Noble's Way

by Dusty Richards

  Gently he laid her down on the grass, then pulled on his britches, and boots. No time to dry; he had to get back and wake up Rivers.

  The woman obviously needed medical attention. Her face was beautiful, but pale. Her wound was seeping again. Sudan frowned and scanned the far bank. He could hear nothing except the river’s rushing. He laid the rifle across the woman, scooped her up again and hurried back to camp. His urgency was a mixture of concern for the woman and the fear of whoever might be after her.

  He glanced down at her face again. Her skin was olive, although pale due to a loss of blood. Her nose was slender and her lashes dark and very long.

  Sudan was relieved when Rivers emerged from the shelter at his approach.

  “Get some water,” he instructed the Osage. “She’s been shot.”

  Carefully Sudan placed her inside on his bedroll, laying the rifle nearby. He drew the Bowie knife from his belt, then gently split open the pull-over leather blouse to expose the wound above her breast.

  Her eyes opened and fear immediately flashed across them.

  “I am a friend,” Sudan said quietly. The words did not satisfy her and she tried to rise. Sudan put the knife aside to physically restrain her from getting up.

  “Hold still. My name’s Sudan. I ain’t going to kill you, but if you keep fighting me, the bleeding’s gonna kill you for sure.”

  Her dark brown eyes glazed over and she fell into unconsciousness. Sudan scowled, afraid that she might be dying.

  “Lordy, don’t do that, girl. Hold on, Injun. We can fix that hole. You just don’t go and die on me.” He reached for his saddle bag and drew out a cotton sack that would serve as a bandage.

  Where in the hell was Rivers? Damn, he was taking long enough to get water.

  The Osage threw open the flap of the shelter. Something was wrong. Sudan could see it in his face.

  “Riders coming.” Rivers set the bucket down and gestured with his thumb over his shoulder.

  “How many?”

  The Osage indicated several. Sudan jerked up his lever action and headed out, rising to his full height once he was outside. He levered a shell in the chamber and viewed the invaders. River did the same with his rifle.

  Short of the clearing, a buck wearing a soldier’s cap raised his hand in a peace sign.

  “What the hell does he want, Rivers?”

  “They’re Wichitas. Not ones who come to fort.”

  “Ask him what he wants,” Sudan said, noticing the war paint on the five men’s faces.

  The Osage said something that Sudan could not understand. Sudan quickly appraised the enemy. They were riding war horses. Two of them carried lances and buffalo shields. The muzzle loaders the others carried did not look impressive. Their leader had two plow handles sticking out of his waistband. Probably cap and ball pistols and the only weapons capable of rapid fire.

  Rivers’ exchange with the leader was brief. The Wichita chief was angry.

  “What does he say?” Sudan hissed, growing impatient with the scowling bunch. They didn’t wear robes, despite the cold; so obviously the Indians were prepared to fight.

  “He says the woman is Comanche and belongs to him. She threatened his life, so he must kill her.”

  “He aims to kill her, huh?”

  Rivers nodded without hesitation.

  Sudan glared at them. “Tell him no!”

  The Osage seemed undecided. Sudan drew a deep breath and raised up his rifle barrel. His wet britches were cold and the leather had begun to stiffen. He hoped he could move fast enough if he had to.

  “Tell him no!” he repeated.

  The Wichita spoke and Rivers quickly intetpreted. “He says to tell Beaver Tail what the black man wants.”

  “The woman,” Sudan said curtly.

  At his brief words, Beaver Tail laughed mockingly and the other bucks joined him.

  Sudan clamped his teeth in rage. So the son-of-a-bitch understood English. Well, fine. That would make it easier to deal with the red devil.

  “Beaver Tail!” Sudan shouted. “You go for one of those pistols, get yourself ready to die. Rivers and me got those repeaters loaded to the top.”

  If the Chief understood Sudan’s threat, his cold silence at least betrayed that he was considering the Winchesters.

  “Move a ways over there,” Sudan said under his breath to Rivers. “These dumb asses are itching to die.”

  The Osage obeyed, his rifle at the ready. Beaver Tail was forced to dart his eyes from one to the other of them.

