“Wait,” Doone surrendered. “You could get killed and scalped and I would be out the cost of her.”
“That’s the gamble you’ll have to take,” Noble said, turning to face the man.
“I’ve heard lots about you McCurtain. Can you bring me several horses next spring?”
Noble didn’t answer immediately. Finally he drawled slowly, “Well, that depends. I will send you three sound horses for her. If we capture or trade for any more, I’ll send them.” He turned to the Osage. “Go get Sudan’s new mare.”
“Does that chief work for you?” Doone asked, a little taken aback by the notion.
“We’re partners,” Noble corrected him. “He takes care of the Indian deals, I take care of the white men ones.”
Doone looked after the Osage who had grabbed a rope and set out down the stables at a trot.
“I’d say you had a real good thing going on out there these days.”
Noble smiled with cynicism. People like Doone were really frightened about the frontier. Either that, or he was isolated from the truth.
A while later, he and Spotted Horse waited for Patterson’s to open up. Their three horses were tied to the hitch rail. The chief squatted on the porch and Noble leaned against a porch post, watching the early morning traffic. Dray wagons and the open freighters passed by. Briefly Noble wondered where his ex-boss, Ben Rutherford, was at that moment.
“Noble!” Spotted Horse spoke sharply.
Noble looked up to see Izer Goodman riding out of the alley across the street. His pistol was aimed at Noble.
“Die, McCurtain, you no good son of a bitch!” Izer shouted.
Noble dove off the porch just before a spray of bullets shattered the glass front of the store. Crouched by the legs of his horses, he cursed his unarmed state. More shots zinged. The gray horse screamed then tore loose from the rail.
“That no-good-bastard has shot my horse!” Noble raged as he rose to his feet. The Osage had lunged for the Colt rifle sticking out of his saddle boot.
“Give me the gun!” Noble shouted as he watched the two retreating figures dressed in buckskin, riding pell mell out of range down the street.
“Damnit! That was Izer Goodman and Tennessee Dawson,” Noble fumed, pounding the hitch rail with his right hand.
He walked around to where the gray horse floundered on the ground. A bloody froth bubbled from the horse’s mouth. Noble was sickened as the gallant horse tried to rise. Those bastards would pay for this.
A deputy waving a pistol, came hurrying forward.
“Give me your gun,” Noble ordered the man.
“What the hell for?”
Noble reached for the chief’s Colt rifle, then aimed it at the gray’s forehead. A blast of the gun and the animal succumbed to death, out of his misery. Noble stood trembling in anger. He never noticed when Spotted Horse took the gun back.
“You again!” a swaggering voice said in disgust. The chief marshal stepped forward. “Every time you come here we have trouble.”
“You’ll have a damn sight more if I get those two in my gun sights.”
“What two?”
“The pair that rode out of that alley and commenced shooting at us.” Noble pointed to the alley. “Your stupid gun law nearly got me and this chief of the Osage gunned down.”
“By who?”
“Izer Goodman and Tennessee Dawson. They’re killers, road agents, and they trade whiskey to the Indians.”
“Can you prove all that?” the marshal asked.
“I won’t have to. Next time I’ll kill him myself,” Noble said.
“Well, I hope to God, it ain’t in Independence.”
“Are you all right, Mr. McCurtain?” Noble turned and saw Captain Rourke dismounting.
“Marshal, Mr. McCurtain’s work is too important for him to be shot down by some local bandits. His work in his region could save hundreds of civilian lives.”
Noble almost laughed at the berating the military man gave the lawman. Rourke was damn serious about this Indian business.
“My superiors would like you and the chief to come to the post to meet them.”
“Sorry, Captain.” Noble tried to be as diplomatic as he could. “I have some business to complete here in town. My wife is home practically alone. We have a long ride ahead of us and I’ve lost the best damn horse 1 ever owned.” He cast a regretful look at the silent gray.
“Please allow the military to replace the horse. I’ll send for one at once. Your service is very important to the army.”
“That won’t be necessary—”
“I insist,” Rourke interrupted him. “Within the hour, you shall have a horse.”
