The Yellow Rose (34 page)
“I will not give her up.”
“Better you should go kill all the men of that family.”
Bear Killer did not answer, and they did not speak anymore of the two, but Moriah knew the truth. She reached over and took Ethan in her arms. “It’s Brodie and Quaid,” she whispered. She thought of Brodie as a very young boy, but he was a man now, very tall. And Quaid, she thought of him, whom she had hated, and now he was risking his life trying to find her. She remembered his silver hair but could not remember what his face looked like.
Finally, Moriah, captive of The People, hugged Ethan, who was almost a year and a half old now, and she whispered, “They will find us, Ethan!
Brodie and Quaid, they will find us! God will lead them to us! . . .”
A
s Al Stuart rode up to the front yard of the Taliferro house, she glanced around quickly but saw no sign of Clinton. She stepped to the ground in one easy motion, tied her horse to the rail, then walked over to where Clay was standing with a rope around the head of the small roan. The twins were sitting on the back of the horse, Sam in front and Rachel behind. As soon as they saw her, they started calling her name, and Clay turned around.
“Whoa up there, Buster!” The horse stopped obediently, and Al approached with a smile.
“You’ve got two fine future hands for Star Ranch, Mr. Taliferro.”
“Why, these young’uns of mine beat hens a-pacin’.” Clay grinned. He moved over to the pair, ruffled their hair, and said affectionately, “You two are about ready to tackle a wild bronco.” Turning, he grinned and said, “This is their birthday, Al. Four years I’ve had to put up with these sorry critters.”
“They’re fine-lookin’ young’uns,” Al smiled. “They look just like their daddy.”
“Shucks, I hope not!” Clay exclaimed. “There’s enough problems in this world without two ugly young’uns around.”
Al smiled, for she had watched the pride that Clay had in his children for some time. “I brought back the bowls that your wife sent food over with.”
“Why, you take ’em right on inside. How is your grandma?”
“Not too well. We keep hopin’, but she don’t seem to get no better.
She was feeling fine for a long spell, but for the last year, she’s been seeming to get worse.” She looked around and said, “Is Clinton on the place?”
“Why no, he ain’t.” Clay shook his head and looked somewhat uncomfortable.
“He asked me to come over and go huntin’ with him. Where might he be?”
“Well, he went to town, Al. He’s havin’ supper with the Abbots.”
Clay saw something cross Al’s face then and said quickly, “I expect it slipped his mind. That boy’s plumb forgetful.”
“Oh, it’s okay. We can go some other time. I’ll just take these bowls in.”
Al crossed the yard and knocked on the door, and almost at once Mary Aidan was there. “Hi, Al. Come on in,” she said. At the age of twelve, Mary Aidan Hardin was all arms and legs, a bundle of energy, who had one pitch used for every statement—at the top of her lungs. “Ma,” she yelled, “Al’s here.”
“Will you stop yelling, Mary Aidan! You’re gonna deafen me. Come on in, Al, and set. I got some coffee on the stove.”
“Oh no, ma’am. I just brought these here bowls back. Shore do thank you for all the fine grub you sent over.”
Jerusalem took the bowls but kept her eyes on Al’s face. She had developed a liking for the young girl—and a sympathy. Aldora Stuart only wore two outfits, oversized men’s clothes that enveloped her, with a hat pulled down clear to her ears, or on Sundays for church she would wear a too-large, shapeless, faded brown dress that evidently had belonged to someone else. Her blond hair was beautiful and glossy when clean, but she took little care with it usually, just twisting it up in a bun or braiding it in pigtails. She had none of the graces of a young woman and did most of the work at her grandparents’ place. Glancing down at her hands, Jerusalem saw that Aldora’s hands were tanned and looked hard as any working man’s. “I got some gingerbread ready to take out of the oven. It won’t be more than ten minutes.”
“I’ll entertain her, Ma,” Mary Aidan said.
“Watch out for this one. She’d talk the horns off of a steer.”
As Jerusalem went to the other room to check on the gingerbread, Mary Aidan began to pepper Al with questions. She had an insatiable curiosity and had no inhibitions at all about the nature of her questions. No sooner had Al sat down than Mary Aidan sat down across the table from her and said, “How come you got a boy’s name, Al? Did your ma and pa want a boy and couldn’t have one, so they gave you a boy’s name?”
“My name’s Aldora. My pa’s name was Al, and ma’s name was Dora, so they made it up.”
