Noble's Way (14 page)

With great effort to keep a straight face, he asked. “Does Rivers accept them?”

No-Eyes shook his head. “They should belong to a chief.”

Noble glanced around. All the Wichitas looked at him expectantly, waiting for him to make a decision for them. Apparently, they wanted him to act as their judge. He frowned thoughtfully.

“You mean, that Spotted Horse should take them?” No-Eyes nodded.

“But Rivers has no wife,” Noble said patiently. Hell, he didn't think Spotted Horse would thank him for adding to his household. He waited while No-Eyes interpreted his offer.

The Indians began another slow exchange. Noble scratched his neck idly. How much longer was this going to last? The sun was almost behind the west wall, which meant the air would be rapidly cooling. Anyway his legs were becoming stiff from sitting cross legged.

All at once he noticed all the affirmative head nods. Noble smothered a sigh of relief. He didn't need the Wichita to know they were accepting his idea.

Across the circle one of the men was preparing the pipe. A brave, wearing buffalo horns, rose and began to prance around the inside circle. Noble was sure the brave was not fully a man for his steps and motions were those of a woman. The buffalo homed dancer disgusted him, but his role was obviously an important part of the ceremony. The Wichitas on both sides of him leaned forward to listen intently to the prancing brave's chant.

After the smelly pipe was passed three times, the Wichitas began to disperse.

Spotted Horse came over to where Noble was trying to limber up his legs. Sudan joined them a moment later.

“Well, what's going on?” the black man asked, his eyes watching the departing Indians.

“They had to decide who got the dead chiefs wives,” Noble grumbled.

“They didn't mean Gunsmoke?” Sudan looked fiercely at them.

Spotted Horse shook his head. “Not your women. Rivers now gets two wives.”

“Is that what this whole ruckus has been about?” Sudan asked.

Noble started to laugh. “How's old Rivers going to take all this?”

Spotted Horse shrugged. “Too many Wichitas to kill all of them. So he takes two wives.” The Osage laughed; Noble and Sudan joined him.

Noble shook his head in bewildennent. He'd never understand the Indian's ways. The serious counciling was their court of law. Poor Rivers now acquired the dead man's obligation. Noble walked stiffly to the store, he had lots to tell Fleta.

River's brides arrived on a snowy day in December. Chief Beaver Tail's estate included twenty horses, five dogs and four children. Low Cow was a squat fat woman with diamond eyes. She wore beads and silver conchos. The second wife was Tall Cow—over six foot in height, she was thin with a very long neck. She nursed a young baby.

The names suited them. Noble hid a smile as Low Cow's sharp tongue berated Rivers for some misdemeanor. Poor River's bachelor days were over with a vengeance. Two more tepees were raised in the compound.

Winter promised to be a slow season. The first snow melted and left a thick quagmire of mud.

Noble was busy saddling his horse to ride out and check on the livestock when he heard a sharp wail and turned to see Low Cow emerge naked from her tepee. Her ponderous brown breasts bounced off her egg shaped belly as she ran. Behind her, Rivers came with a quirt, lightly flicking it at her brown buttock every few steps. The woman yelped as if she was mortally wounded. Noble watched the spectacle with an amused grin. Grunting as he ran, Rivers reached out to strike her. She placed her hands behind her for protection, her stubby legs threatening to buckle beneath her.

“Noble, stop them!” Fleta shouted, her expression outraged as she ran to him.

Noble caught her. “This is a private matter between Rivers and his wife.” He bent and whispered in Fleta's ear, “Besides he's not hurting her.”

Fleta was not to be mollified. She squirmed out of his arms, her eyes blazing as she glared at him. “Make him quit!”

“No.” Noble looked down at her, admiring her flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes. “They have to resolve it themselves.” He pulled her resisting body into his anns, knowing that when she was so fired up she might run in and interfere.

The other Osages were outside now, laughing as Low Cow sat in the mud, cowering from her husband. Rivers spoke loudly, the quirt held menacingly over her head. After a few more minutes of angry verbal abuse, Rivers turned and stalked back to his tepee. His wife pushed up and without a sideways glance, hurried after him. A moment later, she reappeared wrapped in a blanket, carrying Rivers' trophy staff. With a distasteful look at the staff, which was decorated with scalps—including her own husband's—she stuck it in the ground outside the tepee's opening.

