both from the cold and from the fear that crippled her mind.

  She wondered again why she’d come to this place, but deep down, she knew why. She’d decided that she belonged with Jeremy, her husband, wherever he was. It didn’t matter that he’d told her not to come. He’d reminded her that she hated Indians with good reason, but she’d wanted him to understand that she loved him more. It was an uncivilized land, he’d said. Not safe. She’d argued that if they were together, everything would be all right. But she wouldn’t be happy living among the vicious savages, he’d said. I’ll be living with you, not them, s
he’d answered.

  His warning was fresh in her mind, but he’d been gone so long. Two years. Two long, unhappy years…

  A cramp gripped her calf, knotting the muscles. Gritting her teeth, she pressed her thumb against the spasm and rubbed, welcoming the pain. She took a deep, quiet breath and buried her face against her knees, circling them with her arms. She didn’t want to think. She wanted to wake up and heave a shaky sigh into her pillow, but she knew that what she’d seen hadn’t been a dream. Dreams weren’t that vivid, that terrifying—or that loud.

  Now it was quiet. No birds chirped in the trees, and no wind whistled down the chimney. It was so still; the sounds from the massacre still rang in her ears.

  How she’d wished there had been someone to help them. But no one had come. Frustration and anger welled up inside her. They were alone in this godforsaken hole at the brink of the world. The only human beings around were the savages who lived back under the trees, less than a quarter of a mile away. And they certainly wouldn’t help. Indians stuck together.

  And for all she knew, the murderers could live right behind them, on the reservation. Trembling, she realized that she knew better than anyone never to trust an Indian, even if he professed to be your friend.

  A tremor shook her. Her hiding place inside the cold wall didn’t allow her to move and she was getting numb. But she preferred it that way. She didn’t want to move. She didn’t want to feel. She didn’t want to leave her protective nook, and she wasn’t even sure she wanted to live.

  Suddenly there was a noise beyond the wall. Swallowing hard, she slowly pulled herself forward and peered out into the room. She gasped, covering her mouth with her hand. Someone was there.

  She looked out the hole again and her heart vaulted upward, into her throat. A man stood before the two dead bodies, one of which was her husband’s. The room was lighter, but morning shadows still played upon the walls, preventing her from seeing the man’s face. Hardly daring to breathe, she watched him hunker down beside the other body, that of the schoolmaster. He stood abruptly, removed his shirt and appeared to consider laying it over the bodies. But he shook his head, muttering something under his breath as he moved away and faced her.