Noble's Way (19 page)

“Grab her!” Yank shouted. “Get the bitch!”

She nearly made it to the door, but Brown Boy's thick red arms halted her. He held her hands behind her back and marched her toward Yank. She tried to duck the stinging blow that Yank aimed at her, but his hand connected with the side of her head.

Yank tore at her clothes. The material ripped and separated as she struggled in Boy's grasp. His hands fondled her exposed breasts. She groaned and writhed, trying to avoid his filthy touch.

Yank began unfastening his britches. Boy dragged her back toward the bed. Her screaming fell empty on the dank air as she was pinned to the rough blankets. Fleta tried to bite at the men as the last ribbons of her undergarments were tom from her body. With her legs flailing the air and her long auburn hair flying about her face, she shouted obscenities at her molesters. Her words and actions had no effect on the two panting men.

Yank maneuvered himself between her legs. Fleta screamed and braced herself for the inevitable. She squeezed her eyes tightly and tried to bring her knees together, but Boy held them apart.

A wild scream of rage erupted in the room. Brown Boy released her and turned. Yank tried to pull up his britches. Fleta drew the blanket up to cover her nakedness. Her eyes were blinded with tears; she could not see who the newcomer was. Then the man screamed in outrage again and she recognized Rivers.

The Osage was on Brown Boy, slashing and stabbing him with a large knife. The Indian was completely out of control, his rage making him deaf to anyone's pleas.

Sudan was beating on the whining Yank with a large club. Blow after blow thudded on the outlaw, the thunking sound weighing heavily on the air.

A gurgling caused Fleta to glance at Rivers. Her eyes rounded with horror and nausea clawed at her insides. She jerked her head away. Rivers was decapitating Brown Boy. She wanted all this madness to stop but was unable to speak. Covering her head with the blanket, she put her hands over both ears to drown out the sounds of the two dying men. When her mind seemed ready to snap, Fleta fainted.

It seemed only moments later that she was wrapped in a blanket and being carried away by Sudan.

“We had to get out quick, Misses. The cabin's on fire. Me and Rivers, we ain't looking on you none, ma'am. We'll find you some clothes. But the damned fire's going to warn Izer and I sure wanted to get him.”

Fleta made an attempt to cover more of herself with the blanket. When she looked up at Sudan, tears were streaming down his purplish-black cheeks.

“You did fine, Sudan,” she whispered. “Thank you.”

Sudan could not control his tears. The weight of the Misses seemed like nothing. The cabin crackled behind them. He thought that death was not enough punishment for the two men who had harmed Noble's wife. Even now, he wanted his hands back on them, punishing them.

“Sudan,” Fleta said softly, “I can walk.”

Gently he placed her on the ground, steadying her with his big hands. Then he went to his saddle and removed the canvas coat lashed behind it. He shook it and held it out to Fleta, his eyes downcast.

Gratefully Fleta shrugged off the odious blanket and slipped into Sudan's roomy canvas coat. Her fingers fumbled with the buttons and she noted that Sudan tactfully looked away until she was decently clothed. She rolled up the overly long sleeves and pushed them up to her elbows.

“Where did Rivers go?” she asked.

“He's looking for Izer. We couldn't find him.”

“He went after some whiskey when we got here.”

“Rivers sure wants him bad. I figure he'll stay on his trail ‘til he finds him.”

“Where's Noble?” she asked, peering anxiously up into his face.

Sudan shook his head. “He wasn't back yet when we left.”

“Oh no!” Fleta wailed, wringing her hands with worry. What if something bad had happened to him? What if he had really been injured?

“Now, Misses,” Sudan patted her shoulder awkwardly. “Don't worry about Noble McCurtain. He's just fine. I know he is.”

“Sudan,” she said, pausing for a deep breath. “I never even thanked you and Rivers properly.”

“Ain't no need to, ma'am. I have some food for you,” he said hurriedly to cover up his embarrassment at her words.

“I—I'm not hungry.” Totally exhausted, Fleta eased herself down on the ground. The cabin was now a crackling inferno in the night. Yank and Brown Boy's bodies were being cremated. She turned away from the sight.

“Is Rivers coming back?” she asked.