“Does it bother you that people call you Al?”
“No, not a bit.”
“How come you always wear a man’s clothes? Don’t you like to wear dresses?”
“It’s hard to wear dresses when you’re plowin’ or doin’ other hard work.”
Mary Aidan kept up her barrage of questions until finally Jerusalem came over with a pan filled with warm gingerbread. “Will you shush for just one minute, Mary Aidan! If you don’t, I won’t give you any gingerbread.” The threat silenced Mary Aidan, and she sat there until she got her piece of gingerbread, which she stuffed into her mouth as if someone were going to snatch it from her.
Al ate more daintily and asked finally, “Have you heard anything about your daughter?”
“No, Quaid and Brodie are still out lookin’ for her. It’s been hard.
She’s been gone a long time, but I pray every day that they find her.”
Mary Aidan swallowed the last of her gingerbread and said, “Ma, can I have another piece?”
“Just one, and no more.” Mary Aidan quickly ate another piece and then began talking about Lucy Abbot. “I don’t like her,” she said loudly.
“She thinks she’s smarter than anybody else. I don’t know why Clinton wants to run around with her for. I don’t think boys have very much sense about girls, do you?”
Al smiled and said, “I don’t know about things like that.”
Jerusalem listened as Mary Aidan kept her incessant questioning going, and finally when she had half of the gingerbread up in a pan and covered with a cloth, she handed it to Al and said, “I’ll be over to see your grandma sometime tomorrow.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Taliferro.”
As soon as Al left, Jerusalem turned and said sternly, “Mary Aidan, I want you to stop asking so many questions.”
“Well, how am I gonna learn if I don’t ask questions?” Without waiting for an answer, she said, “I wish I was a boy.”
“Why would you wish a thing like that?”
“I think they get to do more stuff than girls.”
“Most of that ‘stuff’ they do don’t need to be done, anyhow. Now, you come on. We’ve got washin’ to do. . . .”
As Professor Fergus St. John Nightingale III pulled into Jordan City, he attracted as much attention as if he were a Fourth of July parade with an elephant. The lead wagon was enough to catch every eye, for it was furnished with what appeared to be a silk canopy of brilliant red. Actually it was canvas, but it had been coated with a dye that made it glimmer in the sun.
Nightingale himself was six feet two but weighed less than a hundred and fifty pounds. He was wearing a pair of fine brown trousers, a white shirt with a tie, and a top hat that would have done justice to any gentleman in London at the opera. Pulling up in front of the Golden Lady Saloon, Fergus turned and descended to the ground as limber as a spider and reached up with his hand. A young Indian woman wearing a beautifully textured, white deerskin dress stepped to the ground. She had a smooth light complexion for an Indian woman, and her eyes were beautifully shaped. Every man within seeing distance stopped immediately and turned to look at her. “Come down, my dear,” he said. “It’s time for refreshment.” He turned and said, “James, find a place to stable the horses. Wynona and I will be in the Golden Lady Saloon. Then get yourself something to eat.”
“Very well, Sir Fergus.”
“Come along, my dear. Time for liquid refreshment.” He opened the door, and the woman named Wynona stepped inside, and immediately every man in the saloon turned to stare at her. Some of them knew Fergus Nightingale, and all who did were puzzled by him. He was a titled nobleman from England who was fascinated by Comanche Indians. He had practically gone to live with them, learning their language, their customs, and their diet with the aim of writing a book about them.
Julie came over, smiling. “Why, Fergus, you’re back!” She put her hand out, and Fergus, instead of shaking it, bowed gracefully and lifted it to his lips.
“Why, you look more beautiful than ever, my dear.”
“You flatterer! When did you get in?”
“Just now. Oh, may I introduce to you Wynona. Wynona, this is one of Jordan City’s premier subjects, Miss Julie Satterfield.”
“How do you do, Wynona?”
Wynona had been unsmiling, but now a smile touched the corners of her lips. “How do you do?” She spoke carefully, pronouncing each word and studying Julie carefully. “I am pleased to meet you.”
“Well, Fergus, come and have some refreshments.”
The three sat down at a table, and Fergus ordered champagne, but there being none, he settled for a more Texas-style drink. He ordered a soft drink for Wynona, and she made no comment.
“Wynona is my teacher,” he said solemnly, but humor danced in his eyes. “She’s been teaching me the language and customs of the Comanche.”
