Noble's Way (6 page)

A pistol rang out to his right. No-Eyes' pistol belched more flame and smoke. The fight was on. But where in the hell was the enemy?

Noble's question was answered at the sound of boots heels and a figure came running toward him. A glimpse of the hat told Noble this was no Indian. The Colt barked in Noble's fist. The intruder snapped back a wild shot to the side of Noble. The shooter was close to a dark line of head high bushes when Rivers fired his pistol. The figure halted, obviously hard hit. Noble heard his rifle clatter to the ground.

No-Eyes joined him and they rushed down the hillside together. Were there others?

“Get to the horses!” someone ordered.

Noble recognized the voice.

“Damn Injuns got Red!” another voice shouted.

“Shut up and ride,” Izer Goodman ordered.

“You low-life bastard!” Noble swore, crashing through the bushes in pursuit. He realized it was futile when he heard horse hooves pounding off into the night. Regardlessly, Noble emptied his pistol into the inky darkness after them.

Rivers joined him as he stood in the chest high brambles.

“Izer Goodman,” Noble said in disgust.

“Yes,” the Osage said.

Both men turned to the screams from above them on the hill.

“The squaws found him,” Rivers said.

“Red Barber,” Noble said to himself. The war cries of the squaws were worse than the wolves' howls. He pushed back to camp to reload his pistol, not wishing to be a part of Barber's mutilation.

The continuing screams of their grisly attack on the outlaw made Noble sick to his stomach. At least Fleta and Luke were safe. As for Izer, he would get that bully bastard. Noble had a big score to settle with Goodman and Dawson.

Dawn was a pink streak when Noble completed saddling his horse. The stark, naked corpse of Red Barber lay on the blood mottled snow, thirty feet from the picket line. Brutally scalped, his genitals were stuffed in his mouth. Noble turned his back on the nauseating sight. Spotted Horse's weather forecast was running out. They needed to be back at the fort by dark; the heavy-laden horses were becoming too weary to plow much more snow.

They rode southwest. Mid-day, Noble spotted the column of smoke rising against the sky. He turned back to Rivers, riding behind him.

“Is that the fort?”

The Osage peered keenly at the smoke in the flat distance. He nodded, his brown eyes troubled.

“I'm going ahead,” Noble said decisively. “Bring all our horses, but come slowly, for they're tired.”

Rivers agreed. Noble pounded the gray with his heels. The great horse responded, but Noble felt saddened for even the gray had been pushed too hard. Hooves splashed the thawed ground and Noble strained forward. Miles of rotten snow swept beneath the lathered horse's dripping belly.

If Goodman had harmed Fleta, Noble vowed, he would castrate the bastard.

Finally he could see the picketed wall. The smoke appeared to be coming from beyond it. Perhaps the Wichita camp. He drew the gray to a walk, wondering what had happened.

When he rode up the last grade, he saw Spotted Horse and Barge standing in the gate with their rifles.

“What's on fire?” he demanded as he quickly dismounted the heaving horse.

“The Wichita camp. Their tepees.”

“Why?”

Spotted Horse shook his head in disgust. “Crazy drunk. Izer sold them four barrels of whiskey.”

“That bastard! Are the Wichitas all right?”

Spotted Horse grinned. “Bad sick, no tepees. But they will live.”

Then Noble saw Fleta. She ran forward and launched herself into his outstretched arms.

“I was sure worried when I saw the smoke,” Noble said, holding her tightly against his chest.

“Thank Spotted Horse, he kept all of us safe.” She wanted Noble for herself, for them to be alone. She hoped he never left her again for so long.

“We're rich,” he whispered. “Richer than I ever imagined. We've got enough to stock your store and the Wichitas got so many goods, their horses are swayed back. But Lord deliver me from ever taking three squaws shopping again,” he said, heady with their reunion.

“What happened?”

“Let's go inside. I'm starved for your cooking. I'll tell you all about it. Why, I've got enough peppermint candy to make Luke and all the Osages sick.”

Fleta looked a his tired face and knew he wasn't telling her everything. “What's wrong?”

He stopped and looked at her, surprised that she read him so easily. He peered beyond the gates in the direction of the Indian Territory.

