Authors: Dusty Richards
“Come on, let's go build a fire in the room,” he said.
“Have a wild party like the Wichitas,” Spotted Horse said, stern-faced as stone.
“Yes, that's what we should do.” Noble unlocked the room door. Once inside, the Osage sat on the floor, obviously disdaining the beds and wooden chairs.
A sharp rap on the door drew Noble up from the bed. For a moment he wished he had his pistols. He nodded reassuringly at the sight of Spotted Horse's knife.
“Who's there?”
“Captain Rourke, U S Army,” came the clipped reply.
“All right.” Noble went toward the door, wondering what the man wanted.
“Mr. McCurtain?” The man was gray at the temples, ramrod tall with a weathered face.
“Yes.”
“I understand that you have a plains chief here with you. I wonder if I might have the courtesy of asking him a few questions.”
Noble opened the door for the man. Rourke swept on his gold braid, decorated felt hat and his boot heels clicked when he stepped into the room.
“Have a chair, Captain,” Noble offered. “The chief does not care for them.”
“Thank you.” Rourke sat down. “Good day, sir,” the officer spoke to Spotted Horse, who remained seated on the floor. At least Noble noted the man did not offer to shake the chief's hand. Indians thought the custom very funny. He had seen Barge and Rivers shaking hands in private and laughing about the white man's silly ritual; Spotted Horse was accustomed to doing so with many settlers passing through the fort.
“He understands English,” Noble assured Rourke.
“Chief, what are the conditions in southern Kansas now?”
Spotted Horse looked quickly at Noble.
“He means is there peace there?” Noble interpreted the question.
The Osage nodded. Then he began using a halted English that almost made Noble laugh. “Plenty peace. Plenty buffalo. Be good winter.”
“Thank God,” the man offered piously. He turned to Noble. “Did he say all the tribes in your region are peaceful?”
Noble nodded. “Spotted Horse, I think he wants to know if you expect any fighting?”
“No fighting.”
“That's good news. We have reports that the Sioux, Cheyenne and the Pawnees are all in an uproar. We don't have enough troops to contain them.”
“Rest easy. Things are peaceful with the Osage and the Wichitas,” Noble said.
“Mr. McCurtain, the military knows about your good works. Your temperance actions are needed all over the frontier. Whiskey seems to fire up these people to atrocities beyond belief.
“Why just a year ago, not three days ride south of here, a man was found who had been horribly scalped and mutilated.”
Red Barber, Noble decided, though he didn't ask the officer the man's name.
The captain rose and gave the Osage a sharp salute. “The army is grateful. Chief Spotted Horse. And to you too, Mr. McCurtain. We are at your service if you need us.”
“If I ever need help, I'll sure send word.” Noble rose to open the door for the man.
Noble listened for the officer's retreating foot steps. He turned to the Osage. “By damn, Spotted Horse, we are now in with the army.” They both laughed at the irony.
“You plenty big chief here.”
Spotted Horse grunted solemnly and they both laughed again.
As Noble lay in bed, he thought of all the things he had to tell Fleta when he got home. She would laugh at Spotted Horse's peace-keeping role. Even Red Barber's demise had become an Indian atrocity. The army's notion about the plains Indians was incomplete for people who were supposed to be protecting the frontier. Noble looked up at the ceiling. He ached to be home; this was not his place.
Before dawn, the lumpy bed hurt his back. Noble awoke and lighted the lamp. He knew the Osage was awake.
“Plenty noise in white man's village all night,” the Chief complained.
Noble agreed. “Let's go look for a pack horse to carry our new rifles home and get some trinkets for everyone. We might find a big mare for Sudan's mule project.”
They ate breakfast in a narrow cafe then in the gray dawn walked to the livery stable. Noble felt undressed without his pistols.
“I need a mare with draft blood,” Noble told the sleepy eyed, bowler hatted man who led them down through the sour smelling stables.
“Horses are high, Mr. McCurtain. The army needs hundreds. Are there any good ones in your part of the country?”
“How much do you pay for them, Mr.â” Noble asked curiously, a half-formed plan beginning in his mind.
