Noble's Way

by Dusty Richards

  They slipped into the wallow. His pockets weighted with the brass cartridges, he pulled off the carbine’s fringed holster. A south wind swept his face as he dug out shells and placed them on the top of the bank. He was grateful the breeze would carry off the powder smoke so he could see them. Sudan laid the rifle on the bank. Come on, you howling devils, I’m ready.

  Dawn cracked on the horizon and he saw the distant outline of riders. He checked on Gunsmoke; she was resting her elbows on the bank, the Colt in both hands. He wanted to warn her not to waste ammunition, but was afraid if he spoke he would break her concentration.

  Then he felt the vibration of running horses beneath his elbows. The earth shook, warscreams slit the air as the Kiowas came. He sighted into the glaring sun at their outlines, squinting his eyes down the bead.

  The air filled with the ‘yi-yi’ war cries now. Sudan judged the range; his rifle cracked and a Kiowa tumbled off his pony. A second round had another one down. The third took a pony. Four rounds and they swerved to the north. Sudan rose and dropped a red and white pony; the rider jumped up, but Gunsmoke’s pistol blasted him. Hit squarely by the ball, the buck arched his back. He staggered until he pitched face down.

  The party was well out of the rifle’s range when they pulled up. Sudan quickly reloaded, his breath coming in gulps. From the corner of his eye, he saw something that made him stop his rapid actions.

  “Get back here!” he shouted. Busy and bent low Gunsmoke was gathering bows, arrows, and lances. What the hell did she think she was doing? He glanced to the enemy regrouping and yelling. A sigh of relief escaped him as she raced back, dumped the armload and jumped into the pit.

  “What are we going to do with them?” he asked, looking from her to the weapons on the side of the slope.

  She just smiled and nodded proudly. “More Kiowas.”

  “Yeah,” he said wryly, turning back.

  The Kiowas charged again. Screaming, they came in a long line of low riders, shooting muzzle loaders and arrows.

  The Winchester spoke and a horse screamed, going end over end, smashing its rider.

  Arrows swished, pinpricking the ground around them. One tucked at Sudan’s sleeve. He was satisfied that it had only pierced his coat. He fired again and again, at times hitting a rider or a horse. With wonder, he noticed that Gunsmoke was shooting a bow and arrow.

  She struck a Kiowa horse in the neck. His rider fled afoot unscathed, despite two .44/.40 rounds sent in his direction. The buck was rescued by another who swept in. Her final arrow sent a pinto—struck in the hind quarter—into a bucking fit.

  The rifle barrel was hot, the heated oil smelled burnt. He reloaded as she quickly gathered more arrows.

  “We’re going to hold them,” he said.

  “Yes, we will,” she said so perfectly and so confidently he had to smile.

  Sweet Jesus, she could talk English if she wanted to. He wondered what else she would do to shock him? He admired her grit; she made a helluva ally.

  The Kiowa were coming back, head on. Suicide! They began their charge. Spent powder burned his nose, his eyes smarted, tears streaked down his black face. His throat begged for a drink of anything wet.

  Screaming like mad men, the Indians came at the wallow. Sudan fired, piling horses and Indians, still they continued to come. Gunsmoke’s arrows took a toll, but three Kiowas were left when the Winchester fell on an empty chamber. He started to reload.

  “Sudan!” she shouted, ready with a lance for him.

  He dropped the rifle and caught the shaft. Driving it upward into the rider that leaped over him, he threw himself aside. Intended for him, a spear struck into the bank. He jerked it out of the ground and whirled.

  A great scream escaped his mouth as he thrust the spear up with all his force into the belly of the horse above him. The rider fell into the pit and scrambled lithely to his feet in time for Sudan to implant the stone point of the spear into his breast work of quills.

  A pistol shot caused him to whirl around as the last fighter fell beside him. The dead Indian’s knife arm was outstretched ready to pounce on Sudan.

  Gunsmoke gave him a quick glance then scrambled up the bank. He grabbed the Winchester and jammed shells into the receiver. Were there any Kiowas left?