“I was just wondering where that bastard Goodman is now.”

“Come on. Don't worry about him, he's not around here.” She urged him toward the house and shivered when a wave of unexplained apprehension washed over her.

Before spring, Noble vowed, he was going to give Izer Goodman what he deserved.

Fleta stood with her hands on her hips, surveying the piles of goods stacked to the ceiling of her house.

What had Noble said? That there would be time to sort it out later? He had left early that morning to find some timber. She shook her head; Noble McCurtain was a man full of plans and schemes. They appeared to hatch with each day. Strangely enough, they were successful so far, but tying him down to setting up a store would be impossible.

A ledger book, ink and a pen set were among the supplies. Before he left, Noble hastily showed her the blurry invoices from Patterson's Mercantile. “Just set up a book, substract sales and ...” Fleta shook her head at recalling his words. “... you'll know what to record.” That was easy for him to say.

There were bolts of material, dried beans, flour sacks, baking powder, dried apples, horse shoe nails, and cigars. Why cigars? she asked herself as she skimmed down the crumpled pages. Iron pans, four shovels. She raised her eyes to check for the tools. They were leaning against the far wall. Thread, needles, scissors, pins, buttons and candy. Fleta stared in disbelief at the piles of merchandise. Would she ever get this mess sorted out and put it in some kind of order?

What hadn't he bought? Probably something the first customer would ask for. Determined, she made up her mind there was going to be some order to this madness.

Mannah entered the store. Fleta smiled and gestured at the piles of goods.

“Have you ever seen so much stuff?” she asked. When Mannah shrugged her shoulders, Fleta made an instant decision. The Indian was going to learn the store business.

“Mannah, how would you like to be a clerk?”

Mannah looked at her with puzzlement. She shook her head as if to say that she did not comprehend what Fleta was saying.

“Don't worry about it. You and I are going to run this store.”

Mannah managed a bemused nod.

“First, we have to put all the material bolts over there,” Fleta explained, pointing to her right. “That means we'll have to get a lot of stuff out of the way. You understand?” Mannah shrugged, but smiled her willingness to please Fleta.

A few hours later, both women were holding their lower backs and wearing tired smiles.

“Store business lot of work,” Mannah said, amused.

Fleta agreed, but the woman was going to work out fine as a helper. She was a quick learner and in time would be a big asset.

Both women turned when the door was flung open. Two very tall Wichita men entered, arms folded over their chests, eagle feathers brushing the top of the doorway as they passed through.

Fleta watched as they surveyed the room, then looked at Mannah. Their words meant nothing to Fleta, but they obviously wanted something.

Fortunately Mannah seemed to understand them. She nodded.

“How much pay for two cigars?” she asked Fleta.

Fleta blinked at the thought of Indians wanting cigars. “I'll have to look at the invoices.”

The Wichitas spoke again with Mannah. Fleta's fingers were clumsy as she ruffled through the invoices. Where was the cost of those blasted cigars? Finally she found the price. One box cost a dollar.

“What will he give?” Fleta whispered to Mannah.

Fleta watched carefully as Mannah spoke and used sign language to get her question across. Finally she turned to Fleta with a smile.

“They say—one pelt for two cigars.”

“Fine,” Fleta said quickly. Any fur was worth more than five cents.

“Good,” Mannah said with a conspiratorial smile. “They will think they have out traded us by getting two for one.”

Mannah made more signs, but the bargainer shook his head. After a few more moments of haggling, one of the men shouted to a woman who was stationed outside the open door. She came in, carrying a prime wolf hide that shone like silk. But Mannah did not accept it without examining every inch of the fur, then she turned and tried to open the cigar box.

Fleta hurriedly found a knife on her dry sink and used it to scratch open the seal and pry back the fine wooden, hinged top of the box. A heavy aroma of rich tobacco filled her nostrils.

Her very first sale. Who would have ever thought about trading cigars for furs. A smile crossed her face as the two men left, sniffing the length of the cigars. Obviously, Noble thought of such a trade. A feeling of warmth hugged Fleta as if he was there himself. She glanced around with satisfaction at her house piled ceiling high with smelly yard goods, crates of items, leaving only narrow paths to walk. Fleta felt confident. Oh, Noble McCurtain, I do love you.

