Noble's Way (15 page)

Girl, Sudan said silently, if you aim to leave me for them ... She reined up and signaled for him to join her. He kicked his horse in the ribs and jerked the pack horse lead line.

She'd found a buffalo wallow. Sudan judged it to be thirty feet across and six feet deep in the center. Gunsmoke charged her horse down the steep bank. Reining in sharply, she dismounted and grinned up at him.

“Yes, ma'am. You have parted the Red Sea, girl. Just like Moses did.” Sudan gave a last look to the west as he went over the steep bank. He could not see the enemy.

Gunsmoke hobbled their horse while he climbed up the side with his rifle. The sun's sinking rays fired the prairie with golden red glares that obscured his enemy.

She joined him, scrambled up on top, then lay her ear to the ground.

“No come,” she said and twisted to dangle her brown legs over the edge. The smile of satisfaction on her face stirred him. “Good place. They come at dawn.”

“Guess we'll have to give them a real welcome,” Sudan said, setting his full lips together firmly. He stared in amazement at the change in his woman. She was sparkling with life. He frowned fiercely. “Come on,” he said, afraid of his growing desire for her. He started back to the horses where she joined him. They shared water from one of the water bags. The horses had muddied the stale water in the pit. At least he noted they had a drink. He rationed out a handful of cornmeal in their nose bags, wanting the horses to be rested and fed since he and Gunsmoke might need them to flee this place.

As he filled each bag, she put them on the horses. Their chomping was loud in the still twilight. Sudan kept listening, but he couldn't detect any other sounds.

After completing the chores for the horses, he left them saddled, then he and Gunsmoke climbed up on the rim, taking some dried jerky and blankets with them. Seated on the grass in the fast cooling last glow of day, they chewed on the hard meat.

When Gunsmoke finished eating, she moved in front of him and rubbed a grease slicked finger on his mouth. He licked the smokey salt flavor and watched as she calmly sat back down. He could fathom no reason for her action unless she was feeling affectionate.

Then Gunsmoke placed a blanket over his shoulders and moved close by his side. Sudan realized for the first time that she belonged to him. But the stirring in his flanks melted at the sounds of distant war drums.

The Indians were working up their nerve, clearing things with their gods. Wails and sharp cries carried across the prairie.

“Kiowas,” she said, snuggling close to him.

“Kiowas,” he repeated. “Are they bad?”

He saw her head bob. If she figured they were, he expected the worst. Indians usually underestimated their enemies. Well, they were up against a determined man.

Sudan dozed a few minutes before he jerked awake. It was quiet. The Indians had either exhausted themselves or were sneaking up on them. When he shifted to look across the starlit plains, Gunsmoke awoke.

Reassuringly, she patted his leg. “We shoot plenty Kiowas.'”

“Can you shoot a pistol?” he asked, not convinced the Kiowas weren't already sneaking up on their bellies nearby.

She pulled the Colt out of his waistband and held it steady. “Bang.”

“I don't have much time for a lesson,” Sudan said dryly.

She aimed the pistol out in the night, clicked the hammer back, and the pistol roared. The fiery orange flames flashed out the barrel. Sudan nodded.

“Girl, you are a wonder.” He hugged her warmly. “Now let me reload that chamber.” Sudan took the pistol and held it up to reload the powder and ball, replacing the cap on the nipple. He gave the pistol back.

“Kiowas, you ain't never run up against a tougher pair,” he said smugly.

He awoke the second time when she tugged on his arm. Sudan drew a deep breath. How long had he slept? he wondered. It must be close to dawn. There was a little gray seam on the horizon.

They slipped into the wallow. His pockets weighted with the brass cartridges, he pulled off the carbine's fringed holster. A south wind swept his face as he dug out shells and placed them on the top of the bank. He was grateful the breeze would carry off the powder smoke so he could see them. Sudan laid the rifle on the bank. Come on, you howling devils, I'm ready.

Dawn cracked on the horizon and he saw the distant outline of riders. He checked on Gunsmoke; she was resting her elbows on the bank, the Colt in both hands. He wanted to warn her not to waste ammunition, but was afraid if he spoke he would break her concentration.

Then he felt the vibration of running horses beneath his elbows. The earth shook, warscreams slit the air as the Kiowas came. He sighted into the glaring sun at their outlines, squinting his eyes down the bead.

