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Authors: Georgina Gentry

BOOK: To Tame A Rebel
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Time seemed to stand still for a heartbeat as the captain made his decision. He looked at her with tears in his eyes. “It's obvious you belong with Yellow Jacket. Now, you two take your supplies and get out of here before I change my mind.”
Twilight could hardly believe what she heard. “What—what aboutHarvey?”
The captain looked at the dead man on the ground. “Since he surely killed Pretty, I reckon justice has been served. And you, Mrs. Dumont—I knew your husband, so I figure you deserve a better man.”
She looked at him, a question in her eyes, but he shook his head. “You don't want to know.”
With a cry of relief, she ran to her warrior, and he lifted her up on the horse before him. She put her arms around his waist and hugged him as if she would never let go.
The captain sighed and stuck the pistol in his belt. “I know when Colonel Cooper finds out about this, I'll face court-martial—”
“About what?” Clem Rogers grinned. “We didn't see nothin', did we, boys?”
The troops grinned and shook their heads. “Nobody liked Harvey Leland.”
The captain looked up at Yellow Jacket. “We may yet meet on the field of battle, but I hope not. Now, take your woman and your supplies and go with the others. If you hurry, you should make the Kansas border this afternoon before the Confederate troops can catch up with you.”
Twilight looked down at him. “Thank you, Captain.”
He nodded. “I can't say that I didn't wish things hadn't turned out differently, Mrs. Dumont, but everyone in Austin knows me, and if you should ever change your mind—”
“I won't.” She said it with stubborn determination, so unlike the pliant, shy woman she had been only weeks before.
Yellow Jacket raised his hand and slowly saluted the officer. “You're a man of honor,” he said softly. “It renews my faith that someday our two peoples might live in peace.”
The captain returned his salute. “Good luck.”
Yellow Jacket took the mule's lead rope and turned toward the north.
Twilight was leaving all the best that white civilization had to offer, but all that mattered to her was the man who rode with her. For him, she would sacrifice everything as long as they could be together. They would rejoin the children as a family. Up ahead lay Kansas and freedom. Up ahead lay a life with Yellow Jacket. It was more than enough. She didn't look back as they rode out.
PART TWO
Jim Eagle's (Wohali's) Story
Chapter 13
Army headquarters, June 6, 1864
 
“You realize, don't you, Miss Grant, that if you are caught, you may be shot?” The major turned away from his office window and stared at her.
“I—I understand. That's usually what they do to spies, isn't it?” April took a deep breath and reached for a lace handkerchief from the bodice of her pale blue dress.
What had she let herself in for, and was it too late to back out?
“Yes.” The officer ran his fingers through his gray beard. “I'm glad you're so strong for our cause.”
Cause?
She didn't give a fig for either side's cause. “I was promised there'd be a big reward. . . .”
He frowned at her in evident disapproval. “Reward? Yes, of course. That is, if you get out alive and get the information we need.” He paced the small, cluttered office. “As I said before, we're having a lot of bad luck in Indian Territory lately, which makes us suspect we have an informant among our troops.”
“A soldier?” She listened to the sounds of men drilling on the parade ground outside.
He shrugged. “We have no way of knowing; that's where you come in. It could be anyone: a soldier, a scout, a trader, even a camp follower—someone is obviously passing vital information to the enemy.”
April chewed her lip. This was sounding more and more dangerous. The money was no good if she didn't live to spend it. “When I heard you were looking for a volunteer, I had no idea I might have to go into the Nations.”
“We'd rather we had a man, but we didn't find one with your qualifications.” He sat down in the chair behind his cluttered desk. “You're Cherokee, aren't you? We wanted someone who knows the landscape and speaks the language.”
She didn't like to admit that she had some Indian blood. “Half-breed,” they had called her at that snooty Miss Priddy's Female Academy in Boston. “My name is April Grant,” she reminded him in an icy tone.
“Have it your way, but our sources tell us your Cherokee name is Kawoni Giyuga and you were born and raised in Indian Territory until five years ago, when your white father took you north. Your parents are now both dead.”
