Cruel Rider

Chapter 1

Some folks are born mean. This was not the case with Bill Pike, youngest of three brothers born on a squalid pig farm twelve miles southwest of Omaha. Those who bothered to remember would say that young Bill was a sweet child and, being the youngest, was his mother’s favorite. Bill’s uncle, Thad Brown, would recall that the boy showed no signs of the downright evil streak so prevalently displayed by his two older brothers. Content to play by himself near the crude shanty that served as the Pike home place, never far from his mother’s watchful eye, little Bill remained oblivious to the constant turmoil between his brothers and his father during his toddling years. Jared, the elder brother, was seven when Bill was born, and by the time Bill had reached his seventh year, Jared had already been a guest in the Omaha jail.

John, the middle boy, was two years behind Jared, but exhibited belligerent tendencies that promised to surpass those of his older brother. One of his favorite amusements was to torment his baby brother whenever his mother was not around to protect her youngest. As a result, Bill suffered a great many twisted ears and numerous knots on his head. He would cry and complain to his mother, and John usually got a licking, which only gave him incentive to take it out on Bill.

Bill wasn’t born mean, but thanks to his brothers, he soon picked up the trait. By the time of his ninth birthday, he held a sharp disdain for his entire family, except for his mother, who still tried to watch over him. This contempt for his brothers festered rapidly, and was probably demonstrated best when John, who couldn’t swim, slipped on a rotten log and fell into the river. Bill, nearby, searching for blackberries, heard John’s screams for help, and ran to the riverbank to see what all the fuss was about.

John was thrashing about in water about fifteen feet deep, trying desperately to keep his head above the surface. Bill could see the panic in his brother’s eyes as John cried out for help. A dead limb lay on the ground no more than a few feet away. Bill could have easily reached his stricken brother’s flailing arms with it, but decided it more interesting to sit himself down on the riverbank and watch John try to save himself.

John struggled desperately, but his efforts only caused him to tire more quickly, while making no progress toward the bank. The fear was ever more apparent in his eyes as he began to realize that he was helpless—a phenomenon that Bill found fascinating. He sat, watching John’s final moments, calmly eating blackberries, until the doomed boy went under for the last time. Still, he sat there, watching until the last bubbles stopped breaking the surface of the dark water. He remained there, waiting to see if John’s body would eventually come to the surface again. After a quarter of an hour had passed with no sign of John, Bill became tired of watching. Don’t reckon he’ll be twisting my ears anymore, he thought and got to his feet. Better go tell Mama that John’s dead.

Later that evening, when Luther Pike pulled the body of his middle son from a snag in the river, some three hundred yards down stream, he passed the lifeless form to his wife. Unable to restrain her grief, she sank down on the grassy bank, sobbing while she rocked her son back and forth in her arms. The scene was particularly disturbing to young Bill to see his mother so obviously stricken. It seemed to him to be an act of betrayal, as if she loved John more than him. This was the initial fissure in the close relationship between Bill and his mother. It would increase in size over the next year, resulting in an impassable chasm when she became pregnant for the fourth time.

The arrival of another baby was not looked upon as a joyous occasion in the Pike household, and Luther seemed to blame his wife for the unwelcome addition. Bill, like his father, felt it was his mother’s fault for allowing herself to be impregnated. Two days before Christmas of Bill’s tenth year, Grace Pike went into labor with what was to be her final attempt to bring life to another child.

With no one to assist her, Grace steeled herself to deliver her baby alone, for husband and son, Bill, absented themselves from the cabin, neither desirous of witnessing the event. Had he been there, Jared might have helped her, but he was once again a guest of the deputy marshal in Omaha, awaiting trial for stealing a horse.

