Noble's Way (18 page)

In the gray flannel dawn, Sudan spotted the wagon. When they rode up on it, they discovered someone sleeping in the back. The jaded horses in front appeared run near to death. Rivers moved his horse around, studying the ground for tracks.

Sudan poked the sleeper with his carbine barrel. “Wake up, boy!”

“Huh?” The youth's eyes opened and widened with shock at the sight of the huge black man.

“Where is she?” Sudan demanded as he drew his horse nearer the boy.

“Who?”

“Mrs. McCurtain.”

“I don't know what you want, nigger.”

Sudan cocked the hammer back. “Well you just better get to remembering ‘cause I'm having a quake in my trigger finger. Where is she?”

The boy mumbled a name. Sudan couldn't quite make it out, but the boy continued before he could say anything. “There's nothing your black ass can do about it. He'll kill you before you get within ten steps of him.”

“Just the same. Where's this Lizard Goldman at?”

“On the Verdigris. You go there and he'll sure kill you.” “How old are you, boy?” Sudan asked.

“Nineteen.”

Sudan turned, raised the carbine, and uncocked it. He glanced at Rivers, who was stripping the Kiowa lance off his saddle horn.

Before Sudan could find words to stop him, Rivers drove the Kiowa's spear deep into the wide-eyed boy's chest.

Sudan looked at the youth who was grabbing at the thick shaft, a gurgling sound coming from his mouth. He fell back in the buggy. Feathers fluttered on the shaft as the boy's dying reflexes caused the spear to quiver.

Rivers spat at him. “Son of bitch, good for you to die. Take a good woman away.” The Osage said more, but Sudan didn't understand the words. He surmised they had something to do with the boy's life in the hereafter. Perhaps God would forgive the heathen for his actions.

Rivers swung on his horse and left quickly, retracing their back trail.

Sudan spurred his horse after Rivers. Perhaps the Osage knew where the Verde trees were? He might even know this Lizard Goodman.

Slowly the name became familiar. Yes, Sudan recalled, he was the one who had shot Noble's gray horse in Independence. He recalled the stories the Osage told of this Izer Goodman and how he bullied them before Noble came. Whatever that trash had in mind for the Misses was not going to be pleasant. Sudan regretted not retrieving the lance, so he could use it on this Goodman.

Rivers was as glum as Sudan could ever recall him being. His eyes hardly more than slits, his anger seemed to be on the rise.

“You hate that Goodman?”

“Plenty bad. He rob Indians, hurt women.”

Sudan decided the Osage was angry enough for the both of them. He looked around, wondering where Noble was.

“How much further, Rivers?”

“Two days ride.”

“Hold up,” Sudan said. “We'll kill these horses at this rate.” But his words fell on deaf ears; Rivers was pushing onward. Sudan drew a resigned breath and booted his horse into a trot. Noble, he said silently, we'll get her back for you. I hope God's riding with you.

Noble, meanwhile, was pushing his stallion northward. He had slept only an hour to rest the gray. His mind was wrought with concern. Had outlaws devastated the fort? A growing dread filled his chest with an emptiness that drained him of strength. His ankle throbbed, swollen tightly inside his leather boot.

Late in the afternoon, he discovered a driverless wagon, the horses grazing in harness. A pole stuck up in the rear box behind the spring seat. Pistol in his hand, he rode closer.

“Damn,” Noble swore aloud. “They killed him with a spear.” The bloated dead man was a stranger. What tribe had done this to him?

He dismounted heavily and, with wooden movements, unhitched the team, turning them loose. He had had no sleep in forty-eight hours and knew his lack of rest was catching up with him. Wearily, he crawled up in the saddle again with only a passing regret for the dead man. No time to bury the stranger; he had to push on.

His mind was numb and even the sight of the fort still intact did not generate any great emotion within him. The tired gray stallion grunted with tiredness to match his own exhaustion.

“Noble!” Luke shouted, bursting through the store door. “They took mama away to find you.”

“What? Who did?” he asked, unable to comprehend what the boy was telling him. Total exhaustion blanketed his brain with cotton wool. Thinking was too much of an effort. He dismounted, dragged his aching leg toward the porch and his eyes narrowed with puzzlement as he stared down at Luke.

