Authors: Dusty Richards
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
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.â(An Evans novel of the West)
I. Title. II. Series.
PS3568.131523N6 Â Â Â 1992 Â Â 91-46114
813'.54âdc20
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 SciencesâPermanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI/NISO Z39.48-1992.
Printed in the United States of America
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
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 concernâfording the Arkansas Riverâhad 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 boyâhe 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 oneâshe and Noble McCurtainâshe 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 horse 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.
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.”