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To Tame A Rebel

Page 9

by Georgina Gentry


  Opothleyahola nodded and burst into a spasm of coughing. “We have been waiting many days now, and no messenger has come—nor soldiers—from Chief Lincoln. Perhaps we need to go meet the Union troops that are coming to help us.”

  Yellow Jacket chewed his lip in thought. “The rebels will try to stop us.”

  “Not until they realize we are gone,” another pointed out. “If we are in luck, it may be days before they know.”

  “I hate to trust to luck,” Yellow Jacket grumbled. “We will lose many if we try to walk the people to this place called Kansas. It is winter.”

  The ancient one snorted. “It was winter on the Trail of Tears, when the whites forced us to walk hundreds of miles to get here. Many died, but we are a tough people; some will survive.”

  A murmur of agreement around the fire, and outside, the wind howled as if seconding the thought.

  “You are right,” Yellow Jacket said finally. “As the whites would say, we are caught between the devil and the deep blue sea.”

  An elderly chief looked at him, puzzled. “What does that mean?”

  “It means,” Yellow Jacket said bitterly, “that if we stay, people will die, and if we go, people will die.”

  Smoke said, “For us black Indians, we face an even worse fate. If we are captured by the rebels, they will send us into slavery. We would rather die fighting for our freedom than sit here like sheep awaiting our fate.”

  The old man took a deep breath. “If we leave tonight, perhaps the Master of Breath will look after us and deliver us safely to this promised land called Kansas.”

  Yellow Jacket looked at the old man with a sinking heart. The white girl had been right. Their leader was old and sick. He might die at any time, and then the people would be leaderless and afraid.

  Alligator, the noted Seminole chief, protested. “Maybe we should just wait for the Union troops to come to our aid.”

  Opothleyahola looked toward Yellow Jacket, and everyone followed his gaze. Everyone knew how much the old man respected Yellow Jacket’s judgment. “What say you?”

  Yellow Jacket considered. “The weather is turning colder with each passing day, and soon there will be almost no grass to feed our horses and cattle. It is more than three hundred miles, as the white man counts it, to the safety of the Union troops in Kansas.”

  “Yes,” Smoke spoke out, “and it might as well be three thousand.”

  Another commented, “More are coming every day from all the loyal tribes. There are people from some twenty tribes gathering, and they expect we will tell them what to do.”

  “And the rebels surrounding us are getting stronger every day,” the ancient one said, and began to cough again. “If we are going to have the element of surprise on our side, we need to leave before the rebels expect it. Yellow Jacket, you have been away to the white man’s school and know their thinking. What must we do?”

  The others looked toward Yellow Jacket, and he sighed with despair. The white girl had been right. The old man was ill, perhaps ill enough to die. Yet he was the only one who was respected by all as the leader. Surely the old man was too weak to sit a horse. If only they owned a good buggy. The only one he was aware of belonged to Harvey Leland, and he did not think the white girl would give it to them, especially when she found out that the Indians intended to flee the country. Perhaps he could steal it. No, he shook his head. His people were not thieves, no matter what the whites thought of them. Anyway, someone would surely see him driving away and raise an alarm. Within an hour, before the loyal tribes could break camp, that prissy little captain and a patrol would be out at the encampment, nosing around.

  There was no other answer, and Yellow Jacket knew it, yet still he searched his heart because of the terrible cost in suffering to his people. “What do the medicine men say about the weather?”

  Opothleyahola answered, “They think the storm is coming soon, maybe tomorrow night, with snow and winds that will keep the soft soldiers in their tents, close to their fires.”

  Yellow Jacket chewed his lip. “Then late tomorrow night we make our attempt.”

  “Agreed,” the frail old leader muttered. “The Master of Breath will be coming for me soon, but I hope to die in a free place where even our black warriors will be safe.”

  Smoke said, “I vow I will kill my own little girls rather than let them be captured and sent to some vile cotton plantation in Louisiana or Tennessee.”

