Noble's Way (24 page)

Rourke explained the reason for the cold meals. “Fire smoke is a dead giveaway. Our dust is bad enough. We can only hope they think we're buffalo herds moving.”

Seasoned, tough veterans, who muttered only an occasional complaint, made up the Seventh. Hard voiced non-coms shouted commands. Noble decided he had missed little in not having military experience.

Noble watched a trooper carry his government saddle, bedroll, and gear toward an ambulance. Defeat etched the man's face, for he no longer could ride with his fellow troopers. He was doomed to ride a wagon. Horse care seemed the worry of every man. They lost several animals in the forced march.

Grateful for the powerful gray, Noble saw no signs of him tiring.

“Well?” Custer asked, riding up beside him, “What do you think of the Seventh now?”

“They are certainly well-trained veterans.”

“Yes, they are. With enough appropriations, we can end all hostilities from here to Canada in two years.”

“I imagine you could.”

“My scouts tell me if we continue to ride all night, by dawn we can be within striking distance of our enemies.”

Noble nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He knew what the colonel meant. If they rode a bunch more horses in the ground, they'd be there at sunrise. It was a damned shame to ride good horses to death, but he knew the colonel wouldn't appreciate him saying so.

“Do you approve?”

“I don't know anything about Indian warfare,” Noble said tactfully.

“You are quite honest, McCurtain, for a civilian.”

“Thanks,” Noble said dryly. “Don't worry about the gray and me. We'll make it there.”

The colonel turned to study the line of troops coming behind them. “Were you ever a soldier?”

Well, the question was out. Noble was tired of side stepping the issue. He looked at the man frankly. “No.”

Custer turned and gazed at him with an almost pitying smile. “Well, come dawn you'll see the Seventh in action.” He slapped his leg in anticipation. “By damn, I think you'll be impressed.”

“I'm sure I will, Colonel.” Noble was glad when the commander left. The man now knew that he had never fought in the war; he probably suspected it all along. But what difference did it make? All Custer needed, Noble reminded himself sourly, was a good report from a prominent citizen. He rubbed his stubbled jaw, wondering why Custer did not have a newsman along on the trip. A man like him should have as many as two or three reporters, taking notes of his heroic actions. Why, Rourke sometimes even brought reporters with him on a patrol. Custer was up to something, and somehow Noble felt that he was part of the plot.

The push through the night wearied Noble and the stallion. Short breaks and tepid chalky water did little to revive them. His eyes burned from lack of sleep. Even the stallion seemed listless as he plodded along.

A fresh night wind bathed Noble's face as Rourke drew to his side.

“You are to wait here,” Rourke said. “The colonel has given orders to hold our fire unless shot at. He is giving the enemy a chance to surrender.”

Noble nodded. He listened to muffled sounds of troopers, punctuated with an occasional horse snort. He didn't have the slightest doubt that a precision military lineup was taking place in the darkness.

Dawn was about to shatter the night. Rourke had ridden off to join his outfit. Noble could see the long double line of cavalry stretched out. Below them, he could see the forks of two streams and the outline of some spindly cottonwoods. The peaks of several tepees seemed far away, yet Noble knew they weren't more than one-third of a mile from the troopers.

He heard the distant yap of Indian dogs, shattered by the bugler's blast. In front, there was a sword-wielding officer, then the entire wave moved forward at a gallop. Considering their horses' tired condition, Noble was amazed. Custer's reserves stood still as the first troop swept down the slope. The bugle's ‘Charge' sounded across the land.

A thunder of hundreds of horses shook the earth as they bore down on the Indian camp. What was it Rourke said—that hostile Indians were to be given the chance to surrender—that must be Custer's little joke.

A round of scattered shots filled the morning air. They were answered by a volley of the trooper's fire. The Indians had chosen to fight.

Who wouldn't have fought? Noble wondered with cynicism. Hundreds of troopers with ear-shattering bugles bearing down on a sleeping village was enough to make anyone stand up and fight.

Screams, shouts, and gunshots carried across the land. Noble did not watch the battle. He led the gray toward the wagon with the water barrel. After getting a drink, he fed and watered his horse, then led him away from the soldiers and searched for a place to sleep. Somewhere away from all the death.

