Noble's Way Page 4

  But when Cedric Patterson told him that the furs would tally over four thousand dollars, he was stunned. The man explained the sum was a rough total, and the end calculation would require hours. Noble considered the unbelievable profit.

  Even though the Wichita women piled up mounds of goods which he doubted their horses could cany home, Noble planned not to spend any of Fleta’s money. He walked around to study their purchases: brightly colored material, pot, pans, knives, axes, and beads.

  After the staff added up all the squaw’s purchases, Cedric showed Noble a two thousand dollar credit to the account in his name. Of course, the total could be higher when the furs were better appraised, Patterson assured him.

  What had Spotted Horse said? He shook his head, still in awe and amazed at the turn of events. The Osage had told him to handle the trade in a white man’s way and let the Wichitas trade for what they wanted. There was no need in explaining to the strutting squaws—by their book they had bested him. He ordered five hundred dollars in merchandise for the store, his family and the Osage. He felt confident his pack horses could carry that much back.

  When Alex came inside, Noble looked up with a wry smile. “What did the law say?”

  Alex tugged on his right ear in a gesture of apparent amusement. “He said to tell our customer that he would be glad to see the rear ends of his horses leaving town and not to ever shoot off your so-and-so pistol in downtown Independence.”

  Noble grinned. “Thanks, Alex. I’m obliged.”

  “No problem, Mr. McCurtain. We appreciate your business. We’ve unloaded your pack string. My helpers will help reload them.”

  He reached out and shook Alex’s hand. “It’s been my pleasure. I’ll send for an order later this summer and you can have a freighter bring it to me.”

  “Mr. McCurtain, try this hat on,” Cedric Patterson said, standing behind him. “I see you go bareheaded, but this is what many of the military officers are wearing now. A man in Philadelphia by the name of Stetson made it.” He held out a high crowned, wide brimmed, cream-colored hat.

  Noble looked at it with interest. He tried it on, but since he was unaccustomed to the feel of any kind of headgear, he deliberated buying the hat.

  “It will fit better if you dampen the band,” Alex suggested.

  “How much does it cost?”

  The store owner smiled broadly. “Consider it a gift. We appreciate your business.”

  Noble fitted the hat to his head, thanked both men and walked out on the porch in the afternoon sun. The hat shaded his eyes and pleased him. He noticed two stern faced deputies were standing nearby. The excited, magpie-chattering squaws were nearly through packing their things aboard the horses. River and No-Eyes obviously had the women well in hand and things seemed to be going smoothly.

  The packing complete and everyone mounting up, Noble swung onto the saddle. He had plenty of stock for the store and everyone else at the fort, plus fifteen hundred dollars on the books. He could hardly wait to tell Fleta about their good fortune.

  He looked over the train, then satisfied they were ready, he waved with a wide swing of his new hat to ‘move out’. Gawk if you like, he silently told the nosey townspeople. I’m a rich man headed for home. He touched the brim of his new hat for two finely dressed ladies on the sidewalk. Behind him he could hear the giggle of the Wichitas, probably giving coy glances to the men they passed.

  Even the prospect of the long ride home did not dampen his spirits. Spotted Horse’s weather forecast was holding accurately and the clear Kansas sky held little threat.

  On the return journey, they re-crossed the fresh streams and rivers. At night they camped, unloading the supplies then reloading them in the predawn to get an early start on each day. Noble rode in front of the procession. Sometimes he scouted a mile or so ahead to find a campsite or a better pass through the lowlands near a river to avoid marshy ground. He became saddle weary and calculated they would reach home in another day. He knew the horses were loaded heavy and thus did not make the same miles on the return trip.

  “The Wichitas speak of you as a great friend,” Rivers said, joining him. They watched the line of pack horses go off a sharp bank and splash through shallow creek.

  “Good,” Noble said. He would like to do more business with the tribe in the future, especially in view of the business just completed.

  “Who was the angry man in the streets?” River asked.

  It took Noble a moment to realize that he meant the marshal. “That was the white man’s law.”

  “He was not happy with our horses in the street,” Rivers said.

