Free Noble's Way by Dusty Richards

We give the customers every consideration and courtesy.”
    Rupert nodded. “We’ll camp at your fort tonight. You know how people are. Two weeks out and they figure they’ve forgot something. Guess that’s why a store out here is good business.”
    â€œReckon so,” Noble said amiably. “If you don’t mind, I’ll ride back and speak to folks, tell them what we have. It saves time later.”
    â€œOf course.” Rupert tilted his head back and studied Noble. “Wait,” he said, reaching out a hand to still him. “Where did you get that hat?”
    Noble grinned and pushed the brim up with his thumb. “In Independence. A man named Stetson made it in Philadelphia.”
    â€œThat’s some hat,” the colonel said with admiration. “Would you consider selling it?”
    Noble shook his head. “Afraid not. It was a gift.” He turned and started down the line. Some of the folks were friendly. He shook hands, answered questions, bantered with them, and told them some of the things he had on hand at the store. Other members of the wagon train were sullen, suspicious and tight lipped. In the case of the latter, he would just smile and ride onto the next wagon.
    Oxen powered most of the wagons. A few draft horse teams could be seen, but they were hard to slow to a steer’s gait. And horses could not forage and live off the land the way the oxen could. Horses needed grain to work.
    Noble approched a thin faced man walking beside his double team of oxen. A troubled look crossed the man’s face as Noble rode closer. The man appeared to be growing angry.
    â€œMy gun, Mary! Get my gun!” the man shouted and bolted for the wagon box. Noble read the bewilderment in the woman’s expression. The settler dodged and ducked around the front wheel and tried to get the rifle away from her and out of the wagon.
    â€œHe’s riding my gray horse!” he screamed. “That’s my horse!”
    Noble went cold at the man’s words. He practically called him a horse thief. This gray was Captain Watson’s horse—somehow he must talk sense into the man.
    â€œHold up!” Noble shouted, but the man wrenched the rifle from his wife’s desperate grip. Noble’s hand sought the butt of the Colt on his right hip. The settler staggered back and fired. The bullet plowed in the dust but caused the gray to rear on his hind feet.
    â€œGive me the powder,” the red faced man shouted to his pale faced wife. When she did not respond to his request, the man took the barrel in both hands and raised the stock to use as a club on Noble. He charged with a deep throated growl.
    The Colt barked in Noble’s hand. The bullet’s impact slammed into the man, stopping him with sledge hammer force. The rifle fell, barely brushing Noble’s stirrup as the wounded man’s mask of anger melted and he collapsed to his knees.
    The woman’s shrill cry caused Noble’s jaw to stiffen as he fought the excited grey.
    The red flow through the man’s fingers, clamped over his chest, told Noble the wound was serious. The woman stumbled and fell trying to come to her husband’s aid; but she never reached him before he pitched face down and his legs kicked involuntarily in death’s throes.
    â€œYou’ve killed him! Oh, my God, you’ve killed him,” she screamed.
    Others came rushing to the scene. Noble felt cold despite the sun’s heat when one of the wagon leaders looked up from examining the man.
    â€œMister, he must have lost his mind. What the hell was wrong? Did he know you?”
    Noble shook his head. “No.”
    â€œNat Gunter was a bitter man, but he had no call to attack you.”
    The man’s words were small comfort, Noble was still uncertain about the mood of the crowd. He gave the man a grateful nod.
    â€œWhat happened?” someone called out.
    â€œGunter went crazy and shot at