Noble's Way

by Dusty Richards

  It seemed only moments later that she was wrapped in a blanket and being carried away by Sudan.

  “We had to get out quick, Misses. The cabin’s on fire. Me and Rivers, we ain’t looking on you none, ma’am. We’ll find you some clothes. But the damned fire’s going to warn Izer and I sure wanted to get him.”

  Fleta made an attempt to cover more of herself with the blanket. When she looked up at Sudan, tears were streaming down his purplish-black cheeks.

  “You did fine, Sudan,” she whispered. “Thank you.”

  Sudan could not control his tears. The weight of the Misses seemed like nothing. The cabin crackled behind them. He thought that death was not enough punishment for the two men who had harmed Noble’s wife. Even now, he wanted his hands back on them, punishing them.

  “Sudan,” Fleta said softly, “I can walk.”

  Gently he placed her on the ground, steadying her with his big hands. Then he went to his saddle and removed the canvas coat lashed behind it. He shook it and held it out to Fleta, his eyes downcast.

  Gratefully Fleta shrugged off the odious blanket and slipped into Sudan’s roomy canvas coat. Her fingers fumbled with the buttons and she noted that Sudan tactfully looked away until she was decently clothed. She rolled up the overly long sleeves and pushed them up to her elbows.

  “Where did Rivers go?” she asked.

  “He’s looking for Izer. We couldn’t find him.”

  “He went after some whiskey when we got here.”

  “Rivers sure wants him bad. I figure he’ll stay on his trail ‘til he finds him.”

  “Where’s Noble?” she asked, peering anxiously up into his face.

  Sudan shook his head. “He wasn’t back yet when we left.”

  “Oh no!” Fleta wailed, wringing her hands with worry. What if something bad had happened to him? What if he had really been injured?

  “Now, Misses,” Sudan patted her shoulder awkwardly. “Don’t worry about Noble McCurtain. He’s just fine. I know he is.”

  “Sudan,” she said, pausing for a deep breath. “I never even thanked you and Rivers properly.”

  “Ain’t no need to, ma’am. I have some food for you,” he said hurriedly to cover up his embarrassment at her words.

  “I—I’m not hungry.” Totally exhausted, Fleta eased herself down on the ground. The cabin was now a crackling inferno in the night. Yank and Brown Boy’s bodies were being cremated. She turned away from the sight.

  “Is Rivers coming back?” she asked.

  “No, Misses,” Sudan said quietly. He looked at her sharply, wondering if she was all right. Although he already told her where the Indian was, he repeated it again, “He’s gone to find Izer Goodman.”

  “Doesn’t Rivers need your help?”

  “No, ma’am. I’m going to round up a horse and get you home to Noble quick as I can.”

  “But—”

  Sudan shook his head and held up a hand. “Don’t you worry none about Rivers. He be all right.” Although Sudan wanted to follow Rivers and catch up with Izer, he knew he had to get the Misses horne quickly. Besides, he thought, Rivers was a good man; he could take care of himself. The Osage would handle that damned Izer snake.

  Fleta felt very uncomfortable in the stiff voluminous coat, also very conscious of being naked beneath it as she rode behind Sudan on one of the extra horses. Her head pounded and felt sore where Yank had slapped her. Bruises covered her arms and legs and she dreaded to think what Noble would do when he saw them. If he saw them. Oh where could he be? she fretted. She clutched at the saddle horn to keep from falling. Her head swam and she had to make a determined effort not to faint again.

  “Are you all right, Misses?” Sudan asked over his shoulder. The trail through the post oaks meandered uphill and was not an easy route. He wondered if he were going too fast for the Misses.

  “I’m fine,” she lied to no avail. Darkness engulfed her and she felt herself falling sideways, but she did not have the strength to save herself.

  When she opened her eyes, it took her a moment to sort out what had happened. Apparently Sudan had laid her on a bedroll and covered her up with his blanket. He sat across from her, his knees drawn up, the Winchester across his lap. His brown eyes studied the hills in the distance. Sun bathed the brown world about to sprout green. A hint of elm leaves, like a promise of things to come, was present.

