He spoke the truth, and she knew it. The runaways’ only salvation was reaching the Union troops, who would protect them and give them food and shelter. If the migration slowed or halted, they would be overrun and killed by the pursing Confederates.
Yellow Jacket reined in and dismounted, not looking at the white girl. He had almost begun to care for her—and then she had brought out the blue bead. How could he care about the sister of the possible killer of Pretty?
A small boy, perhaps seven or eight years old, stumbled by, half leading, half carrying a toddler girl who cried softly. The boy murmured to the baby as he fell in the snow and got up to walk again. Yellow Jacket spoke to the child in Muskogee. “Boy, where is your family?”
“Dead, all dead, but I can make it to the bluecoats, get myself a gun, and fight the graycoats.”
The frail child would never make it to Kansas despite his brave words, and they both knew it.
The little girl looked up at Twilight and whimpered, tears almost freezing on her cheeks.
“Oh, Yellow Jacket,” the white woman said, “I’ll walk so they can ride.”
He made a gesture to halt her. Again to the boy, he said, “Is that your sister?”
The ragged child shook his head and dusted snow off the baby. “I found her by a dead woman who didn’t make it through the night. I don’t even know her tribe.”
“Or her name?” Yellow Jacket’s eyes were suddenly moist. The little girl reminded him of his dead niece.
The boy shook his head. “I am Seminole; I do not know her tribe.”
Yellow Jacket turned to the white woman. “He’s Seminole, they’re a branch of the Muskogee. Their name means ‘runaways.’”
“Runaways?”
He nodded. “A long time ago, the Seminole went off to Florida, but the government gathered up some of them and sent them to Indian Territory.”
“I thought my brother said your people were Creeks.”
Yellow Jacket frowned. “That’s what whites call us because when they first saw us, we were living on creek banks. We call ourselves Muskogee.”
The small boy said, “If we had a little food, we might make it.” His big dark eyes were bright with hope.
Yellow Jacket turned to Twilight. “Do you have any food at all?”
“I’ve got a little corn bread.” She reached for it, leaned over to hand it to the child. “We aren’t going to leave them, are we?” she begged. “Maybe we could put them in the buggy.”
“The buggy is too full already. Any more and the horse won’t be able to pull it.” He watched the two children wolfing down the cornbread. “Here, she can ride with you and I’ll lead the horse.” He lifted the baby girl up to Twilight’s waiting arms. The white girl looked so natural cuddling a baby. “Her new name is Pretty.”
The Seminole boy had finished his corn bread. “A good name,” he said gravely, and looked up at the horse with a hopeless wistfulness.
“You shall ride, too.” Yellow Jacket lifted him up to the saddle before Twilight.
The boy laughed with relief, and Pretty laughed, too, as Twilight wrapped her buffalo robe around them all. “Thank you,” Twilight said.
Yellow Jacket was embarrassed to be seen as sentimental by his captive. “There is no need to thank me; they are, after all, Indian children and we must save those we can.”
“All children are the same.” Twilight smiled down at him as she held the children close. “What is his name?”
Yellow Jacket took the reins and began to lead the horse through the snow. There were dozens of children who might not survive today, but these two would. “Boy,” he called back over his shoulder, “what is your name?”
“Wasko,” the child answered. “I thank you for this, Great Warrior.”
“It is no matter,” Yellow Jacket said gruffly, a little embarrassed by the child’s gratitude. Then to Twilight: “The boy’s name is Wasko, which means ‘Chigger.’”
He looked back at the boy, and the child’s eyes were bright with hope. Twilight hugged the pair to her. “Yellow Jacket, can’t we keep them?”
“We may not make it ourselves,” he muttered, and kept walking. The thought crossed his mind that the white girl looked very natural with a child in her arms, even an Indian one. Now he had a ready-made family. Careful, he cautioned himself, you must not think of her that way. She is a hostage and the sister, maybe, of Pretty’s killer. No good can come of that. Still, it was hard to reason with his heart.
