One of the woman brought a smoking stick to light the bowl. Spotted Horse drew hard on the mouth piece, then let a small stream of smoke out of his lips. He handed it stem first to Noble. The strong smoke scorched Noble’s throat and he stifled a cough as he handed the pipe back. Spotted Horse gave the pipe to Barge who drew deeply before handing it to Rivers.
“Tomorrow. We will show you the fort,” Spotted Horse promised.
Fort? What did the Osage mean? Reluctant to take another puff of their pipe, yet not wanting to insult them, Noble accepted the totem with a bland face.
When he returned to eat his supper, Fleta quizzed him about the peace pipe.
“Some kind of rotten weeds,” he said under his breath. “They really like it. Kept passing it around. ” He glanced at the setting sun before he cut up the thick browned slabs of meat. They were a day further away from Arkansas and Izer Goodman. Thank goodness.
“Luke’s terribly interested in the Osage.” Fleta cast a look at the boy, poised at the edge of the panniers watching the Indians.
“He’ll be all right. The Indians say there is place west of here for us to winter in ... a fort with a house.”
“Is the house habitable?”
Noble smiled at her and shook his head. “You know as much as I do. They want to winter near us. They’ll do the work for some of the game I shoot.”
Fleta grimaced. “Work? The women will do it. Besides I’m not sure I want to live by Indians. You know about them because you’ve been allover the west. But I’ve never seen any like these with feathers in their hair and beads.”
“That’s their way. Don’t worry.”
Fleta didn’t look up from her food. Noble knew she did not agree with his plan.
“Let’s look before we pass our judgment. I’m anxious to find a place to stay. It’s late December and any day winter could close in on us.”
Fleta blinked at something causing Noble to twist quickly around, nearly spilling his dish. He saw the woman leading the horse toward them.
“What is she doing?” Fleta asked, puzzled by Mannah’s approach. When she looked back, Noble seemed occupied with his plate again.
“What is she bringing us?”
“Your furs for half the buffalo.” He smiled in amusement.
“Oh.” If Noble had planned to have Indians around all winter, she would have to get used to their strange customs. She shuddered recalling their consumption of the raw liver.
Noble graciously accepted the horse’s lead rope. The skins in the packs probably represented a good portion of the Osage’s wealth. So far the Osage were true to their promises.
Dawn came. The light snow Noble had expected for a week frosted the tall grass. Weary and stiff from sitting up under a blanket, he’d only caught brief snatches of sleep to be on guard. Gratefully, he accepted Fleta’s tea and oats. The sharp tea helped to revive him.
Spotted Horse came and squatted on the other side of the fire. “We need to go fast. Wind turns, there will be much snow. We need to camp at this place.”
Noble did not question the Indian’s weather forecast. He hoped this new place would not be too tumbledown to protect his family. “We’ll be ready to travel soon,” he promised the man.
The Osage nodded, pulled his blanket tighter, and went back to his own camp.
Fleta felt the larger flakes melt on her cheeks as she rode. The world seemed to have closed in. She could barely see the Osage women walking beside their travois laden horses. Twisting occasionally she watched her excited son on the pack horse. He was testing the snow in his open palm. His eyes were alive with excitement that escaped her. The Indians obviously fascinated Luke.
Ahead, she could see Noble, his coat speckled with snow, and his hair mussed by the wind. The sight of him was the most comforting part of this move. She was confident Noble would find a place for them before the snow turned to blistering cold.
Fleta mentally calculated the date. It was December 24, 1864, Christmas Eve. She sighed as she glanced down at the swells of the saddle. When she was little girl in Tennessee, the house was always warm and filled with the smell of popcorn and molasses candy on this day. There were always toys to open Christmas morning, usually small animals her father had whittled from wood.
Then Wilbourne Corey had come into her life. The tall quiet man, six years her senior had come to court her. Wilbourne had not been a rake or braggart. Fleta’s mother had often reminded her that Wilbourne was serious—a man of substance—he worked hard, and was not inclined to drink heavy or gamble. A pillar of a man, not a man to abandon her. Fleta felt a pang of conscience as she rode. Had she been the one to abandon Wilbourne?