He jerked at the rolling voice commanding the reserves to join the battle. Custer's backup was going in to assist. Noble's teeth ground together as he heard the screams from below. He walked back over to the water wagon to get more of the taste out of his mouth.

“Hell,” he swore aloud.

“That's right, sir. To have to stay up here and miss a damned good fight is hell.”

Noble looked at the lean-jawed soldier who came up behind him. He surmised the young soldier had lost his horse on the way and that was why he was being left behind with the wagon.

“I guess it would be hell for a soldier,” Noble agreed, turning on a wooden spigot to fill a canvas bucket. The Seventh could use the Indians' blood to quench their thirst riding back. Enough was being spilled down there to water a desert.

“Custer is a tough man, but he's always damned sure where the action is,” the trooper said.

“What else do you do when you aren't fighting Injuns?”

“Stable duty. Train for battle. Hell, I hate missing one like this.”

Compared to the other two duties, Noble understood how Indian warfare might be a relief.

The shots and screams lessened. He was glad. He didn't want to think about the dead women and children. When a final count of the dead was made, the innocent bystanders would likely be lumped together with the others. Custer wouldn't care how many women and children were killed while the Seventh was dealing with the so-called hostile elements. Noble sighed tiredly. He would write the report that Custer wanted, but he would not add his own editorial comments to it. He had a sick feeling that it wouldn't make much difference even if he did.

“Well sounds like we did it.” The soldier beamed.

“Yeah, we did it, didn't we?” Noble said, his voice full of irony. “Tell Captain Rourke I'll be out there sleeping somewhere if he needs me.”

“Sure, but ain't you riding down and getting some Injun things? There'll be women,” the man added with a leering grin.

“No,” Noble said through clenched teeth. “I think I'll pass on that.”

Sudan stood beside Fleta, watching the Seventh Cavalry leave. “Misses, Noble will be back before you know it.”

“I hope so, Sudan,” Fleta said, turning away. Her legs were leaden as she walked back to the store.

Sudan went back to his blacksmithing, there was plenty of work to do. He had to make some hinges and repair a wagon brake rod. As he fired the forge, he wondered about Noble. How would Noble get along with that yellow-haired Colonel? There was a strained atmosphere between them, though Sudan did not know why.

Yellow Deer brought him a canvas pail of fresh water. He wiped his perspiring forehead with the back of his hand.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of an approaching rider. Moving out of the shed that housed his forge, he watched the man ride through the gate. The stranger was an Indian, dressed in white man's clothes.

“Who's that?” He asked Yellow Deer, making sure his rifle was nearby. The women shook her head. Sudan stripped off his leather apron, then walked toward the stranger.

“Are you Noble McCurtain?” The man asked Sudan as he dismounted.

“No.” Sudan was glad when Spotted Horse joined him. “I work for Mr. McCurtain.”

“Where is he?” The man looked around expectantly.

Fleta came out on the porch. “What's wrong?”

Sudan glanced at her as he answered. “This man wants Noble.” He turned back to the stranger. “He won't be back for a while. Can we help you?”

“An Osage by the name of Rivers send me here with a message for Noble McCurtain. He said McCurtain would pay me.”

Sudan frowned. “Is Rivers all right?” he demanded sharply.

The man shrugged. “He's fine. He said you would pay me forty dollars to ride here.”

“Sudan, what's he saying?” Fleta shouted.

Sudan turned to her. “He has a message from Rivers, but we need to pay him.”

Fleta waved her hand. “We'll pay him.”

“You heard her. What's the message?” Sudan asked.

“Izer Coldman is at Fort Smith.”

Fleta heard the words. Despite the man's mispronunciation, she felt sure he meant Izer Goodman. Filled with apprehension, she was certain when Noble heard the news, he would immediately leave for Fort Smith. She glared at the Indian, wishing he had never appeared.