  The ancient one stood up and made a dismissing gesture. “Then it’s settled. Tomorrow night, if the storm comes in, we will slip away under cover of darkness. All you leaders pass the word to your people to be ready.”

  The others stood, nodded, and filed out into the night. Yellow Jacket and Smoke paused outside and watched the other men scattering silently.

  Smoke said, “It is impossible. We can’t lead six thousand people through rebel lines and walk all the way to Kansas.”

  Yellow Jacket looked up at the sky. “If we stay here, once the rebels realized we are not going to join up with them, they will attack us and many will die. Is it better to die here, shot down like dogs, or make a try for freedom?”

  Smoke gave a short, harsh laugh. “Don’t talk to me about freedom. I have scars on my back from cruel masters before I escaped and took one of your women as my own. In a way, old friend, you are lucky. You have no woman or child to worry about on this trip.”

  “True. But all the women and children in this camp are my responsibility,” Yellow Jacket said, thinking of the white girl. He had never felt as lonely as he did at this moment.

  “I think she has a better heart than most,” Smoke said, “Even though she is from the South that steals our land and would put me and my children back in slavery.”

  Yellow Jacket scowled. He did not want to think kind thoughts about the girl with smoky lavender eyes. He did not want to think about her at all. All his strength and concentration would be needed the next few weeks as the people made their terrible march toward the northern border. “Let us part, then, and begin gathering our things and telling the people. Late tomorrow night, if the Master of Breath is willing, we will begin our trip.”

  The next day was cold and gloomy, and there was little business in the store. With the captain and his patrol away on a scouting trip and Harvey still gone, there were few people to talk to, and Twilight was lonely as she cleaned and reorganized things. In one storeroom, she found boxes and crates of food and supplies marked, U.S. Government. For distribution among the Indian tribes.

  Now, just why were they piled up here in a storeroom when the Indians she’d seen were evidently in such need? Surely Harvey wouldn’t stoop to . . . ? Could he intend to sell the goods to whites and pocket the money? Surely he couldn’t be that thoughtless and greedy. There had to be a reasonable explanation. She ought to question him when he returned.

  The longer she thought about it, the angrier she became. Yes, she decided, she would confront her stepbrother when he returned, and insist the Indian trade goods be parceled out among the needy tribes. That made her think about the ill old leader, Opothleyahola. There was dried soup here, and bacon and sacks of cornmeal. There was also a bundle of good wool blankets, some coffee, sugar, and tea. The old man needed warmth and nourishment. Certainly she couldn’t carry enough in her buggy to care for the whole tribe, but she could take out a buggy load and maybe get Yellow Jacket to accompany her back to the store with some wagons for the rest of it.

  Harvey would be furious with her. Twilight smiled at the notion. Once she would have quailed at the thought; now she almost welcomed confronting Harvey with her righteous indignation. Twilight realized she was changing. Well, war, a bad marriage, and widowhood would do that to a person. On second thought, the idea of defying her stepbrother made her tremble. As much as she disliked him, at least she had a safe, secure place to live and enough to eat. She imagined being out on her own, facing hunger and cold, and quailed at the thought.

  Still, she could do a little that w
as independent. Putting on a heavy coat and a wool scarf, she put the Closed sign in the window, locked up the store, and went out to harness the bay horse. Then she drove the buggy up to the back door and struggled to load the supplies. She didn’t want anyone to question what she was doing, because if confronted, she might not have enough nerve to go through with it. Not that there was anything to worry about—the settlement seemed deserted, with everyone staying by their fires.

  Twilight got her medical bag and carried numerous bundles of blankets and boxes of food and medicine out and loaded them in the buggy. When she had put on as much as the rig would hold, she looked around. It was almost dusk. It might be dark before she could return from the Indian camp. Driving alone in a wild place, unescorted, was just not something a Southern lady would chance. Well, if there was any danger, she could ask Yellow Jacket to escort her back. Even though he was a savage, she knew he was a renowned warrior and no one dare cross him, white or Indian. Harvey and Captain Wellsley would be upset or furious, but if she was lucky, neither need ever know about what she had done until Harvey missed the supplies. There would be a fuss then, of course, but what could he do besides shout at her? She almost smiled at the thought. She who had been so timid was becoming braver out of a need for justice.