  “Beaver Tail, either drive or cut!” Sudan ordered, suppressing a cold shiver. “Do it now or git!”

  For a moment, Sudan suspected the man was tempted to jerk one of his pistols out of the blue waistband. Then he spoke to his braves.

  Sudan’s finger was on the trigger, ready to fire.

  The chief turned his horse around as if to leave and with his back turned made the move Sudan expected. The chief went for one of his pistols.

  Sudan’s Winchester barked and the leader pitched forward over the neck of his pony. Rivers took the lead lance-bearer off his horse. Powder smoke boiled as Sudan moved to his right, aiming the .44/.40 with deadly accuracy.

  Men wailed and the battle was over in a matter of minutes.

  Six Indians, as well as three horses, lay dead or wounded. Rivers rose from his knees and nodded at Sudan.

  The rifles were everything he expected them to be. He nodded his approval when Rivers mentioned he would check the dead. Sudan went back inside the shelter and dropped to his knees beside the injured women. A single shot rang out. Sudan cocked his head. Either one of the wounded was now dead or a horse had been put out of its misery.

  With the kerchief, Sudan washed the blood on the woman’s shoulder and the top of her firm breast. When he rinsed the cloth, a crimson stain spread in the water.

  Grimly, he studied the wound. The bullet was still in her shoulder. It probably came from one of Beaver Tail’s pistols, Sudan surmised. He measured the size of the hole with his small finger. He recalled in their camp supplies was a small knife. He drew it out and tested the edge. Sudan knew he would need a stone to whet it on.

  When he drew the flap back, he saw Rivers scalping the Wichitas. Sweet Jesus, help me. He turned away, so shaken by the scene he gave up his search for a rock to use as a whetstone.

  Once again, Sudan knelt over his patient, then began to prove with the knife blade. The blood flowed freely again. The woman twisted in pain. He used his palm on her breastbone to restrain her when he gouged for the lead with the blade. The knife’s point tipped the bullet and he felt it loosen.

  “Lie still, Comanche girl. I have it. It’s coming out. I’ve about got the dammed ball out of you,” Sudan grunted through panted breaths.

  Her eyes flickered and blinked as Sudan held the bullet between his bloodied finger tips.

  “I got it. See. Lord, gal, you’ll be getting better in no time,” he promised as he washed off the fresh blood and pressed a bandage against the wound.

  “Wish I knew how to stop your bleeding.” he spoke his thoughts aloud. “There’s a woman back home who saved black spider webs for this sort of thing. I wish she was here.” Sudan shook his head. “I know how to stop this, but damn, it sure will hurt bad.”

  There seemed nothing else to do but what he had to do.

  “Rivers! Bring me one of their gunpowder horns and hurry up about it,” he shouted.

  The Osage came inside carrying the powder horn.

  “Hold her down,” Sudan ordered as he poured the gray-black granules out of the polished white cow horn and onto the wound.

  “I’m going out and get some fire. You hold her good,” Sudan said.

  He pushed out of the shelter and lighted a twig from the fire’s coals. Shielding the flame, he carefully backed up inside the lean-to. Taking a deep breath, Sudan straddled the woman’s hips.

  “Put something in her mouth to bite down on,” he told the Osage.

  Rivers
hesitated, then after a brief struggle, stuck a rein from a bridle in her mouth.

  “Cover her eyes,” Sudan said, holding the flame protectively as she tried to roll from beneath his weight.

  He touched the flame to the powder and a flash resulted. Despite both men’s efforts, the girl’s body arched up in pain. A muffled scream escaped from her bridled mouth. Sudan bit his own lip in sympathy.

  Smoke and the stench of burning human flesh singed his nose. Both men coughed as they released her.

  “Bad medicine,” Rivers pronounced as he hurried outside.

  Gently Sudan removed the leather from her slack mouth. Bending low. he listened to her breathing. The blackened wound no longer bled. Quickly he bandaged her shoulder. When he finished, he mopped her perspiring brow. Despite the cold, he was hot and sweaty. She seemed to be asleep or perhaps unconscious when he covered her with his blankets.

