Noble's Way (4 page)

“I brought you some shells for that rifle,” Noble said, handing over the rounds. “You and Rivers and Barge must help me guard our place with that gun. It isn't a buffalo gun, but it would stop the likes of those outlaws today.”

Spotted Horse reached for the carbine and set it across his lap. “Plenty gawd damn good. No one will come here but friends. The Osage will guard this fort.”

“We need to go hunting tomorrow.”

The Indian shook his head. “There will be more snow. Sleep and rest, then we go.”

Perhaps he knew more about the weather than Noble did. He thanked the Indian and excused himself. Outside, he studied the star-studded sky and questioned the Indian's forecast. Shaking his head, he went back into the small house.

Fleta was washing her leg by the fire light. She instinctively drew her skirt down at his appearance.

“What did Spotted Horse say?” she asked.

“The Osage will protect us. They will keep their word.” He paused. “There sure ain't many Osage left.”

She resumed her bathing. Why had he not stayed just a a little longer, so she could have finished. She studied him for a moment before proceeding with her bath. Noble did not seem to be paying any attention to her. He was looking at something on the wall.

“Why don't the Osage have more children?” she asked curiously.

He shrugged. “Diseases, I guess. Indians been dying of white man's diseases for a long time.”

“I guess you're right. Oh, you can start your bath now.”

A grin tilted his lips. “Are you hinting I smell like an Osage?”

“Well ...”

Noble pulled his shirt away and lowered his nose to it. He grimaced. “Guess I do at that.”

They both laughed, then he followed her sharp look up at the sleeping boy in the loft and guiltily they became quieter.

Fleta busied herself picking up clothing while he bathed. Tonight, they would commence their private life again. A small tinge of excitement coursed through her. The days on the trail had been long, tiring and suspenseful. Their affection had been limited to a hug or a quick kiss, but they were home at last.

She took pains to carefully shave Noble's chapped face, feeling a certain pleasure looking into his eyes. After she finished, she prepared their blankets on the floor.

When Noble joined her, they rekindled their long suppressed passion. Afterwards, they lay exhausted in each other's arms.

Noble held Fleta securely by his side. Before his heavy lids fell shut, he remembered one last vision—the leering face of Izer Goodman, the squaw killer.

The following morning, to Noble's dismay, Spotted Horse's forecast for more snow was accurate. He worried about their dwindling food supply, but the continuing snowfall and the cold spell that followed kept Noble close to the fort for five days.

When the weather finally cleared and began to warm, Noble went to see Spotted Horse. “One man must go with me hunting. Two must stay and guard the fort.”

“Rivers can go. He is good man. Barge and I will protect this place,” Spotted Horse said.

“Good, tell him we leave shortly.” He left the Indians and went back for his rifle and the provisions that Fleta had prepared.

“Noble,” she said hesitantly, “don't be gone longer than two days if you can help it.”

He raised his hand and gently stroked her cheek. “As soon as we get a few buffalo, we'll be back.”

She pulled his wool coat together. “I know, I just worry about you.”

Rivers joined Noble in the yard. The Indian was a short, powerful man, his face flatter and his eyes more almond shaped than the other Osages. He wore a turban around his head and a stiff buffalo coat hung to the tops of his high top boots.

Noble sensed that the man spoke some English when he felt like it. As they mounted up, Noble wondered if Rivers would talk to him.

Sun warmed the snow-blanketed prairie. The glare caused Noble to squint. But his companion used a narrow wood mask—notched for his nose—to cut down the snow's blinding whiteness.

“Small herd,” Rivers said, pointing to some distant dots.

“Let's go slow. I've seen men shoot them at a distance and not have to charge in.” Noble dismounted, anxious to stretch the muscles in his legs. If they cold maneuver close enough to drop one of the buffalo and not scare the others away, his chances of killing a second one would be better. By this method, they could down several buffalo before the animals discovered they were being shot at.