  Fleta lay immobile, looking at the scenery. The land was like Arkansas. The hills were shorter. Wilbourne would be plowing now. Why was she thinking of him? she wondered. She was on her way horne to Noble McCurtain.

  “Morning, Misses,” Sudan said quietly. “Are you feeling better?”

  She struggled to rise to a sitting position. “Yes, I think so. I guess I was tired.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I should have waited, but I knowed you was anxious to get away from that place.”

  “Yes, I was. Thanks.”

  “I got some water from a clear little spring that’s pure as honey,” he offered persuasively.

  “Good. I’m very thirsty.” It took a great deal of effort for her to remain sitting up, but she managed.

  “Ain’t nothing hurting you, is there?”

  “No, just my pride,” she said with a strained smile.

  “Mercy sakes, you did take a nasty spill off that horse when you fainted.”

  “Well, I’m just fine.”

  “Eat some crackers.” He held out some soda crackers on his palm. “It’s all I got,” he said apologized.

  “I think I could manage one or two of those,” she said.

  By mid-day they were on the move again. Fleta realized the trail they were traveling led to the top of a mountain. She’d been so wrought up on the way to Goodman’s place, that she knew she’d never have managed to find the way back alone. Marveling at the beautiful panorama in all directions, her spirits lifted a little. Sudan’s hand on her arm broke the spell.

  “Ain’t that Mr. Noble’s hat?” he asked, pointing at a distant rider.

  She squinted. Yes, it looked like his gray Stetson. The rider was Noble. Her heart pounded with anticipation. Without a thought, she gave her horse its head and raced westward on the trail through the gray broom sedge. It was Noble and, thank God, he was alive!

  Moments later they were both off their horses and racing toward each other with arms outstretched. Noble lifted her high in the air and swung her around. He buried his face in her hair, holding her so tightly her sore ribs ached in protest. But she said nothing of her pain; it was an exquisite pain.

  “My God, Fleta, are you all right?”

  “I—I’m fine, Noble,” she said breathlessly. “I was so worried about you.” She leaned back in his arms to get a good look at his dear face.

  “I’m all right now.” He squeezed her again.

  Noble saw the horses and looked up into the serious brown eyes above him. Sudan was holding the horses and obviously he had something on his mind.

  “What is it, Sudan?”

  “Now that the Misses is safely with you, I want your permission to go find Rivers. Me and him got a bone to pick with Izer Goodman.”

  Noble considered the request. He wanted Izer for himself, to blow his grizzly face off this earth. “Sudan, you’re a free man. You don’t need my permission. No one can tell you what to do. Go with by blessings.”

  “Mister Noble?”

  “Just Noble,” he corrected the black man.

  “Noble, you look after Yellow Deer for me. Ain’t no telling where Rivers has gone to find Goodman.”

  “Wait, you’ll need some money.” Noble released Fleta and shoved his hands down in his pockets. “All I have is a few dollars.” He handed the money over to Sudan.

  “Thank you.” Sudan nodded to both of them.

  “No, I’m grateful to you,” Noble said, his arm over Fleta’s shoulders protectively. “Be careful, my friend.”

  “Winchester and me. We will.” Then he swung his horse around and rode back in the direction
of Izer’s cabin.

  “Will he be all right?” Fleta asked worriedly.

  “Yes.” Noble watched the man ride away. “Yes, he can take care of himself.”

  They stood in silence, worn by relief. Noble swept Fleta into his arms. “We need to get home. We’ve got two days ride ahead of us.”

  “Can we hurry?”

  “Yes.” He set her on her horse, surprised at his own strength. He cast a last glance toward the trail that Sudan had taken, but the black man was gone. “Let’s go home, Fleta.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Sudan was in a strange land—Arkansas. Not since he had been a free man in Alabama had he been among so many settlers. He felt conspicuous in his buckskins. The people eyed him suspiciously.

  The trail that Rivers left was so dim he couldn’t possibly follow it. Instead, he simply asked people if someone fitting Izer’s description had passed by.