Kawoni. “April” in the Cherokee language, the month of her birth. “That's right,” she admitted.
“You're tall and slender for a girl, and you have a deeper voice than most, so maybe you could pass yourself off as a common soldier.”
“A soldier!” She stood up, and the hoops swayed under her pale blue dress. “Surely you jest.”
“Didn't you learn to ride and shoot in your younger days? And you do speak Cherokee?”
She was almost twenty now. Her youth in the Indian Territory seemed a century away, and she didn't want to be reminded of it. She swallowed back her trepidation, reminding herself that with the reward, she could buy respectability in the white world and turn her back on her Cherokee heritage forever. “All that's true,” she admitted grudgingly. She studied the officer, wondering if she could trust him. He might have been handsome except that he had a crooked nose and a big mole on his right cheek.
The major paused to light a cigar. “We'll find a way to sneak you into the Nations and issue you uniforms from both sides. If you do not turn up anything from one, change uniforms, go over to the other, and keep your ears open. The only clue we might have is an X.”
“An X?”
He nodded. “It seems to have a special meaning, but we aren't certain what it is. If you suspect someone, try drawing that letter and see if you get any response. Above all, be careful and trust no one.”
April wavered. Did she really need money this badly? Yes, to live like a respectable white girl named April Grant and not be ridiculed for being a half-breed Injun anymore. She went to the window and looked toward the troops drilling outside. The weather was warm, and the scent of the roses beneath the window mingled with the smell of sweating horses and dust from the army barracks. “If I find the spy?”
The officer took a deep puff of his cigar, and the rich scent mingled with the others drifting on the warm air. “Miss Grant, the less you know, the better, in case . . .” His voice trailed off.
“In case what?” She whirled to confront him.
He chewed his cigar and studied her, and seemed to decide she could take the news. “There's always a possibility that you might be exposed, and—and the enemy might do whatever it takes to find out how much you know.”
Rape and torture,
she thought, and shuddered. “You mean, before they shoot me?”
“I told you it was chancy at best.” He didn't meet her gaze, obviously embarrassed to be sending a mere girl into a dangerous situation. “I will sneak into the Territory myself in a few weeks and find a way to contact you. When you think you have vital information, find me and pass it on. Then we'll try to get you out.”
“Try?”
“This is war, Miss Grant, and the only thing that matters is winning. The enemy has had bad luck lately. Have you heard about Cold Harbor?”
She shook her head. The name meant nothing to her.
“Cold Harbor, Virginia”—the officer smiled with satisfaction—“happened only a couple of days ago. Big defeat for the enemy; seven thousand causalities in less than ten minutes. A few more battles like that and we'll win this war fast.”
Seven thousand causalities. A staggering number. And her death might make it seven thousand and one. No one would care, since she was all alone in the world. “When do I start?”
The officer took a puff and stared at her. “Right away. We'll sneak you into the Union fort first. After a few weeks, I'll be joining you there with further instructions. It's possible we might ask you to desert and go to the Confederate side. General Stand Watie's Confederate Cherokee Mounted Rifles are in southern Indian Territory, and with your background, you can blend in.”
She hated to be continually reminded of her shameful Cherokee heritage. When she had her hands on that reward money, she would turn her back on her past and live like a rich, respectable white lady in Boston or New York, with fine clothes and a fancy carriage. The girls who had snubbed her at Miss Priddy's Academy would be begging for invitations to her social events after the war when April was married to a rich businessman. “This whole thing seems so seamy.”
He raised one eyebrow at her. “Anyone who would work as a spy, not for a cause, but for money, is pretty seamy.”
She whirled on him, dark eyes flashing. “Sir, are you insulting me?”
“Let's say I doubt the character of anyone who thinks only of money.”
She looked past his crooked nose and prominent mole to his fine cigar and his custom-made uniform and boots. “That, my dear sir, is because you have obviously never had to do without it. You've always lived as a privileged gentleman.”
His expression became glum. “I won't if our side loses this war. Oh, by the way, you'll have to cut that beautiful hair.”
“My hair?” April reached to touch her long black locks, pulled into a bun at the nape of her neck.
