Noble's Way (12 page)

“No, sir. The commander wanted you to have him.”

“Well, you tell Colonel Custer that he's much too generous and that I'm obliged to him.” Noble took the lead and let the horse circle around him. Traffic stopped and people gawked at the tall-hatted frontiersman and his fancy stallion.

“What do you think, Chief?”

Spotted Horse looked about to bust out of his fringed clothing. “He's a gawd damn good one, Noble.”

“Yeah,” A halted freighter shouted. “And I hate Injuns, but he's right about the silver horse.”

Noble ducked his head. Enough of being the spectacle, he thought with a grin. He swung aboard his new mount and set out in a run. George Custer, huh? Well, he'd meet him some day and thank the man personally for such a generous gift.

Fleta, he said silently, you aren't going to believe all the stories I have to tell. I lost one horse and now have a better one. Fleta, I'm coming home on a helluva horse.

Fleta watched for Noble, knowing he would be returning soon. From her vantage point outside the gate, she could scan the entire brown prairie. A cold wind swept her dress around her legs.

She missed the trees of Arkansas. From her childhood in Tennessee to her life in Arkansas, there had always been trees. Trees to chop for firewood, to saw for lumber, and for shade. It was hard to adjust to the Kansas prairie where trees were scarce. She had a fleeting notion of joining Sudan to see the trees that he planned to cut down deep in the Indian Territory. The only trees nearby were a few spindly ones south on the creek that served the Indians as a communal bathing place. The hills at home would be bare now except for the dark cedars and a few pines. She wondered if Wilbourne would be there to see them. Wilbourne. Strange she had not thought of him in a long time. Perhaps because she had been so busy with the store or perhaps it was because Noble was gone. Her thoughts were divided between the two men; niggling doubts inside left her queasy. The man she had abandoned would no doubt survive. Oh, why didn't Noble come home?

She turned and walked through the gate. Sudan appeared, startling her. He was a giant figure in his buffalo coat, his wiry hair bushy and in need of a cut.

“He'll be coming back soon, Misses,” Sudan said quietly.

Fleta smiled at him. “Yes, I know. Guess I'm just a worrier, Sudan.”

He nodded. “Noble McCurtain is a powerful man for his years. But I guess you knowed all that when you married him.”

Fleta swallowed a painful lump. She wasn't really married to Noble. She lowered her head to hide the sudden ache of tears.

“Misses Fleta, I never meant no harm,” Sudan said, horrified at seeing her sad expression.

“I know, I know.” The wind stung her face as she looked up at the gentle man. “It's a long story, Sudan. Yes, my husband is a good man,” she said, emphasizing the word husband.

The black man smiled with understanding. My woman, he thought, is buried in a grove of maples at home. 'Cept my home is here now, 'cause I'd probably cry every day if I had to look at her cemetery plot.

Sudan studied the eastern horizon. Noble, he thought silently, you come home real soon. I ache to go down south in the Indian Territory and get some logs for the Misses' new rooms. Rivers said there were some big trees there. Walnuts with rich brown heartwood would last a lifetime. Luke probably would use them when the property was passed to him. Sudan knew Luke was not Noble's true son, but the boy came from good stock. Maybe that was what was bothering the Misses. She must have lost Luke's daddy.

Sudan walked back to his blacksmith shop. The edge of his hewing axe was razor sharp when he tested it with his thumb. All the yokes were in good shape. He had checked and replaced all the bad links on the chains. Now he was bored. He sighed heavily. Noble McCurtain, you hurry that gray horse on home now.

Noble was pushed harder to get home. The new stallion was a handful and the miles had not settled him. Spotted Horse's mount kept up but Noble was concerned that they might be pushing the good Kentucky horse too hard. Indians had little regard for a horse, except to use them for their own purposes.

“Let's go on to the fort tonight,” Noble said as they rested and chewed on buffalo jerky.

“It will be after sundown when we get there,” Spotted Horse said.

Noble twisted off another bite and shrugged. Sundown was soon enough; he was anxious to tell Fleta about the land purchase, the stallion, and Izer's attempt to shoot him. Maybe he wouldn't tell her about Izer. But no, that wasn't right. She'd have to know. There would never be any peace until Izer Goodman was dead.