“Thank you then.” He motioned for the chief to go ahead of him inside the store.
Inside, Noble tried to apologize for the shattered glass, but the Pattersons seemed unconcerned about the damage.
“I’m sorry, Noble,” Alex said, with a rueful shake of his head. “If you had had your pistols, this would never have happened.”
Noble waved away his apology. His mind was still preoccupied with the captain’s words about his work with the Indians. Perhaps this peace business was more serious than he originally thought. Maybe there was more to it than he realized. Rourke certainly seemed eager to give him any assistance.
“Don’t worry about it, Alex,” he said, but Alex continued to apologize for the shooting. “We may have hit innocent people if we’d had our guns.”
“What will you ride home?” Alex asked as Noble loaded the brass ammunition in the new .44 side arms.
“The army says they will supply me a horse. If not, I’ll buy one from Doone.”
Cedric Patterson returned from supervising the clean up in the front. “A very terrible incident,” he apologized. “We’re so glad that you are all right.” Then the senior Patterson looked very seriously at him. “Noble, do you need any money to close this land deal?”
“No, thank you. We’ve had a good year,” Noble told him, pleased that his supplier obviously considered him worthy of a loan.
Noble slid the new pistols in the holsters, then buckled them on. They were heavy, but had twice the fire power of his old cap and balls. To hell with the gun law. He planned to leave as soon as the land deal was closed.
He found the attorney’s office. The lawyer Wooten was a well dressed man with mutton chop sideburns. He looked shocked by the gold coins that Noble stacked on his desk.
“Highly unusual,” the lawyer commented, “but perfectly good money, of course. You’ll need to sign here.” He pointed to a space on the parchment page. “Then after filing, the land will be yours.”
Noble bent over and paused. One stroke of the pen and 50 twenty-dollar gold pieces would change him from landless to landed. His uncle, who owned forty acres, would be shocked if he knew about the deal. Why, the man could plow for a week and not even get to the other side of Noble’s land.
“Is something wrong, sir?” Wooten asked.
“No, just thinking.” He re-dipped the pen and scrawled his name. His signature reminded him he still needed to post Fleta’s letters to the Thomas family. She would be terribly upset if he didn’t send them after all the pains that she had taken to write them.
“There is the matter of the recording and my fee,’ , Wooten said as Noble rose to his feet.
“How much?’”
“Forty dollars, sir.”
“That seems fair enough.” Noble dug the coins out of his pocket and put them on the desk. He sighed inwardly, hoping to get out of town before he spent any more money.
He left Wooten’s office and went to post Fleta’s letters. He just came out of the post office onto the wooden sidewalk when someone called his name. His right hand shot for the butt of his new Colt.
“Mr. McCurtain!” Captain Rourke and two non-coms rode through the traffic toward him. Noble blinked his eyes at the horse they led. It was a gray. A larger horse perhaps by a hand than his dead one. And a stallion to boo
t.
“Here is your horse,” Rourke said, his face flushed from his quick trip.
Noble stepped out in the street to inspect the animal.
“My commander, Colonel George Armstrong Custer, sent him along with his compliments.”
“Well.” Noble breathed through his lips, overwhelmed by the man’s generosity. “He’s much too fine a horse just for me.”
“No, sir. The commander wanted you to have him.”
“Well, you tell Colonel Custer that he’s much too generous and that I’m obliged to him.” Noble took the lead and let the horse circle around him. Traffic stopped and people gawked at the tall-hatted frontiersman and his fancy stallion.
“What do you think, Chief?”
Spotted Horse looked about to bust out of his fringed clothing. “He’s a gawd damn good one, Noble.”
“Yeah,” A halted freighter shouted. “And I hate Injuns, but he’s right about the silver horse.”
Noble ducked his head. Enough of being the spectacle, he thought with a grin. He swung aboard his new mount and set out in a run. George Custer, huh? Well, he’d meet him some day and thank the man personally for such a generous gift.
Fleta, he said silently, you aren’t going to believe all the stories I have to tell. I lost one horse and now have a better one. Fleta, I’m coming home on a helluva horse.
