The Yellow Rose (29 page)
“Men are weak where women are concerned, son.”
“Well,
I
ain’t,” Clinton protested. “You just don’t worry about me, Ma. I’m headed out. I’ll catch up with Brodie and bring him back.”
“Do that, son.”
Jerusalem watched as Clinton left the room, and a sadness filled her.
“He’s all set for a fall, and he doesn’t even know it. Lord, just keep him from total disaster. He’s runnin’ around in a world full of tigers, and he doesn’t even seem to notice!”
Clinton pulled up in front of the blacksmith’s shop, stepped off his horse, and went over to where Sheriff Joel Bench was talking to Devoe Crutchfield, the blacksmith. “Hi, fellas.”
“Hello, Clinton,” Devoe said, turning around. He was a burly man with red hair and tremendous upper body strength. “What brings you to town?”
“I’m lookin’ for Brodie. Have you seen him?”
“I have,” Sheriff Bench said. “He’s over at the Golden Lady tryin’ to drink all the liquor they got.”
“Ah, Sheriff, he ain’t either!”
“You go find out. I wouldn’t interfere with him if I was you. He’s real tetchy. I tried to get him to go home, but he just threatened to fight me if I didn’t leave him alone.”
“I reckon it’s over Serena, ain’t it?” Devoe Crutchfield nodded sadly.
“A man can sure make a fool out of himself over a woman.”
“Well, I’m gonna stop him,” Clinton declared stoutly.
Devoe laughed. “You fly right at it, Clinton, but if I was you, I wouldn’t go in there doin’ a lot of preachin’. He ain’t in no mood to listen. I got his horse here all shod, but I don’t reckon he’ll be goin’ home for a spell.”
Clinton gave Devoe an offended look and turned and marched off.
Devoe shook his head. “Sheriff, that is one young man that knows everything and never makes a mistake. Must be nice.”
Bench grinned. “Just like most of us when we were his age, but we all get the wind taken out of our sails before it’s over.”
As soon as Clinton stepped into the Golden Lady Saloon, he saw Brodie over at a table by the wall. He had a half-filled bottle of whiskey in front of him and was staring into a glass moodily. Clinton started over, but he was intercepted by Julie, who came and blocked his way.
“Hello, Clinton. What are you doing here?”
“Hello, Julie. I came to take Brodie home.”
Julie shook her head. “Right now he’s not in the mood to listen to any of your sermons. He’s here, and he’s getting drunk, and nobody’s going to change him.”
“Aunt Julie, you shouldn’t have let him get drunk.”
Impatiently, Julie shook her head. “If he hadn’t gotten drunk here, he would have gone somewhere else and maybe got in bad trouble. You just let him alone. Sooner or later he’ll pass out. I’ll put him to bed and take care of him until he sobers up. Then he’ll be all right.”
“Did he tell you about not findin’ Moriah?”
“Yes. I’d have been surprised if he had. He said him and Quaid both got shot.”
“They did, but not bad. And they’re goin’ back. I’m gonna go with ’em.”
“What does your ma say about that?”
Clinton looked uncomfortable. “Well, I ain’t exactly mentioned it yet.”
“I thought not. Now listen, Clinton. If you got any idea about bawling Brodie out for getting drunk, just turn right around and get yourself out of here.”
Clinton stared at her and then said, “I just want to talk to him.”
“Talk to him—but no preaching.”
Clinton moved over to the table and sat down beside Brodie. “Brodie, I came to find you.”
Brodie looked up, and he had trouble focusing his eyes. “Clinton—is zat you?”
“Yeah, it’s me.”
“Serena’s gone.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“Well, why didn’t you tell me?”
“I dunno, Brodie. I thought somebody else might have told you. But anyhow, Mateo’s gone plumb bad. He’s got a bunch of outlaws and comes raidin’ over the border.”
Brodie filled the glass and picked it up with an unsteady hand. “Get out of here, Clinton. This ain’t no place for a kid like you.”
“No place for you either. Come on home, Brodie.”
“No. I don’t want Ma to see me like this. You go on. Get out of here.”
Clinton argued mildly, but he saw Brodie was intent on staying and drinking more. He finally said, “Well, you come home when you can.”
He waited for an answer but got none and then walked over and said to Julie, “I’ll go tell Ma that Brodie’s all right.”
Julie smiled and gave him a hug. “You’re a good boy, Clinton.”
