The Yellow Rose (22 page)

Ten minutes later they pulled into Jordan City, and she said curtly, “Let me out there at the general store.” She waited until he pulled the wagon up and noted he had not said a word. She got out and looked up at him. “It will take me an hour to get my business done. Meet me right here.” He did not answer, and she spoke sharply. “Do you hear me, Shafter? Meet me right here.”

Quaid turned to face her, and for a moment, it seemed that he would ignore her. But then he nodded and said, “One hour.” He slapped the backs of the horses with the lines, and the wagon moved off.

Moriah watched him go.
I didn’t handle that well. There was no call for me to be so sharp. Clay said he’s had a hard time since his pa died, but he shouldn’t have put his hands on me and kissed me.
Troubled by the incident, she turned and walked along the boardwalk, unable to get the incident out of her mind.

It had taken Moriah longer to make her purchases than she had thought, so it was nearly an hour and a half before she returned to where Quaid was supposed to be waiting with the wagon. She expected to find Quaid there, but there was no sign of the wagon. She had a heavy parcel in her arm, and as she glanced up and down the street, she could see no sign of the him.

“Well, hello, Miss Hardin. Come to do a little shoppin’?” Sheriff Bench had approached her. He took off his hat and smiled, saying, “Let me help you with that package.”

“How are you, Sheriff?”

“Mighty fine. Where’s your wagon?”

“I don’t know. Quaid Shafter drove me in. He was supposed to have been here.”

Something changed in Sheriff Bench’s face. “He’s down at the Golden Lady.”

“The saloon?”

“Yes, ma’am. As a matter of fact, I don’t know if he’s able to drive you home. He was pretty drunk. Can I get him for you?”

“No, I’ll do it myself. Thank you, Sheriff.”

Bench looked alarmed. “You ain’t going into the saloon?”

“My aunt works there, so I guess it’s safe enough for me to go in and get Shafter out.”

“Better let me do that, miss.”

“No, thank you, Sheriff.”

Moriah smiled, but there was no warmth in it. She turned and walked away, and Sheriff Bench watched her. He muttered to himself, “Them Hardin women sure are stubborn folks. I’d hate to be Quaid Shafter and have one of ’em after me!”

Moriah walked straight to the Golden Lady Saloon and noticed the wagon hidden behind a large freight wagon on a side street. She went to it, deposited her packages, and then went back to the saloon. She had never been in a saloon in her life and was curious. Stepping inside, she saw that the place was occupied only by a few men and two women. One of the women was sitting with Quaid at a table. Her chair was drawn up close, and as Moriah stared at them, the woman reached up and ruffled Quaid’s silver hair and laughed shrilly. Everyone in the saloon was watching her, and she wondered where Julie was. Frisco Barr was standing at the bar, leaning against it leisurely. He stood up at once and came over to her.

“Well, hello, Miss Moriah. You come to see Julie?”

“No, I came for that drunk over there.” Moriah lifted her voice, and everyone in the saloon heard her. She stared at Quaid, who had realized that the saloon had suddenly grown quiet. He had to struggle to focus his eyes, and he got to his feet slowly.

“Why, hello, Miss Moriah,” Quaid said, his speech slurred.

Moriah was disgusted. “Shafter, you’re nothing but a drunk. Don’t bother coming back to the ranch. You’re fired!”

She whirled and walked out of the saloon, hurried to the wagon, and climbed into it. She put the brake off and spoke to the horses sharply, and they started off at a fast clip. Pulling out into the middle of the street, she heard her name, “Miss Moriah!” and turned to see Shafter. He had exited from the saloon and was now running, trying to catch up with her. Anger boiled over in her, and she turned and shouted, “Go on back to your whiskey and your women! That’s all you’re good for!” She slapped the horses, and they broke into a gallop. When she was down the street, she saw that Shafter had stopped and was staring after her.
I hope he doesn’t come back. I don’t care what Clay says. We don’t need him.

Back in the middle of the street, Quaid Shafter mumbled, “Go on back to my whiskey? Well, I’ll just do that!” He turned and made his way back into the saloon and said, “Come on, Annie, we’re behind on our drinking.”

He was taken off-guard when Julie Satterfield suddenly spoke. She had come into the saloon during his absence, and she said, “Why aren’t you with Moriah?”

“She run off and left me.”

“You’re supposed to take her home.”

“Let her take herself home,” Quaid muttered. He moved over toward the dark-haired dance hall girl who was grinning at him. She put her hands out and held herself against him. “Forget about her, honey. Let’s have a good time.”

Julie stared with disgust at Shafter and shook her head. Frisco came up and said, “I don’t know why they put up with Shafter.”

“I don’t either,” Julie said. “I’m going to tell Clay what he’s done, and I hope he stomps a mud hole in that worthless Shafter!”

As Moriah rode out of town, she was breathing hard, still angered at what she felt toward Quaid. He had no right to try to force his kiss on her, and now getting drunk made her all the more repulsed by him. Suddenly one of the horses screamed and reared up. Confused, Moriah called out, “What’s the matter, Sam?”

