To Tame A Rebel

by Georgina Gentry

  The gathering tribal members grew quiet.

  Yellow Jacket put his face against her cold cheek, felt the tears drip on her flesh as he gathered her closer. He must not cry. He was a warrior and had endured pain and suffering and hunger, but no pain like this . . . never like this. Old Opothleyahola came through the crowd, the others stepping back respectfully. Yellow Jacket looked up slowly, numbly.

  “O my son, I share your grief. Did your niece have any reason to kill herself?”

  Did she? He shook his head, still in shock. “I—I can’t believe she did this,” Yellow Jacket whispered, and pulled her closer still. “No, someone did this to her. Someone killed my niece.”

  He heard murmuring and saw the others exchange glances. They did not believe that. He hugged her closer as if he thought he could bring warmth and life back into the cold body. He wanted to scream and shout and hit someone. He had vowed to his older brother, as the man lay dying from a bullet wound, that he would look after Pretty, and he had failed. Someone had to be responsible for his dear niece’s death. Yellow Jacket had lost all his family now, all.

  The old leader came over, touched Yellow Jacket’s broad shoulder. “Let the women take her and get her ready for burial.”

  Yellow Jacket shook his head and held her close. “Maybe if the medicine man or the post doctor—”

  “My son, the girl is dead,” Opothleyahola whispered.

  Very slowly Yellow Jacket looked up at him, his eyes blurring with the hot burning tears a warrior must not shed. Then he looked down into Pretty’s waxen face. Yes, she was dead, her lovely features distorted as if she had not died an easy death. He took his knife and cut the rope that dug into the flesh of her neck. The skin beneath it was almost black. “Yes, I must turn her over to the women,” he murmured, and stood up, still holding her. Little Pretty was so very light in his big arms. His friend Smoke gestured, and a path opened up in the silent crowd. Swaying slightly, Yellow Jacket began to walk toward his cabin, where he knew the women would be gathering to take care of the body.

  Reaching the cabin, he laid her very gently on the rough-hewn table and nodded to the silent women who stood there. As he laid her on the table, he noticed that Pretty was not wearing the blue bracelet. What could have happened to it? The bracelet was precious to her. He must find it so it could be buried with her. “Take care of her,” he said to the eldest woman, and then he turned and went out.

  His friend Smoke put his hand on his shoulder. “I am much sorry, good friend. Can I do anything?”

  Yellow Jacket shook his head. “I—I want to be alone for a while; that’s all. Tell the others to leave me be.”

  Smoke nodded in understanding, and Yellow Jacket turned blindly and walked toward where they’d found the body. He stood a long time under the barren branches of the oak, staring up at it. Pretty had seemed happy last night as she brushed her hair. Even then maybe she was only waiting for him to leave so she could meet someone, but who? A girlfriend? A young warrior? Some white soldier? That thought made him grit his teeth in rage. Now he began to search the area around the tree for some sign of the blue bracelet.

  He found nothing. Had she met someone here under this tree? He was an excellent tracker, but too many people had walked this soft ground this morning. For the first time he noted the footprints of a white man’s small boots, but when he tried to follow them, they disappeared in a dry patch of grass and went no farther.

  Now he went to hunt up her friends, but none of those girls seemed to know anything. One said Pretty had hinted that she had a lover, but the girl did not know who it might be. Yellow Jacket ground his teeth in frustration. It had to be a white man. If it had been an acceptable Muskogee boy, Pretty would not have been trying to keep the secret. A white man. Who among these young rebel soldiers could it be? And what part had he played in Pretty’s death? When Yellow Jacket found out, he would kill that man very slowly and painfully, as only a red-stick warrior knew how to do.

  They buried Pretty that afternoon near her father, wrapped in the ceremonial way and sitting up, facing the sunrise. Yellow Jacket vowed in his grief and anger that he would seek out and kill the man who had done this.