  “Nor was he happy with me shooting my pistol off,” Noble said with a laugh, realizing how the Osage must have fretted on this matter for days.

  “I do not like Missouri,” Rivers said, then he rode off to help the squaws get a stubborn horse out of the water.

  Noble shook his head as he watched them pull and whip the balking horse until the pony finally gave up and came out of the stream. He didn’t like Missouri either.

  Later that night, he lay in his bedroll, his eyes heavy. Wolves howled nearby.

  One more day and he would be back in Fleta’s arms. There was so much to tell her. They were rich and he still had her gold coins, plus a great stock of store goods to sell.

  Noble woke abruptly to find Rivers squatted beside him. The wolves sounded closer.

  “Wolves,” the Indian hissed. “Not real wolves.”

  Noble peered at the man through sleep-gritted eyes. In the starlight, he could make out grim features. The Osage would never wake him unless he was certain there was a threat. Noble listened to the sleepy grunts from the nearby horses, but there were no sounds from the wolves. The silence was heavy and yet loud with an undefined force.

  Filled with uneasiness, Noble reached for his pistol and rose in a crouch. The cold air quickly found him and dissipated the bedroll’s warmth. He tapped his face with the gun barrel, the sour powder smell drifting to his nostrils.

  Something was wrong out there in the darkness. Noble tensed, waiting.

  Chapter Four

  In Noble’s absence, Fleta became restless and apprehensive. She tried to stay busy; noting with some relief that Spotted Horse patrolled the fort with the Colt rifle resting in his thick arms.

  To reassure herself, she appraised the situation. She no longer held any fear about the Osage’s loyalty and felt if the fort came under attack, the Wichitas would help defend the place. Only fools would try anything against a force this size. Besides, she expected Noble back in a week—if the weather held.

  To occupy her time, Fleta planned a vegetable garden for the coming season. It would contain all the things she had missed during the hard winter months. The mere thought of corn on the cob, beans, peas and greens made her mouth water. She had strung a line outside to dry clothes and, when she wasn’t washing, she aired the quilts, another way of passing the long days.

  That first evening, she found no sleep at all. Tossing and turning without Nobles’s strong arms and warmth, she finally got up and sat huddled under a blanket. Fleta envisioned a hundred possible disasters that might befall her man. She finally steeled herself. He simply was going to get supplies and would be back safely.

  In the morning, the sun became a bright globe, thawing the earth under Fleta’s small feet encased in the fur-lined boots Mannah made for her.

  Mary Joseph and the baby were always nearby. Even Otter, who kept to herself all the time, finally came to see the strange woman who sunned her blankets. Fleta was amused at their bewildered looks. Perhaps the Indians thought she was performing some strong medicine ritual.

  She learned that Mannah was not an Osage, but Fleta could not pronounce the name of her tribe. Spotted Horse’s older wife seemed happy enough with him, and she acted motherly toward the younger wife, Mary Joseph. Since she was childless, she must have resigned herself to the presence of a second wife. Fleta was not certain she would be so tolerant.

&n
bsp; Fleta surmised Indian girls married at a very young age. One swollen-bellied Wichita girl was hardly more than twelve years old. But Fleta shrugged philosophically. Who was she to judge? Perhaps she was jealous, wanting to bear Noble a son. She took out her frustrations on the blankets, flailing them wildly.

  The Indian women giggled and Fleta asked Mannah why they were so amused.

  “They want to know if you are chasing the evil spirits away with your beating?”

  “Tell them yes,” Fleta confided with a smile. Almost immediately, she regretted teasing Mannah, but she could not admit she was beating them simply because she was worried about Noble.

  “They want to know if you are with child?”

  Flet felt her cheeks flush. She shook her head sadly. “No.”

  A large shadow from overhead drew the women’s attention. Fleta squinted to see the giant eagle pass over them. His snow-white head glistened; he glided, on a broad wing span, with little effort. She watched until he was gone beyond the top of the fort’s wall.

  “Ma, that was an eagle,” Luke pointed out as he joined her.

  “Yes, I saw him.”