Julie laughed. “Well, I’ll bet you never picked an ugly teacher, only a pretty one.”
“Oh, I assure you, my dear Julie, I have only a platonic interest in this young lady.”
“What’s platonic mean?”
“Why, we’re just good friends. Like David and Jonathan, don’t you know? I’m just about finished collecting material, so I’m ready to start my book.” He downed his drink as if it were spring water, then said, “What about the Hardins?”
“Well, Clay and Jerusalem have twins. They’re just four years old and doing fine. Clay’s dotty over them. You’d think nobody ever had a child before. I don’t think he credits Jerusalem with having much to do with their existence.”
“How about the ranch?”
“Oh, it’s much bigger now. They nearly doubled the size of it. Got a big piece of land for almost nothing after they sold a big herd in New Orleans.”
“And Miss Moriah? Any word?”
“No. Brodie and Quaid are still looking. Wearing themselves out the last year riding all over creation.” Julie went on to speak of the rest of the family, when suddenly Hack Wilson, one of Skull’s punchers, came over.
Wilson was a regular customer, a hard drinker, and typical of Skull’s riders.
He stood there staring at Wynona and reached over and squeezed her arm.
“Good-lookin’ squaw you got here, Englishman. Where’d you get her? I might want one like her myself.”
Fergus came out of his chair and said frostily, “If you would please remove your hand, it would be greatly appreciated.”
Wilson ignored him, and his hand caressed Wynona’s arm. “What do you say I rent this one out? She wouldn’t—”
Julie was watching, but it happened so quickly she had barely time to catch the action. A full long-neck bottle of whiskey was on the table, and Fergus reached out, lifted it high in the air, and brought it down full force on Wilson’s head. He did it with no more emotion than if he had been swatting a fly. The bottle broke and left a bloody track down Wilson’s face as he collapsed. He fell to the floor and didn’t move.
Julie laughed and called out, “Charlie, throw this trash outside, will you, please?”
“Why, sure, Miss Julie.”
Charlie Hendricks came over, grabbed one arm, and simply dragged Wilson outside. There was a slight crash as he hit the sidewalk, and Charlie came in with a big grin on his face.
Fergus looked at Wynona and said, “Pay no attention to that illmannered cretin, my dear.”
“I hope you killed him!” she said.
“Not very likely. His head’s probably the hardest part of him.” Fergus turned and studied Julie for a moment. “I’ve thought about you considerably, my dear, since I’ve been gone.”
Julie smiled at Wynona. “I’ll bet you didn’t think much, not with this young lady around.”
“Oh, but I have.” Suddenly, Fergus Nightingale grew serious. “You’re not happy.”
Julie shrugged. “I don’t guess I deserve to be happy.”
“You were made for better things than working in a saloon, Miss Julie Satterfield.”
Julie did not know what to make of Nightingale, nor did anyone else.
She stared at him, trying to find the hidden meaning of his words and decided that he meant exactly what he said.
“Well,” she said, “you’ll be happy to hear that I’ve been going to church.”
“Splendid! Glad to hear it!”
“I lost a bet with Rice Morgan, so I have to go.” She laughed. “I really do it to irritate the congregation. Last Sunday I took five of the worst drunks you’ve ever seen. Got them sobered up enough to move, and then we all walked in right in the middle of the sermon. Rice didn’t miss a word, but some of the congregation got upset about it. I know that was wrong. I won’t do it again.”
Nightingale looked at her intensely, pondering his thoughts, then said, “I’m not a very religious man myself, Miss Julie, but I see something in you that God wants and that He can use. Well, come along, Wynona.
We’ll go eat and then get us rooms in the finest hotel in Jordan City. Since there is only one, I know what it will be.”
Julie sat there as the two left, thinking of what Fergus had said. She had confessed it to no one, but although she went to church complaining, Rice Morgan’s preaching had stirred her more than she wanted to admit. She had tried to shake it off, but she couldn’t.
What could be in me that God would want?
she thought bitterly, then poured a drink and downed it quickly.
Dinner at the Abbots was an awkward event for Clinton. He had managed to finagle an invitation, and now as he sat there, he felt totally out of place. Donald Abbot owned the bank, and his wife had come from the top of St. Louis society. The Abbots had only the cream of Jordan City society for visitors to dinner, and Clinton had been silent most of the night except to answer a few questions.