  The tribe was increasingly surrounded by white rebel soldiers, and a soldier in a uniform with bright brass buttons could easily turn a young girl’s head with lies. Yellow Jacket watched dirt being shoveled into her grave and hated white Southerners as he had never hated anything or anyone in his life. They had stolen the tribal lands and forced all the Five Tribes onto the Trail of Tears. One of their soldiers had killed his beloved brother. Now another must have something to do with his niece’s death.

  He vowed he would take his revenge, but it must wait. Now there was no time for grief; there was too much to be done to get his people out of Indian Territory and safely to Kansas before the rebels realized the plan.

  The Muskogee began to scatter after the burial, following old Opothleyahola’s orders to make ready for the trip. There was much planning to be done to move six thousand people north. Kansas would be their promised land, far away from the hated Southerners who were slowly encircling all the Union Indians.

  Indian Territory, early November 1861

  Twilight Dumont took a deep breath as the stage halted and the driver climbed down and came around to open her door. She took his hand and lifted the hem of her black dress, paused on the step, looking about, chagrined. The fort with its few cabins looked so much poorer than she’d expected, and there were Indians everywhere, silently watching her. For a split second, she wanted to jump back in the stage and ask the driver to drive away, but just then her stepbrother came out of the big cabin with the hitching post out front and limped down the steps toward her, extending his hands with a smile.

  “My dear, so glad you made it. How was your trip?”

  Harvey was plumper and more balding than she remembered. “Rather uneventful,” she said, and stepped forward to let Harvey hug her. Now she felt guilty that she had never really liked him. “It was so kind of you to send for me.”

  “Not at all.” He tried to kiss her mouth, but she turned her cheek to him. “I can use some help at the trading post. I hope you brought your medicine bag?”

  She nodded, then froze, staring past his shoulder at the biggest Indian she had ever seen. His hair was long, and he wore buckskins. He was virile and savage-looking, but it was the pure hatred on his dark, rugged face that mesmerized her. “Who—who is that?”

  Harvey turned to look. His face changed. Was that fear in his watery eyes? “Come on in and I’ll tell you about him. There was a tragedy a few days ago; Creek girl committed suicide.”

  “How terrible.” She shuddered at the way the Indian looked at her, then took Harvey’s arm and went inside.

  Yellow Jacket stared after the white girl. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. She was petite and wasp-waisted, wearing one of those foolish hoopskirts white women favored, in the somber black dress that was the signature of mourning. Under the wide-brimmed hat, her hair was pale brown, streaked light by the sun. However, it was her eyes that mesmerized him most. They were a smoky gray, almost a pale lavender, just the color of dusk after the sun set—that time whites called twilight.

  She was a Southerner; there was no doubt about that. Yellow Jacket had caught the soft drawl when she spoke to the greedy shopkeeper who must be a relative. When she had looked at Yellow Jacket, she had shuddered in revulsion and looked away, almost as if the sight of an Indian made her ill . . . or afraid.

  Grinding his teeth, Yellow Jacket turned and stalked away, hating the woman. What he disliked most about her was the familiar way the hated store owner had greeted her. Yellow Jacket did not like Harvey Leland. The trading post owner cheated the Indians every chance he got. No doubt this was his woman, arriving to share Leland’s ill-gotten gains.

  Yellow Jacket’s grief over the loss of his niece was still a painful thing. He could not believe Pretty had taken her own life, no matter t
he evidence. Somehow, he was certain a white lover must be at fault in her death.

  Whites. White people, especially Southerners, seemed to be at the root of all the Indians’ problems. More rebel soldiers were coming to the Territory as weeks passed. Soon there would be too many to deal with. His people would have to make their move very soon, or it would be too late. Yellow Jacket tore his attention away from the lovely white woman who had gone into the trading post. Now he went to seek out old Opothleyahola to discuss further plans.

  Inside the trading post, Twilight looked around. The rough-hewn place was pleasant enough, with tools, farm implements, bolts of cheap fabric, rolls of ribbon, small trinkets. A myriad of scents greeted her from the big barrels of pickles to the dried leaves of tobacco hanging from the exposed beams. “Well, Harvey, it’s much nicer than what I was dealing with back in Virginia.”

