Noble's Way

by Dusty Richards

  Noble was busy considering his new venture when Spotted Horse broke his concentration.

  “Now you need a son.”

  He almost reined in the gray. A picture of his freighting days came vividly to mind at the Indian’s words. He’d been sick and thought he might be dying. His affliction was called mumps. Out of his head with fever, his swollen throat was nearly shut. His testicles were so enlarged that every time the wagon swayed, he felt them torn apart. Noble fought the germ for days by working until he collapsed beside the team. His boss, Ben Rutherford, and a couple other men carried him to a pallet in the wagon, where an army doctor examined him. The physician shook his head, saying, “You’re fever’s breaking. The swelling will go down, but I don’t reckon you’ll ever sire any offspring. Sorry son.”

  “What?” Noble asked, trying to focus on the man’s face. What did the doctor mean?

  “You’ll be all right, but men that get mumps like this, can’t have children.”

  “Oh.” Noble had almost fainted from exhaustion and fever.

  From somewhere far away, he heard Ben Rutherford’s laugh. “Hell, boy, you’ll live. Damned lucky. I figured you’d bust and die.”

  That episode in his life had been buried deeply beneath his subconscious; he hadn’t thought about it for years, but Spotted Horse’s comment about a son brought the scene back sharply. Noble studied the sea of grass and shook his head sadly. Someday he’d tell Fleta, but not now. She might feel he wasn’t worthy and leave him. Her first man was whole. Luke was living proof of that fact.

  He motioned to Spotted Horse and they short loped across the open country.

  Later that evening when Noble told Fleta of his recent purchases, she looked at him with slight exasperation. “How many cattle did you get?”

  “Fifty or so. We’ll have oxen to sell next year ...” He pulled her into his arms, smiling down at her frowning face.

  “Noble, what are you doing?”

  “Hugging my wife,” he said with a laugh. “I’m glad to be home.” He shurgged away his guilty secret.

  “Let me put out the lamp,” she whispered as she wriggled out of his hold. She blew out the lamp on a deep sigh of contentment. A warm glow engulfed her. She liked him this way.

  Luke was fascinated with the Texas cowboys. After they made their trade with Noble and went on their way, minus the traded cattle, Luke tried to copy their style of dress. He wore a red neckerchief his mother made him and stuffed the cuffs of his pants into his buckskin boots.

  Spotted Horse furnished him a pinto pony that soon learned to come to sliding stops in front of the house, then spin around on his hind legs with enough dust swirling to enrage Fleta.

  “Luke McCurtain, take that pony out of this yard. Now!” She pointed to the gate.

  The boy put his heels to the pinto’s ribs and the pair tore out of the gate.

  When Luke wasn’t busy with school lessons, he was riding the horse the drawling cowboys had christened ‘Shaw’.

  Luke wondered what the Texans meant when they said, “Shaw, he’s big enough for you.” But his mind didn’t linger long on anyone thing, certainly not his mother’s schooling or his chores. The only thing he concentrated on was riding harder and faster.

  His one other obsession was learning to twirl a lariat. His feet-tangling attempts drew scowls and laughter from the Osage and his family, but Luke was determined to master the rope.

  On horseback, he chased the timid cottontails outside the fort. Darting and dashing around on Shaw, Luke regretted that his friend, Red Elk, wasn’t there to join him. When the Wichitas returned, he and Red Elk would be two dust devils.

  As the days warmed into summer, Luke’s skill grew. Aided by a rope tied to his saddle horn, he rode standing up on the pony’s back at a full gallop on the east-west wagon trail. A few spills only drove him to be more proficient.

  Rivers showed him how to ride Indian style over the side and shoot at make believe enemies from beneath Shaw’s neck. The Osage laughed when Luke spilled end-over-end into the grass while practicing the trick.

  After one of his spills, Noble paused to grin at the boy who was up in a moment, chasing after the wild-maned pony.

  Noble and Barge were busy with a Texas steer, trying to tame it to a yoke. The long horned steer was very snorty and occupied both men’s attention.

  Luke found the Texas cattle short-tempered compared to the dull oxen. “Noble,” he asked on day, “can you train a steer to ride like a horse?”