  “He’s a frontier man,” Sudan described Izer to one settler, “wears buckskin, has a beard and a wide brim, flat crowned hat made of rawhide.” He had learned that much about Goodman from Rivers.

  The farmer spat a brown stream of tobacco on the ground between his shoes. “May have passed here. What you need with him?”

  “He kidnapped a white lady. My boss’ wife, sir.” Sudan knew white folks liked polite blacks.

  “White woman, huh?”

  “This Izer Goodman is a bad man,” Sudan said.

  “That new rifle belong to you, boy?” The fanner jetted a thumb toward the gun.

  “Yes sir. My boss, Noble McCurtain, give me this here rifle.”

  “Noble McCurtain? Never heard of him.”

  “He lives in Kansas.”

  The man spat again and shook his grizzly head. “Never been there. This man you described rode by here—ah—about two days ago. Course, it could have been ...” He paused and rubbed his bristly jaw. “When did it last rain? I figured he was going to Cincinnati, Arkansas. There’a lots of his kind that go there.”

  “How far is that, sir?” Sudan asked, trying to stem his impatience at the man’s slow speech.

  “Down the road a piece. You can’t miss it. Sodom and Gomorrah. Full of saloons. No place for God-fearing people.”

  “Yes, sir. I appreciate the information.”

  “You a free slave?” The man peered up at Sudan with curiosity.

  “Yes sir. Mr. Lincoln set us all free.”

  “Guess he did at that.” The farmer scratched a thatch of hair over his right ear. “I could use a strong man like you around here.”

  Sudan looked down at his dusty boot toes. “Thank you, but when I finish my business with this Izer Goodman, I have me a job already. Up in Kansas with Mr. McCurtain.”

  “Probably ought to go back there then. They won’t treat you too good in Cincinnati. Not with you being a nigger and all.”

  “I’ll remember that,” Sudan said, leaping back on his horse.

  Cincinnati, Arkansas was a series of buildings astraddle the main road. A mill was situated on the creek; four saloons, two hotels, a post office, and a school house completed the town. Sudan circled around carefully. That farmer’s parting words had been meant as a warning, and he intended to be ready for the people of Cincinnati. He had now crossed into the south—the land of slave owners. And Mr. Lincoln was dead. There was no telling how these southerners would treat a wandering black man.

  A young black woman emerged from the rear of one of the hotels. He rode up beside her.

  “Ma’am,” he said quietly, “I’m a stranger here. I need some information.”

  She stared up in disbelief when Sudan stepped down off his horse and nodded politely. “Why’d you go scaring me like that?” She wrapped her shawl around her shoulders and flung her head back angrily.

  “You work in that hotel?”

  “Well, you sure can’t get a room there,” she said, her eyes mocking. “They don’t allow no niggers in there.”

  “My name’s Sudan Wilson.”

  Her wide nostrils flares and she appraised him with a look of contempt. “Well, Mr. Sudan Wilson, just because you’s dressed up like some Injun, don’t make you white.”

  Sudan’s lips clamped tight to control his anger. “I don’t give a damn about no hotel room,” he said coldly. “I want to know whether a certain man’s been there or not.”

  “Who?”

  “Name’s Izer Goodman. Wears buckskin, big bushy beard, long dirty hair.”

  She was silent for a moment, then nodded her head. “He’s gone on. An Injun what got put in jail was looking for him too.”

  “What you saying, girl?” Sudan reached out a hand as if to grab her, then let it drop to his side. “What Indian?”

  The woman sighed heavily then pulled at the bright kerchief around her head. “Some fool Injun went into the saloon with a rifle. Well, he sure be a crazy one. He asked for this Izer man and someone hit him over the head. He whipped four or five big white men after he was hit. A real crazy Injun.”

  “Damn Rivers,” Sudan muttered beneath his breath. He looked around. “Where’s the jail?”

  “Up the hill, see there.” The woman pointed toward a log shed at the top of the steep street. “They sent word for the Injun police to come and get him.”

  “Why?”

  She clucked her teeth and twitched her shawl tighter, “Cause the man be crazy.”

  “What kind of Indian police?”