  He smiled and took her valise. “My dear, I think you will be very happy here. Sooner or later, you know, this land is bound to be opened up to white settlement, and it’s rich land—lots of opportunities.”

  Twilight took off her hat and sighed. “So many Indians. That big one who watched me made me shiver—just the way he stared.”

  Her stepbrother frowned. “Oh, that’s Matt Folane. Lately, he’s gone to calling himself Yellow Jacket. He’s a heap-big warrior among the Creeks. He’s been on a tear lately since his niece died.”

  “Oh?”

  “It’s not important.” The balding man dismissed it with a shrug as he tried to take her hand. “I’m so glad you came, my dear. Sorry to hear about all your trouble.”

  His hand was clammy, and she pulled away from him and walked about, looking over the place. She’d always had an uneasy feeling that Harvey would like to bed her. But if that were the truth, why had he introduced her to Pierre Dumont and played matchmaker? “Your offer was a godsend, Harvey. I had reached the end of my rope and didn’t know what to do next.”

  He made a sympathetic clucking sound. “Well, now, what else is a helpless woman supposed to do except depend on gallant men to help her? Especially a widow whose brave husband died for the cause.”

  She brushed back a stray wisp of hair. “Frankly, I hate to admit it, but it didn’t seem like Pierre at all, to go and become a hero. He never struck me as having a lot of courage.”

  “Oh, now, now, I’m sure he was very brave.” Harvey watched her, trying to appear reassuring. To be honest, he thought Pierre Dumont was the yellowest varmint he’d ever met. There must have been some financial angle in it for him to join up. Well, what did it matter? Harvey now had the lovely Twilight here and under his control.

  “To tell you the truth, Harvey, I feel like a hypocrite for wearing mourning black. It wasn’t a very good marriage. I don’t know why you urged me to marry him.”

  Because I owed him a bunch of gambling debts, Harvey thought, and Pierre would forgive them for a relative. He feigned a mournful expression. “I’m sorry about that, my dear. I really thought he’d make you a good husband. With our father giving all our slaves their freedom and then going off to help the wounded, we were both left rather penniless, you know.”

  Her beautiful dusky lavender-gray eyes filled with tears. “Dear Daddy, I miss him so.”

  The old rascal, Harvey thought, giving away all that human wealth. Owning twenty-five slaves would have made Harvey exempt from the Confederate army. Instead, he’d had to fake a limp and flee to the Indian Territory. Now the damned war seemed about to follow him here. “Yes, dear Barton. He was like a real father to me, too, after dear Mummy died.” He must not appear too curious. “Uh, didn’t Pierre leave you anything?”

  Twilight shook her head and turned to look out the window at the trees that were dropping red and golden leaves. “I found out the bank was about to repossess the plantation about the time he was killed. He had debts, Harvey.” She turned and looked at him intently. “Did you know Pierre was a gambler?”

  He feigned shock. “Why, how terrible! I had no idea. Well, that’s all behind you now. Let’s get you settled. I’ll take your luggage into the back room, my dear.”

  “Oh, I hadn’t noticed your limp.” Her tone was so sympathetic. “What happened?”

  He turned and gave her his most pitiful look. She need never know he got that limp from putting pebbles in his boot. “Oh, I did a brief stint in the Alabama Volunteers after you moved to Virginia. A minor wound during the height of a battle, and now I’m useless for our great and glorious cause.”

  “Well, I’ll look after you and help you run the store.”

  “I was counting on that.”

  “What?” she looked up. Was she suspicious?

  “I merely meant that with your soft heart, I knew you’d be a major comfort to me.” If he could only get her in his bed. “I’ll take the loft, and you can have the back room.”

  “I do hate to put you out. Perhaps I could find a room to board—”

  “I wouldn’t hear of it.” Harvey made a dismissing gesture. “After all, we are family. Oh, the major’s wife has invited us for tea tomorrow.”

  Twilight frowned. “Must we? I’m afraid I’m not feeling very sociable.”

  “But of course we must,” Harvey said. “Young Captain Wellsley’s mother is visiting from Texas. They’re quite wealthy—lots of land and cattle.”

