The Yellow Rose (12 page)

Clay could barely turn from a blow he had taken in the ribs. Zane thought it was hilarious and made mild remarks about fighting in saloons. “The wages of sin is getting your face busted. At least that’s been my experience.”

Jerusalem gave him a stern look, and Zane shrugged and ceased teasing. Moriah, who was serving, stopped more than once to put her hand on Brodie’s neck, and she gave him a smile. He tried to smile back, but it hurt his face.

As for Clay, he did not say a single word. Indeed, he did not even look up. He was deeply ashamed at what had happened, not so much for himself, but for dragging Brodie into his drunken foolishness. He could not look Jerusalem in the face nor anyone else, and despite Julie’s effort to cheer him up, he refused to speak. Finally, Jerusalem, who had been helping Moriah serve, sat down and finished her meal. She looked around, and as she did, a silence fell on the room. Only the sound of flies buzzing was audible, and Jerusalem took a deep breath, then said, “We’re leaving this place. I’ve decided we’re going to raise cattle.”

“We don’t have enough land for that,” Zane protested.

“I know that. We can’t do it here.”

“Ma, we don’t know how to raise cattle,” Moriah said.

Jerusalem said, “There are a million cows wandering around Texas and probably that many wild horses. We can sell out here and buy a lot of ground up north. We catch some cattle and horses and brand them.”

Clay had raised his head, and his eyes were fixed on Jerusalem. One was almost swollen shut, but he said quietly, “You think the Comanches will agree to let you do it?”

“It can be done,” Jerusalem said.

“This is a family matter, Jerusalem,” Clay said. He half rose to leave, but Jerusalem’s voice caught him.

“No, you can’t leave,” she said.

Clay stared at her, and for a moment the two seemed locked in some sort of struggle. Clay sat down slowly, and Jerusalem repeated, “No, you can’t leave. You’ve got to go find us a place.”

“Why me? Why not send Zane?”

“I want you to go and find some land where we can raise cattle, Clay.”

Clay stared at her and then finally made some sort of helpless gesture with his hands. “All right, I’ll go find you a blamed ranch—but after that I’m goin’ lookin’ for gold.”

His words did not seem to bother Jerusalem, for she smiled and said, “You’re too hung over to leave tonight, but you can leave early tomorrow morning.”

Clay was up before dawn, dressed, and when he went into the kitchen, Jerusalem was already there. She had cooked flapjacks, which he liked best of any breakfasts. She smiled as he poked holes in them with his finger, then filled them with the dark molasses. He always did that with pancakes and biscuits. She sat down with him while he ate.

“Does your mouth hurt?” she said.

Clay reached up and touched his mouth. “I don’t know as I hurt any place particular. Just kind of all over.”

“I hate to send you out like this, Clay, but you’re the only one that I can trust.”

“You can trust Zane.”

“He’s never done anything right yet, but I’ve got hopes for him.”

“Well, my record ain’t none too good, Jerusalem.”

“You’ll do it,” she said. “I know you will.”

Clay finished his breakfast, got up, and said, “Guess I’ll go saddle my horse.”

“I’ll put some grub up for you to take. You may be gone a long time.”

She turned to gather the food, and Clay went out to the barn. He saddled his horse, and when he went back, he found her on the porch. She had gathered some of his clothes and tied them up in a tarp. He fastened it on behind his saddle and put the bag of food over the saddle horn. His rifle was shoved into the boot.

The two had not spoken much, and finally he turned to her, but before he could speak, Jerusalem came forward. She put both her hands on his shoulders and said, “Be careful, Clay. I can’t spare you.” She put her arms around his neck and kissed him hard on the lips, lingering for a time, and then turned and walked back into the house without another word.

Clay stared after her and then felt a weight on his feet. He looked down and saw Bob sitting on the toes of his boots, as he always did. He looked up and barked, “Whoof!”

Clay laughed. “That’s my sentiments, you mangy critter! Now, git off my feet.” He shoved Bob away, stepped into the saddle, and took one final look at the house. He reached up and touched his lips and thought for a long time, then turned the horse around and said, “Come on, Caesar, let’s go find us a ranch.”