Working downwind and leading their mounts, they positioned themselves as close as Noble dared. Rivers held the gray's reins while Noble laid the hexagon barrel across the seat of his saddle. His first shot crumpled a large bull. Both men grinned at each other, the herd never seemed to notice. Noble hastily reloaded. Carefully measuring the distance he took a bead on the closest animal, a young bull. The herd, oblivious to the first downed buffalo, continued to paw the snow for their grazing. The rifle cracked, but this time Noble's target bawled in pain. Either he had shot too far back or the gun did not fire as well. The wounded bull staggered forward then sat down dog fashion. His protests spooked the others into a clumsy, snow-churning gallop.

“Good hunter,” River said as the second buffalo toppled over in silence. “See plenty white men shoot all day never kill one buffalo.”

“They were sportsmen,” Noble tried to explain as he reloaded the .50 caliber rifle.

“Plenty bad shots.” Rivers shook his head.

“Well,” Noble said, sheathing the Hawkins in the saddle boot, “some day they'll make better cartridge guns than those guys use, then I'll buy one.” He wasn't sure Rivers understood.

They rode down to cut the buffaloes' throats and bleed them. The Osage women and two of the men could come back the next day and slaughter them. There would be plenty of meat for the fort, Noble decided as he studied the scarlet snow where the steaming blood had pooled. Tonight, everyone could feast on the long purple slabs that Rivers extracted. Nothing would be wasted, even the animals' small brains would be used to tan their wooly hides.

The ride home was easy in the powdery snow. Flush from his successful hunt, Noble considered his new position in life with Fleta and the boy, plus a handful of Osages—a strange alliance. Yet, he began to feel confident they would make it through the winter.

Noble schemed as he rode. He needed all the horses he could muster to make a ride to Fort Leavenworth for those supplies to sell next spring. He would need them when the migration began. A wagon would be too cumbersome to drive back during the winter, either getting stuck in thawing ruts or bucking drifts. No, he needed a pack string. He would speak to the Osage chief about using their mounts. Funny, he wasn't sure if Spotted Horse was a chief; the Indians never mentioned it one way or the other. He just seemd to be their spokesman.

That evening, still high from the hunting expedition, he lay on his back beside Fleta. He studied the shadowy underside of the shake roof that was illuminated by the fireplace's flames.

“I'm going to Fort Leavenworth next month,” he said quietly. “I'll put us in a stock of supplies, so come next spring, we'll be ready for the people moving west.”

“What if the owners of this place come back?”

“They can go to hell. We've cleaned this mess up and we're going to hold on to it.”

Fleta looked at the hard, obstinate set of his jaw and smiled. She laid an arm across his chest. It would be impossible to convince him that this place was not his.

The weather grew milder the following week. An entire tribe of Wichitas arrived at the fort on one of the clear warm days. They were loaded down with horses, children, dogs and travois. Noble sensed they were peaceful. They camped outside the wall, as if being near the structure was some form of security for them.

Noble found himself in an awkward position. These new arrivals expected to trade their furs, but he had nothing to barter. The Indians' pack horses were loaded down with fox, mink, bobcat and even a few beaver furs. Noble spotted wolf skins and deer hides that had been beaten into soft yellow buckskin. The lack of something to trade weighed heavily on his mind. Finally he hit upon an idea and went to discuss it with Spotted Horse at his tepee.

“You tell the Wichitas that I'll take their furs and bring them back goods from Fort Leavenworth,” he explained to the Osage.

Spotted Horse shook his head. “They don't trust white man. You pay now, keep the furs.”

“Hell's bells! That's my problem. If I had something, I would trade with them now,” Noble said with exasperation.

“No good, they no give you furs.”

“Get Chief Tall Timber to come to council. I'll take some Wichitas with me. When I sell the furs, they can get what they want in return.”

“Probably have to take a squaw or two along. The women own the furs. A man would get the wrong supplies.”

“Fine. I get twenty percent for trading,” Noble said.

“You do what you want with the money. Wichitas never understand money things.”