“No, Misses,” Sudan said quietly. He looked at her sharply, wondering if she was all right. Although he already told her where the Indian was, he repeated it again, “He's gone to find Izer Goodman.”

“Doesn't Rivers need your help?”

“No, ma'am. I'm going to round up a horse and get you home to Noble quick as I can.”

“But—”

Sudan shook his head and held up a hand. “Don't you worry none about Rivers. He be all right.” Although Sudan wanted to follow Rivers and catch up with Izer, he knew he had to get the Misses horne quickly. Besides, he thought, Rivers was a good man; he could take care of himself. The Osage would handle that damned Izer snake.

Fleta felt very uncomfortable in the stiff voluminous coat, also very conscious of being naked beneath it as she rode behind Sudan on one of the extra horses. Her head pounded and felt sore where Yank had slapped her. Bruises covered her arms and legs and she dreaded to think what Noble would do when he saw them. If he saw them. Oh where could he be? she fretted. She clutched at the saddle horn to keep from falling. Her head swam and she had to make a determined effort not to faint again.

“Are you all right, Misses?” Sudan asked over his shoulder. The trail through the post oaks meandered uphill and was not an easy route. He wondered if he were going too fast for the Misses.

“I'm fine,” she lied to no avail. Darkness engulfed her and she felt herself falling sideways, but she did not have the strength to save herself.

When she opened her eyes, it took her a moment to sort out what had happened. Apparently Sudan had laid her on a bedroll and covered her up with his blanket. He sat across from her, his knees drawn up, the Winchester across his lap. His brown eyes studied the hills in the distance. Sun bathed the brown world about to sprout green. A hint of elm leaves, like a promise of things to come, was present.

Fleta lay immobile, looking at the scenery. The land was like Arkansas. The hills were shorter. Wilbourne would be plowing now. Why was she thinking of him? she wondered. She was on her way horne to Noble McCurtain.

“Morning, Misses,” Sudan said quietly. “Are you feeling better?”

She struggled to rise to a sitting position. “Yes, I think so. I guess I was tired.”

“Yes, ma'am. I should have waited, but I knowed you was anxious to get away from that place.”

“Yes, I was. Thanks.”

“I got some water from a clear little spring that's pure as honey,” he offered persuasively.

“Good. I'm very thirsty.” It took a great deal of effort for her to remain sitting up, but she managed.

“Ain't nothing hurting you, is there?”

“No, just my pride,” she said with a strained smile.

“Mercy sakes, you did take a nasty spill off that horse when you fainted.”

“Well, I'm just fine.”

“Eat some crackers.” He held out some soda crackers on his palm. “It's all I got,” he said apologized.

“I think I could manage one or two of those,” she said.

By mid-day they were on the move again. Fleta realized the trail they were traveling led to the top of a mountain. She'd been so wrought up on the way to Goodman's place, that she knew she'd never have managed to find the way back alone. Marveling at the beautiful panorama in all directions, her spirits lifted a little. Sudan's hand on her arm broke the spell.

“Ain't that Mr. Noble's hat?” he asked, pointing at a distant rider.

She squinted. Yes, it looked like his gray Stetson. The rider
was
Noble. Her heart pounded with anticipation. Without a thought, she gave her horse its head and raced westward on the trail through the gray broom sedge. It was Noble and, thank God, he was alive!

Moments later they were both off their horses and racing toward each other with arms outstretched. Noble lifted her high in the air and swung her around. He buried his face in her hair, holding her so tightly her sore ribs ached in protest. But she said nothing of her pain; it was an exquisite pain.

“My God, Fleta, are you all right?”

“I—I'm fine, Noble,” she said breathlessly. “I was so worried about you.” She leaned back in his arms to get a good look at his dear face.

“I'm all right now.” He squeezed her again.

Noble saw the horses and looked up into the serious brown eyes above him. Sudan was holding the horses and obviously he had something on his mind.

“What is it, Sudan?”

“Now that the Misses is safely with you, I want your permission to go find Rivers. Me and him got a bone to pick with Izer Goodman.”

Noble considered the request. He wanted Izer for himself, to blow his grizzly face off this earth. “Sudan, you're a free man. You don't need my permission. No one can tell you what to do. Go with by blessings.”

“Mister Noble?”