  Her pistol roared and another Kiowa was down. Out of breath, Sudan searched the field of dead men and horses. He frowned at Gunsmoke gathering up the remaining live horses. Proudly she delivered them to him.

  “Well, gal, at least we ain’t horse poor,” he said, taking the reins. She was gone again, her brown legs flashing below her calf length buckskin skirt.

  He sat down and scratched the side of his curly head. Mr. Lincoln set me free, he mused. Maybe the Kiowas had done that for Gunsmoke. He wasn’t certain about much, except that the battle was over and they’d won.

  He had no desire to sit amongst a bunch of dead Indians. Sudan rose to his feet and led his string of war horses—which she had collected—south of the wallow. After he had picketed them, he took Gunsmoke’s and his own horses to put with the others.

  His thirst quenched with water from the canvas bag, Sudan gnawed on a piece of jerky and watched the woman. He blinked as he realized she was skinning one of the dead horses. He supposed she had a purpose behind her actions.

  “Gunsmoke, ain’t you in a hurry to get home?” He joined her and drew out his big knife to help.

  She paused and shook her head. “My name is Yellow Deer. We go back to your smelly tepee. Yellow Deer will make a new tepee with these hides. When it smells bad, we move.”

  “Gawdamighty! We could have done that before,” he said slicing the hide from the carcass. “Yellow Deer, huh?”

  “Yellow Deer.”

  “Well hell. Here I’ve killed fourteen Kiowas, four Wichitas and Lord knows how many ponies to find out that your name is Yellow Deer. How many hides do we need?” When she didn’t answer, he put a hand on her arm to get her attention. “How many?”

  She smiled slyly. “All of the dead ones.”

  He shook his head and bent back to his chore. Her hand stopped him and he looked at her questioning.

  “Yellow Deer will do this, Sudan.”

  “No. We both will.”

  “Good.” She smiled at him in approval.

  Sudan shed his coat. The rising sun was growing hot. He sighed with resignation. Heaven only knew what else she would want to collect before they left. Sudan felt proud, working shoulder to shoulder with her as they finished skinning the first horse.

  “You are a plenty good man.” She gave him a bump with her hip and rose up to stretch her back.

  With a great effort, Sudan rolled the half-peeled horse over. “There must be five more horses. Are you sure we need all of them?”

  She nodded and resumed her skinning. When Sudan glanced up at her, they exchanged a silent look of challenge. Wordlessly they raced to finish the skinning.

  He intended to be miles away from this place by nightfall. Ghosts or no ghosts, he wanted no part of the Kiowa spirits.

  “Five more?” he repeated, but she didn’t answer.

  By sundown, they were loaded with beadwork, Kiowa head-dresses, silver conchoes, and copper jewelry. A bundle of lances, bows and arrows, even buffalo-hide shields and a half dozen muzzle loaders were added to their bounty. Sudan was relieved she hadn’t scalped or mutilated any of the corpses.

  His arms aching, Sudan was glad to ride away from the fly-infested death scene at last. The smell of butchered horses was heavy in his nose as he turned his horse toward home. Yellow Deer whipped the laggards with a Kiowa quirt while he led them.

  When daylight began to fade and the warmth of the sun followed Sudan and the woman stopped to camp at a small stream. After unpacking all their new wealth and hobbling the horses, they walked down to the stream.

  He washed his hands and beard-stubbled face. Free of the remaining stiff blood, he dried his hands on a kerchief. Wearily, he raised up, still amazed that he and his w
oman had survived a battle with the suicidal Kiowas.

  “Sudan!” she called, unfurling the bedroll.

  He frowned, wondering what she was up to. Then a slow smile spread over his mouth. She wiggled out of her deerskin dress for him. He felt revitalized as he walked toward her. His eyes locked on her bronze body, bathed in the red sunset’s last spears. Sudan started to undress, his eyes never leaving hers.

  Out checking on his livestock, Noble had been studying the dust of a herd of horses on the move for over an hour. It might be Sudan returning. The direction was right, but why would the black man have so many horses? He waited patiently, his mind roaming at will. How long had the black man been gone? Two weeks.

