A thunder of hundreds of horses shook the earth as they bore down on the Indian camp. What was it Rourke said—that hostile Indians were to be given the chance to surrender—that must be Custer’s little joke.
A round of scattered shots filled the morning air. They were answered by a volley of the trooper’s fire. The Indians had chosen to fight.
Who wouldn’t have fought? Noble wondered with cynicism. Hundreds of troopers with ear-shattering bugles bearing down on a sleeping village was enough to make anyone stand up and fight.
Screams, shouts, and gunshots carried across the land. Noble did not watch the battle. He led the gray toward the wagon with the water barrel. After getting a drink, he fed and watered his horse, then led him away from the soldiers and searched for a place to sleep. Somewhere away from all the death.
He jerked at the rolling voice commanding the reserves to join the battle. Custer’s backup was going in to assist. Noble’s teeth ground together as he heard the screams from below. He walked back over to the water wagon to get more of the taste out of his mouth.
“Hell,” he swore aloud.
“That’s right, sir. To have to stay up here and miss a damned good fight is hell.”
Noble looked at the lean-jawed soldier who came up behind him. He surmised the young soldier had lost his horse on the way and that was why he was being left behind with the wagon.
“I guess it would be hell for a soldier,” Noble agreed, turning on a wooden spigot to fill a canvas bucket. The Seventh could use the Indians’ blood to quench their thirst riding back. Enough was being spilled down there to water a desert.
“Custer is a tough man, but he’s always damned sure where the action is,” the trooper said.
“What else do you do when you aren’t fighting Injuns?”
“Stable duty. Train for battle. Hell, I hate missing one like this.”
Compared to the other two duties, Noble understood how Indian warfare might be a relief.
The shots and screams lessened. He was glad. He didn’t want to think about the dead women and children. When a final count of the dead was made, the innocent bystanders would likely be lumped together with the others. Custer wouldn’t care how many women and children were killed while the Seventh was dealing with the so-called hostile elements. Noble sighed tiredly. He would write the report that Custer wanted, but he would not add his own editorial comments to it. He had a sick feeling that it wouldn’t make much difference even if he did.
“Well sounds like we did it.” The soldier beamed.
“Yeah, we did it, didn’t we?” Noble said, his voice full of irony. “Tell Captain Rourke I’ll be out there sleeping somewhere if he needs me.”
“Sure, but ain’t you riding down and getting some Injun things? There’ll be women,” the man added with a leering grin.
“No,” Noble said through clenched teeth. “I think I’ll pass on that.”
Chapter Seventeen
Sudan stood beside Fleta, watching the Seventh Cavalry leave. “Misses, Noble will be back before you know it.”
“I hope so, Sudan,” Fleta said, turning away. Her legs were leaden as she walked back to the store.
Sudan went back to his blacksmithing, there was plenty of work to do. He had to make some hinges and repair a wagon brake rod. As he fired the forge, he wondered about Noble. How would Noble get along with that yellow-haired Colonel? There was a strained atmosphere between them, though Sudan did not know why.
Yellow Deer brought him a canvas pail of fresh water. He wiped his perspiring forehead with the back of his hand.
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of an approaching rider. Moving out of the shed that housed his forge, he watched the man ride through the gate. The stranger was an Indian, dressed in white man’s clothes.
“Who’s that?” He asked Yellow Deer, making sure his rifle was nearby. The women shook her head. Sudan stripped off his leather apron, then walked toward the stranger.
“Are you Noble McCurtain?” The man asked Sudan as he dismounted.
“No.” Sudan was glad when Spotted Horse joined him. “I work for Mr. McCurtain.”
“Where is he?” The man looked around expectantly.
Fleta came out on the porch. “What’s wrong?”
Sudan glanced at her as he answered. “This man wants Noble.” He turned back to the stranger. “He won’t be back for a while. Can we help you?”
“An Osage by the name of Rivers send me here with a message for Noble McCurtain. He said McCurtain would pay me.”