“Doone's the name. Twenty bucks a head.”
Noble knew the man would pay more, but now he was interested in buying one.
“There she be,” the man pointed in the lot.
Noble climbed the fence. She was a blood bay with feathered feet. Her trot and carriage distinguished her from the other saddle stock in the pen.
With his arm hooked over the top pole, Noble watched her high stepping action. Sudan would like her. Noble stepped back off the fence and started for the barn.
“Well what do you think?” Doone asked, hurrying to catch up with them.
“How much?”
“Which one?”
Noble sighed impatiently. “The one you brought me back to look at.”
The man shook his head. “Damn, at six thirty in the morning, you're hard to trade with. Fifty dollars.”
“Twenty-five.”
“No way! The army will pay me forty for her.”
Noble was silent for a moment. “I'll bring you three horses in the spring and take her now.”
“She's worth cash-now.”
Noble shrugged, striving to appear indifferent. “Come on, Spotted Horse.”
“Wait,” Doone surrendered. “You could get killed and scalped and I would be out the cost of her.”
“That's the gamble you'll have to take,” Noble said, turning to face the man.
“I've heard lots about you McCurtain. Can you bring me several horses next spring?”
Noble didn't answer immediately. Finally he drawled slowly, “Well, that depends. I will send you three sound horses for her. If we capture or trade for any more, I'll send them.” He turned to the Osage. “Go get Sudan's new mare.”
“Does that chief work for you?” Doone asked, a little taken aback by the notion.
“We're partners,” Noble corrected him. “He takes care of the Indian deals, I take care of the white men ones.”
Doone looked after the Osage who had grabbed a rope and set out down the stables at a trot.
“I'd say you had a real good thing going on out there these days.”
Noble smiled with cynicism. People like Doone were really frightened about the frontier. Either that, or he was isolated from the truth.
A while later, he and Spotted Horse waited for Patterson's to open up. Their three horses were tied to the hitch rail. The chief squatted on the porch and Noble leaned against a porch post, watching the early morning traffic. Dray wagons and the open freighters passed by. Briefly Noble wondered where his ex-boss, Ben Rutherford, was at that moment.
“Noble!” Spotted Horse spoke sharply.
Noble looked up to see Izer Goodman riding out of the alley across the street. His pistol was aimed at Noble.
“Die, McCurtain, you no good son of a bitch!” Izer shouted.
Noble dove off the porch just before a spray of bullets shattered the glass front of the store. Crouched by the legs of his horses, he cursed his unarmed state. More shots zinged. The gray horse screamed then tore loose from the rail.
“That no-good-bastard has shot my horse!” Noble raged as he rose to his feet. The Osage had lunged for the Colt rifle sticking out of his saddle boot.
“Give me the gun!” Noble shouted as he watched the two retreating figures dressed in buckskin, riding pell mell out of range down the street.
“Damnit! That was Izer Goodman and Tennessee Dawson,” Noble fumed, pounding the hitch rail with his right hand.
He walked around to where the gray horse floundered on the ground. A bloody froth bubbled from the horse's mouth. Noble was sickened as the gallant horse tried to rise. Those bastards would pay for this.
A deputy waving a pistol, came hurrying forward.
“Give me your gun,” Noble ordered the man.
“What the hell for?”
Noble reached for the chief's Colt rifle, then aimed it at the gray's forehead. A blast of the gun and the animal succumbed to death, out of his misery. Noble stood trembling in anger. He never noticed when Spotted Horse took the gun back.
“You again!” a swaggering voice said in disgust. The chief marshal stepped forward. “Every time you come here we have trouble.”
“You'll have a damn sight more if I get those two in my gun sights.”
“What two?”
“The pair that rode out of that alley and commenced shooting at us.” Noble pointed to the alley. “Your stupid gun law nearly got me and this chief of the Osage gunned down.”
“By who?”
“Izer Goodman and Tennessee Dawson. They're killers, road agents, and they trade whiskey to the Indians.”
“Can you prove all that?” the marshal asked.
“I won't have to. Next time I'll kill him myself,” Noble said.