He nodded. “A soldier would hardly be wearing long hair, now, would he? One last thing: I can't caution you enough—trust no one, even from our side. The one you trust may be the spy and the very one to betray you.”
April shuddered. “I understand.” She was stubborn and had no intention of cutting her hair. She'd pin it under her hat instead. “Well, Major . . . ?”
He smiled. “Just call me John Smith.”
“That's not your real name?”
“Is April Grant yours?” His tone was sarcastic.
“I suppose names don't matter. When I see you again, Major, have the money ready.”
“
If
I see you again,” he muttered.
“What did you say?” She paused in the doorway.
“I said Godspeed. Another officer will get your uniforms and necessary paperwork. In a few days, you should be deep in Indian Territory.”
“Good-bye, sir.” April nodded and left his office. What in God's name had she gotten herself into? And what good was all that gold if she didn't live to spend it?
Chapter 14
Eastern Indian Territory, June 15, 1864
 
Lieutenant Jim Eagle, of the crack Confederate Cherokee Mounted Rifles, swung down off his palomino stallion and handed the reins to his aide. “Here, little brother, hold my horse while I report in.”
Tommy frowned, then nodded and accepted the duty. “I should have gone on that patrol with you.”
“Maybe next time.” He sighed with weariness. The war seemed to go on and on, and he couldn't remember anymore what they were fighting for. Years had passed since Wilson's Creek, when the Confederates had attempted to take Missouri and had failed; the same for Pea Ridge. Then they had planned to keep invading Yankees from taking Texas, but the Yankees hadn't made that move. Now the two sides just seemed to fight up and down the Indian Territory, burning and leveling everything, destroying crops and looting farms with much loss of life among the civilians. Jim frowned as he strode toward the general's tent. He wondered if his widowed mother was still alive, and whether their ranch had been burned to the ground. The Yankees held that area, so he couldn't get home to find out.
Jim knocked the dust from his hat and strode to the general's tent, bending his big frame to enter. “Lieutenant Jim Eagle reporting in, sir.”
The legendary Cherokee officer looked up from his small desk. Stand Watie was squat and dark. “Ah, Wohali. At ease, Lieutenant. You know Captain Big Horse?”
For the first time Jim noticed the superior officer standing in the shadows, and saluted him. Jim didn't really like the captain.
The other tossed him an almost condescending salute. “Wohali, you look tired.”
Jim straightened his wide shoulders. Wohali. The Cherokee word for “eagle.” “I've been out on patrol, sir.”
“Got anything worth reporting?” the general asked.
Jim smiled. “Believe it or not, there's a boat coming up the river.”
“What?” Now he had both men's undivided attention.
Jim nodded. “I saw it myself or I wouldn't believe it. It's about four miles south of us.”
“Headed to Fort Gibson to resupply the Yankees, no doubt.” The general frowned. “Our men could sure use some of those supplies.”
Jim looked down at his own worn-out boots and thought wistfully of how real coffee would taste, to say nothing of better food. The war hadn't been going well for the Southern side for a long time, and things were getting lean.
Captain Big Horse shook his head. “I don't know, sir; maybe we shouldn't risk it. That boat is probably armed.”
“Begging your pardon, sir, but Clem Rogers and I know that area well,” Jim argued. “There's a bend in the river up ahead where it narrows and the water's shallow—good place for an ambush.”
The arrogant captain shook his head. “Maybe we shouldn't, sir. We could lose too many men.”
Jim frowned. He'd always thought Big Horse a coward.
The old Cherokee general paused, considering. “You think we can capture it, Lieutenant?”
Jim tried to control his mounting excitement. “If we take them by surprise, sir. Of course, if we let them get too near Fort Gibson, the Yankees will come to their rescue, and we won't have time to loot the boat.”
“It's worth the gamble.” General Stand Watie stood up. “All right, we'll give it a try.”
“But, sir,” Big Horse began, “I don't think—”
“I said we'll attack the boat.” Stand Watie glared at the captain.
Big Horse didn't look too happy, but he hushed and glared at Jim.
