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  NOBLE’S WAY

  NOBLE’S WAY

  DUSTY RICHARDS

  M. EVANS

  Lanham • Boulder • New York • Toronto • Plymouth, UK

  Published by M. Evans

  An imprint of Rowman & Littlefield

  4501 Forbes Boulevard, Suite 200, Lanham, Maryland 20706

  www.rowman.com

  10 Thornbury Road, Plymouth PL6 7PP, United Kingdom

  Distributed by National Book Network

  Copyright © 1992 by Dusty Richards

  First paperback edition 2014

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote passages in a review.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Information Available

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  The hardback edition of this book was previously cataloged by the Library of Congress as follows:

  Richards, Dusty,

  Noble’s Way / Dusty Richards

  p. cm.—(An Evans novel of the West)

  I. Title. II. Series.

  PS3568.131523N6 1992 91-46114

  813’.54—dc20

  ISBN: 978-1-59077-250-8 (pbk.: alk. paper)

  ISBN: 978-1-59077-251-5 (electronic)

  The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of American National Standard for Information Sciences—Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI/NISO Z39.48-1992.

  Printed in the United States of America

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  This book is dedicated to my wife Pat, who always supported and believed in my effort, whose assistance and efforts made it possible. Linda, Charle, Judy, Velda, Jim, Becky, and Lee for his knowledge of firearms. And the dean of critiques, Dr Frank Reuter. Gracias, Amigos

  Dusty Richards

  Chapter One

  Fat, leaden clouds skimmed the rolling sea of stirrup-tall, brown grass. Noble McCurtain held the powerful, gray horse to a walk on the dim wagon tracks. He turned in the saddle to smile reassuringly at the attractive young woman riding the bay. She gave him a nod of approval. Then she adjusted the multi-colored quilt she wore for a shawl against the cold. Luke, her seven year old son, riding on top of the pack horse, waved to him.

  He acknowledged the boy before he settled back. Slowly he exhaled. How had they made it this far? Noble tried to shut the events of the past month from his mind. Something more pressing was ahead; he must find shelter. The ominous overcast meant snow, and they needed to den up or risk freezing to death from exposure. Kansas offered both Fleta Corey and himself a new start, but it also held the hazards of bitter winter weather.

  Why was he so worried? Things had a way of working out for them. Even his greatest concern—fording the Arkansas River—had turned into a simple task thanks to low water.

  He reined his horse beside Fleta’s. “Today, we need to find and shoot a buffalo.”

  “But we haven’t seen any,” she reminded him.

  “We’re in buffalo country. A few always stay behind when the main herd goes south.”

  “What’ll we do with all the meat?” The bewildered look in her blue eyes forced Noble to wonder if their escape to Kansas had been the wisest thing for them after all.

  “Take the choicest parts. The weather’s cold enough, it’ll keep for days.”

  “What do you want Luke and me to do?” She glanced back to check on her son. He seemed so brave for his years.

  “Keep a look out.” He turned to the youth. “Luke! You keep your eyes peeled for a buffalo, too.”

  The boy smiled, pleased to be included in the plans. She had scolded Luke several times for asking Noble a lot of questions.

  Noble brushed back his wind-tossed, light brown hair. He paused for a moment to admire the handsome woman beside him.

  It seemed long ago that he had been forced to side with the Arkansas farm wife against the raiders who intended to use her for their own purposes.

  One of the raiders had escaped, forcing Noble to periodically check their back trail, looking for the man called the Squaw Killer, Izer Goodman.

  Noble squinted his eyes to check the distant rises for signs of buffalo. Somewhere, not too far ahead, he must find a place for his new family to spend the winter. Plenty of distance now separated them from Fleta Corey’s outspoken neighbors and their wagging tongues. They had quickly judged her for taking him in, but failed to understand that she and the boy had no food to eat.

  Three years earlier, her husband joined the Confederate Army and she’d never heard from him again. Noble was convinced Fleta’s husband was an unlisted fatality. He dismissed Wilbourne Corey’s existence; in Noble’s book, the man measured up to a fool to leave his wife and son unattended that long if he was alive.

  Noble had a personal reason for leaving Arkansas. He had spent the early war years freighting to forts in the west; the draft never caught up with him. Out of work, because of the severe cutbacks in the western military, he wandered into north Arkansas. By good fortune, he found Fleta and the boy—he had explained his case to Fleta and she understood. But there were lots of folks, both north and south, that found fault with a man who hadn’t served in the military.

  There were buffalo ahead. Noble spied brown spots on the horizon, like ants. He checked over the entourage, Fleta astride the bay mare, Luke perched on the packs, and two span of oxen for their future farm. At their evening meal, they would feast on a back strip from a buffalo’s loin.

  Fleta followed his finger, barely able to detect them. All day, she had silently fought twinges of regret. Since they’d left Arkansas, the thought that Wilbourne might still be alive nagged her. No. She’d received no word in all those years. She and Luke would have starved except for Noble McCurtain ... She had made her choice. They were one—she and Noble McCurtain—she belonged to him.