Sudan frowned. “Is Rivers all right?” he demanded sharply.
The man shrugged. “He’s fine. He said you would pay me forty dollars to ride here.”
“Sudan, what’s he saying?” Fleta shouted.
Sudan turned to her. “He has a message from Rivers, but we need to pay him.”
Fleta waved her hand. “We’ll pay him.”
“You heard her. What’s the message?” Sudan asked.
“Izer Coldman is at Fort Smith.”
Fleta heard the words. Despite the man’s mispronunciation, she felt sure he meant Izer Goodman. Filled with apprehension, she was certain when Noble heard the news, he would immediately leave for Fort Smith. She glared at the Indian, wishing he had never appeared.
Realizing that the three men were looking at her expectantly, she shook her head and mumbled she would get the man’s money. As she fumbled in the cashbox, she railed against the unkind fate that had dealt her such an unfair hand. Bad enough Noble was off fighting with Custer. Now Izer Goodman had turned up again. Would their life never be settled?
Sudan learned that the messenger’s name was Charlie Horseman. He invited the visitor to come to his tepee for some food.
Charlie looked around, then put a hand on Sudan’s arm before entering the tent. “Are all the buffalo gone?” he asked in a hushed whisper.
The black man laughed. “No.”
“Good.” The Cherokee nodded his satisfaction, then followed Sudan inside the tepee.
The following week passed slowly for Fleta. She stood firm about Charlie leaving. After pressing two twenty-dollar gold pieces into Sudan’s hand to give to the man, she demanded he send Charlie on his way before Noble returned.
In the middle of the week, Fleta confronted her son about his habit of riding his pony all over the countryside. “You cannot ride all over Kansas by yourself as you have been doing, Luke. There could be savages anywhere. Why do you think Noble is out with the army?”
“Aw, ma! I ain’t scared.”
“That’s not the point, Luke,” she said sharply. How he could have grown up so fast without her noticing? “You are to stay in the fort. No more riding Shaw all over until Noble returns.”
“Oh no!”
“Yes.” She drew in a deep breath and straightened her shoulders, determined to be firm with her impetuous son. “When Noble returns, we’ll see what he has to say about the matter. Until then do as I say. Do you understand?”
“Yes.” Luke’s shoulders slumped in defeat. With a scowl of irritation, he tugged on Shaw’s reins to lead him back to the corral.
Later in the day, Spotted Horse brought news of an approaching wagon train. Mannah helped Fleta straighten the store in readiness for the customers. Sudan moved some heavy items for them so they could restock the depleted shelves.
“Rivers won’t do anything foolish while he waits, will he?” she asked Sudan.
“No. Charlie Horseman will explain to him that Noble is coming. Rivers knows about the problems he could have if he tries to take Izer alone.”
Fleta was filled with dread—Noble would ride on to Fort Smith, the moment he returned from Custer’s campaign.
“You are worrying again,” Mannah scolded her. “There is no need.”
Fleta blinked in surprise. “I’m just upset about Noble being gone.”
“I know.” The woman put an arm on her shoulder briefly.
Fleta smiled. “Very well,
Mannah. I won’t borrow any more trouble. Thank you.”
The people from the wagon train came to shop in hordes during the late evening. One women dithered about some calico material. Fleta waited patiently for her to make up her mind. A man entered the store, causing Fleta’s eyes to widen and her heart to pound in her chest.
Wilbourne Corey stood in front of her.
Fleta swallowed with difficulty, hoping she wasn’t as pale as she felt.
“May—may I help you?” She mumbled through trembling lips.
“Needle and thread,” he said, his small eyes boring a hole in her face.
If she hadn’t been so frightened, Fleta would have laughed at the absurd conversation she and her erstwhile husband were having. “How many needles?” she asked.
“My wife said two.”
Fleta blinked at him in astonishment. Had Wilbourne remarried? A wave of nausea swept her. Her fingers fumbled in the sewing supplies. She managed to withdraw two needles.