“Lieutenant,” the general said, “this is your project; you can lead the attack.”
“Yes, sir.” Jim snapped a salute and left the tent at a run, forgetting his exhaustion. Behind him, he heard the old officer come out of his tent, barking orders, and the camp stirring to life.
“What's up?” Younger brother Tommy handed him the reins to his horse.
“We're going on a raid, little brother. How would you like a new pair of boots?” Jim swung into the saddle, and his horse, sensing the excitement, began to dance in circles.
Tommy grinned. “I'd like some good food better.”
“You're gonna get it. Tonight Yankee grub is going in Southern bellies.”
“What?” Tommy swung up on his own gray horse.
“We're raiding a Yankee supply boat moving upstream.”
“Snooty Captain Big Horse in charge?”
“No, I am,” Jim said. “He didn't even want to do it.”
“Great!” Tommy's handsome dark face gleamed with excitement. “I want to be in the thick of things so I can finally get a promotion and some medals.”
Jim shook his head. “Don't take any foolish chances. I promised Mother I'd look out for you.”
The boy glared at him. “I'm old enough to look out for myself. Besides, we don't even know if she's still alive.”
Jim winced at the thought. His brother was right. They hadn't made it back to the ranch in months since that area was in Yankee hands. For all they knew, Mother might be dead and the home burned and ransacked. That would be the most devastating thing to happen since their middle brother, Will, had deserted and gone over to the Yankees back in '61.
Around them, men grabbed up weapons and ran for horses as the bugle blew. With any luck, Jim thought, they'd surprise that Yankee boat, kill or capture the crew, and help themselves to supplies. He spurred the palomino stallion and led his gray-clad cavalry toward the river.
 
 
Aboard the Union supply boat
J. R. Williams,
Private A. G. Grant watched the muddy river swirl past as the boat headed north. So far, April had managed to pull off her masquerade. She spoke little and did not mingle with the other soldiers. Always she was aware of the danger, but the lure of the reward was strong. She concentrated on the money and how it would buy her the respectable white life she craved. If she kept her wits about her, maybe she'd uncover the spy . . . if indeed it was a Yankee.
The day was sultry warm, and she felt perspiration running down between her small breasts under the blue uniform. There was no breeze, but she pulled her hat farther down around her ears. It wouldn't do to have her black hair cascade down. She should have taken the major's suggestion about cutting it. April watched the riverbank with its forest of oaks, willows, and cottonwoods. She had left this country more than five years ago and had never intended to return south, but her mother's death had brought her.
She was shocked at what she'd seen so far. The war had wreaked havoc on the landscape and especially the Five Civilized tribes. As she'd come up the river, she had seen burned crops and destroyed farms as both armies fought up and down the eastern Indian Territory while bushwhackers roamed at will, raiding both sides.
Was that a glimpse of gray she saw through the trees? April blinked in the blinding sun and looked again. Maybe she had only imagined that movement. Up ahead the Arkansas River narrowed and she'd get a better look. She leaned on the railing and watched the muddy bank as the boat chugged upriver. Maybe she was imagining things. They were only a few miles from Union-held Fort Gibson, and there were no Southern troops reported this close.
Suddenly, she caught the sound of running horses and saw more gray moving through the brush a few hundred yards away, and her heart went to her throat.
Frantically, she glanced around. The other Yankee soldiers were gathered about a man playing a mouth organ while they clapped and sang,
“ . . .de camptown ladies sing dis song, doo dah, doo dah . . .”
The captain. She had to alert the captain. She ran, shouting. Even as she did so, a small cannon opened up from the thicket, laying a shot across the boat's bow.
Acrid black smoke boiled through the sultry hot air and now rifle fire opened up along the bank. Aboard the ship, the surprised soldier dropped his mouth organ as other blue-clad soldiers ran up and down the deck in confusion. The commanding officer came out of his cabin, looking about wildly. “What the hell . . . ?”
“We're being attacked! Rebels!” April yelled. She found her knapsack and her rifle and tried to decide what to do. The cannon boomed again and, this time, found its target. The
J. R. Williams
shuddered as it took a hit. The officer in charge was yelling something, but April couldn't hear him, and the small escort of soldiers seemed too panicked to respond.
