The Yellow Rose (11 page)

“And good looking like he was, too.”

As she had known it would, this sudden gentleness on her part melted Clinton. “Aw, Ma,” he said. “That ain’t so.”

“Yes, it is.” She ran her hands down his cheeks and studied his face.

“You look so much like him it frightens me sometimes.” She continued to talk gently to him, then gave him a hug. “Try to understand Julie. I know she’s a pain at times, but it doesn’t do any good to fuss at people, son.”

She stepped back and shook her head. “It’s what’s on the inside that has to change.”

At that moment they heard the sound of a horse running hard, and Clinton turned and looked out the window. “There’s Clay,” he said.

“Where is he goin’ ridin’ so hard?”

“Probably to get drunk,” Jerusalem said.

Clinton swirled around. “To get drunk! Why?”

“Because I nagged him. I should have learned by this time, Clinton, that Clay’s a man, and he’s got to make a fool of himself from time to time.” A reluctant smile turned the corners of her lips up. “It’s in all men.

Once in a while it just has to break out.”

Clinton was staring at her incredulously, and then his eyes danced.

“What about women?”

Jerusalem laughed and said, “No, we’re all sweet and soft-spoken and nice all the time. Haven’t you noticed?”

Clinton laughed aloud. He had a crooked grin, the exact replica of Jake’s, which brought memories back to Jerusalem. “Well,” he said, smiling broadly, “women are taken pretty easily by serpents.”

“Now, was that a nice thing to say to your poor, old mother?”

“You ain’t poor, and you ain’t old either.”

“Why, that’s the nicest thing you’ve said to me all day! I’m gonna make you a pie of your very own. You don’t even have to let Brodie have any of it. What kind will it be?”

“Apple!”

The Dry Gulch Saloon was not particularly attractive, but it was the biggest one in town, and Clay had made himself at home for the past two hours. He had been drinking steadily and playing cards, and a woman, whose name he now forgot, was sitting beside him, egging him on. He had been winning steadily, and one of the losers, a tough-looking man named Hack Dempsey, stared down at the winning hand Clay had tossed down in the middle of the table. He stared at his own hand, threw them down with a curse, and watched as Clay, moving leisurely, reached out and dragged the pot in.

“You’re too lucky, Taliferro.”

“Why, Hack,” Clay said, pronouncing his words very distinctly, as drunks will usually do, “you hurt my feelings. Poker ain’t luck. It’s all skill.”

Dempsey cursed again and poured himself a drink from the bottle on the table. He was a large man, a little overweight, but obviously tough.

The scars on his face were proof that he had been in some fights in the past. “I’m sayin’ that it ain’t luck, and it ain’t skill either.”

Clay reached over and put his arm around the woman and pulled her close. He put his head next to her ear and said, “Lena, I think Hack is hinting around that my card playin’ ain’t exactly on the up and up. Is that what he’s sayin’?”

“Why, honey, he wouldn’t say a thing like that.”

Hack cursed again. “You win one more pot, and I’ll do more than say it.”

“You don’t understand,” Clay said. He almost said
unnerstand
but pronounced the word very carefully to show them that he was not affected by all the of liquor he had downed. “I win at cards because I have a pure heart, don’t you see?” He laughed at Hack’s expression and said, “I don’t think you have a pure heart, Hack. I think you are a mean man.”

“You’re gonna find out!”

At that instant Clay looked up at a man who had just entered the saloon. He blinked his eyes and had some effort focusing, then he carefully stood up, saying, “Don’t nobody leave. I’ll be back in a minute to show you how a pure-hearted man can win at cards.”

“You’d
better
come back. I’m gettin’ even,” Dempsey snarled.

Clay walked carefully, holding himself erect, over to where Brodie stood. “What are you doing here, Brodie? This is no place for a young man to be. It’s only for us people who have pure hearts.” He laughed at his own joke and said, “Come on to the bar. I think they got some sarsaparilla.”

Brodie grinned and followed Clay to the bar. He leaned up against it, and Clay said, “Clyde, give me a drink of whiskey, and give my boy here a sarsaparilla.”

“I don’t want no sarsaparilla, Clay, and you ain’t my pa.”

“Why, son, I’m the same as your pa. Ever since your poor dad died, I just felt like you was my own son, and I’m gonna look out for you. I surely am. I want you to have a pure heart like me.”

Brodie laughed aloud and said, “I’ll have a whiskey.”