Realizing that the three men were looking at her expectantly, she shook her head and mumbled she would get the man's money. As she fumbled in the cashbox, she railed against the unkind fate that had dealt her such an unfair hand. Bad enough Noble was off fighting with Custer. Now Izer Goodman had turned up again. Would their life never be settled?

Sudan learned that the messenger's name was Charlie Horseman. He invited the visitor to come to his tepee for some food.

Charlie looked around, then put a hand on Sudan's arm before entering the tent. “Are all the buffalo gone?” he asked in a hushed whisper.

The black man laughed. “No.”

“Good.” The Cherokee nodded his satisfaction, then followed Sudan inside the tepee.

The following week passed slowly for Fleta. She stood firm about Charlie leaving. After pressing two twenty-dollar gold pieces into Sudan's hand to give to the man, she demanded he send Charlie on his way before Noble returned.

In the middle of the week, Fleta confronted her son about his habit of riding his pony all over the countryside. “You cannot ride all over Kansas by yourself as you have been doing, Luke. There could be savages anywhere. Why do you think Noble is out with the army?”

“Aw, ma! I ain't scared.”

“That's not the point, Luke,” she said sharply. How he could have grown up so fast without her noticing? “You are to stay in the fort. No more riding Shaw all over until Noble returns.”

“Oh no!”

“Yes.” She drew in a deep breath and straightened her shoulders, determined to be firm with her impetuous son. “When Noble returns, we'll see what he has to say about the matter. Until then do as I say. Do you understand?”

“Yes.” Luke's shoulders slumped in defeat. With a scowl of irritation, he tugged on Shaw's reins to lead him back to the corral.

Later in the day, Spotted Horse brought news of an approaching wagon train. Mannah helped Fleta straighten the store in readiness for the customers. Sudan moved some heavy items for them so they could restock the depleted shelves.

“Rivers won't do anything foolish while he waits, will he?” she asked Sudan.

“No. Charlie Horseman will explain to him that Noble is coming. Rivers knows about the problems he could have if he tries to take Izer alone.”

Fleta was filled with dread—Noble would ride on to Fort Smith, the moment he returned from Custer's campaign.

“You are worrying again,” Mannah scolded her. “There is no need.”

Fleta blinked in surprise. “I'm just upset about Noble being gone.”

“I know.” The woman put an arm on her shoulder briefly.

Fleta smiled. “Very well, Mannah. I won't borrow any more trouble. Thank you.”

The people from the wagon train came to shop in hordes during the late evening. One women dithered about some calico material. Fleta waited patiently for her to make up her mind. A man entered the store, causing Fleta's eyes to widen and her heart to pound in her chest.

Wilbourne Corey stood in front of her.

Fleta swallowed with difficulty, hoping she wasn't as pale as she felt.

“May—may I help you?” She mumbled through trembling lips.

“Needle and thread,” he said, his small eyes boring a hole in her face.

If she hadn't been so frightened, Fleta would have laughed at the absurd conversation she and her erstwhile husband were having. “How many needles?” she asked.

“My wife said two.”

Fleta blinked at him in astonishment. Had Wilbourne remarried? A wave of nausea swept her. Her fingers fumbled in the sewing supplies. She managed to withdraw two needles.

“What color thread?” she asked in a hoarse whisper, feeling alternately relieved and outraged at the news of his marriage.

“White's fine.” He followed and stood behind her, making her feel as if she were suffocating. “The boy outside,” Wilbourne asked in a low voice, “is our son?”

Fleta's eyes widened when she comprehended the fact. “Yes, that's Luke.”

Wilbourne stepped back so she could pass. She put the needles and thread together in a stiff piece of brown paper and wrapped them carefully. When he reached into his pocket to pay her, she shook her head, refusing to accept his money.

Wilbourne looked around the store. Fleta studied him. His face was weathered and he looked much older than she remembered. His shoulders were rounded and his stomach bulged. And she noted, with satisfaction, that he had a decidedly weak chin.

As if he felt her eyes upon him, he jerked around and looked at her keenly. “You look just as I remembered you,” he said softly.

“You too,” she lied, wishing he would disappear again.

“I have a new wife,” he said with a touch of smugness. “Do you remember Madeline Bower?”