“What color thread?” she asked in a hoarse whisper, feeling alternately relieved and outraged at the news of his marriage.
“White’s fine.” He followed and stood behind her, making her feel as if she were suffocating. “The boy outside,” Wilbourne asked in a low voice, “is our son?”
Fleta’s eyes widened when she comprehended the fact. “Yes, that’s Luke.”
Wilbourne stepped back so she could pass. She put the needles and thread together in a stiff piece of brown paper and wrapped them carefully. When he reached into his pocket to pay her, she shook her head, refusing to accept his money.
Wilbourne looked around the store. Fleta studied him. His face was weathered and he looked much older than she remembered. His shoulders were rounded and his stomach bulged. And she noted, with satisfaction, that he had a decidedly weak chin.
As if he felt her eyes upon him, he jerked around and looked at her keenly. “You look just as I remembered you,” he said softly.
“You too,” she lied, wishing he would disappear again.
“I have a new wife,” he said with a touch of smugness. “Do you remember Madeline Bower?”
Fleta shook her head and clenched her teeth to steady her trembling lips. “I—I hope you’re happy, Wilbourne.”
“I nearly came here once to take you back home.” He searched around again, as if suspecting Noble was somewhere nearby.
“He’s not here; he’s gone with the army. Your train will have to turn north here. It’s an order of the military.”
Wilbourne nodded. “We already knew that. We’re going to California.”
Fleta fought the guilt and the anger. She closed her eyes, envisioning Noble’s strong face. A feeling of relief assailed her when she opened her eyes and looked at the man who had been her husband. “Do you need any money?”
“No,”
“Are you sure?” she persisted.
“I don’t wany any of your damned blood money,” he snarled, slapping a dime on the counter for his purchases.
She flinched at the sound and stared up at him in puzzlement. “What do you mean blood money?”
Wilbourne smirked and shook his head. “I know how you started this place. Blood money from bushwhacking your own people.”
“That’s a lie!” she hissed, her eyes sparkling with anger.
“I know the damned truth. God will judge your wicked ways, Fleta!” Wilbourne pronounced in a self-righteous tone. He turned and strode quickly out the door.
Fleta hurried after him, wanting to thump him for slurring Noble. A moment of panic struck her as she realized that Luke was outside. She watched anxiously as Wilbourne stared at the unaware Luke, who was practicing with his lariat by the corral. Fleta hands clenched. Surely he would not try to take Luke with him?
When Wilbourne turned and walked through the gateway toward a wagon, she nearly fainted with relief.
“Who’s he?” Mannah asked from behind her.
“A dead man,” Fleta said flatly. She was amazed at the great wave of peacefulness that flooded her. Wilbourne was leaving, out of her life forever, she prayed.
Noble returned two days later on the jaded, gray stallion. Fleta was grateful that Wilbourne’s train had left. When he dismounted, she rushed to be in his embrace.
“Is something wrong?” he asked, looking down on her head.
She buried her face in his shirt. The strong smell of horse and sweat filled her nose—she clung to him, grateful for his safe return.
He finally held her out at arms length. “Is everyone all right?”
Fleta smiled through her tears. “Yes, now you’re home.”
Noble smiled at Luke, who had come up to greet him.
“Where’s Colonel Custer?” the boy asked.
“They headed home. I came straight here.”
“Did you find the bad Indians, Noble?” he asked eagerly.
“They did.” Noble tried to contain his true feelings.
“Wow, I wish I could have gone with you. Now can I ride Shaw outside the fort?”
“Sure, Luke.” He frowned privately at Fleta for why the boy asked his permission.
“Ma was afraid the savages would get me,” Luke said, kicking the dust with the toe of his boot.
“She might have been right, But I am proud you minded her. Don’t ride too far.”
“I won’t. See you.” Luke raced for the pinto pony in the pen.