Miles south, River and Barge were helping Noble saw down several small trees with a crosscut saw. The new hat shading his eyes was becoming a familiar feature on his head.

Satisfied they had enough wood for the younger oxen to pull, Noble chained the larger load to the mature oxen's yoke. When he spoke to them the teams began to shoulder the load, Noble exchanged a confident smile with the Osages.

“Let's go home,” he said stepping into the gray's stirrup.

Barge shouldered the great saw and the blade made a warping sound that amused both Indians. Noble shouted at the steers to keep walking. The experience he had gained by driving his uncle's steers and freighting was not wasted.

Now he needed an Illinois plow to cut the prairie. A dozen furrows would make a fire break. Prairie fires could be a deadly force, scorching everything for miles. A wide band devoid of vegetation would save the fort. Yes, he definitely needed a plow.

March came with warm south winds, but winter returned intermittently to the plains with hard frosts and light snow. The Wichitas were sober and ready to move back south to the Indian Territory. They packed up camp, but before they left, Chief Tall Timber rode inside the fort to speak to Noble. His horse was gaudy with painted symbols and feathers braided in his mane.

“You are a good man, Noble McCurtain. We will return if the ‘blue pants' will let us come. No white man has treated us so well.

“The whiskey was very bad. If we find this man, Izer Goodman, we will send him to his gods. No-Eyes wants to kill him slowly for his woman burned his lodge while he was gone and No-Eyes cannot forget sleeping all winter under a buffalo robe.”

“Come again, Chief,” Noble said. “The Wichitas are welcome in my camp.” He watched the man turn and ride out the gate.

“Good thing they're leaving,” Fleta said softly from behind him.

“Why is that, Mrs. McCurtain?” Noble asked, turning and putting his hands on her hips.

“Because I'm nearly out of cigars.” She and Noble both laughed.

During the next days, Noble busied himself repairing the stables with the posts they had dragged back. Spotted Horse seemed uneasy and made frequent trips on horseback out of the fort. Noble wondered what the Osage was looking for, but decided the man would tell him when he was ready.

One afternoon in early April, Spotted Horse rode up to where Noble and Rivers were working. He slipped to the ground and announced, “The main herd is coming.”

“Main herd?” Noble echoed with a frown.

“The buffalo returns.”

“Is that important?” Noble asked, tilting back his hat so he could see the man better.

“A long time ago, a medicine man said, when the buffalo no longer returns, the Osage will be gone.”

“So that's what had you worried. You were afraid they weren't coming back?”

Spotted Horse nodded. “So few Osage now. When we are gone, who will hunt the buffalo?”

“Probably white men,” Noble said.

“Then everyone will have a day. Next, the white man will come more than the buffalo.”

“I reckon so,” Noble said soberly. He considered the Osage, he looked like a man who wanted to surrender but there was no one to accept him.

Streams of wagons came by in late April. Folks were bubbling with the news. “War's about over! They got Lee hemmed in the Wilderness. It'll all be over in a few days.”

Wagons meant commerce. Folks forgot necessities, things they needed or coveted. The Osage sold their tanned buffalo hides to be used for leather repairs. Noble recalled one man's jubilation as he told them about where he was going. “Jefferson Territory is the place to go. Richer than a yard up a bull's ass. Land's so rich, pumpkins grow to wagon size. You better leave this wind blessed prairie and go along with us.”

Noble suppressed his amusement. He had seen that country at the base of the Rocky Mountains when he was freighting. Folks had said that same thing in Illinois about Missouri, chasing riches they just couldn't grasp. But Noble was not about to burst their dreams. His steadily declining store stock and rising profits pleased him more than any big pumpkin, even a wagon sized one.

“I'm going to send Rivers to Independence with an order for more supplies. Patterson's can send a freighter down with it.”

“Good idea,” Fleta smiled as she looked up from her bookkeeping. “But will he go?”

“He may ride a horse in the ground to get there, then not stay a minute longer than he has to. But I think he'll carry an order up there for me.”