Noble's Way (22 page)

Noble agreed. Rumors were all he heard. All the Indians so far had been peaceful enough. but there was no assurance that they would remain so. A little whiskey had turned the placid Wichitas into crazy ones. Even the Army with its more frequent patrols now seemed convinced that spring would bring increased problems in the far western parts of Kansas.

“Noble, come quick!” Luke shouted from outside. He rushed to the open doorway. “That crazy man Lincoln-whatever is beating his wives with a whip.”

“Wives?” Noble stood up, his expression puzzled.

“Yeah.” Luke said, panting for breath. “I found out both of them girls are his wives.”

“What the hell kind of man is he?” Kitchen asked, frowning at Noble while they stood facing each other undecidedly.

“Damned if! know.” Noble shrugged, wondering what would happen next.

“Wait,” Fleta said as they moved toward the door. “I'm coming with you.” She grabbed her shawl from the hook by the door and wrapped it around her shoulders.

Kitchen, Noble, and Fleta confronted Fortney, with Luke a respectable distance behind. Smothered sounds of the girl's sobs came from within the wagon behind him.

“Just what is going on here?” Noble demanded, squinting at the man's silhouette outlined by the campfire.

“This is my business, Mr. McCurtain,” Fortney said flatly.

“Do you have two wives?” Noble asked.

“Are you the law?” The man challenged defensively.

“By God, we're asking the questions here,” Kitchen said. Fortney drew back his shoulders. “There's no law against it.”

“We want to speak to them.” Fleta spoke for the first time. The whimpering from the wagon pulled at her heartstrings. She glared at the man icily, hoping it would shrivel him despite the fire behind his back.

“It's none of your business, Madam. I have papers to show that I married both of them legally. When my wife died, I married them. They were her girls by her first marriage.”

Fleta blinked in shock, incapable of saying anything. She looked at Noble helplessly.

“Mr. Lincolnshire, I'm going to have your wagon wheel fixed in the morning. Until then, this is my land and I won't tolerate you beating up any women here. Do you understand?”

“You ain't—”

“On this land, I am the law, Mister,” Noble cut him off. “And I will personally horsewhip you if you lay another hand on those girls.” Noble towered over the smaller man, waiting for a reply. When Fortney did not speak, but sucked in his cheeks gustily, Noble added, “Mister, do you understand what I'm saying?”

“Yeah, yeah, I hear you,” Lincolnshire said sullenly.

“Then remember it well,” Noble warned. He put his arm around Fleta's shoulders and escorted her with the others back toward the store.

“Damned polygamist,” Kitchen muttered in disgust.

“Worse than that,” Fleta said. “A wife beater. How old is the youngest girl?”

“Fleta, there ain't one damn thing I can do except to keep him from beating them while they're here.”

“I know, I know.” She jerked away and wrapped the shawl tighter, a sick feeling settling inside at her helplessness to do anything for the girls.

“Noble, why was he beating those girls?” Luke asked timidly.

“He's just plain crazy,” Kitchen said flatly. “Excuse me, I'm going back to my wagon train. I sure appreciate the meal, ma'am. And it was nice to meet all of you.”

“Have a safe trip. Guess you'll be leaving in the morning?” Noble asked.

“Yep, first light.”

They walked in silence, Luke moving ahead.

“I just wish we could do something about him,” Fleta said sadly.

Noble reached out to hug her shoulder. “So do I, sweetheart, but there really isn't anything.”

Fleta nodded and leaned against him. Thank God, she had such a strong man. But even he could not resolve everything.

At daybreak, Noble sent Sudan to help Fortney get his wagon wheel. Two days passed before the wagon was repaired and Fortney was ready to move on.

Noble wanted to avoid the surly man, so he helped Rivers pack a horse with supplies.

“This pistol I traded for is as good as the ones I have, except the trigger's broken,” Noble explained. “When you cock it, be ready ‘cause it fires.”

Rivers nodded. His brown eyes studied the revolver. Noble handed him a wooden bullet box that had a sliding top. Rivers put the Spencer repeater in the scabbard and packed away the five tubes of ammunition inside his saddle bags.