The birthing didn’t go well. Grace knew at once that something was terribly wrong, and she cried out in agonizing pain for help she knew would not come. The baby arrived after hours of torturous labor, but it seemed to be tearing Grace’s insides out with it. Finally, the totally exhausted mother struggled to lay the infant on the bed between her legs. She sank back in despair, oblivious to the massive hemorrhaging of her womb. It was not until late in the evening that Luther Pike came home to find his wife dead, lying in the bloody deathbed, the infant between her legs. He barely noticed the small huddled form of his youngest son in the corner of the room.

Luther, the stoic pig farmer, stood staring at the cold dead corpse of his wife for several long minutes. He turned his gaze upon the baby as the infant’s tiny hands reached up for him, its fragile cry a pitiful plea for its mother. Without taking even a moment to consider, Luther calmly clamped a huge hand over the helpless child’s mouth and nose, and held it there until there was no longer life. The baby was of no value to him without a mother to nurse and care for it. The ten-year-old boy huddled in the corner watched silently, his mind already deadened to the cheap price placed upon a human life. It seemed no different from the culling out of the sick newborn from a litter of pigs.

In the years that followed, Bill helped his father on the farm until, sick of the sight of hogs, he found a job in a sawmill near Omaha. He had worked at the mill for a little more than two years when Polly Hatcher entered his life. The owner of the mill took the young girl in when her widowed mother succumbed to pneumonia. There were no relatives to take the child, at least, none living near Omaha. Polly only knew of one relative, an aunt, her mother’s sister, and all she knew of her was that she and her uncle Horace had traveled west to settle in Julesburg, Colorado Territory. Polly had never seen her aunt Hattie, but her mother had told her many stories about her high-spirited sister. After her mother’s death, Polly worked in the mill owner’s house as his wife’s maid. She caught Bill’s eye almost at once.

Traveling back and forth every day on horseback, between the sawmill and his father’s farm, Bill soon began thinking of how much easier his life would be if there was a woman at home to do for him. Although stripped of the compassion he had been born with, Bill could affect a gentle façade when he had to. It was this face that he presented when courting Polly. Romance, and certainly love, never entered the equation from either party. Polly, desperate to escape her role as a servant girl, could see little prospects of meeting the love of her life, and decided she had best take the offer on the table. A marriage of necessity could conceivably grow into one of love, she reasoned. So they were married, and Bill took his bride home to Luther and the pig farm.

Polly’s hopes were shattered upon first sight of her father-in-law’s farm. There was scant resemblance between the farm described to her and the squalid conditions that met her eye on her wedding day. She saw at once that she had not escaped her life as a servant girl. Her situation was even worse than before. She resolved to make the best of it, however, and resigned herself to cleaning up the filth that Luther and Bill had nested in since the death of Bill’s mother.

Her wedding night proved to be a traumatic memory that would forever dwell in the darker regions of her mind—returning as nightmares for months afterward. Steeling herself against the brutal, animallike assaults upon her virgin body, she submitted to Bill’s savage lust while aware of his father’s prying eyes peering around the doorjamb. The image of the dirty old man’s lecherous gaze would return in countless dreams over the next few months, causing her to awaken, shuddering with disgust.

It did not take long before Polly realized that prospects for improvement of her lot in life were slim, if at all attainable. In time, she became calloused to the physical abuse suffered at the hands of her husband, whose regard for her never ventured beyond his carnal lust. In the beginning, she was terrified by Bill’s father, and the way he leered at her every move. As far as a threat to her physically, she soon came to know that the old man was harmless. Strong drink and failing health insured that his capabilities were diminished, leaving him with no ability beyond watching. But watch he did, and she soon learned to make certain of her father-in-law’s whereabouts before bathing or getting into her gown.

It was inevitable that the old man’s lecherous ways proved to be the cause of his doom. One day in early spring he decided to act upon his desire to get a closer look at his daughter-in-law. Pretending to start down to the lower field to feed his pigs, he slipped back to the cabin, knowing that Polly would take advantage of his absence to bathe. Being careful not to make a sound, he stole up to the back window and peered over the sill. There, he was able to see what he had hoped for. Polly poured hot water into a basin and, stripped to the waist, began cleaning her arms and torso.

