Noble's Way by Dusty Richards Page B

the door, wondering what the man wanted.
    â€œMr. McCurtain?” The man was gray at the temples, ramrod tall with a weathered face.
    â€œYes.”
    â€œI 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.
    â€œHave a chair, Captain,” Noble offered. “The chief does not care for them.”
    â€œThank 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.
    â€œHe understands English,” Noble assured Rourke.
    â€œChief, what are the conditions in southern Kansas now?”
    Spotted Horse looked quickly at Noble.
    â€œHe 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.”
    â€œThank 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?”
    â€œNo fighting.”
    â€œThat’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.”
    â€œRest easy. Things are peaceful with the Osage and the Wichitas,” Noble said.
    â€œMr. 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.
    â€œWhy 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.”
    â€œIf 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.
    â€œYou 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.
    â€œPlenty 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.
    â€œI need a mare with draft blood,” Noble told the sleepy eyed, bowler hatted man who led them down through the sour smelling stables.
    â€œHorses are high, Mr. McCurtain. The army needs hundreds. Are there any good ones