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Next to the last man in the platoon was the Native American known as Wanakeena.

No first name, just Wanakeena.

He lived all of his life in the Adirondacks. Born there as a matter of fact. He was pure Abenaki and knew the woods like the back of his hand. The trouble with Wanakeena was that he had no respect for hand-held firearms.

Canon fire scared the hell out of him but not a man with a pistol. He could cut a man’s jugular with his flint knife before the opponent could get his pistol into position. Wanakeena would leap like a cat, thus surprising a gunman and throwing him off his draw.

Wanakeena was  not one who enjoyed argument. It took the other members of the platoon a little while to figure that out. Thankfully they were now souls and not corporeal humans that could be killed twice.

On the other hand it was a man with two drawn pistols who converted Wanakeena into a soul.