He swung up in the saddle. Colonel Custer had been generous. Maybe someday he could send him a suitable colt from the horse to repay him.

The next morning, Sudan ducked to enter the store. The sight of Noble seated at the table pleased him. He heard him arrive during the night, but knowing Noble would be too tired to do any talking, he waited until morning to visit him. The stallion in the pen outside was a new arrival. Where was the gray horse that Noble thought so much of?

“Sudan, hello there. Come and have a seat,” Noble invited. “Fleta says you're eager to go cut the logs for her house.”

“Yes sir, Mr. Noble.” He sat down opposite Noble, glad to have his boss home again. Now the Misses would be happy.

“Well, I brought home some new repeaters and ammunition,” Noble said, sipping coffee. “You take one in case you need it. Is Rivers going with you?”

“Yes sir.” He watched Noble rise and collect a new lever action rifle. He took the gun eagerly from Noble's outstretched hand. “This is a fine gun.”

Sudan handled the gun almost lovingly. So this was a Winchester, he mused. Why, a man could stop an army with a gun like this. Now that was Noble McCurtain, always giving you something. He'd give a black man a new gun and send him off with a fortune in tools and draft animals without a second thought. Why, if I was a mind to, I could go to parts unknown with it all. Trust, that's what Noble McCurtain had, and respect for old Sudan. His chest swelled with pride and he beamed a wide toothy smile at his benefactor.

Sudan was glad that Rivers came along with him to cut the logs. He could see Rivers was proud of the new gun. That Osage had a curiosity about blacksmith work. Indians were different. They'd watch and watch, then one day they would do whatever they had been observing.

Besides, Rivers drove oxen better than the other Indians. Some of his words were probably curses in his own language, but Sudan enjoyed listening to the Indian swear at the dull oxen.

He and Rivers left at mid-morning. A bright sun promised to warm them. Six sets of oxen and the Belgium mares, now shiny and spirited, left the fort with Sudan who rode proudly on his big high-stepping, new mare.

They made camp before sundown. Rivers said the timber was still two days south. Sudan struck steel to flint and made a fire to cook the beans that Fleta had sent along.

“You sleep,” Rivers said, “I'll guard.”

“I'll help you. You come and wake me for the last half of the night.”

Rivers never mentioned an enemy being nearby. Perhaps the Osage was just concerned that someone might steal the stock. Sudan puffed on his stub of a pipe. The smoke he drew tasted dry and sweet. The temperature was dropping. He would sleep until Rivers woke him.

Two days passed uneventfully. They drove into a river bottom forested with impressive black-trunked walnuts.

The steers were turned out to graze the brown grass. After hobbling the horses to keep them nearby, the men set a buffalo hide cover over a frame of willows to use for a shelter and to cache their supplies.

Sudan began chopping the first tree. The wedged chips flew. He felt his muscles flex. He enjoyed this almost as much as making love to a willing women. Chip by chip, his axe bit out the wood. This work was as important as smithing.

Rivers limbed the fallen trees. Then he watched Sudan hew out the square logs from the rounded trunks.

On Sunday, Sudan rested. His muscles were sore but he was satisfied that in a few days he would have all the wood they could sled home with the oxen. Rivers used the sabbath to sleep.

Taking his rifle, Sudan roamed the bottoms. They had adequate camp meat from the deer he had shot earlier. As he walked the river's edge, an odd object on the far bank caught his eye. A body lay on the erosion-exposed shore across the river. The person was either dead or unconscious for no one slept in such a place or in such an unnatural position.

Sudan removed his boots. He slid off his leather pants and placed them over his new rifle to hide it. Soon he was waist deep in chilly water, his bare feet on the smooth rocks and soft mud. His brown eyes held fast on the figure across the river.

The cold air struck his wet skin as he waded out of the shallows. When he was near enough to get a good look at the body, he was surprised to see it was a woman. An Indian woman. Cautiously he searched around to be sure no one else was nearby. The side of her head was mud smeared from where she had fallen or fainted. He rolled her over and whistled softly. She was perhaps twenty years old; a nasty looking wound oozed from her right shoulder. She'd been shot.