  He rose and began changing his still wet clothes. He looked down at her over his shoulder and spoke softly to the semi-conscious girl.

  “Comanche girl, I sure hope I don’t live to regret shooting those bucks out there for you. But you are as pretty as any woman I ever saw.”

  Chapter Ten

  The loggers were returning. Noble was pleased; he had missed the black man. Sudan seemed to be a closer link to the outside world than the Osage.

  “He really can’t come too quickly for me,” Fleta said with shake of her head. “There isn’t room in here to turn around.” She stared at the stacks of store goods crowding the room. “I’ll be glad to have the new additions completed.”

  “We’ll get you more room. Maybe some more shelves, too,” Noble promised, ignoring her irritability. He grimaced as he looked around. Fleta had a right to complain. As a living and working structure, the log cabin seemed to grow smaller each day.

  He put on his hat. “I’ll ride out and keep Sudan company.”

  “Do that, Noble,” Fleta said with a stiff, but the twinkle in her eye belied her sour tone.

  Noble admired her willowy form. He exchanged an intimate glance with her. At times, he couldn’t believe that she belonged to him.

  A little later, Noble reined up short of Sudan’s procession. Rivers led a travois burdened horse. Noble studied it curiously. From his position, he could make out a human form in the sling, but since neither Rivers or Sudan was hurt—who was the injured person?

  He rode close to Rivers. “Who’s hurt?”

  “A Comanche woman. Belongs to him,” the Osage jerked a thumb in Sudan’s direction.

  “How’s that?”

  “Big battle. We win. New gun works good.” Rivers held up the Winchester and grinned broadly.

  Noble looked at the Osage and suppressed a shudder when he noticed the drying scalps dangling from Rivers’ belt. He averted his eyes, wondering what the men were involved in. Well, at least they were back safely. He smiled.

  The Osage nodded, clearly satisfied they had won over whatever enemy they had fought.

  Noble reined the gray around so he could see who was in the travois. Their patient was awake, but did not acknowledge his presence. Her beauty startled Noble. Sudan had certainly found a rare flower. Apparently the woman was sick; her shoulder was bandaged but there was a small flicker of life in her that struck like flint.

  Noble rode to the rear, mentally making an inventory of the logs, an impressive number. The oxen teams seemed trail-broken and were sledding along practically unguided.

  “You’ve sure done great,” Noble told Sudan with approval.

  “I hope so.” Sudan flashed his large white teeth in a grin. “You seen the woman?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, those new rifles sure spit out the bullets. I just hope we don’t have any trouble at the fort over our battle. A band of Wichitas were after her. They’d wounded her.”

  Noble nodded absently, not quite clear about Sudan’s story. “I’m glad the new rifles worked so well.”

  “Yep, they poured out them .44 slugs.”

  “And the woman. What’s her name?” Noble asked quietly.

  “I guess it’s Gunsmoke for now,” Sudan said with a heavy frown.

  “Oh?” Noble wondered more about the incident. “What else?”

  Sudan shrugged his massive shoulders. “Can’t say. She ain’t entirely a grateful person. Way I see it, them bucks aimed to kill her. She just don’t care. She’s all locked up inside or something.”

  “Maybe she’ll come around,” Noble said, trying to reassure his friend.

  “I hope so. Rivers gave her the name Gunsmoke. We had to stop her from bleeding to death so I burned some gunpowder in the wound.”

  Noble’s brows raised. “That worked?”

  “Whew, yes. I sure hope she gets better, cause she is one pretty woman.”

  Both men laughed as they moved toward the fort. It was good to hear the blacksmith’s loud booming voice again. The logs he brought would be a big start for Fleta’s addition. In time, the problem of the Comanche woman’s apathy would be resolved. Still, Noble had an inkling there could be trouble because of her.

  At the fort, Mannah took charge of Gunsmoke. Rivers and the Osage men held a talk about the scalps. Sudan broke it up to get them to help unharness and unyoke the teams.

  Fleta joined Noble on the porch. “What’s wrong with the woman they brought in?”

  “Wounded.”

  She tapped her foot impatiently. “I can see that.”

