Somewhere nearby, she heard a wounded warrior moan. She reached for her medical bag, turned to smile and make comforting gestures to the new little mother, began searching out the wounded around her. Here and there, she found some too mortally injured to be moved, and they seemed to know it. One of them didn’t appear to be out of his teens. “I—I’ll get a wagon,” she promised, but the warrior shook his head.
“No, must not slow the people,” he gasped. “The Master of Breath is coming for me. . . . Must—must get the people to the Union soldiers.”
She took his hand and nodded, her vision blurring with tears as he breathed once more and then died. Why had she been so terrified of these poor wretches? They were human beings after all, who lived and died and had hopes and dreams just like white “civilized” people. What difference should it make to the Confederates if a few hungry, ragged Indians made it to Kansas? If she could speak to the commander, she’d urge them to let the Indians go in peace.
Around her, people were coming out of the brush, many of them injured, and she had so little medicine to help! Taking a deep breath for courage, she went about ministering to the wounded, doing what she could, which was precious little.
Later that night, as she slumped on a log, shivering, Yellow Jacket found her. “Have you eaten?”
She shook her head wearily. “There doesn’t seem to be enough to go around. I’m worried about Smoke’s family. . . .”
“He’s found an abandoned rebel wagon to carry them. They’ll be fine.”
“I will be, too, then,” she lied.
“Come with me,” he ordered.
“But—”
When she protested, he caught her arm and led her, but she tripped and would have fallen if he had not lifted her and carried her to the shelter of a rock, where he had a small fire going. He sat her down and draped a blanket around her shoulders. “I’ve got a little coffee and some jerky.”
Coffee. She was so cold, her hands were shaking. “There’s others need it worse than I do.”
“Shut up and drink it.” He put a tin cup in her hands. It was warm, and instinctively she cupped her hands around it. “Eat a little.”
“Is this your food?” She took it. The meat smelled delicious, yet she hesitated.
“What do you care?” He did not smile. “We’ve got to keep you alive; we need your medical skills.”
“Oh, I thought, maybe—”
“Stop thinking and eat.” He leaned against the rock and sighed, closed his eyes.
There was no point in protesting, and besides, did she give a damn if her kidnapper went hungry? The thought renewed her defiance, and she ate the meat and drained the coffee. If it weren’t for this big savage, she noted, she might have been able to rejoin the Confederate forces and been safe and warm tonight. Could she have slept in that safety, now knowing how these Indians suffered?
For the first time, she noted that he shivered. “What happened to your extra blanket?”
“I lost it.” He didn’t look at her.
“I don’t believe you.”
“All right, I gave it to a dying warrior. It eased his suffering until he met the Master of Breath.”
“What’s going to happen to the severely wounded who can’t walk?”
She saw pain cross his face. “We leave them behind. There’s no help for it.”
“That’s horrible. The Confederate troops may kill them when they find them.”
“The wounded know that.” His face in the firelight seemed to carry the weight of the world. “All that matters is that we get the people to Kansas. Nothing must delay us.”
For a moment, there was no sound save the crackle of the fire. Somewhere a wounded one moaned softly, and the sound was carried on the cold wind. In the distance, a newly born baby wailed.
“A life goes; another comes,” Twilight said softly.
He nodded. “It is the way of things. A man meets woman; they mate and produce life so that the people prevail. Nothing else matters.”
She watched him shiver again and suddenly felt guilty. “I’ve got your blanket, and you’re cold.”
“I’ve been cold before.” His voice was brusque. “Did you see your Captain Wellsley out there today, coming to rescue you?”
Captain Wellsley. He seemed like a weak boy beside the warrior next to her. “No, did you kill him?”
He glared at her. “Your rich rebel is safe enough. He fled the battle like a deer running before hunters.”
Twilight lowered her eyes, imagining the humiliation of the green, inexperienced officer against a hardened warrior like Yellow Jacket. “Was my stepbrother with him?”