Noble realized he still had his own wife in his arms. “I think it's settled now.”

Fleta backed out of his arms, her face full of disapproval. “Well, I certainly hope so.”

Noble smiled at her tight-lipped expression. “Fleta, I would never do that to you,” he said with a smothered laugh.

Fleta's face flushed with anger. “And I would never let you!” She turned and flounced back toward the store.

Sudan sauntered over to Noble and grinned at him. “Whew! I thought you'd get whipped.”

Noble glanced at his wife's retreating shape. He shook his head. “Not this time.”

Sudan chuckled, then became serious. “Noble, I have the wagon ready to go to Independence whenever you're ready.”

“Fine.” Noble wasn't eager to leave. Word was out that the Cheyenne and Sioux were becoming belligerent and aggressive, west of the fort.

His role as head of the fort was a complicated one. He was expected to make decisions for the Indians, keep the store supplied with goods, watch that wolves didn't cut down his growing herd of cattle, keep the Wichitas happy, and cope with whatever other problems cropped up. Plus, Captain Rourke obviously expected him to keep an eye out for trouble from other Indian tribes. Well, at least he owned the land now. That was one problem resolved. Perhaps someday he would get the area surveyed and permanently marked.

“Something wrong, Noble?” Sudan asked.

“No, nothing I can't handle,” he said wryly. “How's Gun-smoke?”

Sudan shook his head sadly. “She's healing, but not in the mind.”

Maybe the Comanche woman would recover, Noble mused. Who wouldn't, with the company of a man like Sudan. Noble hoped the woman would start to act more lifelike, for Sudan's sake, but it seemed that was not to be.

“I need to take her back home,” Sudan said regretfully.

Noble looked at the man sharply, not wanting his friend to leave again. “Where's her home?”

“West Texas, I think. I ain't having no one feeling like they're my slave.”

“Yes, you're probably right, Sudan. I'm sorry. It could be a long, tough journey. The country's full of war-like tribes.”

“Yes, sir. But in don't take her back, she'll die before spring. She ain't a woman while she's staying here; she ain't nothing.”

Noble nodded his understanding. “Whenever you get ready to go, take the supplies and whatever you need. We'll miss you, Sudan, but I think I understand.”

Sudan looked at Noble with a smile of relief. He stuck out his big, calloused hand. “Thank you, Noble McCurtain. You're a fine man.” They shook hands gravely. “Guess I'll go on and get ready to leave now. Won't gain nothing by putting it off.”

“Yes.” Noble turned and walked toward the store. Would the black man survive a trip so far away, one filled with potential danger?

That night as they lay in bed, Noble told Fleta of Sudan's problems and his plans to take the woman home.

“I'll get more boards in Independence to finish the addition to the house,” he said, abruptly changing the subject.

She pressed her body against his. “That'll be good. I'll miss Sudan. He's a comforting person to have around. It's a shame that Gunsmoke can't see what a good and gentle man he is.”

“Yeah, a damned shame,” Noble said with feeling.

They lay in silence for a while. Fleta ran the tip of her tongue over her lips, wanting to ask Noble something, yet afraid of what he might say. Her hand went to her flat stomach, and bitterness tears welled in her eyes. It was so unfair.

“Noble,” she whispered hesitantly, “Noble, why can't I get pregnant? Has God cursed me for leaving Wilbourne? Is this some kind of punishment?” Tears squeezed beneath her lashes as she felt him stiffen beside her. Oh, why had she said anything?

“Fleta,” he said on a deeply expelled breath. “God has not cursed you.”

“He must have.”

Noble's lips tightened when he realized he must tell her the truth. Groaning, he put his arm around her and pulled her closer so he could look into her eyes. Then he pressed his forehead to her cheek.

“I'm sorry, Fleta. It's my fault, I should have told you sooner ...” He paused, uncertain of the right words.

Fleta blinked in the dim light from the fireplace. What was he talking about? “Noble, I don't-”

“Shh. Let me explain. I couldn't tell you before, I didn't want to risk losing you. Fleta, I had a bad case of mumps years ago. The doctor told me ... I'm the one who can't produce children, sweetheart. Not you.”