Clay studied Brodie owlishly and finally nodded, saying, “All right.

You can have
one
drink, but that’s all.” He took his own drink, tossed his head back, downed the whiskey, and then pulled at Brodie. “Come on. I’ll teach you how to play cards.” He walked back to the table, slumped down into his chair, and said, “Pull up a chair there. This here is my friend Brodie. I’m gonna teach him how to play cards, but he can’t have but one drink. Don’t be givin’ him none, you hear me?”

“I hear you,” Dempsey grunted. “Now, play cards.”

The game began, and Brodie drank the whiskey. It was not his first drink, despite what Clay was thinking. He watched as Clay played, and when Clyde came around with a bottle of whiskey, he let him fill his glass.

“Remember now. You can only have one drink,” Clay said, his speech a bit slurred.

Brodie took the drink and grinned at the woman sitting with Clay. “I bet when you were my age, you had more than one drink.”

“When I was your age,” Clay said, swinging his arm around in a grandiose gesture, “I went to church every Sunday. And I helped old ladies across the street.”

Brodie drank his drink, and Clay said, “Well, that’s one, and that’s all you get, Brodie.”

“Sure, Clay,” Brodie said as he sat back and watched the game go on.

The bartender brought drinks several times, and each time Clay would say, “That’s right, Brodie, you can have one drink.”

By the time Brodie had enough drinks to make him feel numb, a hard-faced young woman had come to sit on his lap. Clay could barely sit in his chair, but he was still winning hand after hand. He looked up and screwed his face up, trying to focus on Brodie. “You can have one drink, Brodie— unnerstand?” He looked around at the rest of the players and said, “I’ll allow him just one drink a day.”

The young woman named Lena, who was sitting on his lap, giggled.

“Is he always this way?”

“Sure,” Brodie said. “We get drunk every day like this.”

Clay handled his cards awkwardly but managed to win a large pot.

Hack Dempsey threw the cards down and shouted, “You cheated!”

Clay could barely sit up. He swayed as he stood up and started walking around the table. “I . . . I can’t allow you to talk to me in that manner, Hack. We can’t be friends with talk like that.” He took a wild swing and missed Hack by a foot. Hack Dempsey drew his arm back and struck Clay a tremendous blow that caught him right in the mouth and drove him backward. Everyone in the saloon turned to watch, and Brodie pushed the girl off his lap and tried to stand up. He found he could barely do so.

Clay struggled to a sitting position. His mouth was bleeding, and he looked up owlishly at the big man who stood over him. “Have you had enough, Hack,” he demanded, “or do you want some more of the same?”

Dempsey laughed and launched a kick that caught Clay in the ribs.

Seeing Clay groaning on the floor, Brodie got angry. He picked up the half-full whiskey bottle by the neck, lifted it, and brought it down on Hack’s head. The bottle broke, and Hack collapsed to a sitting position.

Instantly, one of Hack’s friends came over and hit Brodie and knocked him down. Brodie remembered getting up, and he remembered shouting and screaming as a fight broke out. He staggered as he tried to throw punches, but he received more than he threw, and then one of Hack’s friends landed a blow in Brodie’s jaws. All he saw was a blackness engulfing him as he fell to the floor.

Jerusalem looked up to see Serena, whose face was tense. She had ridden in, jumped off her horse, and come running to the house. She seemed so terribly upset that Jerusalem said, “What’s wrong, Serena? Somebody sick?”

“No, it’s Clay and Brodie.”

Instantly, Jerusalem straightened up. “What’s wrong with them? Are they hurt?”

“I don’t think so. Just beat up pretty bad. They got drunk in the Dry Gulch and started a fight, so the sheriff threw both of them in jail.”

Jerusalem stood absolutely still. “Thank you, Serena,” she said.

“I don’t think it’s anything very serious,” Serena said. “Just fighting and disturbing the peace.”

“I’m glad you came and told me.”

“Do you want me to go with you and get them out?”

“No, I’ll take care of it.”

Clay lay flat on his back on the cot, and Brodie sat on the floor, his back against the adobe wall of the jail. Both of them had been sick several times during the night, and there was no one to clean up the mess. Brodie held his head very still, for every time he moved, it was as if someone had drilled a hole right through the center of it.

The jailer, a tall, lean man named Andy, appeared at the door to their cell. “Well,” he said in a loud voice, “you boys are gettin’ out.”

