To Tame A Rebel (3 page)

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Authors: Georgina Gentry

BOOK: To Tame A Rebel
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Suppose he ran into someone along the way? How would he explain his carrying a dead, half-naked Injun girl? The thought was so scary, he thought he would vomit, but he must not do that right now. There'd be time for the shakes later, when he was safely back at the store having a stiff drink. All that mattered now was making sure no one could track Pretty's dead body back to Harvey Leland. If he was lucky, no one need ever know. Twilight should arrive in a few days, and he already had plans for his widowed stepsister. All he needed was a little luck and things would turn out fine, but first he had to get rid of this damned Injun slut's body.
Chapter 2
It was very late, the moon gone and the night grown chill, as Yellow Jacket slipped through the darkness to his log cabin. He didn't bother to light a lamp, because he didn't want to wake his niece. He could see the outline of her slim form under her blankets. Yellow Jacket wished his older brother were still alive. He felt helpless in trying to discipline his beautiful, silly niece.
Yet there were bigger worries now that Opothleyahola and the council had just decided to take thousands of people and hundreds of animals on the road, marching through hostile forces and bad weather all the way to Kansas. Were the people up to it? They'd have to be, or be slaughtered where they camped by the increasing number of rebel soldiers. Yellow Jacket said a silent prayer to the Master of Breath and then dropped off to sleep.
It was almost dawn when he awakened. He sat up on the edge of his cot and stretched, sniffed the air for the welcome smell of coffee. Pretty must not be up yet. He got up, hunting for his shirt, and walked quietly to her room. She still lay motionless under the blankets. Well, let her sleep. There was a lot of misery and hard work ahead of the tribe, and there was no way he could spare her from it.
Yellow Jacket went into the kitchen, poked up the fire in the old stone fireplace. He'd have to bring in some wood. Grabbing a ragged buckskin jacket and his moccasins, he stepped outside. Frost had left delicate patterns on the ground and bushes. He grinned and took a deep breath of the cold air. Life had been good up until the Muskogee had been forced out of Alabama by the hated Southerners, but he and his brother had flourished in this new land, with fat herds of cattle and good crops. He picked up an ax and strode out into the woods. As dawn broke over the autumn landscape, he put his energy into cutting timber, the muscles of his great back rippling as he worked.
“Yellow Jacket! Yellow Jacket!”
Puzzled, he turned at the shouting. Smoke, the mixed-black Muskogee, ran through the woods toward him. “Come quick! Something terrible has happened!”
Yellow Jacket ceased chopping and leaned on the handle of his ax. “Come, now, Smoke, catch your breath. What is so terrible that—”
“It's Pretty,” the black man gasped. “It's Pretty.”
“Pretty? Don't be foolish. She's safe in bed.”
The other shook his head, still gasping for air. “No, my friend—oh, it's bad!”
In the distance, Yellow Jacket heard screams and shouts, sounds of confusion. Dropping the ax, he turned and ran back into the cabin, jerked the blankets from Pretty's bed. Pillows. Only pillows under those blankets. His heart began to hammer hard, and he whirled to face his friend. “She's not here, Smoke; what—?”
“Come.” Smoke gestured. “I found her myself. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.”
Yellow Jacket hardly heard the other man's words. He grabbed Smoke's arm so hard, the man winced. “What's happened? Tell me! Take me there.”
“This way.” Smoke gestured as he turned and took off at a ground-eating lope. Yellow Jacket's heart was in his mouth as he followed. In the distance, he heard wails and shouts. He followed blindly, running through the woods until they met other curious people, all gathering at the noise.
Yellow Jacket slammed to a stop at the sight that awaited them. For a moment, his brain refused to recognize the sight. He blinked, hoping it would disappear, but it did not. His precious niece hung by the neck from a tree, gently swaying in the cold dawn air. “No,” he whispered, shaking his head. “Oh, no! Let's get her down, get her some air!”
Men rushed forward to help him, but even as someone cut the rope and Yellow Jacket caught the limp body, gently lowering her to the ground, he knew it was too late. The body was very cold and already stiff. He knelt there on the frosty ground, holding her close and looking down into her dear face. “Pretty? Pretty, speak to me! Pretty?”
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 the 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.”

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