  Noble stood in the stirrups and squinted. The unmistakable rider in the lead was the giant black man. Who did he have with him? And where in hell did he get all those horses? When he dropped back in the saddle, Noble shook his head in wonder. It didn’t matter; it was enough to know Sudan was returning unharmed.

  Noble raced the stallion to meet him. A good feeling spread through Noble as he rode. Sudan was back. They greeted each other with wide smiles and handshakes.

  Noble looked over the pack string behind Sudan. “You sure brought a lot of stuff. The Comanches give you all this?”

  “Kiowas,” Sudan waved to the rider in the back of the pack. “Remember Gunsmoke?” he asked Noble. “Her real name is Yellow Deer.”

  “Hello, Mr. Noble,” she said shyly, keeping her eyes averted from Noble’s.

  “Yes, hello,” Noble said in surprise. It was the same woman, all right, but the woman he knew as Gunsmoke would never have spoken to him. Why, she’d hardly even said a word to Fleta.

  “She has enough horse hides to make a new tepee for us. We even cut poles along the way to use for our new home,” Sudan said with a proud smile at Yellow Deer.

  Noble looked from the woman to the black man. “I wish you both much happiness.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Noble.” Sudan winked. “Let’s go, Yellow Deer. We need to get home.”

  “Home,” she repeated and actually smiled at Noble.

  He sat for a moment in bewilderment, then fell in beside Sudan. There were things in life a man wasn’t supposed to know. The change in a woman was one of them. He had to remember her real name, Noble reminded himself. He silently repeated “Yellow Deer.”

  Chapter Twelve

  In the spring of 1867, Fleta waited for the first wagon train customers to push west. The Wichitas had already moved south to intercept their brother, the buffalo. She reflected a moment. At eleven years, Luke seemed far too old for his age. Noble was no help to her either, encouraging her son to try grown up things.

  Sudan had long since finished the house additions, twice put aside for warehouse room constructions. At least their bed no longer fell under every customer’s scrutiny. Now their talks and love making were accomplished discreetly behind a closed door. It was a comforting fact that freed her from any fear that some Indian might barge in at the very peak of their passion.

  All the Indian women were pregnant, except Yellow Deer and Mannah.

  “Will we catch the Santa Fe trail on west?” a big man in patched suit asked her one day in the store.

  “You’d best ask my husband,” she said as she added up his order.

  “Yes ma’am. Say didn’t that Injun woman call you Fleta?”

  “Yes.” She looked up at the man, wondering why he was so curious about her name.

  The man scratched his sideburns and looked undecided. “Well, I was in the war in ’64 with a man by the name of Wilbourne Corey. He had a wife by that name. Never heard it before. Coincidence, ain’t it?”

  She hoped her face had not paled. Her lips pursed together, she shook her head and mumbled, “McCurtain is my last name.”

  “Didn’t that Corey man live in Arkansas?” the man’s wife asked.

  “Yes, but this lady doesn’t have time to listen to your patter. Pay her for the geehaws.”

  Fleta wanted to run and hide. She had not even thought about Wilbourne Corey in a long, long time. Now it bothered her to think about his lonely return to the empty cabin. She also knew if Noble hadn’t joined them, she and Luke would never have survived.

  It was an effort to stay in the store, waiting on customers the rest of the day. She was tempted to leave the store in Mannah’s hands and rush out to the bedroom to hide. But that would be cowardly and she would not be guilty of such action. She loved Noble and it was her place to clerk the store. Fortunately, she was able to work up a small amount of confidence. Yet, the day passed slowly. She had to recheck her additions on bills of goods, apologizing to a nameless face when she discovered her mistake.

  That evening she still left anxious. As she washed dishes, her mind wandered. A fork fell from her fingers on the floor.

  “Damnit!” she swore softly.

  Noble looked up from his tea. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.”

  “If it’s nothing, then why are you irritated?”

  “It has been a tiring day.”

  “I’ll hire you a clerk.”

  “I don’t need any more help. Mannah and I nearly fall over each other.”

  “I’ll make the store bigger.”

  She looked at the ceiling for strength. “Noble McCurtain, can’t I have one bad day?”