Fleta was silent with shock. She would never know the joy of having Noble's seed growing inside her. Oh, it was so unfair.

She spoke her thoughts aloud, “Oh, Noble, you need a son.”

“I have Luke,” he said with a smile. “He's a good boy, Fleta. I couldn't ask for a finer son. But what about you? Do you want to leave me—a man who can't even give you children?” he asked in a hoarse whisper.

Yes, he did have Luke, she assured herself. As for her leaving him ... She placed her hand alongside his jaw and smiled tenderly. “Oh, Noble, I would never leave you. Why didn't you tell me sooner? I've worried myself sick, thinking I was unable to give you a child.”

“Well, I guess you never asked,” he said with a smile.

She raised up on her elbow and looked down into his face. Tenderly she placed a kiss against his mouth.

With trembling fingers, Noble gathered the hem of her nightgown and pulled it upward. “As long as I have you, I don't care about anything else, Fleta.”

Sudan rode out the front gate, the winter sun on his wooly black head, two pack horses in tow behind him. His woman, Gunsmoke, seemed oblivious to the well wishers as she followed on her horse.

In his buffalo coat, the black man looked strong, capable of taking care of himself. Noble watched him leave with a slight frown. He didn't even hear Fleta, so engrossed was he in the black man's departure.

“Sudan will be all right,” she assured him, taking a hold of his ann to gain his attention. Noble smiled down on her. In the past she had pulled him out of a lot of moods by attaching herself to him as she was doing now.

“I agree,” he said, “but he's going into a mighty inhospitable world.”

“He wants Gunsmoke happy.”

Noble rubbed a hand through his hair. “I know, Fleta. I just hate to lose him. Not only is he a good worker, but he's become a close friend.”

“I know, Noble. Come back inside, I'll brew some fresh tea.”

“Nothing I can do now.” He circled her shoulder and they went back inside the store.

Sudan was uncertain of the future as he headed out on his journey. He had the new repeater, a cap and ball Colt Noble gave him, and enough ammunition to last a while. But his new woman worried him more than any unknown trouble ahead. The beautiful Comanche woman, so supple and lovely, seemed to him like she was dead inside. Nothing he did for her or to her raised even a spark of life. She just accepted his advances. Finally in disgust, he began to sleep alone. He was angry because he couldn't awaken her womanhood, yet he was not so desperate as to take an unwilling woman.

The days grew warmer as they crossed the short grass land, bisected with fewer streams. He avoided Indian camps and the larger buffalo herds.

Sudan shot a small deer for their meat. He noticed the woman working the hide as they rode. He shifted his eyes to the brown sea of short grass, for he knew if he looked at her, he would be tempted by her physical beauty.

He had no idea how much further he must travel. There was nothing—no trees, no hills, just open grass prairie. Gunsmoke rode beside him and handed him a buckskin fringed scabbard for his rifle. He frowned suspiciously at her gift.

“Now that sure is pretty,” he said aloud, admiring the fringed cover.

She rose in the stirrups and pointed southwest. Sudan blinked at her. A smile was flickering at the corner of her mouth and a light sparkled in her brown pupils.

They were five days out of Noble's Fort. Sudan sighed wryly at the abrupt change in the woman. Either the bad water they'd been drinking hit her or the good Lord had silently struck her. His spirits rose as he pushed the oily barrel into the deerhide sheath. Certainly he was not going to worry about what caused the damage. He was too elated.

Sudan caught sight of something that caused some of his euphoria to fade. Specks appeared in the distance. He was certain they weren't buffaloes. White, red, and brown animals meant Indian ponies. Far on the western horizon, the ponies rode on a parallel course with his. How long had they been out there?

“Are they Comanches?” he asked, knowing she had spotted the riders, too.

“No.”

How in the hell could she tell at that distance? he wondered. She was Indian enough to know, he supposed. They were moving fast, which meant there were no women and travois with them. They, no doubt, had already spotted him and his pack train.

What he needed was a place to hole up. Out here that might not be easy to do. He had turned to look at the east when Gunsmoke let out a yip and rode off toward the west.