  “The Indians think eagles are magic.”

  “Maybe they are, Luke,” she said, tousling his fair hair. “Where have you been?”

  “Oh, at the Wichita camp. They have some new puppies.”

  “That’s nice,” Fleta said, wondering if her son had watched the delivery of the canines.

  “May I have one, mamma?”

  “We better wait and ask Noble.”

  Luke agreed and rushed off. Fleta sighed. She’d have to make sure that Luke took a bath, especially if he had been handling Indian dogs.

  By the sixth day, her anxiety increased until she could hardly sit still. Fleta closed her eyes ... she started when Spotted Horse came in the front door. His brown face wore a grim expression, enough to cause her heart to quicken.

  “Someone has traded whiskey to the Wichitas. They are starting to celebrate.

  “Who could have done that?” she asked, shaken by the news.

  “The three men you shot at, I think,” he said.

  “Spotted Horse ... what will the Wichitas do?”

  The Osage shook his head. “They are friendly people. Maybe only dance.”

  Fleta thought for a moment, then she ordered, “Get Chief Tall Timber!”

  He looked down at the floor. “No. A chief would not listen to a woman. Barge and I will guard this place.”

  “Send your women and the children in here.”

  “Thank you,” he said quietly. “No one will come here and bother you.” Spotted Horse nodded then hurried away.

  Fleta wanted to ask him several questions, but when he was gone, she did not want to go after him. She looked up when Luke came in the back door.

  “You’ll have to stay in the house,” she said, her tone sharper than intended.

  “Why?” Luke’s blank look angered her.

  “Luke, this is very serious. Believe me and do as I say. We have a problem on our hands.”

  “What kind of problem?”

  “I’ll explain later.” Fleta looked out the window. What could she tell her son? That a hundred Wichitas were going to be drunk and dangerous?

  By mid-afternoon, the celebration grew louder beyond the wall. One by one the Osage women and children came to the house. Fleta served them tea. They sat quietly on the floor sipping the beverage, seemingly undisturbed by the revelry outside. But Fleta noticed the women did not giggle.

  Beyond the stockade, drums grew louder and voices shriller. She could see her son’s frustration at his confinement.

  “What are they doing, Ma?” he asked plaintively.

  “Celebrating.”

  “My friend Red Elk didn’t ask me to come and celebrate,” Luke complained.

  Fleta shook her head in exasperation. “He wasn’t allowed to. Theirs is a private celebration.”

  Fleta knew Luke was not satisfied by her answer, but fortunately he did not pressure her for any other information.

  Outside, the chanting and shouts grew in intensity. She imagined a massacre. All her life she had heard of Indians who got drunk and then went on a killing rampage. And it was worse when they were sold bad whiskey, for it made them almost insane. She trembled at the thought of wild Indians barging in with tomahawks and knives. The blood pounded in her temples and cold sweat broke out on her neck.

  Spotted Horse came in the front door. He took the Hawkins and the ammunition, then wordlessly exited again. The worried look on his granite face did nothing to reassure Fleta.

  The sharp report of gunshots caused her to jump. The sounds came from the direction of the camp. “Dear God, ” she whispered, “don’t let those wild people come in here. Oh, why did I ever leave Arkansas?” She looked at Luke seated on the pallet. Her mouth drawn in a tight line, she rose and went to search for a gun. Taking the pistol from the panniers, she walked to the rocker. If the Wichitas got past the Osages, at least she would have some protection.

  Outside, the laughter and screams grew louder. Fleta rested the gun in her lap, then placed her hands over her ears, praying for Noble to come home.

  In the darkness, Noble slipped along the horse line. Ahead of him, Rivers and No-Eyes were moving shadows. He heard a horse snort, and was certain it was not one of his own. When he and the two Indians reached the last pack horse, they crouched in council.

  “Are they Indians?” Noble asked.

  “White men,” No-Eyes said flatly.

  There was no time to question the brave; he was probably right. Rivers had the double action .30 revolver that Noble had carried to Arkansas. Noble reached out and stopped No-Eyes. “Here, take this pistol.” He offered one of his Colts. “Shoot carefully.”

