Noble's Way

by Dusty Richards

“Don’t worry about my supper. You just sit by the fire and rest.” He walked toward the store area and smiled at the broad man standing at the counter. “Could I help you?”

  “Are you Noble McCurtain?”

  “Yes.”

  “My name’s Fortney Lincolnshire. My wife and children are back a ways. Our wagon broke down and I came to see if you could help.”

  “Certainly. My blacksmith’s gone, but I’ll send Spotted Horse back with you and you can come up here for the night. Tomorrow, I’ll go help you get your wagon here.”

  The man frowned and paused uncertainly. “Who’s this Spotted Horse?”

  “A man who works for me,” Noble said with a raised brow, wondering at the man’s unfriendly attitude.

  “He an Injun?”

  “Osage. But I guarantee he won’t scalp you.” Noble’s attempt at humor was met with a scowl of distaste.

  “Nope. I’ll have no diseased buck around my wife or family.”

  “Diseased?” Noble frowned at the man.

  “They all got diseases. I know all about it. No thanks, McCurtain!” The man turned toward the door.

  “Mr. Lincolnshire? My misses is not well or I’d go with you. But you may hitch up my team of Belgians and take the wagon out there. Spotted Horse would sure help you, but I’d say if you’re dead set against it, you can go hitch it up yourself.”

  “I’m obliged to you.” The man touched the brim of his floppy hat.

  Noble shook his head in wonder at the man’s retreating back. He walked back in the living area, a puzzled look on his face.

  “Who was it?” Fleta asked from her position in the rocker.

  “A man with a broken down wagon, who seems to think that Indians are diseased. I loaned him our team and wagon.”

  “Diseased?”

  Noble moved toward the stove where his supper was kept wanning. “He had some crazy notion about Indians. I offered to send Spotted Horse to help him bring his family in here, but he refused my offer.”

  Fleta set the rocker in gentle motion. “He may steal Sudan’s mares.”

  “No, I don’t think the man is a thief,” Noble said, taking down his plate of food. “He’s a broken down settler.”

  Fleta sighed softly. “Eat your supper. I swear, Noble, I believe that you’d help the devil himself if he asked you to.”

  “Aw, Fleta, you remember how hard things were for you. Well, I was so hungry when I first left home that if farmers hadn’t fed me, I would have starved to death. It was tough when I left my uncle’s place and struck out on my own.

  “One night near St. Louis, a black man shared his soup with me. Had boiled turnip greens and some stuff I didn’t recognize. I think it might have been possum. I hadn’t eaten in two days. The man never said, ‘You’re white, go on and get out of here.’ He said, ‘Sit down and eat.’ ”

  Fleta smiled. There was so much she did not know about her man. To pry was not her way, although she was curious. She savored Noble’s reflections when he shared them with her.

  “You better get some rest. I’ll wait up to see if this settler gets back.”

  “Noble, I’ll be all right. You can stop worrying about me.”

  Fleta did not go directly to bed. She stayed up, afraid to sleep lest she have dreams about Izer and his two massacred companions.

  Noble felt restless as well. He took a walk around the settlement, noting the compound was becoming crowded with tepees. Soon, he would have to ask the Osage to move outside the fort so there’d be enough room. He knew they felt welcome and secure, surely they wouldn’t mind moving a few yards away.

  “Noble!” Spotted Horse called out to him.

  When Noble reached the chief standing near the gates, he saw the Osage shaking his head. “Strange man who took the wagon.”

  “He fears Indians,” Noble explained. “He should have stayed back east.”

  “Strange man.” The Osage nodded that he understood Noble. “The wind will blow up rain.”

  “Good.” Noble never doubted his forecasts. “That will keep down the danger of a fire before the prairie is green.”

  Noble watched the Osage’s silent retreat. He had grown accustomed to the Indian’s abrupt manner. But he never doubted the vigil the Osage kept on the fort, or their loyalty.

  He walked out to study the star-studded sky. Soon spring would begin to make itself known. The buffalo would come back. The v’s of geese were already heading north.

  Where were Sudan and Rivers? They were long overdue. Had they caught up with Izer? Pernaps they’d killed the black hearted outlaw. God, he wished they’d show up soon! Oh well, might as well go back and try to get some sleep.