The air filled with the ‘yi-yi' war cries now. Sudan judged the range; his rifle cracked and a Kiowa tumbled off his pony. A second round had another one down. The third took a pony. Four rounds and they swerved to the north. Sudan rose and dropped a red and white pony; the rider jumped up, but Gunsmoke's pistol blasted him. Hit squarely by the ball, the buck arched his back. He staggered until he pitched face down.

The party was well out of the rifle's range when they pulled up. Sudan quickly reloaded, his breath coming in gulps. From the corner of his eye, he saw something that made him stop his rapid actions.

“Get back here!” he shouted. Busy and bent low Gunsmoke was gathering bows, arrows, and lances. What the hell did she think she was doing? He glanced to the enemy regrouping and yelling. A sigh of relief escaped him as she raced back, dumped the armload and jumped into the pit.

“What are we going to do with them?” he asked, looking from her to the weapons on the side of the slope.

She just smiled and nodded proudly. “More Kiowas.”

“Yeah,” he said wryly, turning back.

The Kiowas charged again. Screaming, they came in a long line of low riders, shooting muzzle loaders and arrows.

The Winchester spoke and a horse screamed, going end over end, smashing its rider.

Arrows swished, pinpricking the ground around them. One tucked at Sudan's sleeve. He was satisfied that it had only pierced his coat. He fired again and again, at times hitting a rider or a horse. With wonder, he noticed that Gunsmoke was shooting a bow and arrow.

She struck a Kiowa horse in the neck. His rider fled afoot unscathed, despite two .44/.40 rounds sent in his direction. The buck was rescued by another who swept in. Her final arrow sent a pinto—struck in the hind quarter—into a bucking fit.

The rifle barrel was hot, the heated oil smelled burnt. He reloaded as she quickly gathered more arrows.

“We're going to hold them,” he said.

“Yes, we will,” she said so perfectly and so confidently he had to smile.

Sweet Jesus, she could talk English if she wanted to. He wondered what else she would do to shock him? He admired her grit; she made a helluva ally.

The Kiowa were coming back, head on. Suicide! They began their charge. Spent powder burned his nose, his eyes smarted, tears streaked down his black face. His throat begged for a drink of anything wet.

Screaming like mad men, the Indians came at the wallow. Sudan fired, piling horses and Indians, still they continued to come. Gunsmoke's arrows took a toll, but three Kiowas were left when the Winchester fell on an empty chamber. He started to reload.

“Sudan!” she shouted, ready with a lance for him.

He dropped the rifle and caught the shaft. Driving it upward into the rider that leaped over him, he threw himself aside. Intended for him, a spear struck into the bank. He jerked it out of the ground and whirled.

A great scream escaped his mouth as he thrust the spear up with all his force into the belly of the horse above him. The rider fell into the pit and scrambled lithely to his feet in time for Sudan to implant the stone point of the spear into his breast work of quills.

A pistol shot caused him to whirl around as the last fighter fell beside him. The dead Indian's knife arm was outstretched ready to pounce on Sudan.

Gunsmoke gave him a quick glance then scrambled up the bank. He grabbed the Winchester and jammed shells into the receiver. Were there any Kiowas left?

Her pistol roared and another Kiowa was down. Out of breath, Sudan searched the field of dead men and horses. He frowned at Gunsmoke gathering up the remaining live horses. Proudly she delivered them to him.

“Well, gal, at least we ain't horse poor,” he said, taking the reins. She was gone again, her brown legs flashing below her calf length buckskin skirt.

He sat down and scratched the side of his curly head. Mr. Lincoln set me free, he mused. Maybe the Kiowas had done that for Gunsmoke. He wasn't certain about much, except that the battle was over and they'd won.

He had no desire to sit amongst a bunch of dead Indians. Sudan rose to his feet and led his string of war horses—which she had collected—south of the wallow. After he had picketed them, he took Gunsmoke's and his own horses to put with the others.

His thirst quenched with water from the canvas bag, Sudan gnawed on a piece of jerky and watched the woman. He blinked as he realized she was skinning one of the dead horses. He supposed she had a purpose behind her actions.

“Gunsmoke, ain't you in a hurry to get home?” He joined her and drew out his big knife to help.