The day was long and cold as they trudged northward. When they stopped to rest, Yellow Jacket went hunting and brought back a rabbit, which fed all four of them. He found a stream and broke the ice to fill the canteens. There was no coffee, but he made a nourishing broth with the rabbit bones. That night, the pitiful procession of thousands finally stumbled to a halt to make camp. Twilight made sure the two children were well fed, then bedded them down wrapped in her buffalo robe.
She felt differently about Yellow Jacket because he had rescued the children, who were not even of his own tribe. He had gone off to confer with the old chief and the other leaders. He came back looking grim.
“What is it?” she asked.
“We gained some time when those Cherokee pin Indians deserted the rebels, but now they’ve picked up reinforcements and are in hot pursuit again.”
“What’s a ‘pin’ Indian?”
He shrugged. “The most traditional clan. They wear crossed feathers or pins to show they are Keetoowa.”
“Oh. Well, maybe you can whip them again.”
He looked tired. “We’ll have to try. I have a good friend, Jim Eagle, riding with the rebels. He spared my life last time our paths crossed, only a few weeks ago. Now he’ll be trying to kill me.”
“It makes no sense, but then, war never does.”
She watched his gaze go to the sleeping children. “Twilight, it’s still a long, long way to Kansas. We don’t have much of a chance of making it.”
“It can’t be that far,” she protested.
“With the huge rebel army, including Stand Watie’s crack Cherokee Mounted Rifles, chasing us? Ten miles would be too far. I think they’ll catch up to us in the next several days. If I’m killed . . .” His voice trailed off, and he did not finish.
She wasn’t certain what it was he meant to say. He seemed to be past his anger of this morning. Of course he had been wrong about Harvey. Her stepbrother might be of weak character, but surely he hadn’t had anything to do with Pretty’s death. She wondered if he was back there somewhere with the pursuing troops. She waited for Yellow Jacket to finish. Instead, he stared into the campfire, and the light flickering on his rugged face told her how concerned and worried he was. If he were killed . . . She realized suddenly that she couldn’t bear that thought. Maybe it was only because if he were dead, she wasn’t certain what would become of her and these two helpless children. She didn’t want to think about what the next several days would bring. At the moment, she and these two children were being well cared for by the big Creek warrior, and she had to be content with that.
When she looked at him, he was sitting cross-legged by the fire, shivering a little in his worn, ragged buckskins. “Here,” she said, “I’ll share my blanket with you.”
He looked at her, hesitated. The fire had died down, and the darkness seemed pitch black except for the snow reflected in the flames.
“I—I want to. We may not be alive tomorrow.” She held out her arms to him and he came to her, enveloping her in his powerful embrace, and she felt safe and protected. She was not sure whether he cared for her or was only blocking out tomorrow’s possible terrors. As for herself, she didn’t ask herself any questions; she only immersed herself in the heat and the power and the passion of the man. If he were going to be killed in battle tomorrow, she wanted to be in his arms tonight.
Chapter 11
December nineteenth. Captain Franklin Wellsley thought wistfully of Christmas as he squatted in front of his campfire and rubbe
d his cold hands together. Any idea of quick victory against the Yankee Indians, with lots of medals and parades to please Mother, had long since fled. He was also weary of Harvey Leland, whom he had already decided cared not a fig for the kidnapped stepsister but seemed greedy and too eager to know of Franklin’s financial affairs.
The young Cherokee scout, Clem Rogers, strode into camp. “Colonel Cooper sent me to fetch you, Captain. He thinks those Yankee Indians have settled in on Bird Creek up ahead. I reckon we’ll be attackin’ soon.”
“I don’t see what keeps them going,” Franklin muttered, “burdened by women, children, and livestock, and poorly armed and provisioned.”
The scout pushed his battered hat back. “Hope, sir—they’re runnin’ on pure hope.”
Captain Wellsley didn’t answer. Hope? Yes. Hope and sheer courage. He had a soft spot for underdogs. Of course, there was always the matter of the kidnapped Mrs. Dumont, who might not even still be alive. “All right, Rogers,” he said, and stood up, “I’ll see the colonel and then pass the word to the troops.”