Chapter Nine
Fleta watched for Noble, knowing he would be returning soon. From her vantage point outside the gate, she could scan the entire brown prairie. A cold wind swept her dress around her legs.
She missed the trees of Arkansas. From her childhood in Tennessee to her life in Arkansas, there had always been trees. Trees to chop for firewood, to saw for lumber, and for shade. It was hard to adjust to the Kansas prairie where trees were scarce. She had a fleeting notion of joining Sudan to see the trees that he planned to cut down deep in the Indian Territory. The only trees nearby were a few spindly ones south on the creek that served the Indians as a communal bathing place. The hills at home would be bare now except for the dark cedars and a few pines. She wondered if Wilbourne would be there to see them. Wilbourne. Strange she had not thought of him in a long time. Perhaps because she had been so busy with the store or perhaps it was because Noble was gone. Her thoughts were divided between the two men; niggling doubts inside left her queasy. The man she had abandoned would no doubt survive. Oh, why didn’t Noble come home?
She turned and walked through the gate. Sudan appeared, startling her. He was a giant figure in his buffalo coat, his wiry hair bushy and in need of a cut.
“He’ll be coming back soon, Misses,” Sudan said quietly.
Fleta smiled at him. “Yes, I know. Guess I’m just a worrier, Sudan.”
He nodded. “Noble McCurtain is a powerful man for his years. But I guess you knowed all that when you married him.”
Fleta swallowed a painful lump. She wasn’t really married to Noble. She lowered her head to hide the sudden ache of tears.
“Misses Fleta, I never meant no harm,” Sudan said, horrified at seeing her sad expression.
“I know, I know.” The wind stung her face as she looked up at the gentle man. “It’s a long story, Sudan. Yes, my husband is a good man,” she said, emphasizing the word husband.
The black man smiled with understanding. My woman, he thought, is buried in a grove of maples at home. ’Cept my home is here now, ’cause I’d probably cry every day if I had to look at her cemetery plot.
Sudan studied the eastern horizon. Noble, he thought silently, you come home real soon. I ache to go down south in the Indian Territory and get some logs for the Misses’ new rooms. Rivers said there were some big trees there. Walnuts with rich brown heartwood would last a lifetime. Luke probably would use them when the property was passed to him. Sudan knew Luke was not Noble’s true son, but the boy came from good stock. Maybe that was what was bothering the Misses. She must have lost Luke’s daddy.
Sudan walked back to his blacksmith shop. The edge of his hewing axe was razor sharp when he tested it with his thumb. All the yokes were in good shape. He had checked and replaced all the bad links on the chains. Now he was bored. He sighed heavily. Noble McCurtain, you hurry that gray horse on home now.
Noble was pushed harder to get home. The new stallion was a handful and the miles had not settled him. Spotted Horse’s mount kept up but Noble was concerned that they might be pushing the good Kentucky horse too hard. Indians had little regard for a horse, except to use them for their own purposes.
“Let’s go on to the fort tonight,” Noble said as they rested and chewed on buffalo jerky.
“It will be after sundown when we get there,” Spotted Horse said.
Noble twisted off another bite and shrugged. Sundown was soon enough; he was anxious to tell Fleta about the land purchase, the stallion, and Izer’s attempt to shoot him. Maybe he wouldn’t tell her about Izer. But no, that wasn’t right. She’d have to know. There would never be any peace until Izer Goodman was dead.
He swung up in the saddle. Colonel Custer had been generous. Maybe someday he could send him a suitable colt from the horse to repay him.
The next morning, Sudan ducked to enter the store. The sight of Noble seated at the table pleased him. He heard him arrive during the night, but knowing Noble would be too tired to do any talking, he waited until morning to visit him. The stallion in the pen outside was a new arrival. Where was the gray horse that Noble thought so much of?
“Sudan, hello there. Come and have a seat,” Noble invited. “Fleta says you’re eager to go cut the logs for her house.”
“Yes sir, Mr. Noble.” He sat down opposite Noble, glad to have his boss home again. Now the Misses would be happy.