“Just Noble,” he corrected the black man.

“Noble, you look after Yellow Deer for me. Ain't no telling where Rivers has gone to find Goodman.”

“Wait, you'll need some money.” Noble released Fleta and shoved his hands down in his pockets. “All I have is a few dollars.” He handed the money over to Sudan.

“Thank you.” Sudan nodded to both of them.

“No, I'm grateful to you,” Noble said, his arm over Fleta's shoulders protectively. “Be careful, my friend.”

“Winchester and me. We will.” Then he swung his horse around and rode back in the direction of Izer's cabin.

“Will he be all right?” Fleta asked worriedly.

“Yes.” Noble watched the man ride away. “Yes, he can take care of himself.”

They stood in silence, worn by relief. Noble swept Fleta into his arms. “We need to get home. We've got two days ride ahead of us.”

“Can we hurry?”

“Yes.” He set her on her horse, surprised at his own strength. He cast a last glance toward the trail that Sudan had taken, but the black man was gone. “Let's go home, Fleta.”

Sudan was in a strange land—Arkansas. Not since he had been a free man in Alabama had he been among so many settlers. He felt conspicuous in his buckskins. The people eyed him suspiciously.

The trail that Rivers left was so dim he couldn't possibly follow it. Instead, he simply asked people if someone fitting Izer's description had passed by.

“He's a frontier man,” Sudan described Izer to one settler, “wears buckskin, has a beard and a wide brim, flat crowned hat made of rawhide.” He had learned that much about Goodman from Rivers.

The farmer spat a brown stream of tobacco on the ground between his shoes. “May have passed here. What you need with him?”

“He kidnapped a white lady. My boss' wife, sir.” Sudan knew white folks liked polite blacks.

“White woman, huh?”

“This Izer Goodman is a bad man,” Sudan said.

“That new rifle belong to you, boy?” The fanner jetted a thumb toward the gun.

“Yes sir. My boss, Noble McCurtain, give me this here rifle.”

“Noble McCurtain? Never heard of him.”

“He lives in Kansas.”

The man spat again and shook his grizzly head. “Never been there. This man you described rode by here—ah—about two days ago. Course, it could have been ...” He paused and rubbed his bristly jaw. “When did it last rain? I figured he was going to Cincinnati, Arkansas. There'a lots of his kind that go there.”

“How far is that, sir?” Sudan asked, trying to stem his impatience at the man's slow speech.

“Down the road a piece. You can't miss it. Sodom and Gomorrah. Full of saloons. No place for God-fearing people.”

“Yes, sir. I appreciate the information.”

“You a free slave?” The man peered up at Sudan with curiosity.

“Yes sir. Mr. Lincoln set us all free.”

“Guess he did at that.” The farmer scratched a thatch of hair over his right ear. “I could use a strong man like you around here.”

Sudan looked down at his dusty boot toes. “Thank you, but when I finish my business with this Izer Goodman, I have me a job already. Up in Kansas with Mr. McCurtain.”

“Probably ought to go back there then. They won't treat you too good in Cincinnati. Not with you being a nigger and all.”

“I'll remember that,” Sudan said, leaping back on his horse.

Cincinnati, Arkansas was a series of buildings astraddle the main road. A mill was situated on the creek; four saloons, two hotels, a post office, and a school house completed the town. Sudan circled around carefully. That farmer's parting words had been meant as a warning, and he intended to be ready for the people of Cincinnati. He had now crossed into the south—the land of slave owners. And Mr. Lincoln was dead. There was no telling how these southerners would treat a wandering black man.

A young black woman emerged from the rear of one of the hotels. He rode up beside her.

“Ma'am,” he said quietly, “I'm a stranger here. I need some information.”

She stared up in disbelief when Sudan stepped down off his horse and nodded politely. “Why'd you go scaring me like that?” She wrapped her shawl around her shoulders and flung her head back angrily.

“You work in that hotel?”

“Well, you sure can't get a room there,” she said, her eyes mocking. “They don't allow no niggers in there.”

“My name's Sudan Wilson.”

Her wide nostrils flares and she appraised him with a look of contempt. “Well, Mr. Sudan Wilson, just because you's dressed up like some Injun, don't make you white.”