Twilight was so weary, she could barely dismount as Yellow Jacket reached up to take the two sleepy children from the saddle. How long had they been on the run? Weeks. It must be at least the middle of December. She thought with longing of Christmas and feasting and elegant balls. “Is there any food?” she asked as she led the children to where the Creek warrior was building a fire. “The children are hungry.”
“Maybe I can snare a rabbit or break the ice and catch a fish in the creek,” he answered, but he didn’t sound too hopeful. He gathered up some rope and a knife and strode away from the fire. She took little Pretty in her lap and held her close to warm her. The boy hunched closer to the fire and looked at Twilight, his face thin and drawn. “Do you think we will reach Kansas soon?”
Frankly, she had long since given up hope of reaching Kansas at all, but hope was all these people had—she must not take that from them. “I’m sure of it,” she answered as brightly as she could muster, “and when we get there, the Union soldiers will feed us and give us plenty of blankets and a place to sleep with real wood floors.”
Little Wasko smiled. “And what will you do? Will you stay with the white people?”
She hadn’t given that a thought. Did Yellow Jacket intend to turn her over to the Union officers? “I don’t know,” she answered truthfully.
“I thought you were Yellow Jacket’s woman,” he said.
Was she? She shook her head. “I have a brother among the rebels, and . . .” She did not finish, realizing suddenly that she wasn’t sure she wanted to return to the whites. Yet it was absolutely insane to consider staying with the Indians . . . wasn’t it?
Pretty had gone to sleep in her arms. “What about you?” Twilight asked. “Will you try to find your folks?”
“I have none left.” The child shook his head. “I will join up with Yellow Jacket and go fight the rebels if he will let me.”
“Someone has to look after Pretty if I go back to the whites,” Twilight said, stroking the toddler’s black hair.
The boy looked disappointed. “I thought you would stay and take care of her until Yellow Jacket and I returned from battle.”
He was thinking of them as a family. Twilight shook her head. “I don’t think I can do that. I’ll be expected to return to my own people.”
“Do you want to go back?” He nodded toward the south.
She blinked, surprised at herself that she didn’t know the answer. “We’ll see,” she said finally. “Now, you take my blanket and move closer to the fire. Yellow Jacket will be back soon with some food.” She said it matter-of-factly, and realized she was confident that the big Creek warrior would take good care of them.
After an hour, Yellow Jacket returned. He had managed to kill two fat squirrels, and they roasted them and ate. Later he helped her bed the children down. Then he sat next to her before the fire and spoke softly. “The rebels are moving up on us. We’re going to stage a night attack at the creek—try to take them by surprise. They won’t be expecting it.” He reached for his extra ammunition.
“Be careful,” she blurted without thinking.
He looked at her, surprise in his dark eyes. “You know if they win, you might be freed.”
“I know.” She nodded. “But if I go, what will happen to young Wasko and Pretty? Harvey wouldn’t want them, so I can’t take them with me.”
The big warrior’s expression grew troubled, and she wondered what he was thinking. He reached out and put his hand on her arm very gently. “If I don’t come back, turn the children over to one of the women and make your way to the rebels. Use your underskirt for a truce flag so they won’t shoot at you. I’m sorry I’ve put you through this. As for what happened the other night . . .”
“Don’t say it.” She shook her head. “We were both caught up in the heat of the moment; that’s all.”
“You regret it, then?”
She looked away. “I don’t know. It—it complicates things.”
“I always hated whites, especially Southern whites.” His voice was low, and he stared into the fire. “And then I met you.”
She waited for him to continue, but he did not. Somewhere nearby, Smoke yelled at him to come on. “Take care,” she whispered. “I’ll pray to the Master of Breath for your safety.”