  “Yes.” He looked at her worriedly. “People are sure early this year. The grass isn’t even green and they’re pushing west with eagerness written on their faces. “

  “Hmm,” Fleta mumbled as she bent to check on her biscuits.

  “The further west they go, the less enthusiasm they’ll have, for they won’t have forage for their livestock.”

  She slammed the pan of biscuits on the rangetop. “Oh, damn!”

  “What’s damned now? Did you bum yourself?”

  Hands on her hips, she glared at him. “No, the biscuits. I’m just tired. Oh!” She tore off her apron and stalked out through the store. After wrestling with the stubborn latch, she went on the porch and out in the yard to vent her anger.

  The Osage men frowned at her from their positions in front of the tepees. They sat in their store bought clothes, rifles across their laps. Nothing escaped their eyes, especially hard case customers who drifted in from time to time. Their armed and alert presence was enough to make any would-be troublemaker pay and leave peacefully.

  Spotted Horse rose and walked over to her. “Misses, when the buffalo come, we will feast on tongue and hump.”

  “Yes,” she said, her mood melting away in the cool evening air.

  “They will come soon and chase away the worry of winter.”

  “I think it would help. We’re ready for spring.”

  He nodded and exchanged a warm smile with her before he returned to the others.

  “Mama?” Luke called. “Noble has the food ready. Are you coming to eat now?”

  “Yes, Luke. I’m coming.” Maybe fresh buffalo meat would help her. She glanced at the Indians as she went toward the house. They were such simple yet complicated people. Spotted Horse had known when she was upset. But he had not asked why. That was an Indian’s way though. Their philosophy was to take their minds off their current problems. What problems? She sighed and went to rejoin her family.

  A slow uneventful week passed. Three riders came in for tobacco and candy. They were polite young men, almost awkward in her presence.

  “We’re going to Color-ado,” one said, almost as if he expected praise.

  “That’s nice,” Fleta said with a smile.

  “Ma’am?”

  “Yes?”

  “Guess it wouldn’t insult you if I took the liberty to say ... well, you sure are putty.”

  “Thank you,” Fleta said demurely, feeling the color flood her cheeks.

  The young man sauntered off, a little hesitantly to the door. “I mean it,” he said, snatching off his floppy hat.

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  She almost
laughed aloud after he left. Alone at last, she decided to work on the books. Mannah was straightening shelves.

  “Where’s Luke?” Fleta asked.

  “With Sudan.”

  “Learning how to kill Kiowas, I suppose, ” she said pensively.

  “No. Sudan does not boast. They are probably working on iron things.”

  Fleta nodded. Purty, he had said. The poor boy must have vision problems. She set the pen down. Noble would be back soon from checking his stock. Maybe she should brush her hair and tie it back with a ribbon. The books could wait.

  She stopped at a pecking sound on the roof. “Is it raining?”

  “Yes,” Mannah said.

  The rain increased. Fleta began brushing her hair, worrying about her man. Perhaps she should call Luke in. And where was Noble? A grumble of thunder caused her to frown. She certainly hoped it wasn’t going to storm.

  Luke burst in the back door. “It’s raining, mama.”

  “I know. Don’t track up my clean floors,” she warned, proud of the smooth wood.

  “Is Noble back?” Luke asked, looking around.

  “No.”

  “Funny, he usually comes in before the rain.”

  “I know.” She winced as she dragged the brush through her tangled hair. “He’ll be along.”

  Fleta sent Mannah home and she looked out in the gray wet world of splattered puddles. Where was he?

  Reluctantly, she went back to feed Luke. Noble’s dinner would stay warm in the oven.

  Noble came in, dripping water all over the floor. “Sorry, I’m late.”

  “Get out of those wet clothes. You’ll catch a death of cold. Why did you stay so long out in the rain?”

  “Rustlers,” he said grimly. “They’ve stolen several of our horses. I lost their tracks. Come sunup, I intend to be on their trail.”

  “It may still be raining,” she said as she helped him undress.

  “Then I’ll wear an oilskin poncho. Doesn’t matter, I’m going after them. I haven’t worked to gather a band of horses only to have them stolen.”