  Riding side by side with him warmed her. He would find them sanctuary. Never before had she been without a roof over her head, except on the move to Arkansas from Tennessee, the year Luke was born. A house, even a dugout like they’d passed earlier east of the Arkansas River, would suffice them until spring. Noble did not have to prove his worth to her. After Wilbourne, his tenderness surprised and pleased her.

  Beneath her gingham dress a canvas money-belt rode on her slender hips. Over a hundred dollars in gold; the fortune meant their future. Noble insisted she carry it in case he was separated from her and Luke.

  He handed her the Colt rifle. “Keep this. You and Luke move west on this road. I’m going ahead to kill the smallest buffalo I can find.”

  “Be careful,” she said worriedly.

  “I will,’ he promised. His thoughts were already centered on the movement of the distant herd. He drew the heavy Hawkins .50 caliber out of the saddle boot. With all the bushwhacker’s weapons, they were well armed; matched .36 Colt revolvers were in his coat pockets.

  “I’ll see you in a short while,” Noble said to reassure her. He put heels to the ready gray horse and bolted away.

  As cool air rushed by his face, Noble practiced guiding the hor
se with his knees. How long had it been since he’d last shot one of these shaggy beasts? Two years before, when he was freighting to the army posts.

  Half mile short of the small band, he counted six buffalo. Undisturbed, they shuffled along, grazing as they went. He advanced at a cautious walk, anxious to select the youngest and most tender herd member. A yearling heifer, waxed fat on the Bluestem grass ranged behind the older cows. Noble selected her.

  A dust-coated old bull seemed to sense Noble’s approach. He pawed in defiance, raking up dust and grass with his front hoof. His deep bellow thundered across the land. Obviously this older animal was relegated by his age and condition to this small group of cows. Noble had no intention of messing with the ill-tempered monarch.

  He dropped the knotted reins on the horse’s neck and then cocked the hammer back on the .50 caliber muzzle loader. His heartbeat quickened as he coaxed the gray into a trot. He would have to depend on the horse’s swiftness to bring him close enough for an easy shot on the run.

  The herd caught his scent. Noble regretted the realization as they began to run, leaning forward to urge the gray to go faster.

  The herd angled downhill so their junction would be in the bottom of the great depression. Horse and rider were one, racing to cut off the desperate yearling’s flight. Grass tops whipped at his boots in the stirrups. The heart and muscle of the gray surged forward, drawing them closer to the heifer.

  Carefully, he raised the rifle. In another hundred yards they would collide. Steady with the gait of the horse, Noble peered through the v-sights at her wooly chest behind the churning front legs. The rifle blasted. The cloud of acrid smoke smarted his eyes. He watched her crumble face first into a somersault. Tonight, they would eat tenderloin for their supper.

  Noble reined up the hard-breathing gray. “Easy big man,” he coaxed the great horse.

  The rest of the bison were crossing the horizon, the drum of their hooves fading. Carefully he circled the downed animal on horseback. Wounded buffalo deserved lots of attention. Many times a stricken animal recovered and rose to gore an unsuspecting man on foot. Even when Noble eased down, he was prepared to quickly remount.

  His hunting knife drawn, he stepped near her head. Her pig-like eyes glazed from death’s throes. Noble swiftly cut her jugular and released a fountain of blood.

  Grateful for his success, he checked the rise to the east for Fleta and Luke. The sight of them settled him. But as he remounted, movement on the west stopped his heart.

  There was no mistaking them. The spotted ponies and the feathers fluttering. A party of Indians was watching him.

  Noble set the gray into a run. Headed for Fleta, he silently cursed his lack of awareness. This was Indian country; he hadn’t even given them a thought. He pushed his horse harder. Filled with ideas for their defense; any moment Noble expected to hear war cries behind him.

  Damn.

  Chapter Two

  Noble shifted in the saddle and removed one of the Colts from his coat pocket. He jammed the revolver in his waistband, not varying his hard stare from the single Indian riding toward him.

  “Stay here,” he told Fleta without turning around. He took out the other Colt and lay it before him on his lap. He didn’t need trouble with a bunch of warriors, not while he had a small boy and a woman to look after.

  The buck raised his bare, copper arm from beneath the army blanket that hung over his shoulders. What tribe did he belong to? Noble wondered and tried to remember sign language. He’d seen plenty of men use it before, but he’d not had a chance to practice it like the other freighters. Communicating with Indians never interested him before.

  Noble pursed his lips. Well, Indian, one wrong move and you’ll be seven feet under this grass.

  He booted the gray out to close the distance between him and to keep more room between the brave and Fleta. Steadying the pistol in his lap, he reined up thirty feet short of the man who had halted his paint horse.

  “Me Spotted Horse,” the Indian said.

  “Noble McCurtain,” he answered, inspecting the brave, who wore eagle feathers in his braids.

  “Make big trade,” Spotted Horse indicated himself with his thumb. “Give you good furs for part of buffalo.”

  Noble frowned. “I don’t need your furs.”

  “Good furs, make warm coat,” Spotted Horse said, looking very somber.