“I ain’t no boy! I’m nineteen years old.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, sir,” Julie said mockingly. She laughed, reached over, and put her hands behind his neck. Pulling him forward, she kissed him on the cheek and said, “You big baby, get out of here!”
As Clinton rode alone, he tried to think of some way he could have handled the situation differently. He was upset with himself, for he always had the idea that he could straighten up any problem—if people would just do what he told them. Repeated failures had not convinced him otherwise.
As he came around a bend in the road, he saw the old Bartley place. It had been vacant for some time now. The family had tried to make a living off of it and had failed. Now he realized he was thirsty and decided to stop in for a drink. They had a good well, and he had often sampled the water. As he came around, he saw two horses standing there and grew suddenly more wary, for he recognized Lou Burdette, the foreman of Skull, and a hulking rider named Dee Nolan, one of Skull’s riders. They were facing an older man, one that Clinton did not know, and a boy stood off to one side. Clinton pulled his horse up and nodded, “Howdy.”
“What do you want, Hardin?” Burdette said. His hat was shoved back on his head, and his eyes were sharp and cruel. He had locked horns with Clay more than once and had always come out second. For this reason he hated anyone connected with Star Ranch.
“Thought I might get a drink of water.” Clinton stepped out of the saddle and moved over and tied his horse up. “Howdy,” he said to the older man, nodding. “I’m Clinton Hardin. I don’t believe we’ve met.”
The man seemed worried, but he said quickly, “I’m Caleb Stuart. This here is Al.”
“Just moved in?” Clinton asked.
“We’ve been here a week.”
Clinton started to speak, but Lou Burdette said, “Get on your way, Hardin.”
Clinton stared at Burdette. “I always like to get my walkin’ papers from the boss.”
Dee Nolan laughed. “They ain’t no boss here. These are squatters.”
He was a big man with broad shoulders and a thatch of bright yellow hair.
He had hazel eyes and a cruel twist to his mouth.
“That ain’t so,” Stuart said quickly. “I’m leasin’ this place from the Bartleys. I got the papers right here.” He held up a paper in his hand, but Burdette merely laughed harshly. “That don’t mean nothin’. You get out of here, old man.”
“What’s your interest here, Burdette?” Clinton said. He had never liked Burdette, although he had never had words with him, but he knew that the foreman of Skull was an arrogant man who loved to bully everyone. “This ain’t Skull ground.”
“You keep your oar out of it,” Burdette said and abruptly turned and walked over to stand over the older man. “You heard what I said. Get going.”
Stuart said, “I got a paper right here—” Suddenly, Burdette grabbed the paper, tore it in two, and threw it in the air. He shoved the old man roughly and cursed, saying, “You heard what I said. Now clear out!”
Clinton Hardin was a mild-mannered young man—except when he saw someone being bullied, and then some of the temper that was so obvious in his uncle Zane and had been in his father would be stirred. Without thought, he walked over and grabbed Burdette’s arm. “You didn’t have any call to do that, Burdette. This man’s not bothering you.”
Burdette seemed shocked that Clinton had stepped in. He was a touchy man anyway and always resented anyone trying to interfere with him. His fist shot out and caught Clinton high in the forehead. “Keep your hands off me!”
Clinton was not as tall, but he had gotten strong from hard work on the ranch. He felt the blood running down his face, and without thought, he stepped forward and drove a tremendous blow right into Burdette’s face. It drove the foreman of Skull backward. Burdette yelled, “Get him, Dee!”
Dee Nolan came forward, and he towered over Clinton. Clinton was driven backward by the blows, but he fought back as well as he could. He actually got in several good blows, and then he felt himself seized from behind, his arms pinioned.
“Knock his head off, Dee!”
Dee Nolan laughed. “I will. Just hold on to him, Lou.” He drew back, and with all his power and might, hit Clinton in the side.
Pain shot through Clinton, and he gasped. But he had no time to do more than that, for another blow took him in the temple, and he dropped into a deep, black hole that had no light and no sound.
C
linton tried to open his eyes, but found that they wouldn’t open. This puzzled him, because he had always been able to open his eyes before when he came out of a deep sleep. He did not puzzle himself long over that, for when he tried to sit up, a pain ran through his side as if someone had run a cavalry saber through it! He groaned and tried to make sense out of what had happened but couldn’t.
“Are you awake?”
With a great effort Clinton managed to open his left eye a slit, and he saw a face bending over him. He couldn’t place it at first, and then memory came flooding back. “Mr. Stuart, ain’t it?”