Rifle fire was pouring down on them from both sides of the river now as they neared the narrow bend, and the boat was listing as if taking on water.
The officer waved his arms wildly. “If we can make it a couple more miles upriver, men, our troops at Fort Gibson will hear the battle and come to the rescue!”
They'd sink before they made it that far, April thought in a panic. She hurried to the steps and looked down into the engine room. Water was coming up from below. Men ran up and down the deck, shouting to each other while, from the riverbank, gray-clad troops poured rifle fire at them.
She'd never live to collect that reward, she thought; she was going to be shot down in this Confederate ambush and buried as a common Union soldier. Worse yet, if she were captured by this bunch of rebels, there was no telling what they'd do when they discovered she was a woman. Out here in the wild, these men probably hadn't seen a woman in months. That thought galvanized her into checking her pistol. She didn't care which side they were on—she'd kill the man who tried to rape her.
Another cannonball found its mark, and there was no doubt now that the
J. R. Williams
was sinking.
The Union officer yelled to this bugler to blow retreat. “The water's shallow here, men!” he shouted. “This cargo isn't worth dying for!”
The soldiers needed no urging. They began going over the far side, swimming away from the deadly-accurate rifle fire. April hesitated. She couldn't swim.
“Come on, young fellow,” a grizzled old sergeant gestured as he jumped.
April paused by the railing, considering what to do. Not much choice. Either she drowned trying to get away or stayed here and got captured and maybe raped. She'd have to take her chances in the water.
Her knapsack. It lay forgotten on the burning deck, and inside was the Confederate uniform she'd need later when she tried to sneak through Southern lines. The roar of cannon and screams of dying men deafened her. The sooty smoke from the shells and burning boat made her choke. She ran back for her knapsack as the last Yankee soldier went over the side, swimming for the far shore. She had the knapsack now; all she had to do was get off the boat. If the water was shallow enough, maybe she could flounder to the opposite bank.
Even as she thought that, a rifle bullet grazed her, cutting into her arm, and she screamed out and went to her knees. Her flesh felt as if it were on fire. Numbly she reached out and clasped her arm, noting the scarlet blood on the torn blue fabric. Well, at least she wouldn't have to chance the water now. Around her the boat foundered and burned as screaming gray-clad soldiers dismounted, charged down the riverbank and onto the bloody decks.
Even in her pain, April tried to keep a clear head. If she was going to be captured, she'd better get rid of that telltale gray uniform before the rebels found it. Her arm seemed to be on fire, but she staggered across the deck. If she could drop the knapsack in the river where it would float away, the damning evidence would be lost.
“What the hell you doing?” A big, dark Confederate lieutenant raced onto the deck. “What you got there?”
She didn't answer. She must get rid of the evidence so her captors would think her only a common Union soldier and treat her as a prisoner of war rather than as a spy. She clutched the knapsack and staggered toward the railing, leaving a trail of blood behind. However, the big Indian caught up to her, grabbed her wounded arm. “What the hell you got there?”
April gasped in pain and dropped the knapsack. It went sliding across the deck but not into the water.
“Answer me, you Union scum!” He pulled her close to his face, and she realized just how big he was. The pain in her wounded arm made her so giddy, she thought she would black out, but she knew she had to get rid of that evidence. She gritted her teeth and pulled out of his grasp, tottering toward the knapsack, but he moved fast as a striking snake and scooped it up. “What's in here that's so important?”
“N-nothing,” she gasped, and sank down on the deck.
“You're lying, Yank.” He hung on to the knapsack, knelt next to her, pulled a knife from his belt.
He was going to finish the job, and she was too weak to stop him. She stared up into his rugged, handsome face, too proud to beg for her life. He looked Cherokee. Cherokee had never gone in for scalping, but she'd heard terrible stories of atrocities during this bloody war. Around her, rifle fire dwindled as the rebels seemed to realize that most of the Union soldiers had gone over the side, swimming for the far riverbank, where they ran like rabbits.

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