Free To Tame A Rebel by Georgina Gentry Page B

do? Yellow Jacket grabbed for the big knife in his belt—no good against a rifle. Besides, even if he could find his rifle, a shot would bring the whole rebel patrol down on him. He hunkered down as flat on the dead grass as he could, and waited. Up ahead, a tall, handsome Indian wearing the gray uniform of rebel cavalry pushed through the dead brush and dismounted. In one hand the man carried a rifle; in the other, a pistol. He came on now carefully and silently as a man skilled in tracking human game.
    Wohali. Jim Eagle. Yellow Jacket recognized the Cherokee Lighthorseman immediately. Was it only a cruel twist of fate that Yellow Jacket and a man who had once been his friend were about to engage in mortal combat? Yellow Jacket clutched his knife and waited, hardly daring to breathe. He was not sure he could kill his old friend if he had to, and the Cherokee rebel had the advantage of weapons.
    At that moment, Jim Eagle seemed to see Yellow Jacket for the first time. He froze in place, staring as though he could not quite believe what he saw. Yellow Jacket only looked back at him, awaiting the shot that would end his life. In the distance a white commander yelled, “Jim, you see anything?”
    For a heart-stopping moment, Jim Eagle stared at the trapped, bloody man while the other held his breath. Once they had been friends. Now they were enemies because of a white man’s war.
    â€œJim Eagle?” drawled the white officer again, “you see anything? You need any help?”
    The Cherokee looked at Yellow Jacket a moment longer. He still clutched his rifle, and at this distance he could not miss. Then he turned his head and yelled back over his shoulder. “No, Lieutenant, there’s nobody down this trail. He must have taken another route.”
    In the distance the white commander swore and ordered the Cherokee to return.
    Yellow Jacket took a deep breath. Jim Eagle smiled at him and saluted him. Yellow Jacket saluted him back and whispered, “Thank you, old friend.”
    The other nodded, mounted his palomino horse, wheeled, and rode back along the trail. “Let’s get out of here, men; they’ve all gotten away.”
    Yellow Jacket lay there, hardly daring to breathe as the gray-clad Cherokee rode out of sight. He heard the patrol ride away, the leader still cursing their luck at letting some of their prey escape.
    Sometimes friendship was more important than war, Yellow Jacket thought. The event renewed his faith in men. He wasn’t certain what he would have done in Jim Eagle’s moccasins. He crept from his hiding place, the snow blowing harder now, and found his horse and his rifle. Then he gave the call of a bobwhite quail. After a moment, Smoke came out of a ravine to the east. “That you, Yellow Jacket?”
    â€œYes, I’m alive, just scratched up a bit.” Yellow Jacket walked out to meet him, leading his horse. “What about the others?”
    â€œDead, I think. We’ll look and make sure.” Smoke stared at him. “I would have sworn you were a goner when I saw that Cherokee go down that trail.”
    Yellow Jacket smiled in remembrance. “A long time ago we were friends. He didn’t give me away.”
    Smoke nodded. “I’d say you were still friends. Some things, war don’t change.”
    They found the two young warriors sprawled along the trail, dead with the snow blowing about them, stark and white against brown skin. Yellow Jacket knelt and put his hand on the cold face. “We should do ceremonies.”
    â€œWe have no time,” Smoke said. “We’ve got to get that message to Chief Lincoln.”
    â€œIt doesn’t seem right to leave them here for the wolves,” Yellow Jacket answered.
    â€œThey would understand,” Smoke said softly.
    He was right, of course. Thousands of loyal Indians were awaiting help from Union forces. They must bring that help. The snow began to fall faster. Soon