“Now, Rivers,” Noble warned, “remember you just find Izer, then come back. Right?”

“Rivers send word or come quick.”

Noble clapped him on the shoulder. “You're a good man.”

“I will find him,” Rivers said in such a solemn voice that Noble was sure the Osage would find that rotten devil.

Rivers left, cheered on by his wives, the other Osage and the yap of a few pups.

Fleta put her hand on Noble's tense back. She moved silently toward him and spoke softly, “You're very worried, aren't you?”

He nodded, watching the rider and pack horse disappearing in the distance.

“What will happen when Rivers finds Goodman?” she asked.

“I'll go kill him,” Noble said flatly.

“Don't do it for me. I'm fine now,” she said truthfully. She was no longer haunted by nightmares. She had regained her strength and could go on with her life.

“I'll do it for all of us,” Noble vowed grimly. “For the Osages, you and ... myself. I have to.”

Spring of 1868 merged into summer. Fleta studied her husband's back as he stood in the doorway. His shoulders had broadened in the time since she had first met him. The slight gray streak over his right ear was a reminder of the wound the bushwhackers had inflicted on him a few years ago.

As she fixed his breakfast, she frowned worriedly. “Noble, how serious is this Indian matter?”

Noble drew a deep breath and sipped his coffee before answering. “Most of it's in far western Kansas. Cheyenne and Sioux mostly. That's why the army is making everyone turn north to get to the Sante Fe Trail. They claim they can protect them better on that route.”

“What about that Captain Rourke who was here early this morning? What did he tell you?”

Noble could not meet her probing gaze. “We just talked.” He didn't want to tell her what he had learned from his friend. Earlier that week, an army patrol found a burned wagon several days west of the fort. The corpses were horribly mutilated. The descriptions matched Fortney Lincolnshire and his family. If possible, he wanted to keep the information from Fleta.

“Well, Noble? What's wrong?” she asked impatiently.

“Nothing. He just wanted to warn us to keep a close watch for trouble. Spotted Horse is riding further out that way to keep an eye out.”

Fleta turned the bacon over, convinced that Noble was keeping something from her. She knew from past experience that it would do no good to try and pry it out of him. “It sounds serious. Noble, you'll have to speak to Luke. He rides that pony farther and farther every day.”

“I'll talk to him,” Noble promised. “By the way, Colonel Custer, the man who gave me the gray stallion, is coming here in a couple of weeks.”

“Oh?”

“Rourke says that the colonel wants me to accompany them for a ways.”

“A ways? Just how far is that?”

Noble picked up his coffee cup and started across the room with it. He stopped at the window and stared out across the compound. “I'm not sure. I didn't say I would go.”

“But,” Fleta inserted with a hint of irritation, “I expect you'll go all the same,”

Noble turned to look at her. “Do you mind?”

“No, not really,” she said, her voice filled with resignation. “Just don't expect me to be happy about you leaving.”

“I doubt you'll have any problems while I'm gone. Besides, we need to stay on the good side of the military. If settlers are turned back east of here, we could lose a lot of business.”

Fleta pierced the bacon angrily, causing a dot of hot grease to splash on her finger. She cursed under her breath. Although the burn was minor, she felt close to tears.

Noble watched her for a moment, torn with indecision. He wanted to pull her into his arms and tell her that he would not go, but he had a responsibility to the military and to the store's best interest. Scowling, he put his cup down on the table and spoke without looking at her. “I'll go speak to Luke now.”

“Fine. Breakfast is about ready. Bring him back with you so he can eat,” she said stiffly. When he left the room. Fleta's shoulders slumped. He intended to go with Custer and there wasn't a thing she could do to persuade him otherwise. Besides, it seemed that something else was bothering Noble. It couldn't be the store, she mused. The profits had been unbelievable for the past year. They had more money saved than she would have dreamed possible. Maybe Noble was worried about Rivers?

Two weeks later, Custer's Seventh Cavalry approached the fort. Noble watched the long line of cavalry from a small hill. Flags and guidons waved; the dust of the supply ambulances rose behind the double columns.