But her mother had not known of war and how it would drag a man away from his wife and son. Wilbourne had ignored her pleas and gone off for a bloody senseless war and left the two of them ... Fleta shivered under her coat. They might have starved if Noble had not come along. Since she’d had no word in three years, surely Wilbourne Corey had died for his cause.
“Fleta?” Noble asked, his gray horse huffing great clouds of steam beside her. “Are you all right? You worry me.” He looked intently into her eyes.
“I’m fine, this snow is upsetting me,” she said with a brittle smile. She watched Noble lift Luke from the pack horse.
“Spotted Horse says we’re close to wherever they’re taking us. But we need to make camp ’til the snow lets up.”
“But,” she began, her throat knotted with conflicting emotions as she stood beside the horse; her legs weak from poor circulation. “It’s Christmas Eve, Noble.”
He blinked and pushed back his hair. “Is it?”
“Yes and I don’t have a thing for anyone,” Fleta lamented. How could she make the holiday up to Luke? She practically fell in Noble’s arms. He held her tight to comfort her.
“I’ll make it up to you soon, Fleta. I promise, ” he said softly, concealing his frustration.
She sniffed and tried to regain her composure. “I’m sorry, Noble. It’s the damned snow. Where’s Luke?”
“He’s right here,” he gestured at his side.
She leaned her forehead on Noble’s shoulder. Tears and melted snowflakes mingled on her face. It was the snow that had depressed her so.
Christmas day arrived under a blanket of low and threatening gray clouds. Fleta rose in a flurry of snow flakes that had fallen on the blankets she and Luke shared. Noble was studying something on the horizon, his breath escaping in steamy vapors. Then Fleta saw it, and hurried to stand with him. A small fort on a rise, less than a quarter mile away.
“Is that the place?” she asked through chattering teeth.
“Yes.” He hugged her to his side. “Spotted Horse said it was empty.”
“Who owns it?”
“We do.”
“But what if the army or the owners come back?”
“I guess we’ll move out.” Noble twisted her around and put his cold hands to her cheeks and lowered his mouth to hers. His hard eager lips, hungry with desire, warmed her.
She smiled. “We’ll call it McCurtain’s Fort.”
“All right,” Noble agreed, pleased with her name for the place. “Come on, we need to see the home the good Lord and the Osages have provided for us.”
“Merry Christmas, Noble McCurtain,” Fleta said with a sad smile.
“Merry Christmas, Fleta McCurtain,” he said before hurrying off to get the horses and stock.
She stood alone. In that moment, in the middle of snowy Kansas, she felt that they were married in the eyes of God. Her son and the Osages were the witnesses. Yes, she decided, from now on she would be Fleta McCurtain and never again regret leaving Arkansas.
As soon as he swung off his horse in the gateway, Noble began sizing up the fort. Inside the hewed log post wall was a courtyard close to a hundred by hundred-fifty feet. A post or store was in the center. The leather hinges on the front door were rotten. He forced it open and entered. Although dusty and cobwebbed, the low ce
iling caused him to smile. It would be a cosy place to winter.
“Come on in to your house,” he shouted to Fleta, and stood aside to allow her entrance.
Noble left her examining the house. He went to inspect the fort. There were stable sheds built off the side walls. Followed by the silent Spotted Horse, he stopped to examine the stone walled well. He dropped a packed snowball in it and was rewarded a few moments later by the reassuring splash of water.
Noble walked back to the gateway and looked to the south. The plank gates were down and he decided they would require much repair to rehang. But when he viewed the white sea beyond, he was pleased with their new home.
“Spotted Horse, who does this fort belong to?”
“You and me.” The Indian pointed at Noble then himself.
“No.” Noble tried to explain. “Is this an army fort?”
“No, long ago trader was here.
That solved the mystery for Noble. Some trading company had apparently built this as an outpost, then abandoned it.
“It’s a good place,” he said, smiling with gratitude at the Indian.
“Plenty good.”
“Noble!” Luke came running. “We even have rats in the new house.”