  Sudan and Rivers were in the Indian Territory at a place called Seegar’s Store. Seegar was a white man who sold store goods out of a log cabin. A short, wide man waddled out to the corral to meet Sudan and Rivers.

  “I got some good horses to sell.” Seegar rocked on his heels and looked from one man to the other.

  Sudan eyed the winter-thin, mud-caked ponies in the pen. “I’ll give you ten dollars for two of them,” he said flatly.

  “And leave me that cripple you two rode in on? No, sir. Do you take me for a fool?” The man’s face flushed almost purple with indignation.

  Sudan did not answer. He stiffened warily when two strangers rode past them. He did not miss the hostile look they gave him and Rivers. One of the riders was tall, the other short. Sudan thought they might have been Indians, although they wore store-bought clothes.

  “You look at them horses good,” Seegar said. “I’ll see what those two want.” He waddled over to the other men who waited in front of the store.

  Rivers looked at the horses again and shook his head in disapproval. “Not worth much.”

  “Not unless you got money,” Sudan agreed.

  “We can’t afford Seegar’s horses. Guess I’m a dang fool, I forget how much things cost.”

  “No money,” Rivers said as if he completely understood their financial situation.

  The strangers went into the store with the chubby storekeeper. Sudan listened as an argument erupted inside. Seegar’s voice had a high-pitched whine.

  The black man cautiously slid the Winchester out of the scabbard. Trouble was about to break loose in the cabin, he could tell by the tone of the loud voices.

  The taller man rushed outside, looked around wildly then fired his pistol point blank at Sudan. The shot went wild. Without a second thought, Sudan raised the Winchester in one hand. His bullet sent the man staggering back against the side of the store. A roar of a shotgun blast sounded and the shorter man backed out clutching his stomach, gut shot. His weaving form stumbled then tumbled off the porch.

  Nosing the double barrel ahead of him, Seegar came into view. He raised his gun and shot the short man again as he lay below the porch.

  “Sons of bitches were going to rob me!” he shouted.

  He looked at Sudan with a frown. “If you bury those two, I’ll give you two horses.”

  Sudan was afraid to ask if the man he had shot was dead. He just nodded.

  “Well,” Seegar said impatiently. “Go get a shovel, they’re around back.” He scowled down at the bloody corpses. “Sons of bitches should have known better.”

  Sudan exchanged a look of disgust with Rivers. “Mr. Seegar, where do you want these two buried?”

  “Out there,” he waved his hand and pointed toward some mounds beyond the corral, “with the rest of them. ”

  Sudan raised a brow. “Where they robbers too, sir?”

  “Hell, this is tough country, boy. Real tough.” His voice held a warning. “One hole’s enough for both of them.”

  Sudan dug most of the single grave. Seegar rolled the bigger man off the porch. Rivers used a pick to bust the rocks that delayed their digging. Neither he nor Sudan had much to say.

  “That’s some tough fat man,” Sudan grunted finally. “Wonder if Izer comes here? Maybe we could get Seegar to send word to us
if Izer comes,” he said thoughtfully. He spaded the ground wondering if two sorry horses were worth all this bother.

  Seegar brought them some crackers and a jug of liquor.

  “You hungry?”

  “We sure are,” Sudan said, “but me and the Osage don’t drink.”

  “It’s good lightning—com made,” Seegar said persuasively.

  “Thanks anyway.” Sudan took some crackers and sat on the ground to eat them. Rivers’ face was carved in a granite scowl. Sudan smothered a laugh, knowing that Rivers considered grave digging to be a woman’s work.

  “That’s deep enough,” Seegar said a little later. “I could use some men like you two. This is tough country,” he slurred the words after taking a big swig of the lightning.

  “Mr. Seegar, you mind if me and Rivers take our horses now? Noble McCurtain will be worried that we ain’t back yet.”

  Seegar laughed. “He must be a worrier. Why, you two could sure make your way home.”

  “How many times have you been robbed?” Sudan asked curiously.

  “Never been robbed. Been tried three or four times though.”

  “They all got killed trying, huh?”

  “Sure.”