  “All right.” She shrugged. “Whatever you think.”

  “Good.” She was a spineless jellyfish, Harvey thought. She’d do anything he said. As much as he’d like to sleep with his beautiful widowed stepsister, he had something bigger planned. He would love to get his hands on Captain Franklin Wellsley’s wealth. “Now, you just settle yourself in, my dear.”

  Carrying her luggage, Harvey led her into the back room, where there was a chest of drawers and a bed. “Sorry if it’s not quite as nice as what you had back home. Things are pretty crude out here on the frontier, and these Indian girls just don’t know how to be proper maids.”

  “It’s just fine,” she reassured him, looking around. “Later I’ll start doing a little cleaning and dusting, help around the store.”

  “My dear, I really don’t expect maid’s work from a well-brought-up Southern lady.”

  “I reckon I should learn to stand on my own feet and make my own decisions.”

  “Southern ladies can’t be expected to do that,” he hastened to assure her. “Now, you just leave everything to me. I’ll take care of you; just don’t worry your pretty little head about it.”

  The bell at the store’s entry jangled.

  “Here,” he said as he put her valise by the bed, “sounds like I’ve got a customer. I’ll close the door, and you rest awhile. Later we’ll have supper and I’ll show you around the fort.”

  She nodded and watched him leave the room. Then she walked over and collapsed on the bed. What had she gotten herself into? This country looked wild and untamed and full of savages. How she longed to be back in the security of the old homestead, the Alabama plantation where she’d been raised, where Daddy had always taken care of her after Mother had died. She wouldn’t admit it for the world, but she had never really liked her stepmother, who seemed too interested in what Daddy owned. However, Daddy had outlived the greedy, unloving woman and then been killed himself, out in the field doing surgery on wounded troops during the first few weeks of the war.

  The next day, with Harvey insisting, Twilight made ready to go to tea at the major’s home. Harvey helped her into his buggy. “You look lovely, my dear. I’m sure every young officer out here will be wanting to meet you.”

  Uh-oh. Twilight frowned at him as he clucked to the horse and they pulled away. “Harvey, I really don’t think I want to marry again . . .”

  “Oh, but you will,” he insisted as he looked at the road ahead. “Of course, you’ll have to pass a proper mourning period first. Some of these young men are very comfortably well off.”

  Twilight didn’t say anything, but she had a sinking feeling. Perhaps Harvey’s offer hadn�
�t been so generous after all. Perhaps he hoped to better himself by making a good match for his widowed stepsister. Then she bit her lip for thinking such unkind thoughts about him.

  As they drove down the rutted road, she heard a sound and looked to one side. Just riding out of the woods on a fine paint stallion was that same big Indian she had seen when she arrived. He reined in and watched them, anger in his dark eyes.

  “Oh, dear,” she whispered, “there’s that savage again, Harvey.”

  “I know. Pretend you don’t see him.” Harvey sounded apprehensive. She looked over at her stepbrother. Sweat had broken out on his round face.

  The savage was too mesmerizing to ignore. She turned on the seat and looked back. “Are—are we in any danger?”

  The Indian was looking at her as if he couldn’t decide whether he wanted to pull her clothes off and ravish her or maybe kill them both.

  Harvey urged the bay horse to go a little faster. “I don’t think so, but who knows with him? They say he hates all whites, especially Southerners.”

  She glanced back over her shoulder again and wished Harvey would whip the horse into a gallop. The Indian was still glaring at her in a way that sent a shiver through her slight body. “Why does he hate Southerners?”

  “He’s Creek, one of the tribes run out of the South a few years ago so respectable, civilized whites could have their land.”

  She thought about that. “Oh, yes, I do remember reading something about it. Why are they called Creeks?”

  “I don’t know. They call themselves Muskogee. They’re distantly related to the Seminoles, or so I hear. But enough about Injuns.” He shrugged. “I’ve met the nicest young captain . . .”

  “The Creeks were from our home state, weren’t they?” She hardly heard Harvey, feeling the savage’s angry eyes boring into her back as they drove on.