Fleta smiled at the boy’s enthusiasm. Then with Noble’s strong arm over her shoulder, they went inside the store. Sighing inwardly, she knew she must tell Noble the news before anyone else did. “Rivers sent you a message.”
Noble stopped. “Yes?”
“Izer Goodman is in Ft Smith.”
“Oh?”
Fleta was puzzled by his flat response. Her blue eyes misted as she looked up in his tired face. He was exhausted, she surmised. “There is something else—Wilbourne Corey came by with a wagon train going to California ... he’s remarried.”
Noble blinked his eyes and then a broad smile crossed his face as he swept her up in his arms. “Well, good, we’ll do the same thing.”
Fleta laughed as he whirled her around. “Noble, put me down. What will the Osage think?” When he set her on her feet, she spoke softly. “Noble, I don’t need a ceremony. I’m already your wife.”
Noble shook his head, wondering if he would ever understand women. But it didn’t matter. He loved her and would do whatever she wanted to do about getting married. At least it was settled. That swept away most of his tiredness and disgust of the past days.
Before sundown, he went to the stables to check on the gray stallion, feeling guilty for the way he had pushed him. The horse nickered at his approach, but Noble could see that, despite the big horse’s strength, he needed several days rest.
“There’re new shoes on the bay,” Sudan said, from behind him. “I figured you might need a fresh one.”
“I’m not looking forward to going either,” Noble said his thoughts out loud. Someone had to settle the score with Goodman—other wise the threat of him would never be over.
“I’m going with you,” Sudan said softly.
Noble considered the man’s words. The Osage could watch the fort in their absence. He knew he could never dissuade the man.
Numb from his days on the move, Noble studied his dusty boot toes. “We’ll leave at sunup, we should be there in three days.”
“Three days,” Sudan echoed softly.
Chapter Eighteen
Fleta lay in bed, staring into the darkness. Noble lay rigid beside her. She knew he was not asleep, yet he seemed distant from her, as though still riding with Custer. Something was bothering him. Maybe the thought of finally facing Izer Goodman. Perhaps something had happened while he was riding with the Seventh Cavalry, something he didn’t want to discuss with her.
She raised on her elbow and stared down at him in the dim light from the full moon. “Noble? I know you’re not asleep.”
“Mmm,” he m
urmured.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” he said, but the words came out with an abruptness he hadn’t intended.
She tossed back her long braid and peered closely into his face. “What is it?”
“Oh, hell.” He gave a great sigh and finally looked at her. “I just wish this whole business with Izer was over.”
“Don’t go.”
“You know I’m going. I couldn’t stand the thought of that madman hurting someone else’s family.”
But she knew that wasn’t the only thing on Noble McCurtain’s mind. Something deeper than even Izer Goodman was eating at him. Gently she pulled on his arm.
“It won’t work ...,” she murmured, and prevented his reply with a kiss.
Her lips silenced him. If she could not get the truth from him, she knew ways to ease him. With a little coaxing, he moved over her.
In the pink light of pre-dawn, Noble and Sudan prepared to leave. The celluloid collar she had convinced Noble to wear scratched his neck. He promised himself to remove it the moment he was out of sight of the fort. Bad enough she made him wear the new brown suit.
Their goodbyes were solemn. Neither said much.
Noble shook his head as he rode out the gate. They looked like some kind of a circus, him in his new suit and Sudan wearing a fancy beaded doeskin shirt with yard-long fringe. He glanced back at the two pack horses loaded with bedding and food. He saw no sign of either woman in the fort’s gateway. He turned back ... just as well. Noble ripped off the collar.
The days were hot and sullen. They crossed the Indian Territory swiftly. Just short of Fort Smith, on the road they met and spoke to a Cherokee policeman.
“This man, you ask of, Izer Goodman. He is wanted dead or alive. He must not be in Fort Smith,” the tribal lawman said. “But he is very bad man.”
“Have you met an Osage by the name of Rivers?” Sudan asked.
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