  Sudan pursed his lips, then spoke off-handedly, “Mr. Seegar, Izer Goodman ever come here?”

  “No!” Seegar’s answer was so quick and forceful Sudan was immediately suspicious.

  “Did he ever try to rob you?”

  “No.” Seegar looked away.

  “He did something to you?” Sudan persisted.

  Seegar kicked up some dirt and took another drink of lightning. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and muttered bitterly, “He killed my woman.”

  When Seegar turned away, Sudan thought he might be crying. He motioned to Rivers. The Osage nodded and the two went to catch the two horses. Rivers slipped on his horse bareback with a rope bridle while Sudan switched his saddle and bridle to the new one. The horses were not strong but Sudan knew they would carry them a long ways toward home. He longed to share Yellow Deer’s bed of soft skins. A man belonged with his woman.

  Chapter Fifteen

  At sunup, Noble stood in the doorway, sipping tea and watching the Lincolnshire family dismount from the wagon in a sleepy daze. Two teenage girls, a young boy, and a small girl stood obediently beside the wagon. Noble wondered where the man’s wife was.

  Fortney stomped across the yard, his expression sullen. “I’ll not camp in here with them savages, Mr. McCurtain,” he said, pointing to the Osages.

  Noble shrugged. “Then camp wherever you like. You may use my wagon until yours is fixed.”

  Fortney nodded curtly, then gave his family abrupt orders to climb back inside the wagon.

  “Where’s his wife?” Fleta asked from behind Noble.

  “I never saw her. She may be lying down. He sure is headed in the wrong direction if he hates Indians so bad.”

  “Are you going to help him?”

  “Yeah, I reckon so.” Noble ushered her back toward the house section of the store. “I just wish Sudan and Rivers would get back.”

  “Noble,” she said impatiently, “will you listen to me?”

  Noble paused, his brows raised in mild surprise. “Certainly, Fleta.”

  “That man out there,” she jerked her head towards the window, “is trouble. I’m not sure why, but I just know he’s going to be trouble.”

  “I’ll handle it.”

  Fortney and the young boy brought his wheel into the fort. After inspecting the roped-on rim lumped over the corded tread, Noble rose to his feet. “The rim will have to be shrunk. My blacksmith will be back in a few days.”

  “A few days! Just when is that, Mr. McCurtain?” Fortney asked with his perpetual scowl.

  Noble looked at the embittered man through narrowed eyes. “I can’t say exactly. I can tell you is that he’s due back anytime.”

  Fortney frowned but finally shrugged and walked away toward the gate. The boy, who was close to Luke’s age, hurried after his father.

  Noble watched them leave, wondering about Fleta’s warning. It was hard to be courteous to a man so curt. As soon as Sudan returned, he’d fix the wheel and Fortney could move on west.

  That afternoon Noble was reminded by the silent cold forge that his blacksmith and Rivers were still absent. Sudan had been gone too long. Surely nothing had happened to him and Rivers on their search for Izer Goodman. The name caused a raw feeling of pain in Noble’s gut—Izer Goodman was all that kept him from living in peace.

  Noble saddled a bay horse to ride out and check on the Texas cows that were calving. He would keep his distance, for the long-homed parents were poised to hook or butt anyone or anything who disturbed their newborns.

  Fortney’S bunch attached a canvas shade to their wagon. A smoky fire of buffalo chips was being attended to by the teenage girls.

  “Good afternoon,” Noble said as he rode up. “Is your father here?”

  Uncertainty veiled the girls’ faces as they exchanged a look. The fair haired one squinted up at him. “No. He’s not my father, but my man. He’s gone to get our oxen and stock.”

  “Oh!” Noble exclaimed, taken aback by her frank words. Why, the girl looked little more than fourteen. “You’re Mrs. Lincolnshire?”

  “Yes,” she said, her red-rimmed eyes narrowing in the sun as she continued to stare up at him.

  “My wife’s name is Fleta. She would probably enjoy a visit. If you have time, please go up to the store and see her.”

  She shook her head. “My man said to stay out of there.”

  “Yes Ma’am.” Noble touched his hat in farewell, then wheeled his horse. My lord, Noble thought, she’s hardly more than a child and married already. She might not be a suitable wife, but then he figured that Lincolnshire was no bargain either.