“That’s right, boy. I expect you’re about hurt all over.”
“Well, I reckon I hurt all over more than I do any one specific place.” Clinton tried to move, which proved to be a mistake. “What’s . . . what’s the matter with my side?” he asked, grimacing in pain.
Caleb Stuart shook his head. “You took a pretty bad poundin’, Hardin. You got kicked in the side, among other things.”
Another voice said impatiently, “Grandpa, move out of the way and let me wash his face off.”
Clinton managed to turn his head and saw the young fellow, who had witnessed the fight. His vision wasn’t good, but he got an impression of a youthful face before a cool cloth began to wash off the blood from his face. “What’s your name?” he croaked when the cloth was removed.
“I’m Al Stuart. Your face looks terrible.”
“Well, if it looks worse than it feels, I’m in poor condition,” Clinton said. He tried to sit up but caught his breath. “He must have kept his spurs on when he put his boots to me.”
“We got to get word to your folks. Where do you live?”
“Star Ranch, about six miles beside the river.”
“Al, you get on a horse and ride down and tell his folks there about this young feller.”
“No, don’t do that. I can make it,” Clinton said.
“Why, you can’t sit on a horse. Looks like you might have a cracked rib.”
Clinton struggled to sit up and winced at the pain in his side. His right eye was swollen completely shut, and he had to hold the other open by effort. But he said stubbornly, “Have you got a wagon?”
“Why, shore we got a wagon, but it’d bounce you to pieces to ride in it all that way,” Stuart protested.
“Just help me get in the wagon. I want to go home. My ma’s a good doctor.”
Both of the Stuarts protested, but Clinton was adamant. “I can do it,” he insisted. “Just get me in the wagon.”
“Al, this young feller is as stubborn as a blue-nosed mule! I’ll go hitch up the wagon, but you’ll have to take him home. I’d better stay here with your grandma. And I reckon you kin give ’em a big dose of that painkiller, too.”
“All right, Grandpa,” Al said quickly.
As soon as the older man left, Al moved away, then came back with a large brown bottle. “Take a swig of this. It’s powerful stuff. It’ll help with the pain.”
Clinton took two large swallows and shook his head. “That’s laudanum. Ought to dull me up a mite.”
“Reckon I better get some quilts and a pillow. Make the ride a bit easier.”
“I appreciate that, Al. Sorry to be so much trouble.”
“It ain’t no trouble after what you done.”
Clinton tried to smile but found that his lips were swollen so that he couldn’t move them much. “I didn’t do much except get my face re-arranged and my ribs kicked in.”
“Well, you tried. And we’re obliged to you.
“Has Burdette been troublin’ you folks before?”
“He came by once and told us to get off, but Grandpa said we wasn’t leavin’. We got a right to be here. I picked up the pieces of that agreement that he tore up. I’ll glue it back together and show the sheriff.”
Clinton only said, “That’s good.” But he knew that the sheriff’s authority did not extend outside the city limits of Jordan City. He sat there while the young Stuart disappeared, then came back carrying an armload of quilts and a pillow. He was beginning to feel dizzy, and he had a humming noise inside his skull. Soon Clinton heard the noise of the team being driven up, and the two came back inside.
“I reckon you’ll have to walk, but you can lean on us,” Caleb said as he reached down and gave Clinton a hand up.
The pain in his side was so sharp, but Clinton could tell that the laudanum was working. With Al on one side and Caleb on the other, he managed to stay on his feet. They moved slowly, allowing him to set the pace.
It was difficult enough getting down the steps, for the effort jarred him.
When they got to the wagon, Al said, “I don’t see how you’re gonna get up in there. It’s gonna hurt something fierce.”
“It’ll just have to hurt,” Clinton said, gritting his teeth. He got to the back of the wagon and saw that Caleb had removed the board, but the level of the bed was still above his waist. He took a deep breath and said, “If you would just give me a shove, don’t pay no attention to how I holler.”
“Boy, you sure you want to do this?” Caleb said worriedly. “You might have somethin’ busted inside of you.”
“I got to get home. Give me a push.”
Caleb and Al gave him a push, and Clinton felt like he had a knife in his side. He clamped his teeth together, but he couldn’t help groaning from the pain. He was glad for the laudanum, or it would have been unbearable. The two of them managed to shove him over, and then Al got in the wagon and guided him to the quilts. “I done made a pallet. Lay down on it here.”