Noble's Way by Dusty Richards Page A

questioningly at the Osage. The Indian nodded.
    â€œNo,” he said, turning back to Alex. “Make that five, just in case we have trouble.”
    â€œDo you expect to have trouble?” Alex asked, alarmed.
    â€œNo,” Noble said, his mind for a moment on Izer Goodman. “But we have had some and could have more. We’ll get those guns and ammunition tomorrow.”
    â€œNoble?” Alex’s brow was lined with worry. “You better leave your other pistols here. The marshal has a gun law on the streets.”
    Noble shrugged. “You sure are getting civilized around here.”
    â€œI know how you frontier people must feel, but we’re trying to make this town safe and respectable.”
    â€œWell, thanks for the warning.” Noble laid the pair of .36’s from his waistband on the counter. He hitched up his pants, feeling almost undressed without the guns in his belt.
    â€œThe Reagan Hotel is a clean place to stay and the food’s not bad. It’s two blocks down the street.” Alex pointed to the left.
    â€œThanks. We’ll go put our horses up.”
    After stabling their mounts, the two men went to the hotel. The desk clerk eyed Spotted Horse dubiously.
    â€œI must warn you there is no cooking in the room,” the haughty little man said, turning the book around to read Noble’s signature. “Noble ... McCurtain and Spotted Horse.”
    The man blinked and took a slight step backward. “Well, Mister McCurtain, we have had problems with aborigines building fires in their room,” he explained, wrinkling his nose in distaste.
    â€œHe’s an Osage,” Noble stated curtly.
    â€œOsage, whatever. He is still an aborigine.”
    Noble looked at the man contemptuously. “Come on Chief, this man is obviously an idiot. He may even get scalped if he continues to call every tribe by that stupid name. We don’t want to spoil our dinners by witnessing such a bloody sight, huh?” Noble gave the man a pitying look, satisfied by his pale complexion that the mention of scalping had had its effect. He turned and with the room key safely in his hands, moved toward the restaurant.
    When the waiter came to their table, he gave them a skeptical look. Irritated by the lack of respect they were receiving, Noble looked the man squarely in the eye.
    â€œThis is a Chief. He’s killed a hundred Cheyenne.”
    The man’s eyes widened with fear. His adam’s apple bobbed up and down. “Y—yes sir.”
    After the waiter went through a long list of meals like squab and others, Noble ordered the roast pork, deciding the fancy dressed people seated around them could eat that other stuff.
    Spotted Horse sneezed when he sniffed the pepper. The action drew a dozen stares. Sometimes while he ate, the Indian used his knife rather than his fork. All in all, Noble was proud of him.
    â€œThey collect money after you eat,” Noble explained.
    Spotted Horse shook his head. “What if you do not pay? Do they squeeze the food out of you?” The Chief leaned across the table. “Him believe I killed plenty Cheyenne?”
    â€œI think so.” Noble was amused at the Indian’s logic. Not much passed the chief. Ready to go to their room, Noble thought they had drawn enough impertinent stares for one day.
    â€œCome on, let’s go build a fire in the room,” he said.
    â€œHave a wild party like the Wichitas,” Spotted Horse said, stern-faced as stone.
    â€œYes, 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.
    â€œWho’s there?”
    â€œCaptain Rourke, U S Army,” came the clipped reply.
    â€œAll right.” Noble went toward