  It was farther to the camp than she remembered. Several times her timidity almost overcame her good resolve, and she was tempted to turn the buggy around and go back to the safety of the settlement. Then she imagined the big eyes of some of those hungry Indian children, gritted her teeth, and kept driving.

  It was dusk when she arrived at the outer edge of the camp. Everyone was bustling about; no one paying any attention to her. Something was wrong. With growing apprehension, she tied her buggy to a tree and threaded her way through the woods. Behind the trunk of a big oak, she paused and looked toward the camp circle. Sitting in the middle around the fire were Opothleyahola, Yellow Jacket, the mixed black she knew as Smoke, and a bunch of other important-looking warriors. They were talking and passing a pipe around. She had a distinct feeling that this was important tribal business, because there were no women present. Her instincts warned her that she shouldn’t be here, but her curiosity was piqued, and she couldn’t bring herself to leave as she eavesdropped.

  Mostly they were speaking in their own tongue, but now and then she caught a few words of English.

  Yellow Jacket paused in speaking. He had keen eyes, and a slight movement out among the shadows caught his attention. “Say no more,” he muttered. “I think we have a spy. Make small talk while I look into this.”

  The warriors looked up, and Alligator opened his mouth as if to ask something, but Yellow Jacket shook his head in warning. “I will go see about my horse,” he announced loudly and got up, stretched, and swept the circle with a warning look. As the others made sudden small talk, he ambled casually away from the circle in the opposite direction from where he’d seen the movement. Once lost in the shadows, he circled around, running light and fleet-footed as a deer to come up behind the one who was eavesdropping on the council.

  Now he could see the small figure. By the Master of Breath, it was the white woman, lurking behind a tree. His anger made him grit his teeth as he sneaked through the growing darkness. No doubt her villainous brother or the captain had sent her out to spy on them, thinking the Muskogee were too stupid to suspect a woman. How much had she heard? There was no way to know. That made her dangerous to the success of the mission.

  Yellow Jacket hesitated. What to do? They could not allow her to return to the whites with any information that the Indians were planning to move out late tonight, heading north. Success depended on the Indians’ traveling as far as possible toward Kansas before the rebel soldiers could organize and attack them. He sighed, knowing what he must do. He had never in his life hurt a woman, but there was no help for it: Yellow Jacket would have to silence her; the council would demand it. That meant he had to kill her. He looked down at his two powerful hands. He could easily break her neck with one quick motion. Her slender throat would be soft and creamy white between his dark brown palms. He must kill her to save thousands of Indian lives.

  Twilight craned her neck, listening to the Indians around the fire. They were mostly speaking in their language, although now and then Smoke said something in English. None of what they were saying seemed intense and important as it had before. More important, where had Yellow Jacket gone? Darkness had settled in around her while she hid behind the tree. What should she do? Perhaps she would leave the goods piled up out here, and the tribe would find them in the morning. She didn’t relish driving back to the settlement in the darkness, but she wouldn’t have a choice.

  A faint sound behind her—so faint, she was not even sure that it might not be her own heart beating. Even so, she half turned. At that moment, she heard footsteps as fast and quiet as a running deer. Before she could react, a big body crashed into her, and they both went down, rolling and struggling in the dirt. Twilight had never known such terror. She opened her mouth to scream, and a hand clapped over her lips. Her fear gave her strength she did not know she had, and she came up fighting, clawing and biting. Her unknown assailant held her down easily, lying on top of her as they struggled. As she fell, her long black skirt had billowed up, and he was lying against her thin pantaloons. She could feel the heat and power and strength of the man. The hard planes of his body pressed hard into her soft curves as they struggled. Now he had one hand on her throat. He was going to kill her—she knew it—and in a flash, she envisioned her long hair hanging from a war lance tomorrow. Why hadn’t she listened to Harvey and stayed in the settlement, where she was safe and warm?