  Noble took a long look at the boy. He seemed to be growing so fast. A smile flickered across Noble’s mouth as he drawled, “Well, Luke, I don’t know. I’ve never seen it done.” He hid a grin at the boy’s impatient race to grow up. Luke had become a real son to him. The only son he would ever have.

  “Can I try it?” Luke asked.

  Noble shook his head to clear his troubled thoughts. “Sure, but why would you want to?”

  “Well, if no one’s ever done it before, then I could say I was the first.”

  “Well, that’s a notion. It won’t be easy,” Noble cautioned him.

  “I sort of figured that already,” Luke nodded with a serious frown.

  Luke found the yearling longhorn that Noble had cut out for him. The yearling was treacherous, butting and kicking frequently for the first two weeks that Luke haltered him.

  That evening, with his chin resting on his hands, Luke looked out from his bed in the loft. His mother’s voice caught his attention.

  “That stupid bull is going to hurt Luke,” Fleta said.

  “Now, Fleta, the boy’s got his mind set on breaking him to ride. Besides, he ain’t a bull.”

  A smile spread across Luke’s face. He was proud and pleased Noble believed in him enough to stand up to his mother. Was his real Pa as good a man as Noble McCurtain, he wondered. He’d overheard his mother and Noble talking about Wilbourne Corey. Maybe he’d just ride that steer to Arkansas and see him some day.

  He’d miss Noble and the Osage if he went. They were good pals, nearly as good as the cowboys. Someday, he’d be a trail boss like Toby Evans and drive a thousand steers north.

  By September, Luke had made a lot of progress with his yearling. He still tossed his horns which had grown from knobby stubs to six inches of dangerous weapons, but the steer no longer butted his master. The yearling could be saddled and even ridden, but his directions were poor when Luke pulled on the reins. He also would lay down and rise on command. Christened with an assortment of names—Fort Worthless, Cowboy, Tex, and few curse words—the steer eventually came to be called Tex.

  Two men dressed in long canvas coats and good hats rode in one day while Luke was schooling Tex. They paused to watch him. He tapped on the ox’s front leg. “Down,” he commanded. The steer responded and lay down.

  The taller of the two bearded riders dismounted and walked around Luke as he mounted the saddle.

  “Quite a rig you have there, young man,” he commented with a friendly smile.

  “Yes, sir,” Luke answered, impressed that the men were business men—not the run of the mill sort that usually came by. Both men were armed and had rifles in their saddle boots.

  “Why, Jesse, if you had one of those, a posse could never track you,” the other man said with a laugh.

  “Posse,” Luke echoed. The word was new to him. He wondered what it meant.

  The friendly man tousled Luke’s hair. “A posse is something bad that you don’t want after you.”

  “Come on,” the bigger man on horseback urged, “He’s better off breaking steers to ride than being in our line of business.”

  The two men stopped at the store and bought supplies. They paid cash for their purchases then rode quietly on.

  Spotted Horse, Luke noted, had been around the corner, acting disinterested. Luke knew better. The Osage only acted casual like that when he was suspicious. Later Luke overheard the Indian’s conversation with Noble.

  “They called themselves Jesse and Frank.�
��

  “They talked about a posse,” Luke inserted helpfully.

  “My God,” Noble said with a shake of his head. “That was Frank and Jesse James. They’re train robbers!”

  “Really?” Luke’s eyes danced with excitement. He tried to recall every word the men had said.

  “Whoa, young man,” Noble warned, seeing the look on his son’s face. “Don’t go fretting your mother about this. This is our secret.”

  Luke read the grim expression on Noble’s face. “Yes, sir,” he said with a sigh of disappointment. He had a new word, ‘posse’, and he couldn’t even tell his mother. It seemed silly, but he instinctively read the manly look Noble gave him. He guessed some things were not for women to know.

  He sat through supper uncharacteristically quiet. His mother babbled about the polite gentlemen who came by earlier. Luke squirmed in his seat, clamping his lips together to stop himself from speaking.

  “They were very understanding,” Fleta said, “when I explained we didn’t sell whiskey because of our Indian trade.”