“Well, I hope to God, it ain't in Independence.”
“Are you all right, Mr. McCurtain?” Noble turned and saw Captain Rourke dismounting.
“Marshal, Mr. McCurtain's work is too important for him to be shot down by some local bandits. His work in his region could save hundreds of civilian lives.”
Noble almost laughed at the berating the military man gave the lawman. Rourke was damn serious about this Indian business.
“My superiors would like you and the chief to come to the post to meet them.”
“Sorry, Captain.” Noble tried to be as diplomatic as he could. “I have some business to complete here in town. My wife is home practically alone. We have a long ride ahead of us and I've lost the best damn horse 1 ever owned.” He cast a regretful look at the silent gray.
“Please allow the military to replace the horse. I'll send for one at once. Your service is very important to the army.”
“That won't be necessaryâ”
“I insist,” Rourke interrupted him. “Within the hour, you shall have a horse.”
“Thank you then.” He motioned for the chief to go ahead of him inside the store.
Inside, Noble tried to apologize for the shattered glass, but the Pattersons seemed unconcerned about the damage.
“I'm sorry, Noble,” Alex said, with a rueful shake of his head. “If you had had your pistols, this would never have happened.”
Noble waved away his apology. His mind was still preoccupied with the captain's words about his work with the Indians. Perhaps this peace business was more serious than he originally thought. Maybe there was more to it than he realized. Rourke certainly seemed eager to give him any assistance.
“Don't worry about it, Alex,” he said, but Alex continued to apologize for the shooting. “We may have hit innocent people if we'd had our guns.”
“What will you ride home?” Alex asked as Noble loaded the brass ammunition in the new .44 side arms.
“The army says they will supply me a horse. If not, I'll buy one from Doone.”
Cedric Patterson returned from supervising the clean up in the front. “A very terrible incident,” he apologized. “We're so glad that you are all right.” Then the senior Patterson looked very seriously at him. “Noble, do you need any money to close this land deal?”
“No, thank you. We've had a good year,” Noble told him, pleased that his supplier obviously considered him worthy of a loan.
Noble slid the new pistols in the holsters, then buckled them on. They were heavy, but had twice the fire power of his old cap and balls. To hell with the gun law. He planned to leave as soon as the land deal was closed.
He found the attorney's office. The lawyer Wooten was a well dressed man with mutton chop sideburns. He looked shocked by the gold coins that Noble stacked on his desk.
“Highly unusual,” the lawyer commented, “but perfectly good money, of course. You'll need to sign here.” He pointed to a space on the parchment page. “Then after filing, the land will be yours.”
Noble bent over and paused. One stroke of the pen and 50 twenty-dollar gold pieces would change him from landless to landed. His uncle, who owned forty acres, would be shocked if he knew about the deal. Why, the man could plow for a week and not even get to the other side of Noble's land.
“Is something wrong, sir?” Wooten asked.
“No, just thinking.” He re-dipped the pen and scrawled his name. His signature reminded him he still needed to post Fleta's letters to the Thomas family. She would be terribly upset if he didn't send them after all the pains that she had taken to write them.
“There is the matter of the recording and my fee,' , Wooten said as Noble rose to his feet.
“How much?'”
“Forty dollars, sir.”
“That seems fair enough.” Noble dug the coins out of his pocket and put them on the desk. He sighed inwardly, hoping to get out of town before he spent any more money.
He left Wooten's office and went to post Fleta's letters. He just came out of the post office onto the wooden sidewalk when someone called his name. His right hand shot for the butt of his new Colt.
“Mr. McCurtain!” Captain Rourke and two non-coms rode through the traffic toward him. Noble blinked his eyes at the horse they led. It was a gray. A larger horse perhaps by a hand than his dead one. And a stallion to boot.
“Here is your horse,” Rourke said, his face flushed from his quick trip.
Noble stepped out in the street to inspect the animal.
“My commander, Colonel George Armstrong Custer, sent him along with his compliments.”
“Well.” Noble breathed through his lips, overwhelmed by the man's generosity. “He's much too fine a horse just for me.”