Noble's Way (20 page)

Sudan's lips clamped tight to control his anger. “I don't give a damn about no hotel room,” he said coldly. “I want to know whether a certain man's been there or not.”

“Who?”

“Name's Izer Goodman. Wears buckskin, big bushy beard, long dirty hair.”

She was silent for a moment, then nodded her head. “He's gone on. An Injun what got put in jail was looking for him too.”

“What you saying, girl?” Sudan reached out a hand as if to grab her, then let it drop to his side. “What Indian?”

The woman sighed heavily then pulled at the bright kerchief around her head. “Some fool Injun went into the saloon with a rifle. Well, he sure be a crazy one. He asked for this Izer man and someone hit him over the head. He whipped four or five big white men after he was hit. A real crazy Injun.”

“Damn Rivers,” Sudan muttered beneath his breath. He looked around. “Where's the jail?”

“Up the hill, see there.” The woman pointed toward a log shed at the top of the steep street. “They sent word for the Injun police to come and get him.”

“Why?”

She clucked her teeth and twitched her shawl tighter, “Cause the man be crazy.”

“What kind of Indian police?”

“Lordy sake, man. You think I got nothing better to do than stand here and answer your fool questions all day? I's got work to do.”

“I'm sorry, ma'am, but I need to know what kind of police,” Sudan growled.

“Cherokee.”

“Who's got the key to the jail?”

Her brown eyes rounded and she took a step backward, “Why, the constable, but—”

“When this Izer Goodman leave town?” Sudan cut in abruptly.

“Days ago.”

“Where'd he go?”

“Fort Smith, I guess. That road goes there. But don't you be thinking about getting that Injun out of jail. They'll just lock you up beside him.”

“What's your name?” Sudan asked with a grin.

She sniffed and turned her shoulder. “Opie. But I's already got me a man.”

Sudan shook his head. “Well, Opie, I've got myself a woman too. You go out there and see that if that constable be watching.”

“He ain't watching. He's playing cards in the hotel. What you gonna do, Sudan Wilson?” She asked with a frown of disapproval.

“Don't worry your pretty head, girl. You just get on about your business.”

“Black man, if you do what I think you're planning, you'd best get done and ride west fast.”

“Why?”

“That's just a litle way to Injun land. Constable can't go there.”

When Sudan digested this piece of information, he smiled in gratitude. “Well, Miss Opie, you are one fine lady.”

“You're a man of class yourself, Sudan Wilson. That constable won't miss that crazy Injun, but he'll sure be mad as hell if you bust the lock on his jail.”

Sudan watched her swaying hips as she sauntered away, whistling to herself. He admired her for a moment. There sure weren't any Indian women looked like that walking away from you.

He rode his horse up the rutted road, guiding the gelding to the log shed under some giant oaks. With a sense of relief, he noticed the town seemed practically deserted at this hour of the day. From the protection of the trees, he moved the horse toward the iron grated doors.

“Rivers,” he hissed through the opening. “You in there?”

“Huh? Sudan, is that you?” a haggard sounding Rivers whispered back.

“Get back, I'm going to shoot that lock.”

“Good,” the Osage grunted.

The black man took aim. The rifle boomed; his horse shied and the powder smoke boiled. “Come on, crazy Osage!” Sudan wheeled his mount. Five or six men had run out of the saloons down the hill.

Rivers ran outside, waving aside the gunsmoke. He stepped into the stirrup and swung up behind Sudan. Sensing the tension, the horse responded and took off in a gallop. Below the hill, the men began shouting for the constable.

Since the horse was headed west, Sudan let him run.

“Izer got my rifle,” Rivers grumbled behind him. “Now I kill the son-of-a-bitch with a knife.”

“Hell, he's gone to Fort Smith,” Sudan said, holding him aside so he could see if they were being pursued. “We better get back to Noble. We'll get Izer later.”

“No! I go to Fort Smith. Kill him there.”

“Damnit, you crazy Injun. We're wanted men in Arkansas now for jail breaking.” Sudan shook his head in exasperation as the Osage grumbled in his ear. The wild goose chase was over for now. Izer Goodman was gone again. Noble would not be pleased to hear the news. They had lost a good repeater too. And the law would probably never know how the Osage got busted out of jail. Hell, they were just lucky to be on their way back home.