  “Lordy sake, man. You think I got nothing better to do than stand here and answer your fool questions all day? I’s got work to do.”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am, but I need to know what kind of police,” Sudan growled.

  “Cherokee.”

  “Who’s got the key to the jail?”

  Her brown eyes rounded and she took a step backward, “Why, the constable, but—”

  “When this Izer Goodman leave town?” Sudan cut in abruptly.

  “Days ago.”

  “Where’d he go?”

  “Fort Smith, I guess. That road goes there. But don’t you be thinking about getting that Injun out of jail. They’ll just lock you up beside him.”

  “What’s your name?” Sudan asked with a grin.

  She sniffed and turned her shoulder. “Opie. But I’s already got me a man.”

  Sudan shook his head. “Well, Opie, I’ve got myself a woman too. You go out there and see that if that constable be watching.”

  “He ain’t watching. He’s playing cards in the hotel. What you gonna do, Sudan Wilson?” She asked with a frown of disapproval.

  “Don’t worry your pretty head, girl. You just get on about your business.”

  “Black man, if you do what I think you’re planning, you’d best get done and ride west fast.”

  “Why?”

  “That’s just a litle way to Injun land. Constable can’t go there.”

  When Sudan digested this piece of information, he smiled in gratitude. “Well, Miss Opie, you are one fine lady.”

  “You’re a man of class yourself, Sudan Wilson. That constable won’t miss that crazy Injun, but he’ll sure be mad as hell if you bust the lock on his jail.”

  Sudan watched her swaying hips as she sauntered away, whistling to herself. He admired her for a moment. There sure weren’t any Indian women looked like that walking away from you.

  He rode his horse up the rutted road, guiding the gelding to the log shed under some giant oaks. With a sense of relief, he noticed the town seemed practically deserted at this hour of the day. From the protection of the trees, he moved the horse toward the iron grated doors.

  “Rivers,” he hissed through the opening. “You in there?”

  “Huh? Sudan, is that you?” a haggard sounding Rivers whispered back.

  “Get back, I’m going to shoot that lock.”

  “Good,” the Osage grunted.

  The black man took aim. The rifle boomed; his horse shied and the powder smoke boiled. “Come on, crazy Osage!” Sudan wheeled his mount. Five or
six men had run out of the saloons down the hill.

  Rivers ran outside, waving aside the gunsmoke. He stepped into the stirrup and swung up behind Sudan. Sensing the tension, the horse responded and took off in a gallop. Below the hill, the men began shouting for the constable.

  Since the horse was headed west, Sudan let him run.

  “Izer got my rifle,” Rivers grumbled behind him. “Now I kill the son-of-a-bitch with a knife.”

  “Hell, he’s gone to Fort Smith,” Sudan said, holding him aside so he could see if they were being pursued. “We better get back to Noble. We’ll get Izer later.”

  “No! I go to Fort Smith. Kill him there.”

  “Damnit, you crazy Injun. We’re wanted men in Arkansas now for jail breaking.” Sudan shook his head in exasperation as the Osage grumbled in his ear. The wild goose chase was over for now. Izer Goodman was gone again. Noble would not be pleased to hear the news. They had lost a good repeater too. And the law would probably never know how the Osage got busted out of jail. Hell, they were just lucky to be on their way back home.

  In Kansas, Fleta continued to experience shaky spells from her ordeal at the hands of Izer’s thugs. She assured Noble she was getting better, but still he worried.

  “Noble,” she told him one evening after he had again expressed his concern, “I only have these spells when I’m tired. They’re less frequent now.”

  “We have too much business,” he said with a shake of his head. “We’re busier this year than we were last year. I’ll hire you some help.”

  “Oh, I’ll be fine.” She smiled weakly and squeezed his hand, wanting to erase the lines of worry etched on his forehead. Why was she so weak? The memory of Yank and the Boy’s hands on her skin and of their subsequent deaths lingered in her mind and caused her to tremble. She simply couldn’t forget.

  “Someone’s in the store,” he said, upon hearing the jingle of the bell affixed to the door. “I’ll go wait on them.”

  “I was just fixing to put dinner on the table. Hurry back.”