So engrossed was he in the despicable intrusion upon his daughter-in-law’s private moment, that he failed to hear the soft padding of hooves in the dust behind him. Furious to discover the old man spying upon his wife, Bill set upon his father with a whip, lashing him until the helpless wretch collapsed, unconscious and bleeding. When Polly heard the attack, she quickly pulled up her bodice and ran outside to see what had happened. Bill, standing over his father’s fallen body, then turned to give his wife a taste of the whip—punishment for tempting the old man. He stopped short of the beating he had just administered to his father only because he had further use for her.

Standing over her trembling body, he glared down at her with eyes still flashing with anger. Almost in shock, she cowered at his feet, afraid to even whimper lest it should set him off again. She knew then that somehow she must escape this violent monster. In that moment she realized the extent of her husband’s disdain for human life.

Distracted by the sound of a feeble groan from his father, Bill turned to fix his gaze on Luther. After a moment’s thought, he walked over and knelt down beside him. With no show of emotion, he clamped both hands over the old man’s nose and mouth, just as his father had done to extinguish the life of his newborn daughter. Luther struggled weakly, but could not overpower his son. Paralyzed by the horror before her eyes, Polly was unable to move. It was not until Luther’s feeble struggles subsided, and he lay motionless on the ground, that she drew herself up to huddle fearfully against the wall of the cabin.

Satisfied that his father was dead, Bill turned his attention to Polly once again. I’m hungry. Git yourself up from there and fix me some supper.

Still in a state of horrified shock, she nevertheless forced her body to move, afraid for her life if she didn’t. It was not quickly enough to please him, and he drew his arm back as if to administer the whip once again. It served to hurry her motions. Then, with complete lack of remorse, he turned to look at his father’s lifeless body. I reckon I’ll have to bury him, he said. I oughta feed him to the damn hogs. The idea seemed to have merit, so he dragged the old man down to the fence and dumped his body over in the hog lot.

With her husband seated at the table, seeming to watch her every move, Polly forced herself to prepare his supper. She could feel his eyes upon her as she stood over the stove, her back to him, afraid if she faced him he would read the terror in her eyes. He would often explode in a fit of rage over some trivial thing that didn’t suit him—she was used to that. It usually led to verbal abuse and, if he felt like it, a cuff on the side of her face. But on this night his mood was deep and brooding, unlike any night before. He was in a killing mood, and she feared her life was in jeopardy because she had witnessed the murder of his father. With trembling hands, she placed a plate of food before him and backed away.

Set down, he commanded. Ain’t you gonna eat?

I’m not hungry, she replied, her voice quaking with fear.

Well, set down, anyway. He watched her intently until she seated herself in a chair across from him. Stuffing food in his mouth, he continued to lock his gaze upon her.

There followed a few minutes of silence, with no sound save that of the grunting and squealing of the hogs as they fought over their grisly supper. She tried not to form a picture of the ghastly banquet in her mind, and strained with all her might to keep from sobbing out loud.

He paused in his eating for a moment. You seen what I did. Didn’t you?

No, she lied.

The hell you didn’t, he shot back. I seen you gawkin’ at me, your eyes as big as horse turds. He started chewing again. He warn’t no use around here no more—one less mouth to feed. He paused once more, and pointed at her with his fork. You’d best keep your mouth shut about it—or you’ll get the same medicine.

I won’t tell nobody, she replied softly. She hoped with all her heart that he believed her, for she had made up her mind that she was leaving as soon as he went to work in the morning. In the past, she had resigned herself to a life of abuse at the hands of her husband, but the horrifying events that had taken place that evening were more than she could endure. It would only be a matter of time before he decided that she was of no use to him anymore, and her fate might be the same as that of his father. She had to leave. Her plans were altered, however, with Bill’s next comment.

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.