  “She seems to be very unhappy. I guess she misses her people,” Noble said with a shrug.

  Fleta watched the Indians working around the oxen. A shudder passed through her. “Those scalps that Rivers has. They make me—”

  “Never mind,” Noble interrupted her. “Come on inside.” Noble shook his head behind her back. “That’s just his way of bragging.”

  “Well, I don’t like it, do you?” She paused to study Noble, who was frowning at something happening outside. “What is it?”

  “Just checking.” Noble noticed that a Wichitas had joined the men. How would they take his men’s actions? Apparently, Rivers and Sudan had tangled with some of the Wichita’s tribesmen. He sighed silently. There was no need to upset Fleta by telling her about it. He would just have to keep an eye out and stay close to the fort until he saw which way the wind would blow.

  Noble felt certain that the Wichitas were planning something. Twice he drew Spotted Horse aside, but the Osage could not or would not say what the camp outside was thinking. On the second day after Sudan’s return, Noble stopped Luke as he started to ride out the gate. “Luke, I want you to ride in the fort today.”

  “Why?” The boy looked at him with a frown.

  “You just help Sudan today,” he said curtly. His words and grim expression were enough to impress the importance of his instructions to Luke. Crestfallen, the boy turned his pony around and rode back to the stables. Noble realized how the boy felt, but the pending breech in the peace between the Osage and the Wichitas took precedence.

  “Noble, is something wrong? Is there some kinda trouble?” Fleta asked from behind him.

  He turned slowly, measuring his words before he spoke. “I’m not sure. I’m just being cautious.”

  She twisted her hands together. Why had he ordered Luke inside if nothing were wrong? “All right, Noble.” It was an effort not to ask her husband more than that, but she forced back the words. Instead she turned and went back inside the store.

  Later that afternoon, Chief Tall Timber, followed by several other Indians came through the gate in a procession. Noble watched them warily as he stood on the porch. When they halted a few yards short of him, he nodded a greeting, his muscles tense, a headache beginning at his temples.

  “We have come to talk,” the chief said slowly.

  Noble agreed and they all started toward the open space near the wall. His footsteps felt leaden as he wondered what they wanted. Did they expect him to make some kind of decision or judgement? Hell, he didn’t know a damn
thing about Indian law.

  They sat down on the ground in a council circle. Once seated, they looked at him expectantly.

  From inside the store, Fleta watched the proceedings. Her nerves became taut with expectation. However the Wichitas did not look aggressive. Still ... Noble was greatly outnumbered.

  “Misses?”

  She whirled, startled by Sudan who came in by the back door. He was dressed in his buffalo coat and carried a rifle.

  “What are they doing out there?” he asked, peering over her shoulder to look out the window.

  “I-I’m not sure, Sudan.”

  “Humph! Maybe I better go out there.” He started for the door, a repeater in his hand.

  “Sudan, wait!” Fleta stopped him. “If Noble has trouble, we could help him more from in here.”

  Sudan scowled and stood silent for a moment. “Yes, ma’am. You could be right.” He moved back to view the council from the window.

  “Where’s Luke?” Fleta asked abruptly, realizing that if her son was not with Sudan, he could be anywhere.

  “Don’t worry none, Misses. I left him busy doing a chore out back.”

  Fleta closed her eyes in silent prayer. Lord, please don’t let anything happen.

  The day was warmed by the sun. Noble sat cross legged, understanding only part of the oration and longing for a translator. The Wichita seated on either side of him grunted an occasional response to the chiefs monologue.

  As time crawled by on tense feet, Noble’s irritation grew. Just what in the hell was going on. Were they plotting war or what? When his exasperation reached the stage of simmering anger, Noble shifted his position and prepared to do something—anything—to find out what the damned muttering was all about.

  No-Eyes slipped up in front of him and squatted on his haunches. He peered at Noble with a deep frown. Noble grew rigid, knowing this was the moment he would find out what was going on with the enigmatic Indians.

  “Noble,” No-Eyes said softly, “What the Wichitas have said is that someone must take this chief’s wives. Now that he has gone to his ancestors place, the Osage must take his women.”