Noble started to protest. Perhaps the Osage didn't understand either. He would have his council with Tall Timber and their store would show a profit the first year in business.

The idea worked. Noble selected Rivers to help him with the pack horses on the journey. A Wichita sub-chief named No-Eyes, whom Noble suspected was far-sighted was assigned to accompany him along with three squaws. They were all older women and very fat. Noble wondered if they could ride as fast as he wanted to go. Spotted Horse assured him they were good as any man on horseback.

The head Osage's weather forecast had given Noble ten thawing days to make his round trip.

Noble shook his head, looking over his odd entourage when they reached Independence, Missouri on the fifth day. Curious towns-people came out to see the invaders. Giggling squaws, solemn Rivers, and No-Eyes kept the horses in line through the traffic though some of the Indian ponies were terrified by the wagons, buggies and rigs.

Patterson's Mercantile loomed before them with a great set of stairs leading to the porch. Noble considered it a reputable firm.

“Everyone stay close,” he said to the Wichita chief. Noble dismounted the gray and handed the reins to Rivers, mounted the stairs then pushed open the bell-tinkling door.

A balding man removed his glasses and looked Noble up and down cautiously. “May I help you?”

“Name's Noble McCurtain, I've come to sell some furs.”

“Yes sir, Cedric Patterson at your sevice.” The men shook hands.

“Mister, I'll tell you right off. I need to be on my way shortly and I have three Wichita women out there you'll need to satisfy with trade goods.”

“Certainly, young man. We have a reputation—”

“I know,” Noble interrupted. “That's why I stopped here.”

“Alex,” the man called out to a clerk who was hardly older than Noble. “Mr. McCurtain, this is my son Alex. Alex, go outside and price his furs. He is in a big hurry to get home.”

“Certainly, father.” Alex's handshake was powerful. Noble took an instant liking to the owner's son.

Together they went out to the mudddy street. The giggling squaws had attracted a few gray-whiskered drunks out of the saloons. Uneasy already, Noble became very nervous when one of the women dismounted and squatted to urinate. He tried to hear Alex's comments about the furs and wondered how to avoid an incident. Noble's responsibility for the girl-like threesome included herding them safely home after their trading was completed.

He heard someone in the crowd shouting about the old days when they bedded some squaws. The women might be willing, Noble decided grimly, but his role as chaperon precluded any such activity on the women's part. The Wichitas would be alienated if their women did not return with him, all his future business with the Indians would be lost.

“Rivers!” Noble shouted. “You and No-Eyes take the women inside and start shopping.” He feared he might already be too late to stop any trouble. “I'll be right back, Alex. Your prices sound fair, unload the furs.” He pushed through the unbudging and twisting pack horses. One of the white men was kissing a squaw.

“Get away!” he shouted. “They all have syphilis!” He jerked the man away from the woman and shoved him into the crowd of leering drunks.

A few men moved back at his words, but others were talking trade in sign language with the squaws. Noble was certain they had no designs on the furs.

The blast of his Colt overhead drew a swift cessation to the negotiations. The men fell over themselves backing up. “Get in the store,” he ordered the fat squaws. “Any of you men want to die, come one step closer.”

No-Eyes took charge and marched the threesome, who had turned solemn, up the muddy street, onto the porch and then inside Patterson's front door.

“The marshal will be here shortly,” Alex said ruefully when Noble rejoined him.

“Why?”

“He hates shooting in the city limits.”

“I have no wish to be detained. What will it cost me?” Noble asked.

“Two dollars.”

Noble shrugged. “Pay him and take it off my account. I need to go get some things out of the store and to keep an eye on those damned squaws.”

“You did rather well out here.” Alex grinned. “I'll handle the marshal.”

Inside the store, Noble noticed that the goods were higher priced than he had imagined, but he realized that in wartime such rises were inevitable. He fretted that the money from Fleta's money belt might not pay for his planned order. His shoulders sagged as he watched the squaws rush about choosing things.

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.