“Hardly!” Yellow Jacket snorted. “At least the captain did his duty. No doubt the craven Indian agent hid far to the back if he came at all. Now shut up and get some rest. We’ll be pulling out in the middle of the night, trying to put some distance between us and the rebels.”
“Why don’t you just surrender?” Twilight urged. “These women and children and old people can’t keep walking through the snow—”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? So you could return to the comfort of the civilized world?”
“I was thinking of the safety of your people,” she snapped back.
He stared at her, long and hard. “You are changing, Mrs. Dumont, from when I first saw you as a delicate, fearful Southern belle.”
She remembered the first time she had seen him as she stepped from the stage. “Was that what you thought of me?”
His voice was so low, she had to strain to hear him as he stared into the fire. “I thought you were the most beautiful woman I had ever seen, and I wanted you.”
She didn’t know what to say. What he was suggesting was not only forbidden, it was unthinkable. She opened her mouth to speak, and then didn’t know what to say.
He turned his head and looked at her, and the expression on his dark, rugged face made her heart beat faster. This virile, powerful man called out to something deep inside her soul, something wild and uncivilized that she hadn’t known was there. The thought scared her. It came to her, as they stared into each other’s eyes in the flickering firelight, that all she had to do was make the slightest gesture and he would reach for her—and she might not be able to stop herself from responding.
For an eternity, their gazes met and locked in the silence before he broke the spell with a regretful sigh. “Go to sleep, you of the dusky, twilight eyes; I’ll wake you when we’re ready to move out.”
Very slowly she sank to the ground next to him, pulled her blanket close, and closed her eyes. After a moment, she felt his big hand reach out and brush a wisp of hair away from her face ever so gently. Then his hand went to her shoulder in a protective gesture that comforted her. She felt the weight of his hand as she dropped off to sleep.
Before first light, Yellow Jacket was shaking her awake. “It’s time,” he whispered almost gently.
As she roused, she felt stiff from sleeping on the cold ground. “Have you been sitting beside me all night?”
“What does it matter?” He did not look at her as he bustled about, stirring up the fire.
“Is there any coffee?”
He shook his head. “We’ve used the last of it. I’ve got a little corn bread.”
She took it gratefully and gobbled it, then suddenly realized he was only watching her. “You haven’t eaten?”
“Stop worrying about me,” he snapped. “I’ve eaten.”
She didn’t believe him, but there was no point in arguing with him. “I’ve got room in my buggy to carry a few,” she said.
“You might give a lift to some of the wounded if they survived the night,” he said, and went off to investigate.
The mortally wounded would have to be left behind to rely on the mercy of the pursuing Confederate soldiers. How many would die before the Union Indians reached Kansas—if they managed to reach Kansas with November soon to be fading into December? She would save those she could, she decided. M
aybe sooner or later, she would get the chance to negotiate with the Confederates. After all, what did a few helpless Indians more or less mean to the Southern cause?
It would soon be dawn. Twilight got her medical bag and began to walk the frosty ground, looking for those she might aid. Nearby, she spotted an old woman curled up in the snow like a small, frail bundle of rags. She would offer her a ride to save her life. “Old mother?” She shook the thin body, but there was no answer or movement. With growing alarm, Twilight shook her again.
Behind her, she heard footsteps on the frosty ground and turned to see Yellow Jacket. Twilight blinked back tears. “Help me; I think maybe . . .”
He strode over, bent to look, shook his head. “She’s gone; maybe the cold, maybe just willed herself to die so she wouldn’t be a burden to her people.”
Twilight stared down at the frail body through her tears. “She—she hadn’t hurt anyone. It isn’t fair.”
Yellow Jacket snorted. “Tell that to the noble rebels who are chasing us down like rabbits.” He reached and took the old woman’s blanket. “Sorry, old mother,” he whispered.
“What are you doing? Aren’t we even going to bury her?” Twilight was outraged as she faced him.
He glared back at her, and she thought she almost saw his jaw tremble. “Do you think me heartless? I knew this old woman well; in happier times I have supped by her fire. The Master of Breath will understand, as will the dead. We have no time for burials, as the old one has no need for a blanket. Now, get in the buggy.”