In Kansas, Fleta continued to experience shaky spells from her ordeal at the hands of Izer's thugs. She assured Noble she was getting better, but still he worried.

“Noble,” she told him one evening after he had again expressed his concern, “I only have these spells when I'm tired. They're less frequent now.”

“We have too much business,” he said with a shake of his head. “We're busier this year than we were last year. I'll hire you some help.”

“Oh, I'll be fine.” She smiled weakly and squeezed his hand, wanting to erase the lines of worry etched on his forehead. Why was she so weak? The memory of Yank and the Boy's hands on her skin and of their subsequent deaths lingered in her mind and caused her to tremble. She simply couldn't forget.

“Someone's in the store,” he said, upon hearing the jingle of the bell affixed to the door. “I'll go wait on them.”

“I was just fixing to put dinner on the table. Hurry back.”

“Don't worry about my supper. You just sit by the fire and rest.” He walked toward the store area and smiled at the broad man standing at the counter. “Could I help you?”

“Are you Noble McCurtain?”

“Yes.”

“My name's Fortney Lincolnshire. My wife and children are back a ways. Our wagon broke down and I came to see if you could help.”

“Certainly. My blacksmith's gone, but I'll send Spotted Horse back with you and you can come up here for the night. Tomorrow, I'll go help you get your wagon here.”

The man frowned and paused uncertainly. “Who's this Spotted Horse?”

“A man who works for me,” Noble said with a raised brow, wondering at the man's unfriendly attitude.

“He an Injun?”

“Osage. But I guarantee he won't scalp you.” Noble's attempt at humor was met with a scowl of distaste.

“Nope. I'll have no diseased buck around my wife or family.”

“Diseased?” Noble frowned at the man.

“They all got diseases. I know all about it. No thanks, McCurtain!” The man turned toward the door.

“Mr. Lincolnshire? My misses is not well or I'd go with you. But you may hitch up my team of Belgians and take the wagon out there. Spotted Horse would sure help you, but I'd say if you're dead set against it, you can go hitch it up yourself.”

“I'm obliged to you.” The man touched the brim of his floppy hat.

Noble shook his head in wonder at the man's retreating back. He walked back in the living area, a puzzled look on his face.

“Who was it?” Fleta asked from her position in the rocker.

“A man with a broken down wagon, who seems to think that Indians are diseased. I loaned him our team and wagon.”

“Diseased?”

Noble moved toward the stove where his supper was kept wanning. “He had some crazy notion about Indians. I offered to send Spotted Horse to help him bring his family in here, but he refused my offer.”

Fleta set the rocker in gentle motion. “He may steal Sudan's mares.”

“No, I don't think the man is a thief,” Noble said, taking down his plate of food. “He's a broken down settler.”

Fleta sighed softly. “Eat your supper. I swear, Noble, I believe that you'd help the devil himself if he asked you to.”

“Aw, Fleta, you remember how hard things were for you. Well, I was so hungry when I first left home that if farmers hadn't fed me, I would have starved to death. It was tough when I left my uncle's place and struck out on my own.

“One night near St. Louis, a black man shared his soup with me. Had boiled turnip greens and some stuff I didn't recognize. I think it might have been possum. I hadn't eaten in two days. The man never said, ‘You're white, go on and get out of here.' He said, ‘Sit down and eat.' ”

Fleta smiled. There was so much she did not know about her man. To pry was not her way, although she was curious. She savored Noble's reflections when he shared them with her.

“You better get some rest. I'll wait up to see if this settler gets back.”

“Noble, I'll be all right. You can stop worrying about me.”

Fleta did not go directly to bed. She stayed up, afraid to sleep lest she have dreams about Izer and his two massacred companions.

Noble felt restless as well. He took a walk around the settlement, noting the compound was becoming crowded with tepees. Soon, he would have to ask the Osage to move outside the fort so there'd be enough room. He knew they felt welcome and secure, surely they wouldn't mind moving a few yards away.

