Savage Tempest
Joylynn, nineteen, her long auburn hair flowing over her shoulders, had dropped off to sleep as she sat rocking before the fire in the hearth.
Dressed in a loose dress to make her more comfortable in a pregnancy that was barely showing, she slept peacefully, her hands resting in her lap.
Suddenly her hands curled into tight fists, her closed eyes twitched, and she moaned as she began to have a recurring dream that plagued her most nights now. In her dream she was reliving the dreadful moment of her rape by an outlaw highwayman. He had held her up while she was on her Pony Express run. His stench of sweat and cigars made her wince even in her dream.
It had been a beauti
ful spring morning and Joylynn was between towns, riding her chestnut stallion. She was one among many who made the Pony Express run traveling from town to town to deliver the mail.
She was proud to be a part of history-making, a player in what some were calling one of the most colorful episodes of American history. The 1,800-mile route required about ten days to cover, with the bags of mail changing hands up to eight times between the 157 stations.
Joylynn had even had the pleasure of meeting one of the Pony Express’s most famous riders, William Cody—Buffalo Bill.
As Joylynn rode along, she knew this might be one of her last jaunts, for there had been rumors that the service might cease with the completion of the transcontinental telegraph system.
Although women riders were rare on the Pony Express, Joylynn had proved that she wasn’t like most other women. Because of an abusive stepfather, who beat her mother almost daily, Joylynn had fled her family, but not before she was old enough to fend for herself.
Working on her father’s farm before he died of a sudden heart attack, she had plowed alongside her father, hoed the gardens way into the night, and developed the muscles and grit of a man.
Even her stepfather had known better than to fool with her, for he realized she could very well defend herself against his blows.
When she had heard about the Pony Express, it seemed the perfect escape. She was an expert rider and owned a fast horse; the chestnut had been a gift from her real father a short time before he died. She had signed on, even though men hooted and hollered and poked fun at her, saying she was a mere woman and women couldn’t stand up to the grueling work of being a Pony Express rider.
She had proven them wrong . . . until that one fateful day when she had been taken advantage of by a man who crudely reminded her that she was a woman. He had taken from her by force what men wanted from women, the pleasure of her body.
She had almost reached her final destination that day, proud to complete another run, when she spotted the fearful highwayman everyone was talking about. He seemed to come out of nowhere, appearing in Joylynn’s path with a pistol aimed at her belly and his mouth twisted into a nasty sneer.
This was a bold, bad man, restless and roving, as lawless as a prairie wolf, a terror to friends and foe. He was easily identified by the many grotesque moles on his face, which had given him the nickname Mole.
Because he was proud of his reign of terror, Mole didn’t even hide behind a mask anymore.
With thick trees and brush on both sides of the road, Joylynn had no choice but to stop. She had not seen him quickly enough.
Joylynn grabbed her rifle from the gunboot at the side of her stallion, but Mole quickly shot the firearm from her hand.
She asked what he wanted of her, but she knew that he had stolen a pack of mail only a month ago from another rider, then shot him dead before riding away.
She saw no chance of getting out of this ambush alive, so she set her jaw and awaited her fate. She was powerless without her firearm, and if she tried to make a run for it on her horse, she knew that Mole would shoot her in the back, then steal her pack of mail.
As Joylynn continued to dream, with tiny beads of sweat now on her brow, she could even smell the man as he had sidled his horse closer to hers and ordered her to follow him.
Her heart pounded as the nightmare continued. She had had no choice but to follow Mole. He led her down the road a piece, then nodded to a path that diverged into the woods. When the trees grew so thick she could go no farther, Mole told her to dismount.
Joylynn saw her life flashing before her eyes, because she believed that Mole had brought her there to kill her. But having no other choice, Joylynn dismounted.
Mole dismounted, too.
As he got closer to her, she could see even more clearly the many ugly, dark brown moles on his face, and the strangeness of his eyes. They were the palest blue she had ever seen, more white than blue . . . and bottomless.
As he removed his sweat-soaked, wide-brimmed Stetson hat, Joylynn saw that his hair was prematurely gray, for everything else about him was young. It was curly and worn long to his shirt collar. His lips formed a thin line, which seemed locked in an ugly sneer.
When he told her to undress, that he wanted to watch her, she died a slow death inside. It was at that moment she knew he was after far more than the mail. He was after her virginity, for she had never been with a man yet. He . . . was . . . going to rape her!
She stood her ground, said an adamant no.
He slapped her hard across her face, then threw her on the ground, his one hand still holding his pistol.
Suddenly Joylynn awakened with a start. Looking desperately around her, she was infinitely relieved that she was only dreaming, that she was in the security and warmth of her own home. The end of the dream was too hard to bear . . . the true memory of what had actually happened to her.