  As Noble rode, he noted that springtime was coming. The yellow breasted meadowlark exclaimed it everywhere. The grayish tan mat of grass was about to emerge into a carpet of green. Shaggy coated horses lifted their heads to follow him with their eyes. He knew their winter wool must be itching them. Even now the long hair peeled off their jaws and the inside of their legs.

  His trading and purchases had increased the horse herd to nearly fifty. Several mares had swollen bellies, thanks to Colonel Custer’s gift, the gray stallion. Satisfied that the bulk of his horses were present, Noble rode on to check the scattered groups of cattle.

  Spindly newborn calves jumped at his approach and raced deer-like to their mommas. Momma would shake her head rack, but when he rode no closer, she would return to grazing. His cattle herd was growing. Though the store supported Noble and his family, he enjoyed his prospering cattle operation.

  Another wagon train was coming. Noble could see the distant line approaching. They probably would have to stop for the night and make the store tomorrow.

  He set the bay into a lope. It wouldn’t hurt to meet the leaders and extend an invitation to shop at the fort. Someday, he would go west—beyond the Rockies’ great wall which he had never seen.

  A familiar figure rode in the lead on horse back. Sudan Wilson and Rivers were returning. His spirits soaring, Noble booted the gelding into a faster run.

  “Hello!” Noble shouted, reining in his horse.

  “Mister Noble, you sure do look good,” Sudan said with a white-toothed grin.

  “Same here. I see you and Rivers are okay. “ He inspected the two men critically.

  “We’re doing fine now.” Sudan laughed aloud. “But we have been worse. Say, this man with the wagon is Mr. Kitchen; he’s the boss.” Sudan introduced the lean, tall gray-whiskered man on the wagon seat.

  “Glad to meetcha, Mr. McCurtain,” Kitchen said, extending a hand. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

  Noble shook his hand firmly. “Folks think you are pretty brave to put an outpost this far out.”

  Noble grinned. “Actually, the building was already here. We just added on, built up the place and laid in some supplies.
These two helped me. I’m pleased to have them back,” he added, smiling at Sudan and Rivers.

  Sudan apparently had something on his mind. Noble could see it written on his whiskered face. He excused himself and pulled his horse beside the black man’s.

  “What’s wrong?” Noble asked quietly.

  “Yellow Deer. Is she all right?” Sudan asked anxiously.

  “Sure. Take my bay and go on ahead. That horse of yours is give out?”

  Sudan nodded and hesitated a moment. “I’m sorry, but we never got to Goodman. Rivers got throwed into jail; so we had to come home.”

  “Jail?”

  “Yeah.” Sudan glanced over his shoulder to make sure no one could overhear them. “They need a new lock on that Arkansas jail.” Both men laughed.

  “We’ll have time to talk,” Noble assured him as he dismounted. “Go ahead and take my horse and go see your woman.”

  “Yes, sir!” A broad smile crossed the black man’s face.

  After a visit with Kitchen, who planned to stop for a day at the store to repair and stock up, Noble and Rivers rode towards home.

  “That man up there,” Noble said, pointing toward Fortney, who was driving his team and stock afoot, “he hates Indians.”

  “Like hating Goodman,” Rivers said.

  “I’m not sure it’s the same,” Noble said slowly. “He’s a strange man.”

  “I need a new rifle. The man in Arkansas took mine.”

  “We’ll get you one,” Noble said, reading the hidden meaning in River’s words.

  “In two days, I will go to Fort Smith,” the Osage declared.

  “Wait, Rivers. You don’t understand white man’s law. In Arkansas you can’t kill an enemy.”

  The Osage nodded. “I know. I will go find him, then you can come.”

  “Promise me?”

  “Yes, I know what they do to Indians that get mad.”

  “We’ll get you supplies and a good horse.”

  “This time I will go like an eagle, slow and search out my prey.”

  “Yes, like an eagle,” Noble echoed drily. He let Rivers ride ahead of him through the gates, pleased that all of the Osages were coming to greet their returning tribesman. With a smile of approval, Noble left the Indians and rode on to the stables.