  Noble checked his gray who was prancing impatiently. He sighed inwardly, knowing they could never use all the buffalo meat. A lot would surely go to waste.

  “You want half?” Noble asked.

  Spotted Horse nodded. His horse gave a snort that seemed to reinforce his rider’s approval of the trade.

  “What tribe are you from?” Noble asked. There were women with the other braves which eased his concern. Indians were less likely to use treachery when they had squaws with them.

  “Osage. We are plenty peaceful. No time for war.”

  Noble considered their situation. They looked peaceful enough, with their women and the small children. According to would-be Indian experts he had known warparties never took their families along.

  “Bring me a horse and a pack of furs,” Noble said, feeling the Indian would be disappointed if he didn’t bargain.

  “You plenty tough trader.” Spotted Horse agreed with a head nod. “Osage poor. No gunpowder for guns.”

  That made sense. No gunpowder, no hunting. Lord, he was beginning to think like the Indian talked.

  “No stealing from my camp or bothering my woman and boy,” Noble warned, waving the pistol from his lap.

  “Plenty good. McCurtain and Spotted Horse be good friends, yes?”

  With a wry set to his mouth, Noble nodded. If the Osage were without gunpowder, what could they do? As long as they didn’t steal him blind, they could share the heifer with them. But he knew Indians had little compunction about taking someone else’s goods. They enjoyed a what’s yours is mine philosophy.

  Noble put the pistol back in his waistband. He signaled for Fleta to come forward.

  Spotted Horse smiled broadly. “Bring you horse and furs.”

  “Good,” Noble said, still wary of the deal.

  Spotted Horse gave a wave to his companions and a loud cheer went up. They left horses, travois and even the small children on the rise. On foot, they raced for the downed animal.

  Noble surmised they must be very hungry, because the men were with the women and traditionally the squaws did the butchering. But surely they didn’t intend to eat the buffalo raw? Spotted Horse gave him a nod and booted his pony to join the three women and two men.

  “Are they peaceful?” Fleta asked, keeping a suspicious eye on the band surrounding the shaggy, brown carcass.

  “They seem to be. They’re Osage. I traded half the buffalo for a horse and furs.” Noble frowned as he studied them, realizing they were already eating the animal’s organs. “They’re starving.”

  “Can we trust them?” she asked.

  “I think so,” Noble said exchanging a nod with Luke and answered the wide eyed youth’s unasked questions. “Yes, they’re real Indians.”

  “What should we do?” Fleta asked.

  “Just stay up here. I’m going down and learn all I can.”

  “Noble,” she said worriedly, “be careful.”

  “I will. I’ll be back to unload. You wait here.” Noble rode down the slope to the butchering site.

  Two men were with Spotted Horse. One short buck in his early twenties was named Rivers. The other one, Barge Oar, Noble guessed close to thirty. Barge’s wife, Otter, had a bad leg.

  Spotted Horse had two wives. His youngest, Mary Joseph, was a teenager with a baby. The older woman, dressed in tailored buckskin, was named Mannah. Noble guessed her age as in the late twenties. It was apparent from her striking looks that she was not an Osage, but Noble could not define her tribal origin.

  The squaws had the hide peeled off the top side. Noble stepped nearby and took a strip of the loin off
the back. With a nod to the women, he started back for Fleta and the boy, leading the gray. This was enough meat for them for the night. He would get more later. Cold as the air was, the carcass would not spoil.

  Fleta had built a fire. She took the meat and laid it on her cutting board. Noble did not miss her apprehensive glances toward the Osage. He was glad she had not spoken her thoughts.

  As he unpacked his horse, he noticed the Osage had begun a camp not far from Fleta’s fire. Mary Joseph sat on the ground, nursing her baby at her swollen immature breasts. The men took up positions on the ground while the other women began cooking.

  Noble saw Luke watching everything the Osage did, then returning to ask his mother questions. Noble smiled when he overheard the one about feeding the baby.

  Fleta looked up from her cooking. She studied Noble’s back as he stacked the pack goods and the saddles. Satisfied that he had the Indians in hand, she still couldn’t feel at ease. Fleta felt confused and at the same time awed. They acted so backward. Their dress was a mixture of Indian and white man’s clothing.

  Finished unpacking, Noble smiled down on her. “That meat will be good.”

  “Yes, it will be. Thank you.”

  He walked to the Indian’s camp, where he squatted down with the men. If necessary, he knew the Colt in his belt would be all he needed.

  “Where is your home?” Spotted Horse asked.

  “I’m looking for a new one.”

  “West,” the Osage pointed. “There is a good place for a white man to winter. You shoot buffalo. Osage do much work. Plenty to eat for everyone. “

  “What kind of place?” Noble asked studying their dour faces.

  “Big house. Good for white man.”

  “Who does it belong to?”

  “Long gone. No one comes there.”

  Nobel found himself intrigued by the notion. An abandoned place might serve them as a winter headquarters. It probably was a house or structure an Indian wouldn’t use.

  “You smoke pipe. We make big deal,” Spotted Horse said. He produced a clay pipe and packed it with brown material from a buckskin pouch.