Noble's Way

by Dusty Richards

  “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.

  Chapter Five

  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.”

  Noble was not surprised at the shortness of the Osage’s round trip. He read the letter Rivers had brought back.

  Dear Noble,

  Thank you for your order. It is always a pleasure doing business with your firm. While prices are higher now than they were this past winter, perhaps now the war is over, we shall see a more stable economy.

  A dependable freight company will deliver your goods in a week or two, depending on weather conditions.

  Hope to see you again in person.

  Sincerely yours,

  Cedric and Alex Patterson

  “What should we call our ‘firm’?” Fleta asked after Noble finished reading the letter to her.

  “Western Kansas Mercantile?” he suggested, smiling down in her face.

  “No, that will never do.” She steered him out of the store onto the porch. “Why not simply call it the Great Western Company?”

  “Sounds kinda grand for a little cabin with a high wall around it.”

  “You don’t see it do you?” she teased.

  “What?” he asked, frowning.

  “The great business that will grow here?”

  Noble felt his face heat up. “You’re picking on me.”

  “No, I’m not,” she said, her face sober. “I can see, Noble. You’re the dangdest builder I’ve ever known.”

  Noble just stood there and savored the kiss she planted on his cheek. She was right. He did intend to have a big business. Some day.

  The freighter arrived two weeks later in the form of a double set of wagons behind several span of oxen. The driver-owner wore knee high boots and spat a wad of tobacco as he stomped through the gate.

  “Gawdamn, man,” the bull whacker swore with a look around the fort. “Why you got a regular place here. I thought this belonged to the Haskins Docking Company.”

  “They abandoned it.”

  “Well, when they hear that you’re doing this kind of business, they’ll be out here to claim it.”

  Noble nodded. He must send a letter back with this man for the Pattersons. Surely they knew a lawyer who would settle his claim on the land. There had to be a way to prove his ownership.

  The man poked Noble with a thumb. “You let them redskins sleep in here?”

  “They’re Osage.”

  “Savages. All the red bastards should be shot. Now the war’s over, we’ll get busy on that.”

  “Is it really over?” Noble asked, not satisfied with the rumors of the surrender.

  “Damn sure is.” The man punctuated his speech by spitting. “Lee hung up his sword. Give it to Grant at Apple something in Virginny.”

  “Good,” Noble said absently. He looked away, impatient to get away from the loud mouthed, irritating man.

  “Hell, yes. Now I’ll have work. Them bluebellies are gonna raise hell with those red devils. Going to put up a bunch of forts so settlers won’t be molested by them. Maybe we’ll get us a president who’ll put a bounty on their red skins.” He spit contemptuously. “Hell, I’ll do it for free.”

  “Well, don’t plan on starting anything here,” Noble warned him with a cold glare. “These people are mine. Don’t even think about harming them.”

  “You some kinda damn Injun lover?”

  Noble’s eyes glittered with cold rage as he stared down the man. “You’re damned right and don’t you forget it.” He turned on his heel, too furious to add anything else. He wanted to hurry and unload the supplies and get the damned Indian hater on his way as quickly as possible. A shudder of anger rippled through him as he stalked inside the store.

  Fleta noticed his face looked like a thundercloud. “Noble, what’s wrong?” she asked quietly.

  “Nothing!.” Noble gritted his teeth to control his boiling wrath. He took a deep breath and stood rigid until he had his rage fully under control.

  “Why are you so wrought up?”

  “It’s nothing. That freighter just made me angry,” he said, dismissing her concerns.

  “Why?”

  “We’ll talk later,” he promised.

  Noble involved himself in unloading the freight. The driver’s men even seemed to resent the Indians so Noble stayed in the center of the activity. He was not about to allow any of the men to abuse his charges.

  With the furs loaded to go back for Patterson’s, Noble was relieved when the freighter pulled out to camp beyond the fort’s walls.

  Noble stood on the porch, his eye squinted to watch them move on.

  “I’ve never seen you so furious,” Fleta said, when she joined him on the porch.

  “Hogan—that’s his name—is an Indian hater.”

  “So? Lots of people in the west are.”

  “I guess you’re right. I just realized how much those kind of people bother me.”

  “Remember how uneasy I was at first around them? Now Mannah and I are close friends.”

  Noble looked at her keenly then sighed. “You’re right.”

  She smiled and looked at him with a twinkle in her eyes, wanting to lighten his mood. “Will my rich husband want to trade me for some grand lady when he gets richer?”

  “What?”

  “I’m perfectly serious, Noble.” The mischief in her eyes belied her statement. She watched a grin curve his lips with satisfaction.

  “I have you, Fleta. What more could I want?”

  “You say that now. But what about when you’re rich and famous?”

  “Don’t be silly,” he said curtly.

  Fleta accepted his rebuke, noting that all of his anger had not dissipated. Obviously now was not the time to be flippant with him.

  May was stormy, but wagons and riders ke
pt coming, making stops at the store. Busy rolling up a bolt of cloth, Fleta looked up when a figure ducked inside the door. He was very tall and carried a black stovepipe hat in his hand. With a gasp of shock, Fleta recognized his gaunt face. The minister from her home town in Wesley, Arkansas.

  “Reverend Jordan!”

  The dark frown on his face was foreboding. “Mrs.—”

  “Mrs. McCurtain,” she inserted quickly.

  He shook his head and clucked his teeth. “Oh no, this is a terrible error. Your husband, Wilbourne Corey, has just returned home. He thinks you’re dead.”

  Fleta felt her knees buckle. Only the reverend’s sinewy arms saved her from falling.

  Mannah rushed in, upon seeing the tall man bent over Fleta, grabbed the muzzle loader and aimed it threateningly at the minister.

  “Get back!” Mannah ordered.

  “I’m a man of God,” he protested. “She merely fainted.”

  Fleta weakly asserted herself. “It—it’s all right, Mannah.” She jerked from Jordan’s grasp and pushed herself up to her feet.

  “My dear woman, I know this has been a shock, but you must return immediately to Arkansas. Your poor husband needs to know you’re alive.”

  Noble burst in the room. Having recognized Jordan’s silhouette as he had approached, Noble sprinted the gray to reach the store. Fearing the reverend’s motives for coming, Noble’s face was lined with concern. Fleta’s pale face and visibly trembling hands confirmed his suspicions.

  “Fleta, are you all right? What’s going on?” he asked, crossing to her side and placing a protective arm across her shoulders.

  “Oh, Noble,” she whispered looking at him helplessly, “Wilbourne’s come home. He’s alive.”

  Noble’s first thought was, ‘So what?’ Corey had no claim on her. Fleta was his now and he intended to see that she stayed with him. He glared at Reverend Jordan, his eyes damning the man for meddling.

  “I did not come here to upset her,” the reverend said quietly. “In fact I had no idea this was your place. But there is the Christian—”

  “What is it you need?” Noble cut him off before he could start preaching. They left Arkansas because of Jordan and his church elders scolding them for living together without the benefit of matrimony. Before Noble came, no one had offered to help feed her and the boy or cut fire wood and see to them. Would it have been more Christian for them to have starved?