“Sudan and Rivers went to find Mama. Some man in a buckboard came here and told her you were hurt.”

“How long ago?” Noble asked.

“Two days.”

For a long moment, Noble tried to sort out the situation. It was no use; he had to get some sleep. His eyes burned like fire and his eyelids were lead-weighted. His actions were those of a drunk man as he pulled himself up the steps of the store. Too tired to fully comprehend his loss, he fought to stay awake.

“Wake me up in four hours,” he mumbled.

He shook his head at Mannah's offer of food. Staggering back to the bedroom, he tried to block out all his fears for Fleta. Filled with guilt at his own inability to go further, he sprawled face down on the quilt cover and was asleep within minutes.

Izer appeared to be in a big hurry to reach his place—wherever that might be. Fleta's entire body was sore. Her ribs ached from being in a belly-down position on Izer's saddle. She was grateful for the horse the outlaws had finally procured for her.

She was still aghast by the earlier actions of the scar-faced boy called Yank. When they had stopped a few hours earlier, Izer had rode off to check their back trail.

Yank grabbed her without warning. His rotten breath nearly gagged her and his stubbled beard scraped her face raw when he tried to kiss her. Then Izer rode up and savagely slashed Yank on the side of the head with his pistol barrel. Yank released her at once and slumped to his knees, holding his head.

Fleta was stunned at the senseless brutality. Yank, with blood running over his ear, cursed Izer loudly.

“She's mine!” Izer growled. “I told you twice. Next time, I'll blow your guts out.”

Izer walked over to her, holstering his gun. He grabbed her by the arm and jerked her roughly up against his chest. “You're mine, woman. Just so you know, I'm going to blow that damned Noble's head off when he rides in after you.”

His sour body odor burned her nose. Fleta forced down a wave of revulsion that rose in her throat. His rough hands pawed at her breasts, knifing her with pain, but she tightened her jaw muscles in defiance, determined not to show any fear.

He laughed and pulled her closer. “Keep thinking, gal. I know you are, but he ain't going to save you. ‘Cause I'm gonna kill him!”

His fingers gouged her upper arm, creating deep purple bruises on her skin. Izer shoved her away, causing her to stumble a few steps. One thought dominated her mind and kept her from giving up: Noble would kill this filthy Izer Goodman.

After two days with the outlaws, she began to notice small things, like how Izer kept looking nervously at their back trail. She'd seen him flinch at the least sound. Once a fox squirrel on a post oak limb startled him so much he nearly fell off his horse. Izer didn't fool her; he
was
worried about Noble finding them.

She detected a slight change in the men in the afternoon. They seemed more familiar with the country they crossed. Struck with the notion they must be near Izer's cabin, her heart beat faster. She needed to form a plan and time was running out.

Sudan knew, without dismounting to check, the horse droppings were fresh. He saw the excitement on River's face. He also knew the Osage wanted revenge like nothing else ever before.

“They were here,” the Osage said. “Not long ago.” He squatted and seemed to study something, then he waved Sudan over.

“What is it?” Sudan asked slipping off his horse.

“Blood.”

“I'll be damned. I sure hope it ain't the Misses.” As much as he wanted to hurry, he decided their weary horses needed a respite. If them scruffy bastards hurt her, they would sure pay. His travel-muddled mind could not conceive a punishment severe enough to inflict on the kidnappers.

“They go to Izer's cabin,” Rivers said.

“Yeah, guess these poor horses can rest when we find her,” Sudan shook his head as he remounted.

Fleta trembled inside. Her eyes searched the brown leafed pot oaks that surrounded the hideout. Where was Noble? Why hadn't he come?

“Get down,” Izer ordered her. “Brown Boy. Put these horses in the pen. What's the matter with you?” he asked Yank.

“Gawd damn you, Izer, you broke my damn skull. I got a headache that—”

“Shut up, or I'll make it worse,” Izer said, as he shoved Fleta ahead of him toward the front door of the shack.

Inside, the dank interior struck her forcibly in the face. It stunk of old hides and the rank odor of urine. Her optimism began to sink. The cabin's tomb-like atmosphere cut off her hopes. The outline of Yank in the doorway against the low cast sun was like a nail sealing her doom.

“Yank,” Izer said. “You touch her before I get back, I'll blow your stupid head off.”