He gave a quick check of the bank above. Nothing. The woman was alive and moaning weakly. Her buckskin blouse was blood soaked over her breast. Sudan had many questions he wanted to ask her. The pressing question was, how close were her enemies? He scooped her up and plunged into the chilly river. He felt an urgency to get back to his weapon.

Though her limp weight was no burden, Sudan remained concerned that he might slip and douse his new found obligation. He ignored the icy cold water. Past the deepest swirling water, he held her high and turned slightly. Had he heard horses? He strained to listen. Nothing but crows calling.

Gently he laid her down on the grass, then pulled on his britches, and boots. No time to dry; he had to get back and wake up Rivers.

The woman obviously needed medical attention. Her face was beautiful, but pale. Her wound was seeping again. Sudan frowned and scanned the far bank. He could hear nothing except the river's rushing. He laid the rifle across the woman, scooped her up again and hurried back to camp. His urgency was a mixture of concern for the woman and the fear of whoever might be after her.

He glanced down at her face again. Her skin was olive, although pale due to a loss of blood. Her nose was slender and her lashes dark and very long.

Sudan was relieved when Rivers emerged from the shelter at his approach.

“Get some water,” he instructed the Osage. “She's been shot.”

Carefully Sudan placed her inside on his bedroll, laying the rifle nearby. He drew the Bowie knife from his belt, then gently split open the pull-over leather blouse to expose the wound above her breast.

Her eyes opened and fear immediately flashed across them.

“I am a friend,” Sudan said quietly. The words did not satisfy her and she tried to rise. Sudan put the knife aside to physically restrain her from getting up.

“Hold still. My name's Sudan. I ain't going to kill you, but if you keep fighting me, the bleeding's gonna kill you for sure.”

Her dark brown eyes glazed over and she fell into unconsciousness. Sudan scowled, afraid that she might be dying.

“Lordy, don't do that, girl. Hold on, Injun. We can fix that hole. You just don't go and die on me.” He reached for his saddle bag and drew out a cotton sack that would serve as a bandage.

Where in the hell was Rivers? Damn, he was taking long enough to get water.

The Osage threw open the flap of the shelter. Something was wrong. Sudan could see it in his face.

“Riders coming.” Rivers set the bucket down and gestured with his thumb over his shoulder.

“How many?”

The Osage indicated several. Sudan jerked up his lever action and headed out, rising to his full height once he was outside. He levered a shell in the chamber and viewed the invaders. River did the same with his rifle.

Short of the clearing, a buck wearing a soldier's cap raised his hand in a peace sign.

“What the hell does he want, Rivers?”

“They're Wichitas. Not ones who come to fort.”

“Ask him what he wants,” Sudan said, noticing the war paint on the five men's faces.

The Osage said something that Sudan could not understand. Sudan quickly appraised the enemy. They were riding war horses. Two of them carried lances and buffalo shields. The muzzle loaders the others carried did not look impressive. Their leader had two plow handles sticking out of his waistband. Probably cap and ball pistols and the only weapons capable of rapid fire.

Rivers' exchange with the leader was brief. The Wichita chief was angry.

“What does he say?” Sudan hissed, growing impatient with the scowling bunch. They didn't wear robes, despite the cold; so obviously the Indians were prepared to fight.

“He says the woman is Comanche and belongs to him. She threatened his life, so he must kill her.”

“He aims to kill her, huh?”

Rivers nodded without hesitation.

Sudan glared at them. “Tell him no!”

The Osage seemed undecided. Sudan drew a deep breath and raised up his rifle barrel. His wet britches were cold and the leather had begun to stiffen. He hoped he could move fast enough if he had to.

“Tell him
no
!” he repeated.

The Wichita spoke and Rivers quickly intetpreted. “He says to tell Beaver Tail what the black man wants.”

“The woman,” Sudan said curtly.

At his brief words, Beaver Tail laughed mockingly and the other bucks joined him.

Sudan clamped his teeth in rage. So the son-of-a-bitch understood English. Well, fine. That would make it easier to deal with the red devil.

“Beaver Tail!” Sudan shouted. “You go for one of those pistols, get yourself ready to die. Rivers and me got those repeaters loaded to the top.”