“What’s a house without rats?” Noble laughed and Spotted Horse joined in.
As he approached the house, he wondered how his new wife was accepting all this. With surprise, he watched the two Osage men carrying Fleta’s things in the front door.
“Wait!” he shouted. “I’ll do that.”
“No,” Spotted Horse said, restraining Noble with his hand. “We help.”
For a moment Noble questioned their motive. This was women’s work—at least in the Indians eyes—so they must be paying Fleta and himself a high compliment by humbling themselves with such activity. Damn, he had a lot to learn about Indians.
In the fireplace Fleta built a small fire which produced not only warmth, but seemed to drive away a cold lingering spirit that inhabited the small house. She surveyed the room with satisfaction. A worn broom applied to the hard packed floor would make the place look even better. She had a roof and a home. Noble had even repaired the front door, so now it seemed like a secure haven.
Later Mannah brought her some cold, cooked meat to heat up. Fleta found herself liking the tall, handsome woman, who dressed in buckskins decorated with beads and quills. She wondered why Mannah was childless, perhaps even barren. Her beauty and movements were graceful as a swan. Fleta initially was irritated by the Indian woman’s habit of giggling, but she had begun to dismiss it as a childish habit they never outgrew. Fleta felt a bond growing between herself and Mannah.
Fleta found a good supply of dry buffalo chips in a lean-to behind of her kitchen. There was even a small amount of wood she must ration.
Luke was in and out of the house reporting on the tepee raising going on outside. Breathlessly, he told his mother how the travois poles became the main support for the tepees. And he further explained in a voice filled with awe, of the paintings on the side of the tepees, drawings of horses, buffalo and hand prints.
After fixing the door, Noble fetched water for tea, then left to check on the livestock. Mary Joseph and her baby came to sit beside her fireplace. Fleta felt a twinge of jealousy as she watched the young mother nurse the child. Noble needed a son of his own.
Noble viewed the horses pawing the snow for grass. The four patient oxen were waiting to graze behind them.
“We will watch them,” Spotted Horse assured him. “At night we will bring them inside the fort grounds. There are many thieves, besides the buffalo wolves.”
“Thanks,” Noble said, his mind occupied with laying plans. Tomorrow we’ll go kill another buffalo before the winter catches us.”
“Yes,” the Osage agreed with a wide grin. “This is a god damn good place.”
“Yes it is,” Noble smiled at the profanity. He recalled an Indian who lived around a western post. The men called the Indian Son-of-a-Bitch. He used the word for everything, hello—goodbye—every other word that came out of his mouth was the curse.
He smiled ruefully. “Spotted Horse? Do you have a fine fur to trade me? A mink?”
The Osage shifted the army blanket over his shoulder. “Mink?”
“A nice soft fur.”
The Indian nodded. Noble dug out a pocket knife for the trade.
Spotted Horse shook his head. “No. Fur be a gift for you.” “No. We trade,” Noble insisted.
The Osage left Noble standing in the snow at the fort’s gate. He returned in a few minutes with an impressive looking scarf of white fur. For a moment, Noble wondered which of the Osage’s wives had lost such a mantle. He swept the pelt onto his shoulder and slapped the folding knife in Spotted Horse’s hand.
“Trade,” Noble said firmly.
Spotted Horse nodded. With that settled, Noble trudged to the house. He passed the others busy raising the second tepee and grinned at Luke watching them. Wide eyed, the youth investigated every movement the Indians made, but he remained respectfully back and out of their way.
Noble pushed open the door to their new home then closed it with his hip.
“Here,” he said, looping the fur around Fleta’s neck.
She gasped at the feel of the soft skin around her neck. “What are you doing?”
Noble pulled her tightly against him. “It’s a surprise.”
“Oh, Noble, you shouldn’t have. It feels beautiful.” She looked up at him with a smile.
“Merry Christmas, Mrs. McCurtain,” he said, squeezing her against his lean body. He enjoyed the proprietary sound of the “Mrs.”
“Let’s have some tea.” She lightly kissed his lips.