“Noble!” Spotted Horse called out to him.

When Noble reached the chief standing near the gates, he saw the Osage shaking his head. “Strange man who took the wagon.”

“He fears Indians,” Noble explained. “He should have stayed back east.”

“Strange man.” The Osage nodded that he understood Noble. “The wind will blow up rain.”

“Good.” Noble never doubted his forecasts. “That will keep down the danger of a fire before the prairie is green.”

Noble watched the Osage's silent retreat. He had grown accustomed to the Indian's abrupt manner. But he never doubted the vigil the Osage kept on the fort, or their loyalty.

He walked out to study the star-studded sky. Soon spring would begin to make itself known. The buffalo would come back. The v's of geese were already heading north.

Where were Sudan and Rivers? They were long overdue. Had they caught up with Izer? Pernaps they'd killed the black hearted outlaw. God, he wished they'd show up soon! Oh well, might as well go back and try to get some sleep.

Sudan and Rivers were in the Indian Territory at a place called Seegar's Store. Seegar was a white man who sold store goods out of a log cabin. A short, wide man waddled out to the corral to meet Sudan and Rivers.

“I got some good horses to sell.” Seegar rocked on his heels and looked from one man to the other.

Sudan eyed the winter-thin, mud-caked ponies in the pen. “I'll give you ten dollars for two of them,” he said flatly.

“And leave me that cripple you two rode in on? No, sir. Do you take me for a fool?” The man's face flushed almost purple with indignation.

Sudan did not answer. He stiffened warily when two strangers rode past them. He did not miss the hostile look they gave him and Rivers. One of the riders was tall, the other short. Sudan thought they might have been Indians, although they wore store-bought clothes.

“You look at them horses good,” Seegar said. “I'll see what those two want.” He waddled over to the other men who waited in front of the store.

Rivers looked at the horses again and shook his head in disapproval. “Not worth much.”

“Not unless you got money,” Sudan agreed.

“We can't afford Seegar's horses. Guess I'm a dang fool, I forget how much things cost.”

“No money,” Rivers said as if he completely understood their financial situation.

The strangers went into the store with the chubby storekeeper. Sudan listened as an argument erupted inside. Seegar's voice had a high-pitched whine.

The black man cautiously slid the Winchester out of the scabbard. Trouble was about to break loose in the cabin, he could tell by the tone of the loud voices.

The taller man rushed outside, looked around wildly then fired his pistol point blank at Sudan. The shot went wild. Without a second thought, Sudan raised the Winchester in one hand. His bullet sent the man staggering back against the side of the store. A roar of a shotgun blast sounded and the shorter man backed out clutching his stomach, gut shot. His weaving form stumbled then tumbled off the porch.

Nosing the double barrel ahead of him, Seegar came into view. He raised his gun and shot the short man again as he lay below the porch.

“Sons of bitches were going to rob me!” he shouted.

He looked at Sudan with a frown. “If you bury those two, I'll give you two horses.”

Sudan was afraid to ask if the man he had shot was dead. He just nodded.

“Well,” Seegar said impatiently. “Go get a shovel, they're around back.” He scowled down at the bloody corpses. “Sons of bitches should have known better.”

Sudan exchanged a look of disgust with Rivers. “Mr. Seegar, where do you want these two buried?”

“Out there,” he waved his hand and pointed toward some mounds beyond the corral, “with the rest of them. ”

Sudan raised a brow. “Where they robbers too, sir?”

“Hell, this is tough country, boy. Real tough.” His voice held a warning. “One hole's enough for both of them.”

Sudan dug most of the single grave. Seegar rolled the bigger man off the porch. Rivers used a pick to bust the rocks that delayed their digging. Neither he nor Sudan had much to say.

“That's some tough fat man,” Sudan grunted finally. “Wonder if Izer comes here? Maybe we could get Seegar to send word to us if Izer comes,” he said thoughtfully. He spaded the ground wondering if two sorry horses were worth all this bother.

Seegar brought them some crackers and a jug of liquor.

“You hungry?”

“We sure are,” Sudan said, “but me and the Osage don't drink.”