  The Wichita nodded and moved to the right. Rivers went to the left. Noble unbuttoned his coat and felt the night air invade his shirt when he drew out the other single action .36 from his belt.

  Something howled and Noble wondered if it was a wolf or a man. He moved ahead carefully, knowing instinctively that whoever was out there was not friendly. He crept down the ridge, the re-frozen ground crunching under his boot soles. His eyes searched for any movement as he cautiously proceeded. He shrugged off his concern and began to hurry in a bent-over trot.

  A pistol rang out to his right. No-Eyes’ pistol belched more flame and smoke. The fight was on. But where in the hell was the enemy?

  Noble’s question was answered at the sound of boots heels and a figure came running toward him. A glimpse of the hat told Noble this was no Indian. The Colt barked in Noble’s fist. The intruder snapped back a wild shot to the side of Noble. The shooter was close to a dark line of head high bushes when Rivers fired his pistol. The figure halted, obviously hard hit. Noble heard his rifle clatter to the ground.

  No-Eyes joined him and they rushed down the hillside together. Were there others?

  “Get to the horses!” someone ordered.

  Noble recognized the voice.

  “Damn Injuns got Red!” another voice shouted.

  “Shut up and ride,” Izer Goodman ordered.

  “You low-life bastard!” Noble swore, crashing through the bushes in pursuit. He realized it was futile when he heard horse hooves pounding off into the night. Regardlessly, Noble emptied his pistol into the inky darkness after them.

  Rivers joined him as he stood in the chest high brambles.

  “Izer Goodman,” Noble said in disgust.

  “Yes,” the Osage said.

  Both men turned to the screams from above them on the hill.

  “The squaws found him,” Rivers said.

  “Red Barber,” Noble said to himself. The war cries of the squaws were worse than the wolves’ howls. He pushed back to camp to reload his pistol, not wishing to be a part of Barber’s mutilation.

  The continuing screams of their grisly attack on the outlaw made Noble sick to his stomach. At least Fleta and Luke were safe. As for Izer, he would get tha
t bully bastard. Noble had a big score to settle with Goodman and Dawson.

  Dawn was a pink streak when Noble completed saddling his horse. The stark, naked corpse of Red Barber lay on the blood mottled snow, thirty feet from the picket line. Brutally scalped, his genitals were stuffed in his mouth. Noble turned his back on the nauseating sight. Spotted Horse’s weather forecast was running out. They needed to be back at the fort by dark; the heavy-laden horses were becoming too weary to plow much more snow.

  They rode southwest. Mid-day, Noble spotted the column of smoke rising against the sky. He turned back to Rivers, riding behind him.

  “Is that the fort?”

  The Osage peered keenly at the smoke in the flat distance. He nodded, his brown eyes troubled.

  “I’m going ahead,” Noble said decisively. “Bring all our horses, but come slowly, for they’re tired.”

  Rivers agreed. Noble pounded the gray with his heels. The great horse responded, but Noble felt saddened for even the gray had been pushed too hard. Hooves splashed the thawed ground and Noble strained forward. Miles of rotten snow swept beneath the lathered horse’s dripping belly.

  If Goodman had harmed Fleta, Noble vowed, he would castrate the bastard.

  Finally he could see the picketed wall. The smoke appeared to be coming from beyond it. Perhaps the Wichita camp. He drew the gray to a walk, wondering what had happened.

  When he rode up the last grade, he saw Spotted Horse and Barge standing in the gate with their rifles.

  “What’s on fire?” he demanded as he quickly dismounted the heaving horse.

  “The Wichita camp. Their tepees.”

  “Why?”

  Spotted Horse shook his head in disgust. “Crazy drunk. Izer sold them four barrels of whiskey.”

  “That bastard! Are the Wichitas all right?”

  Spotted Horse grinned. “Bad sick, no tepees. But they will live.”

  Then Noble saw Fleta. She ran forward and launched herself into his outstretched arms.

  “I was sure worried when I saw the smoke,” Noble said, holding her tightly against his chest.