“This is cruel and outrageous,” she protested.
“Mrs. Dumont, will you get in your buggy, or do I have to put you there?”
She tore away a piece of her black long skirt and laid it across the old woman’s face, only sorry she couldn’t do more. Then, with stiff dignity, she lifted her ragged skirts and walked to her buggy, climbed up, picked up the reins.
“I’ve got some passengers for you over that next rise,” he shouted, then put spurs to his horse and galloped off, throwing up a spray of snow.
Twilight sighed, knowing he was right. In her sheltered life, she had experienced so little hardship compared to what these people were dealing with. She spoke to her horse and moved out through the frozen ground with difficulty, knowing that soon the well-armed and well-fed Confederate troops would be awakening and starting the pursuit again. A long, cold, and miserable day lay ahead, and she knew she was powerless to do anything except help a few individuals. She concentrated on the people waiting over the next rise and didn’t look back at the old woman lying curled in the snow.
In the Confederate camp, Colonel Cooper came awake with a start, grabbing for his pistol.
“Colonel? Colonel Cooper, sir?”
He recognized the voice and relaxed, blinked in the coming daylight as he swung his feet over the side of his cot. “Come in, Rogers. What in the hell’s wrong?”
Clem Rogers, the lanky, mixed-blood Cherokee scout came into the tent and saluted. “Something’s happened, sir.”
“Obviously, or you wouldn’t be here.” The colonel yawned and scratched, began to search the darkness for his boots.
“Sir, it’s Colonel Drew’s Cherokee Mounted Rifles, the Keetoowas.”
“Troublesome bunch,” Colonel Cooper muttered.
The young scout twisted his hat in his hands. “You know they’ve been grumblin’ about this trip, don’t like chasin’ after the runaway Creeks; think we ought to let them go.”
“I know, I know. I don’t like it much, either, but ours not to reason why. We just follow orders, that’s all.”
“Not those traditional Cherokees, the Keetoowa clan,” Rogers said. “They’ve pulled out.”
“What?” Colonel Cooper paused in pulling on his boots and stood up. “What do you mean, ‘pulled out’?”
Clem Rogers sighed. “What I been tryin’ to tell you, sir, is that almost all the First Cherokee Mounted Rifles deserted in the middle of the night. They’re gone!”
Colonel Cooper began to curse. “Damn them anyhow. Where’d they go?”
The lanky boy shrugged. “Not sure. Some may have joined up with old Opothleyahola’s warriors; some may have headed to join the Yankee troops; some of them may just be sick of the whole war and gone home.”
The colonel rolled his eyes. “Wish I had that option. The other Injuns still with us?”
“Yes, sir. Them McIntosh half-breed Creeks is mortal enemies of Opothleyahola ’cause he assassinated the head of the McIntosh family years ago for signing over their land to Southern whites. It’s a Creek law: a death sentence to anyone who sells tribal land. Anyways, the half-breed McIntoshes are itchin’ to spill Union Creek blood.”
“They’ll still get their chance, I reckon.” Cooper didn’t wait for an answer as he sat on his cot and finished putting on his boots. “Rogers, go alert all my officers that we’ll be meeting in a few minutes, and tell the cook to get a pot of coffee going—strong coffee.”
“Yes, sir.” The Cherokee scout turned to leave.
“Oh, didn’t Mrs. Dumont’s brother end up coming along?”
“Ridin’ far to the rear, sir.” Clem Rogers couldn’t keep the scorn from his voice.
“Well, you’d better go tell him and Captain Wellsley that we can’t go on until we pick up some reinforcements.”
“Harvey Leland ain’t gonna like that none.”
“Can’t be helped. I’m not about to move forward with a whole regiment missing. The nearest reinforcements are probably old Stand Watie’s Second Cherokee Mounted Rifles; they’re loyal to the cause.”
“Sir, it’ll take a couple of days for them to get here; gives them Yankee Injuns more time to get away.”