  Luke quickly finished his meal, wanting to get away to figure out something. A few minutes later, he sat on the front porch deep in thought. He decided that outlaws who tipped their hats and were very polite must not be very mean. Cowboys had manners like that, but from what he heard, outlaws didn’t give a dang about manners and such.

  His mother accused him of acting like an outlaw when he forgot his manners. Oh well, he reckoned she didn’t know much about crooks anyway.

  Chapter Seven

  During the hot, cloudless days of September, Noble worried about the threat of a prairie fire. The grass was dry as tinder and the charred scars around the stockade told of past fires.

  Two teams of oxen were hitched to a steel plow Noble traded from a passerby. He was ready to cut his fire-breaking furrows. As he worked under the grilling sun, sweat saturated his clothing. His temper was not improved any by the dull oxen’s laborious movements. The plow’s effort provided a few shallow scratches in the hard earth.

  “Whoa!” Noble halted the team, then raised his Stetson with his thumb to survey his progress. He frowned at the strange-looking black man who rode up and was silently watching him.

  As the man came nearer, Noble studied him. He was a bare-chested and huge. He rode a floppy-eared mule that wore a woman’s straw hat. Noble blinked the sweat out of his eyes, wondering if he was seeing a mirage.

  “Good day,” the black man greeted him. Up close, his skin was coal black and the muscles bulged in his arms. He studied Noble’s handiwork and pursed his lips. “Mister, you seem to be having trouble with your plowing,” he observed.

  Irritated already, Noble gave the giant a scowl. “Well, get off that silly mule and show me how to do it right,” he said dryly.

  “Me?” the man asked, searching around as if Noble had addressed some one else.

  “You’re the only one I see.”

  “Yes, sir.” The man grinned and dismounted. Barefooted, his splayed toes were white with dust. In a few giant strides, he righted the plow as if it were a toy.

  “Gittup!” he spoke sharply to the teams and used the force of his huge shoulders to drown the plow share through the centuries of roots. The chain grew taut, the oxen strained, and the once unyielding prairie sod fell dirt side up in a lengthening perfect furrow.

  Noble removed his hat and scratched his head in amazement. Rivers came over and examined the furrow. Luke rode his pony back and forth in the fresh shallow trench.

  Whoever he was, Noble decided, this man was no stranger to plowing. His voice boomed out a hymn about Jesus, the sound attracting Fleta and Osage women to the gate to investigate.

  When he came back plowing the outside, the man introduced himself with a smile that exposed large white teeth. “Sudan Wilson.”

  “Noble McCurtain. Come, we’ll have some lunch. My oxen are not used to work like that.”

  “You’re a good man, Noble McCurtain.”

  A little taken back, Noble frowned. He looked at the man as they walked toward the store. “Why do you say that?”

  “Cause,” the man laughed openly. “I was so hungry I was thinking about eating them oxen out there.”

  Both men laughed as they entered the fort. Noble felt confident that the black man could contribute something useful to the fort’s growing population.

  Noble did notice the man’s uneasiness eating at the table with him. “Eat up,” Noble encouraged him. “We have plenty of food.”

  Sudan paused and set his spoon down. “I sure wouldn’t want not to be invited back to supper.” His wide eyes checked all of them.

  Fleta chuckled and the others joined in her laughter. “Sudan Wilson, you eat all that you want. I’ll fix more for supper.”

  “Yes ma’am.” Sudan smiled and resumed spooning more stew in his mouth.

  Noble exchanged a private nod of approval with his wife. “Well, Sudan. What else can you do besides plow?”

  “Blacksmith. I can shoe horses, make hinges. I’m a fair wood worker and ...” Sudan stopped and looked directly at Luke, “... and I can sure eat a lot.”

  “Why are you so black?” Luke asked.

  “Cause I was borned that way,” Sudan said with a good natured smile.

  “Oh,” the boy said and nodded his acceptance.

  Relieved that the man was not offended, Noble smiled at Fleta. Everything would be all right.

  Noble hired Sudan Wilson for twenty dollars a month plus food. Then he sent for coal, an anvil, a forge and supplies which came by freighter in October. The first frosts of fall gripped the plains in an icy coat.