“Could you speak a little quieter?” Clay whispered.

Andy laughed. “Come on, Taliferro. You’ve been sprung.”

Clay rose up to a sitting position, swung his feet over the edge of the cot, and sat there staring at Andy. His eye was a colorful shade of purple and rose, and the dried blood on his face gave evidence of the fight the night before. He stood up slowly, for his head hurt something fierce. He looked over at Brodie. “Are you all right, Brodie?”

“No.”

“Well, me neither. Let this be a lesson to you. I told you only one drink!”

Brodie shook his head and got to his feet and leaned against the wall.

“Why, you’ve had enough lessons. You should have had better sense.”

“You fellows can argue when you get out of here. Come on, if you can walk.”

The two moved carefully out of the cell and walked down the short hall. As soon as they stepped in the office, both of them saw Jerusalem standing waiting for them. The sheriff was there, too. He had some money in his hand and glared at the two.

“If I was you, ma’am, I’d let them two stay in jail for a week or two.

Why, they made a wreck out of that saloon, and there’s some fellers who’re gonna be out to get even.”

“I’ll be responsible for them, Sheriff. You don’t have to worry.”

She turned without another word or another look at either of the men and walked outside. Brodie muttered, “I’d druther be shot as face up to her.”

“So would I,” Clay said, “but it’s got to be done.” The two walked outside and saw that she had brought the buggy into town. Their horses were tied to the back of it. Clay walked over and said, “Jerusalem, it was Brodie’s fault.”

“My fault! What do you mean?” Brodie yelled and then grabbed his head. “It was
your
fault! You’re the one who started the fight.”

“I didn’t neither, and if you’d just had one drink like I told you, none of this would have happened.”

Jerusalem said, “There are your horses. Get on them if you can. Come home and get cleaned up.”

After Clay untied the horses, she stepped into the buggy, spoke to the team, and then pulled off at a rapid clip. Clay stared after her and was shaken. He had never seen her like this. “I ain’t goin’ back, Brodie. I’m goin’ prospectin’.”

“I’m goin’ with you.”

“No, you’re not. That’s your home and she’s your ma.”

They got into an argument, and finally the sheriff came out and said, “Do you two want to go back to jail?”

“No, I don’t reckon I do,” Clay said. He stared at Brodie and seemed to slump. “Come on. Let’s go take our medicine.”

The two managed to get on their horses and turned and rode out of town at a slow walk.

Zane and Julie both enjoyed the sight of Brodie and Clay dragging in. They seemed to have been waiting for them, and when the two almost fell off their horses, Zane looked at their battered faces and said, “Well, I see you two have been enjoyin’ yourselves. You should have invited me along for the fun.”

“Shut up, Zane!” Clay snapped.

“Why, Clay, what a mean way to act.” Zane pretended to be hurt.

Julie came over and lifted Brodie’s face. He had kept his hat on and his head down, and when she examined the cuts and bruises, she said, “Listen, the next time you two want to go in and have fun, don’t leave me at home.”

“Leave me alone, Aunt Julie.”

Mary Aidan came sailing out and threw herself at Brodie. He did not bend over to pick her up but tried to turn away. She looked up at Clay then and saw his battered face. “What’s wrong with your face?”

“I fell down,” Clay said loudly, then turned and walked away toward the barn. Brodie followed him, and Clinton was right with them, preaching at them at full steam.

“You’d better leave ’em alone, Clinton,” Julie said. “They’re liable to whip you like they did all those other people in the saloon.”

Julie went inside and found that Moriah and Jerusalem had been watching. “They look terrible and they smell worse,” Julie said. “You gonna whip ’em, sister?”

“I feel like it,” Jerusalem said. “But it was partly my fault. I nagged Clay.”

“Men don’t need much naggin’ to raise the devil,” Julie said.

Moriah was worried. She had caught a glimpse of Brodie’s face and said, “It’s not like Brodie to do something like this, Ma.”

“He’s sullied up over Serena,” Jerusalem said. “I guess I can’t blame him too much. When I was about his age, I lost a beau of mine to another girl. I wanted to scratch her eyes out. I probably would have with just a little encouragement, but I just cussed her out.”

“You did that, Ma?” Moriah was shocked.

“I did worse than that, but I’m not telling. Come on. There’s work to be done.”

The evening meal was rather strained. Clay and Brodie had cleaned themselves up as best they could, but their faces were puffy and scarred.