  She managed to jerk her face free for an instant, and in that brief moment she gasped, “Please . . .”

  “Damn you,” he growled, “I can’t do this!” At this point he scrambled to stand, reached down, and jerked her to her feet.

  “Yellow Jacket?” She felt a mixture of surprise and relief.

  “Shut up!” he ordered. “What are you doing spying on us?”

  “I wasn’t spying; I came out to bring the children—”

  “I saw you!” he shouted. “You were listening in on the council meeting. How much did you hear?”

  She tried to pull out of his grasp. “Not much. Something about leaving, but—”

  “Liar. All whites are liars!” He seemed furious as he picked her up, tossed her over his shoulder, and strode toward the council fire.

  “Put me down!” She screamed and kicked, afraid of what the Indians might do to her. “The captain will come out here and—”

  He slapped her across the rear as he carried her into the big clearing, then dumped her unceremoniously in a heap by the fire.

  Twilight looked around the circle at the closed, hostile faces, then back up to Yellow Jacket. She was terrified, somehow knowing they planned to kill her. “When—when my brother hears how you’ve manhandled me, he and Captain Wellsley will bring the soldiers out here and you’ll be sorry—”

  “Silence!” Yellow Jacket towered over her, putting one moccasin on her body and pushing her against the ground. She looked around again at the hostile faces and fell silent, seeing her fate in the savages’ eyes.

  Yellow Jacket paused and began to speak to the other men in rapid Muskogee. “This is the spy who was watching our meeting.” He looked down at the girl lying so submissively by the fire. Her hair had come loose and tumbled in a brown and golden mass over her shoulders, the firelight picking up the shine. Her black dress had slid off one shoulder, and the swell of her pale breasts was visible. Her smoky lavender eyes were big with fear, and she kept licking her lips. He had never seen such a desirable female. He felt his groin swell as he looked at her, wanting to reach down, carry her off to his tent, rip away her dress and take her in a quick, savage mating that would cool the blood that now roared through his ears. After that happened, could he bring himself to kill her?

  The ancient one looked the woman ove
r and sighed. “How much did she hear?” He spoke in their language.

  Yellow Jacket shook his head and tried not to look at the frightened girl. “There is no way to know.”

  “You should have killed her to keep our secret,” Billy Bowlegs, the Seminole leader, said.

  Yellow Jacket glared down at the girl. “Yes, I should have. I—I don’t know why I hesitated.”

  He was aware that all the men were looking at him, and he was angry at his own softness. He had killed more than a dozen men, yet this time something inside him had weakened and he had not snapped her neck, even though everything in him told him the woman could not be trusted.

  “We can’t turn her loose,” Smoke said. “She will tell our secret.... But she has been kind to my children.”

  The others nodded. “She has been kind,” several grunted. “Still, we cannot let her alert the whites and the soldiers in the settlement.”

  Opothleyahola sighed. In Muskogee he said, “Yellow Jacket, she is your captive. It is your responsibility to silence her forever.”

  He had known it would be his responsibility. Why had he not broken her neck out there in the woods? Because when she got her mouth free, she had whispered, “Please,” in a desperate appeal as a helpless woman to a dominant male.

  One of the others scowled. “Yellow Jacket, if you are too weak of heart to kill her, I would enjoy doing so.”

  The others fell silent at this challenge.

  The speaker was a coward who had killed other whites, Yellow Jacket knew. Yet if they did not kill this spy, what were they to do with her? He stepped so that he stood with one foot on each side of her as she lay huddled against the ground, and at that moment he knew he would kill any man who hurt her. “She is my captive,” he announced loudly in Muskogee, “And I think perhaps she would make a good hostage. The army may not attack us as long as she is with us, fearing to injure her.”

 

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