The colonel swore again. “You think I don’t know that? Take one of our best horses and ride for Stand Watie. I’ve got to have some help here!”
“Yes, sir.” Clem Rogers saluted and ran out the door.
“Damn,” grumbled the colonel as he reached for his hat. “Damn those Union braves for not being sensible and surrendering.” Somewhere inside, he had the slightest bit of admiration for their gritty stubbornness, even though they added to his problems. With a sigh, he grabbed his coat and went out to meet the new dawn’s events.
The cold day seemed endless to Twilight. The wind picked up and it began to snow. Yellow Jacket had loaded her buggy with a wounded warrior, a woman, and two young girls. Sometimes her buggy bogged down in the mud, and Yellow Jacket came back to help break trail. The wounded warrior seemed weaker, and when they stopped to rest the horses, he said something to Yellow Jacket, who nodded gravely, dismounted, and helped him from the buggy. He handed the young warrior a rifle. Half supporting, half carrying the man, Yellow Jacket helped him over behind a pile of rocks, then came back alone.
Twilight looked at him. “Isn’t he going to ride with me farther?”
The big warrior shook his head. “Twilight,” he said softly, “the man is dying, and he knows it. He asks that we leave him behind.”
“But he’ll die . . .”
“He’s already dying. He intends to try to slow the rebel advance, buy our people more time. He said to give his place in the buggy to someone who stands a chance of living.”
Twilight’s vision blurred. She looked around at the other silent Indians who rode with her. The young woman blinked back tears but said nothing.
Twilight stared at Yellow Jacket, a question in her eyes.
“He’s her brother,” he said softly.
“Oh, God!” Twilight choked back sobs, “This is all so terrible.”
“Tell that to the rebel army pursuing us.”
She was tired and cold and miserable. “Why don’t you leave me behind?” she said. “Someone could have my space in the buggy.”
“We need your medical skill,” he said. “I’ll find someone else who can walk no farther to ride with you.”
Before she could say anything, he rode away. She looked over at the Indian girl next to her. If
this girl could leave a dying brother, Twilight was ashamed to be so weak and complaining. She urged her horse forward, and the buggy lurched on again through the frozen mud. All around her, Indians rode tired, stumbling horses or walked stubbornly forward, bent against the driving north wind.
In minutes, Yellow Jacket rode next to her. “Old Opothleyahola is getting weak, and his horse just died. He’s too weak to ride anyway, and we cannot lose him.”
Twilight nodded, and in moments, the frail old Indian was led to her buggy. He was bent with age and coughing as Yellow Jacket helped him up. The buggy lurched forward again, slowly.
Yellow Jacket said, “If we don’t ease that load, that horse won’t make it through the day.”
The Indian girl said something in her native language, but Yellow Jacket shook his head. Twilight gave him a questioning look.
“She’s offering to walk,” he explained.
“Nonsense!” Twilight said. “I’ll walk. I’m better able than she is.”
“Here,” he said, and held out his hand. “We can ride double and let the old one drive the buggy.”
Twilight hesitated. She certainly didn’t want to ride with Yellow Jacket, but her horse was giving out, and the load in the buggy had to be lessened. With a sigh, she handed over the reins and took Yellow Jacket’s hand, letting him swing her up behind him on the saddle. Then they started forward again, following the hundreds of people ahead of them.
Immediately, she was warmer because his big body was blocking the cold north wind. She huddled against him, seeking his warmth and locking her arms around his waist. He reached down and touched her hand, almost gently; then he nodded to the old Muskogee and spurred his horse forward, riding north into the icy blast.
She laid her cold face against the warm back of his buckskin shirt, closed her eyes, and listened to his great heart beat as they rode. She felt more than warm; she felt safe and protected. Then she reminded herself that he was her captor and that if she were lucky, her brother and the captain might catch up to the Creeks in time to rescue her. The thought was not as appealing as it had been yesterday. Like it or not, she was beginning to admire and respect the brave warrior she rode behind.
To Tame A Rebel Page 13