CHAPTER
TEN

T
he sea of grass stretched for miles before Clay and faded into an undulating brown wave toward the horizon. The scorching heat pressed down upon him and made a thin, unseen turbulence as he rode his weary horse toward the town he had spotted earlier in the day. The cry of a flight of blackbirds made a harsh incantation as they flew overhead. For weeks he had traveled across Texas, passing rivers turned to dust, and had slept in buffalo-rutted depressions. He licked his lips and smelled the odors that drifted to him, a combination of baked grass and sage and bitter, strong dust. Two hours earlier he had lain down and drunk from a tiny stream fed by a trickle from a spring. He was exhausted and felt the burning sun on his skin. His errand had taken him long distances, and he let Caesar take his own gait as he rode toward the town. Clay sat easy in the saddle, even-balanced to save his horse, while his eyes searched the endless land. Once he caught sight of a fleeting herd of wild mustangs racing somewhere across the land.

Caesar suddenly lifted his head, snorted, and quickened his pace. Clay smiled, leaned over, and patted the sweaty shoulder of the animal. “I think you smell somethin’ good in that town. Maybe like water.” He straightened up and glanced around. “Must be a hundred and fifteen degrees out here.” His saddle was too hot for comfort, and the sun hitting the metal on his bridle sent painful flashes across his eyes.

Thirty minutes later he rode into the town that was perched on the side of the Brazos River. He had been riding all day, and now his shadow ran before him as he entered Jordan City. A slight smile twisted the corners of his lips up, and he murmured, “Not much of a city here. Just barely a town.” It huddled beside the river, facing the desert, a double row of buildings, with other buildings scattered around. Clay’s eyes moved from side to side as he rode between the lines of buildings. Most of them were painted, but the paint was faded out by the blistering sun and scoured by the sands when the winds came. One of the signs said simply “Hotel,” as if there were no other hotels in the world. Across the street was another building that proclaimed itself only as “Stable.” Turning Caesar toward this building, Clay murmured, “They ain’t very proud of their town.

Don’t even think about puttin’ their names on their businesses.”

He stepped out of the saddle and stretched himself wearily. When a short, chunky man with a black patch over one eye came out, Clay said, “Grain him and give him a rubdown.”

“Cost you extra.” The reply was brief and laconic, and his eyes looked over horse and man carefully. “Looks like you had a hard ride.”

“Pretty hard. Where’s the best place to eat?”

“Hotel. My name’s Jeffries. You be here long?”

“No, not long.”

Jeffries seemed to be concerned for some reason. Perhaps he was just prying. His single eye was bright as a crow’s, and he asked, “You goin’ far?”

“Not too far, I guess. Take care of this horse. He’s a good one.”

“I always do,” Jeffries said in an offended voice. He asked quickly, “You got business here, I take it.”

Clay grinned. “Not quite sure. I’ll let you know as soon as I make up my mind.” He saw the light insult brush across the man and laughed. He pulled his saddlebags and blanket off the horse and started toward the hotel. The town was asleep, it seemed, although he could hear the tinkling of a piano from the saloon. He stepped inside the hotel and found what he had expected, a worn, tired lobby with stairs with rickety steps leading to the second floor. To the right was a bar, and to the left was some sort of a drawing room for ladies. A tall, thin man with a hook where his right hand should have been greeted him amiably.

“Howdy, just get into town?”

“Just got in. You got a room?”

“Got all the rooms you want. Put your name down right there, friend.”

The hotel clerk watched as Clay signed, then looked at the name.

“Reckon you say your name Tol-e-ver instead of Tal-i-ferro?”

“That’s right.”

“You must be from the South.”

Clay nodded and said, “I need a bath and a shave and something to eat and a little recreation.”

“Take number eighteen upstairs. You can get a bath and a shave down at Charlie’s Barbershop down the street on the right. The best place to eat is here in the hotel, if I do say so. Golden Lady Saloon is where you might find a game.”

“Thanks.”

Clay climbed the stairs, aware that the man was staring at him.

Strangers were always interesting in these out-of-the-way towns. Clay opened the door to room eighteen and found it no better nor worse than he had expected. A worn carpet, a bed with a sagging mattress, a washstand, and a chair. He tossed his bedroll down on the bed along with his saddlebag, looked at the bed, and was tempted to simply lie down, but he needed to sluice the weariness out of his tired body. Turning, he went down the stairs, nodded to the hotel clerk, and walked down the street to Charlie’s Barbershop.