Fleta noticed Izer seemed to be checking crock jugs for something to drink. His search apparently was futile. He whirled around to scowl at Yank again.

“Did you hear me?”

“Yeah! She'll be here.”

“Listen to me! That headache will be the least of your troubles if you mess with her.”

“All right!” Yank gingerly held his hand to the side of his head.

“I'm going after some whiskey,” Izer said. “Make sure she stays here. If Dawson ain't killed her husband, I figure a bunch of them blanket-ass Osage will be coming around. Just shoot them. You listening to me?”

“My damned head hurts,” Yank whined, but made sure Izer was not close enough to hit him again.

Izer's face blackened with rage. The lines along his cheeks were deep; his beaky nose quivered with rage. “You better do what I've told you!”

“Okay, okay. We'll watch for them.”

The Indian walked inside looking mildly from Izer to Yank.

“You better listen! I want this place guarded while I'm gone,” Izer directed his words to Brown Boy. “Don't mess with her either!”

Fleta saw the Indian nod. How much time would she have with the boys before Izer came back? She needed to outsmart them. The drumming hooves of Goodman's horse faded.

She was in such deep thought that Yank's first words startled her.

“Light a lamp,” he ordered her sharply.

“No matches,” she said through tight lips.

Yank grumbled and drew back his hand as if to slap her. Then he moved off to pilfer in a trunk. Returning, he snapped a sulfurous match and laughed as she flinched.

Fleta drew a deep breath. The stupid outlaw with dried blood on his greasy straight hair would be no threat to a man. She watched him light a candle stub and spit on the waning match.

“Now fix us some food.”

“What is there to fix?” she asked with a shrug.

“Hell, I don't know. But get busy looking for something,” Yank snarled as if he wanted to vent some of his pent up anger against her.

Fleta found some unwashed kettles. She wrinkled her nose in disgust at the dried food crusted inside them. “I'll need some water to wash these.”

“Scrape them. Brown Boy will be back in a minute; he can go get some water.”

With a wooden spoon, she began cleaning the kettles. She looked around for a knife or something sharp to pry away the stale food.

“Boy!” Yank shouted. “Bring some water in here.” Out of breath, Yank coughed so deeply that he bent over double. “Son of a bitch.” Gasping for breath, he spread his hands on the table to support himself.

Fleta considered rushing out the door but she would probably only run into the silent Boy. Besides, she had no weapon, no way to disable a man. The thought caused her to renew her search for something sharp. She found nothing but cornmeal crawling with worms. She closed the sack quickly and stifled a gagging cough of her own.

“You find anything to eat?” Yank wheezed at her.

“There's nothing here,” she retorted, kicking a broken crate out of her path. She scowled in disgust at the filthy cabin, then placed her hands on her hips and glared at Yank.

Brown Boy came inside with a bucket of water. He set it on the crooked table and looked at Yank, whose face was still red from his coughing spell. “What's wrong?”

“She can't find a gawdamned thing to cook.” He pointed at her accusingly. “Damnit, I say Izer left us to starve with her. You hear me, Brown Boy?”

Fleta felt the Indian's eyes on her but she did not look at him.

“Now, Izer ain't paid us. All he's fed us so far is some stale crackers and jerky. Hell, it's been a damned week now since we had a decent meal. I say we use her, take his horses, and get the hell out of here.”

Yank's suggestion sounded crazy, but Boy's dark eyes had an equally unsettling effect on Fleta. Who else but madmen would work for Izer Goodman?

“He won't be back for hours,” Yank coaxed Boy. “Might be gone a day if his whiskey man's gone or out of whiskey.”

“He'll be mad,” Boy said uncertainly.

“Who cares?”

Boy laughed. “Izer will be damned mad.” A new sound, like a clucking in Boy's throat, filled Fleta with apprehension. It was not the laugh of a normal sane person. The sands in her hourglass were running out quickly.

Yank started around her one way, Brown Boy advanced on the other side. Stepping backward, Fleta nearly tumbled over the broken crate. A bed was behind her—something she wanted to be well away from. She looked from one man to the other, frantically trying to decide which one to go for. With a cry of desperation, Fleta charged, her elbows pointed outward in defense. Yank went down, but she almost fell on top of him.