The Seventh was impressive from his vantage point. Certainly a much greater force than the small patrols that diverted the wagon trains north. Noble understood why the proclamation was so hated by the settlers, the detour meant a week or two longer journey.

When Noble rode down to join the cavalry, he immediately noticed the prominent figure in front, wearing buckskins. He checked the gray and stopped to watch the procession. Custer had a reputation for being eccentric. A pair of whippets, used to hunt coyotes and rabbits, padded alongside Custer's horse.

Noble wondered about the man. Custer had been a general once, although his peacetime rank was lower. Would the colonel ask about his own military service or non-service? Rumors had it the man planned to run for President. A small flutter of anxiety began in Noble's stomach. How would he measure up to such an impressive figure as Custer?

Captain Rourke rode out to greet him. “Good day, Noble. The colonel is honored that you're coming to meet him.”

Noble nodded. “Thanks. I was out checking my stock when I caught sight of you all coming.” He fell in beside Rourke and rode back to meet Custer.

The colonel was easily recognizable by his long golden hair and matching mustache. He removed a fringed buckskin gauntlet and extended a hand to Noble.

“McCurtain, at last we meet,” the man said with a very slight smile. “I see you've taken excellent care of Salizar,” he said.

“I'm grateful for the horse. Some day I'll have a colt good enough to repay you.”

“Fine idea. Ride along with us and we'll visit,” Custer invited. “We intend to camp outside your place tonight.”

“You're more than welcome,” Noble said, glad he had already warned Spotted Horse about the cavalry. He didn't anticipate any problems from the Indians.

Noble fell into line beside the colonel and watched the soldiers ahead. The scouts rode in a group apart from the troopers. Most of the scouts were dressed in soiled leather, almost tattered compared to Custer's immaculate outfit. The men reminded him of Izer Goodman in their style of dress. Although he scrutinized the scouts keenly, he did not recognize any of them. He wondered, for what seemed like the hundredth time, where Izer Goodman was. Why hadn't Rivers brought back word about the damned outlaw?

“I have some plans to discuss with you,” Custer said, breaking in on his thoughts. “I hope you'll consider joining me on this campaign,” Custer continued in an almost paternal tone.

Noble had been expecting the question. His hands tightened on the reins and he peered sideways at the man. “How long will it require? I hate to be gone a long time from my business and livestock.”

Custer's blue eyes seemed intent on something on the horizon. Apparently he was deep in thought. Eventually he spoke in a slow, measured tone. “My scouts tell me there is a large band of troublemakers camped a few hard days march west of your place at Cottonwood Forks. Perhaps, two hundred or more bucks. They're killing and drying buffalo for winter food. If we capture their food supply and defeat them, they'd quit this winter and come in or starve.”

“What tribes?” Noble asked warily.

“Sioux, Cheyenne, even some Pawnee.” Custer looked at Rourke for more information.

“Iron Kettle is one of the chiefs,” Rourke supplied.

“Yes,” Custer said with a frown. “I would like that old fox in irons.”

“Why do you need me?” Noble asked bluntly.

Custer's brows rose and he turned to look at Noble with an aloof expression. Then his face cleared and he spoke with what seemed like forced persuasion, “Congress has become penny tight toward our campaign to resettle these renegades. A successful foray against these hostiles and a favorable report from a prominent citizen might impress some of those lily-livered officials who think the whole Indian matter will simply go away if they ignore it.” The man's nostrils flared with contempt as he finished his speech.

Noble now understood his position. He was to be a verifier of the Seventh's action so the military could requisition more funds. The colonel was convinced the Indians were only going to stop attacking if they realized they faced a stronger opposing force. Noble dismissed his own doubts. Custer was a military leader; he was only a store keeper and stock raiser. Who was he to question such an expert?

“I understand from Captain Rourke that you have a lovely wife, Mr. McCurtain.” Custer said.

“Yes,” Noble said shortly, wondering why the man was interested in his marital status.

“Then you must bring her to my tent for supper. My own wife Libby is back east visiting relatives, so the company of an attractive lady at supper will be a welcome diversion from the world of men.”