“Well, I brought home some new repeaters and ammunition,” Noble said, sipping coffee. “You take one in case you need it. Is Rivers going with you?”
“Yes sir.” He watched Noble rise and collect a new lever action rifle. He took the gun eagerly from Noble’s outstretched hand. “This is a fine gun.”
Sudan handled the gun almost lovingly. So this was a Winchester, he mused. Why, a man could stop an army with a gun like this. Now that was Noble McCurtain, always giving you something. He’d give a black man a new gun and send him off with a fortune in tools and draft animals without a second thought. Why, if I was a mind to, I could go to parts unknown with it all. Trust, that’s what Noble McCurtain had, and respect for old Sudan. His chest swelled with pride and he beamed a wide toothy smile at his benefactor.
Sudan was glad that Rivers came along with him to cut the logs. He could see Rivers was proud of the new gun. That Osage had a curiosity about blacksmith work. Indians were different. They’d watch and watch, then one day they would do whatever they had been observing.
Besides, Rivers drove oxen better than the other Indians. Some of his words were probably curses in his own language, but Sudan enjoyed listening to the Indian swear at the dull oxen.
He and Rivers left at mid-morning. A bright sun promised to warm them. Six sets of oxen and the Belgium mares, now shiny and spirited, left the fort with Sudan who rode proudly on his big high-stepping, new mare.
They made camp before sundown. Rivers said the timber was still two days south. Sudan struck steel to flint and made a fire to cook the beans that Fleta had sent along.
“You sleep,” Rivers said, “I’ll guard.”
“I’ll help you. You come and wake me for the last half of the night.”
Rivers never mentioned an enemy being nearby. Perhaps the Osage was just concerned that someone might steal the stock. Sudan puffed on his stub of a pipe. The smoke he drew tasted dry and sweet. The temperature was dropping. He would sleep until Rivers woke him.
Two days passed uneventfully. They drove into a river bottom forested with impressive black-trunked walnuts.
The steers were turned out to graze the brown grass. After hobbling the horses to keep them nearby, the men set a buffalo hide cover over a frame of willows to use f
or a shelter and to cache their supplies.
Sudan began chopping the first tree. The wedged chips flew. He felt his muscles flex. He enjoyed this almost as much as making love to a willing women. Chip by chip, his axe bit out the wood. This work was as important as smithing.
Rivers limbed the fallen trees. Then he watched Sudan hew out the square logs from the rounded trunks.
On Sunday, Sudan rested. His muscles were sore but he was satisfied that in a few days he would have all the wood they could sled home with the oxen. Rivers used the sabbath to sleep.
Taking his rifle, Sudan roamed the bottoms. They had adequate camp meat from the deer he had shot earlier. As he walked the river’s edge, an odd object on the far bank caught his eye. A body lay on the erosion-exposed shore across the river. The person was either dead or unconscious for no one slept in such a place or in such an unnatural position.
Sudan removed his boots. He slid off his leather pants and placed them over his new rifle to hide it. Soon he was waist deep in chilly water, his bare feet on the smooth rocks and soft mud. His brown eyes held fast on the figure across the river.
The cold air struck his wet skin as he waded out of the shallows. When he was near enough to get a good look at the body, he was surprised to see it was a woman. An Indian woman. Cautiously he searched around to be sure no one else was nearby. The side of her head was mud smeared from where she had fallen or fainted. He rolled her over and whistled softly. She was perhaps twenty years old; a nasty looking wound oozed from her right shoulder. She’d been shot.
He gave a quick check of the bank above. Nothing. The woman was alive and moaning weakly. Her buckskin blouse was blood soaked over her breast. Sudan had many questions he wanted to ask her. The pressing question was, how close were her enemies? He scooped her up and plunged into the chilly river. He felt an urgency to get back to his weapon.
Though her limp weight was no burden, Sudan remained concerned that he might slip and douse his new found obligation. He ignored the icy cold water. Past the deepest swirling water, he held her high and turned slightly. Had he heard horses? He strained to listen. Nothing but crows calling.
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