They were finishing their tea and savoring the privacy of their moment together, when Luke burst in the front door. “Noble! Spotted Horse said to come with your gun right now! We got plenty trouble coming!”
“What is it, Luke?” Noble removed the Colt from his right coat pocket and followed the youth out the door.
“Three riders dressed in bear skins. Spotted Horse says they’re bad men.”
“Who are they?” Fleta asked, following them outside.
“Damned if I know. Luke, you stay here with your mother. Fleta get the other guns ready just in case.”
“But...”
“No buts. Unless they have a deed to this place they can go to hell for all I care.” Noble turned with the .36 Colt in his right hand and went to join the Indians gathered at the gate.
Spotted Horse apparently knew the strangers since he had told Luke that they were bad. Who were they? No telling, but whoever they were, Noble was ready for trouble. The heavy revolver in hand reassured him as he headed for the gate.
Chapter Three
Under a glaring patch of cold sun, Noble watched the three bearded riders come abreast. Splashing snow, their horses breathed heavily. Saddle leather creaked. When the man in the middle pushed up his hat brim, Noble felt a sharp stab of fear. It was Izer Goodman.
An older man on Izer’s right cradled a rifle in a fringed sheath; he broke the silence first. “All you blanket-ass Injuns get the hell out of our fort.”
“Damn my sore eyes,” Izer said with mocking sarcasm, “why, it’s my old pal Noble McCurtain.” There was nothing friendly in his tone.
Noble stood his ground. arms crossed, the pistol in his hand.
“You know him?” the man on Izer’s right asked.
“Sure do. He’s done got him an Osage squaw to love, boys!” Izer’s cutting laughter caused Noble’s jaw to clench. The bushwhackers had called Izer the squaw killer.
“What’s your business here?” Noble demanded with more confidence than he felt.
“You claiming this place?” Izer asked, resting an elbow on his saddle horn.
“Me and this pistol are,” Noble answered without finching.
“He’s tough talking, Izer,” the older man mocked. His laughter was interrupted by a hacking cough. In disgust
he spit out a yellow wad of phlegm.
“This old man’s Red Barber.” Then Izer gestured to the younger man on his left. “And Tennessee Dawson. Boys, meet Noble McCurtain.”
Noble did not acknowledge the introductions.
Izer scrubbed his whisker-stubbled mouth with his hand as if considering another tactic.
“Boy,” he directed his speech to Noble, “we’ve run all these black asses off before. But you can stay and be a part of us—or else.”
“Else what?” Noble shot back.
“You don’t aim to die over some flea-bitten redskins and a damned old fort, do you?” Izer demanded in disbelief.
“Somebody may die, but more’n likely it will be you all.”
“Tough bastard,” Tennessee growled as if itching to do something.
“Yeah,” Izer said. “Reckon we’ll just have to kill him, then we can have that Osage squaw of his. She must be something to behold.”
“Izer, take your friends and leave,” Noble warned. A fury boiled over inside him.
“Boy!” Izer said, his dark eyes narrowing. “I intend to feed you to the magpies and rape every Osage squaw in there.”
“Yeah!” Red shouted, preparing to charge his horse.
A rifle shot out. The three men bolted upright, checking their horses. Before they had full control of their mounts, Noble had the Colt cocked and ready. For a moment he wondered who had fired the shot, but he kept his attention firmly fixed on the three men in front of him.
“Who the hell is she?” Izer demanded, fighting with his horse and peering over his shoulder at someone behind Noble.
Ready for any move they made, Noble’s lips twitched briefly as he realized that Fleta had fired the shot. He remembered how she had helped him the day they battled the bushwhackers. Izer never stayed for any of that fight, for like a coward he’d left at the first sign of resistance.
“That’s my wife,” Noble said. He watched Mannah come forward and give Spotted Horse the Colt rifle. The tide of the encounter just changed; Noble waited for their next move.
Izer’s face was black with rage. “You ain’t seen the last of us, Noble McCurtain. Next time we ain’t coming in here peaceful. That goes for the gawd damn Osages too.”
Noble's Way Page 2