“If I never see you again, remember what I said about making a truce flag and finding your way to the rebels.” Then he disappeared into the brush. For a few minutes she listened, hearing the sound of men moving lightly across the prairie—or was it only the harsh wind blowing? She didn’t know how far down the stream the warriors were setting up their ambush, attempting to buy more time for their women and children to get away. The small Union force of Indians didn’t stand a chance. But neither had they at the battle at Round Mountain. She waited, her heart beating hard as she strained to hear.
The sun moved low on the horizon. Now there were shouts and the sound of galloping horses, rebel yells and gunshots; lots of gunshots. Both children came awake, the baby crying. All Twilight could do was cuddle them close and pray, knowing now that she was worried about Yellow Jacket—not because of her fate should he be killed, but worried about him because she cared about him. The thought shocked her.
Night came on, and gunfire echoed in the cold darkness; the acrid scent of gunpowder drifted on the icy air. A riderless gray horse galloped past, and in the distance, men screamed faintly in mortal agony. The sounds of battle echoed through the night. She could only hope Yellow Jacket wasn’t breathing his last breath somewhere along Bird Creek.
After what seemed like hours, the shooting and the shouting dwindled off, and toward dawn, Yellow Jacket galloped back into camp, his dark face alight with triumph. “We’ve beaten them off, killed dozens in our ambush. We’ll make it to Kansas yet.”
He swung down off his horse, and without thinking, Twilight went into his arms, hugging him close. “We were so worried.”
“I wasn’t!” Little Wasko said proudly. “I knew we would win. Someday I will be big and I will fight the rebels.”
Yellow Jacket reached down to pat his head. “By the time you are big, maybe this will all be over. Now, start breaking camp; we’ve got to be on the move again before the rebels recover and start after us again.”
Around them, she could hear others breaking camp, loading wagons. Old Opothleyahola’s badly outnumbered forces were on the move again.
Days blended into days, and their journey north seemed no faster than before, yet still the rebels were on their trail. It was night, and Yellow Jacket sat at the council fire and looked around at the other leaders. The ancient one coughed hard—so hard, he almost bent double. Yellow Jacket exchanged a look with Smoke. They both seemed to know that if the old leader died, their followers would lose heart and the rebels would overrun and slaughter them. Like Moses leading his people to the promised land, Opothleyahola was leading the Muskogee.
The old Creek leader stopp
ed coughing and looked around the circle. “It has been days since we defeated the graycoats at that place they call Bird Creek. Our people are sick, weary, and out of food and ammunition. I now begin to doubt that we can make it.”
Smoke protested, “But it is not far now to Kansas. We have come a long, long way.”
Another leader grunted, “And that way is strewn with bodies of our dead. It seems Great Chief Lincoln is not sending us help after all.”
No one said anything. They had all trusted the Union to keep Lincoln’s promise, yet so far, there had been no bluecoat soldiers coming to help them.
“Maybe,” Smoke suggested, “maybe they are still coming and are up ahead. It’s only a few more miles.”
The others glanced about at each other, still hopeful.
Opothleyahola looked to Yellow Jacket. “What think you, great warrior? Do you think they are coming?”
He did not think so, but he could not kill their hope, since hope was all that kept them going. “Perhaps. Anyway, even if they misunderstood and are not coming, what alternative do we have? If we stop, the rebels will overrun and kill us, so we must keep moving north.”
The others nodded.
“We have lost many good warriors fighting two battles,” Alligator grunted.
“But we have won,” Yellow Jacket pointed out. “Even an enemy with plenty of supplies and ammunition is no match for brave men protecting their women and children.”
“Hear! Hear!” shouted the others.
“Speaking of women,” one of the others said, “Yellow Jacket, you have the white woman with you still?”
He shrugged carelessly, but his heart beat hard. “We need her for her medical help.”
“She has no more medicine,” one said, “so she’s not much help. Would the rebels stop their pursuit if we freed her?”
“I don’t know.” Yellow Jacket stared into the fire. He did not want to let her go. When he closed his eyes, he could feel her warmth against him on the cold night, the softness of her skin, the scent of her long hair.
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