She paused and shook her head. “My name is Yellow Deer. We go back to your smelly tepee. Yellow Deer will make a new tepee with these hides. When it smells bad, we move.”

“Gawdamighty! We could have done that before,” he said slicing the hide from the carcass. “Yellow Deer, huh?”

“Yellow Deer.”

“Well hell. Here I've killed fourteen Kiowas, four Wichitas and Lord knows how many ponies to find out that your name is Yellow Deer. How many hides do we need?” When she didn't answer, he put a hand on her arm to get her attention. “How many?”

She smiled slyly. “All of the dead ones.”

He shook his head and bent back to his chore. Her hand stopped him and he looked at her questioning.

“Yellow Deer will do this, Sudan.”

“No. We both will.”

“Good.” She smiled at him in approval.

Sudan shed his coat. The rising sun was growing hot. He sighed with resignation. Heaven only knew what else she would want to collect before they left. Sudan felt proud, working shoulder to shoulder with her as they finished skinning the first horse.

“You are a plenty good man.” She gave him a bump with her hip and rose up to stretch her back.

With a great effort, Sudan rolled the half-peeled horse over. “There must be five more horses. Are you sure we need all of them?”

She nodded and resumed her skinning. When Sudan glanced up at her, they exchanged a silent look of challenge. Wordlessly they raced to finish the skinning.

He intended to be miles away from this place by nightfall. Ghosts or no ghosts, he wanted no part of the Kiowa spirits.

“Five more?” he repeated, but she didn't answer.

By sundown, they were loaded with beadwork, Kiowa head-dresses, silver conchoes, and copper jewelry. A bundle of lances, bows and arrows, even buffalo-hide shields and a half dozen muzzle loaders were added to their bounty. Sudan was relieved she hadn't scalped or mutilated any of the corpses.

His arms aching, Sudan was glad to ride away from the fly-infested death scene at last. The smell of butchered horses was heavy in his nose as he turned his horse toward home. Yellow Deer whipped the laggards with a Kiowa quirt while he led them.

When daylight began to fade and the warmth of the sun followed Sudan and the woman stopped to camp at a small stream. After unpacking all their new wealth and hobbling the horses, they walked down to the stream.

He washed his hands and beard-stubbled face. Free of the remaining stiff blood, he dried his hands on a kerchief. Wearily, he raised up, still amazed that he and his woman had survived a battle with the suicidal Kiowas.

“Sudan!” she called, unfurling the bedroll.

He frowned, wondering what she was up to. Then a slow smile spread over his mouth. She wiggled out of her deerskin dress for him. He felt revitalized as he walked toward her. His eyes locked on her bronze body, bathed in the red sunset's last spears. Sudan started to undress, his eyes never leaving hers.

Out checking on his livestock, Noble had been studying the dust of a herd of horses on the move for over an hour. It might be Sudan returning. The direction was right, but why would the black man have so many horses? He waited patiently, his mind roaming at will. How long had the black man been gone? Two weeks.

Noble stood in the stirrups and squinted. The unmistakable rider in the lead was the giant black man. Who did he have with him? And where in hell did he get all those horses? When he dropped back in the saddle, Noble shook his head in wonder. It didn't matter; it was enough to know Sudan was returning unharmed.

Noble raced the stallion to meet him. A good feeling spread through Noble as he rode. Sudan was back. They greeted each other with wide smiles and handshakes.

Noble looked over the pack string behind Sudan. “You sure brought a lot of stuff. The Comanches give you all this?”

“Kiowas,” Sudan waved to the rider in the back of the pack. “Remember Gunsmoke?” he asked Noble. “Her real name is Yellow Deer.”

“Hello, Mr. Noble,” she said shyly, keeping her eyes averted from Noble's.

“Yes, hello,” Noble said in surprise. It was the same woman, all right, but the woman he knew as Gunsmoke would never have spoken to him. Why, she'd hardly even said a word to Fleta.

“She has enough horse hides to make a new tepee for us. We even cut poles along the way to use for our new home,” Sudan said with a proud smile at Yellow Deer.

Noble looked from the woman to the black man. “I wish you both much happiness.”

“Thank you, Mr. Noble.” Sudan winked. “Let's go, Yellow Deer. We need to get home.”