He had a long bath in a copper tub, luxuriating in the warm water.

After thirty minutes, he got out and dried off with a fresh towel. He put on fresh underwear but merely shook the dust out of his shirt and pants.

After paying his fifty cents for the bath, he went back to the hotel to get something to eat. Being in the saddle all day had given him a hearty appetite. He entered the restaurant and sat down at a table, and a middle-aged Mexican woman came and took his order. When the food came, he was surprised to find that it was very good. The steak was fairly tender, and the beans that went with it were well done and spiced. When he had finished, he left the payment for the meal on the table and walked out of the restaurant and headed for the saloon.

The afternoon had gone now, and dusk was coming. The sun seemed to melt into a shapeless bed of gold that painted the tops of the mountains off in the distance. The air was becoming cooler, and he stood for a moment outside the Golden Lady Saloon, watching the colors of the land run and change along the horizon. He watched the shadows creep up to the eaves of the building and the houses farther out on the prairie. The dusty road took on soft, silver shadings. The day’s heat was running out of the earth, and it felt good to Clay. He took one more look at the dust that whirled in the flat of the street, then turned and pushed through the double-hinged doors of the saloon.

Raucous sound and smoke filled the place, and Clay had no doubt that this was the most active place in Jordan City in the evenings. It was still early in the evening, but the place was half full. His eyes ran over the blackjack game to his right, a poker game closer to the wall, and a roulette wheel that no one was using, watched over by a sharp-eyed man in a fancy vest. He moved over to the bar, and the burly barkeep came over. He had heavy shoulders, a thick neck, and a pair of steady gray eyes.

“What’ll it be?” he asked pleasantly.

“Some beer would help wash the dust out of my throat pretty well.”

“You got it.”

Clay took the beer and drank it slowly. He was not much of a drinking man, and his last escapade with alcohol had embarrassed him. He looked the crowd over, wondering if he would have to wait till the next day to find someone who could tell him about the possible land for sale.

Several men were at the bar, but none of them seemed particularly interested in conversation.

Clay moved his head to look around at one of the poker players, and his eyes narrowed. A slight smile containing a little bitterness, perhaps, touched his lips. He drained the beer and put the glass down, then walked over and moved slightly to the right of a medium-sized man wearing a red calico shirt and a gray hat pushed back on his head.

“Hello, Lou.”

The man with the gray hat turned around quickly and was surprised when his eyes saw Clay. He didn’t speak at first, and the other three men playing at the table became interested. One of them, a well-put-together man with black, curly hair and smoothly shaved cheeks, said, “Introduce us to your friend, Burdette.”

Lou Burdette did not move. He held his cards in his hand, but he seemed to have forgotten them. Finally, he nodded and said, “I didn’t expect to see you, Taliferro.”

“It’s been a long time. When did you leave the mountains?”

“Two years ago.”

“Well, if Lou won’t introduce us, I’ll introduce myself,” the black-haired gambler said. “I’m John Barr. Everybody calls me Frisco.”

“Clay Taliferro.”

“Glad to know you, Taliferro. This is Charlie Hake, and this here is Prince Daniels. Sit down and take a hand.”

“Thanks,” Clay said. He pulled a chair over from one of the tables while Hake moved over to make room for him. “You two were in the mountains together,” Frisco said.

“Been a while,” Clay nodded. “Those were good times, but I guess I was glad to get out of it with my hair.” He turned to face Burdette and said, “You still running with George Macon?”

“No. George took an arrow in his liver and died on the Little Missouri.” The words were grudging, and the three men at the table could sense Burdette’s animosity. “Are we gonna play cards, or are we gonna talk?” Burdette grunted. He was a tall man, lean almost to a fault. His skin was burned dark by the sun, and he had black eyes and hair to match. There was a wildness in him that lay underneath a thin veneer of civilization.

Clay joined in the game then and, as usual, found himself winning. He was a fine poker player, drunk or sober. He had proved that only recently.

As the game continued, he studied the other men, as he always did. He had learned to read the eyes of those who played cards with him, noticing that a man could not really control the little movements of his eyes and his eyelids. A good hand would always bring some sort of reaction, the lids slightly pulling down and the pupils growing larger.