  Sudan lived in a tepee that the Osage women made for him. He decorated the sides with his own hand printed pictures. Noble took the greatest pride in Sudan’s handiwork when the black man coerced all the men to strain their backs and rehang the long discarded gates. Noble stood back and watched them swing open and closed, satisfied the time might come when they needed their protection.

  In the afternoon, he stood watching Sudan shoe the gray horse. He squatted as the big man bent over applying the new plates.

  “You ever make a branding iron?” he asked curiously.

  “Sure. How you want it made?”

  “An M with little curls on the bottom of the outside legs,” Noble said.

  Sudan stood up and flexed his muscular back. “You better draw it, ’cause my schooling sure ain’t much.”

  “Okay.” Noble drew the design in the dust with a small stick.

  “I’ll make you two irons,” Sudan said, studying the design in the dirt. “One’ll be heating up while you’re using the other one.”

  “Good idea,” Noble said with approval.

  Besides the irons, Sudan built Fleta a double bed. The bright rope lacing was tight as fiddle strings. She and Noble spent their first night in a real bed instead of a pallet on the floor. The early part of the evening was filled with suppressed laughs at the creaking bed’s protest to their activity.

  Noble asked Sudan where he came from as they repaired the roof on the store.

  “Alabama. Mister Lincoln, he set us free but he done forgot we had to eat. See, the master always fed us. I just supposed folks would feed us. My, my, I missed a lot of meals coming here.”

  “We appreciate all you do.”

  “I’m glad. But Noble, you ever get low on money, you don’t have to pay me ’cause I like being here, like them Osages do. You and the Misses are good folks.”

  Finished with the chore, Noble started off the roof. Spotted Horse came riding in, searching around and when he saw him, the Osage rode directly up to him.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Wichitas want to winter here. Chief Tall Timber promises no whiskey this time.”

  “Tell them to come in peace.”

  The Osage nodded and trotted off to carry word back to the Indians.

  “Who are the Wichitas?” Sudan asked.

  “An Indian tribe that wintered her
e last year. An outlaw sold them some bad whiskey, they got drunk, scared Fleta and the Osage women. But I think they’ve learned their lesson.”

  Noble’s thoughts went to Izer Goodman. That rotten devil was probably down in the Territory stirring up trouble. One day, Noble vowed, he would settle the score with Izer Goodman for all the trouble he caused.

  A week later, two men arrived driving a wagon and two jaded draft horses.

  “We’ll trade you the wagon and horses for two saddles and fresh horse,” the sharp nosed younger man offered.

  Noble walked around the rig examining it. The wagon was a well-kept farm vehicle, hardly the property of the two scruffy looking men.

  “Mister—T’ Noble asked, recalling the men had not offered their names.

  “Thomas,” the sharper nosed man said reluctantly. “William Thomas.”

  “I’ll have to send for the horses; they’re out grazing.” Noble studied the gaunt sorrel team. They were well-bred Belgian mares.

  Sudan beckoned Noble over to the side. “You going to trade for them?”

  “I guess,” Noble said, keeping a cautious eye on the two men.

  “Those mares would sure have powerful mule colts,” Sudan informed him. “Yes, sir, mated to a big jack, they’d have mules that could pull two wagons at once.”

  “Sudan, find two old saddles. Then have Spotted Horse bring in two Indian ponies. This pair ain’t telling the truth. I figure they stole this outfit. They’ve nearly run the mares to death getting here. As much as I hate to trade for stolen goods, I’d hate to see those good draft horses ruined.”

  “Those two sure bear watching,” Sudan agreed.

  Noble crossed back to the pair. “I’ll trade with you. The horses will be here in a little while.”

  Thomas nodded. His partner seemed nervous and edgy. “How long?”

  “About an hour,” Noble said.

  “You sell whiskey?”

  “No, we don’t sell it here.”

  When Spotted Horse brought in the two ponies, if Thomas and his companion were not pleased, they gave no indication. They saddled up, each took a sack of things from the wagon and left at a stiff trot. Noble was relieved to see them go. Even the Osages armed themselves and sat nearby to keep an eye on them.