And then she saw it. An arrow buried itself halfway of its length into the horse’s side. The crimson blood spurted out, and the big horse began to collapse. She turned and saw the Indians then, only five of them, but they were all staring at her. All except one was smiling. The biggest one drew an arrow and notched it and sent it into the other horse directly into the neck. The horse cried piteously, making terrible noises, and Moriah clung to the lines as if they were a lifeline. Horror was a slow-moving thing that ran along her nerves. As the five drew a circle around her, all the horrible memories of being captured by Red Wolf flooded her mind. She knew only too well how the Comanches tortured and killed their captives. The horses were both dying, kicking and uttering plaintive noises, but Moriah could only look at the leader.

He approached the wagon, came off his horse, and handed the lines to another Indian. In one smooth move, he leaped up into the wagon and seized Moriah by the arm. She could smell the wild, rank odor of him— sweat and grease—and his eyes were totally black. She tried to pull away, but his strength was frightening. He simply tightened his arm and pulled her out of the wagon. He uttered a short, guttural phrase, and one of the Indians, who was leading a horse, brought the spare animal forward. He said something, and the other Indians laughed. The leader simply ignored him. He grabbed Moriah and lifted her as easily as if she were nothing but air. She found herself astride the small, stringy mustang, and then the leader tied her feet together, securing the rope under the horse’s belly. He leaped on his horse’s back. Without another word he drove his horse on. Moriah felt her mount start, bunching his muscles as he ran on. The leader had not said one word to her, which frightened her more than anything else. She clung as best she could to the back of the racing horse and wanted to cry out, but there was no one to cry to. She took one look backward, and although she could not see her home, she wondered if she would ever see it again.

Clay Taliferro was scared, perhaps for the first time in his life. He had faced danger many times, but that was always his own skin. But now, since he had married, he had found a love for Jerusalem so deep that it seemed to be twisted around everything on the inside of him. He could not imagine life without her.

But the pregnancy had not been easy. Jerusalem had never complained, but Clay had learned from talking to the other members of the family that she had never had a hard time like this before. He lay beside her at night listening to her uneven breathing, and knowing she was in difficulty, he was frustrated at not being able to help.

“I reckon I ought to go get Doctor Woods, Jerusalem,” he said finally. The two were sitting at the kitchen table, and Jerusalem was peeling potatoes. She always insisted on trying to work all she could, although Moriah and the men did as much as they possibly could to take every burden from her.

“It’s way too soon, Clay. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be all right.”

Clay shook his head, unhappiness etched across his features. “I think we ought to go stay in town so we’d be handy to the doctor before the baby comes.”

“Why, Clay, I had most of my children without any doctor.”

“I know, but this is
my
baby. And besides, well, you’re older now.” He reached over and took her hand and said, “You don’t look it, but you are.

I can’t have anything happen to you.”

Jerusalem felt his hand squeeze hers, and despite the discomfort, she managed a smile. “It’s good to have you with me, Clay. I’d be lonely without you.”

The two sat there for a time saying little, but then Clay lifted his head.

“Somebody comin’,” he said, “at a hard run.”

Jerusalem rose painfully. She was near her time, and she moved slowly and awkwardly to the window. She saw the horseman riding into the yard at a furious rate. “Something’s wrong, Clay.”

The two of them moved to the door, and as soon as they were outside, Clay said, “It’s Zane.”

Fear gripped Jerusalem then, and she stood there clinging to the pillar that held the porch roof up. She saw Zane fall off his horse, his face flushed and covered with a fine dust. His expression told her that something terrible had happened. “What is it, Zane?” she cried.

“I found the team three miles from here, dead. Comanche arrows.”

“Where’s Moriah?” Jerusalem whispered and knew the answer.

Zane dropped his head for a moment and shook it. He shook his heavy shoulders and said, “Gone. I reckon they took her. I followed their tracks.

There’s about a dozen horses, then I went back to town to get help.”

“Where was Quaid?”

“He was in town drunk at the Golden Lady. He let her go home alone.” Rage contorted Zane Satterfield’s face. “I wanted to kill him, Clay! I may yet. We’re going after them. Sheriff Bench is rounding up all the help he can get.”

“I’ll get my horse and gun,” Clay said and turned away, but Zane’s voice caught him almost like a blow. “Clay, you can’t go.”

Clay whirled. “What are you talking about? ’Course I’m going!”

But Zane was adamant. “You’ve got to think of Jerusalem.”

Clay whirled and saw Jerusalem watching him. He remembered the three things she had asked him before she had agreed to marry him. One of them was that he promised not to leave her.

He did not answer, for Brodie and Clinton had come running out, and Mary Aidan was with them. Clay listened as Zane broke the news to them, but his eyes were fixed on Jerusalem. Mary Aidan burst into tears and buried her face in her mother’s skirts. Clay knew they were all thinking of the time they had been captured and dragged off by Red Wolf. He remembered well the night he had walked into Red Wolf’s camp and rescued Jerusalem and her daughters. He went over and stood beside her and put his arm around her. She was waiting for him to speak, he knew, and he said the words that came hard. “They’ll find her and bring her back, sweetheart.”

They’ll find her.
Jerusalem knew then that Clay would not be leaving her. She clung to him.

“We got a pretty big bunch, according to Sheriff Bench,” Zane said.

“Even Len’s going with us.”

“He won’t be much help,” Clay muttered. He knew Jerusalem was worried about Brodie, but there was no stopping him. Clinton begged to go, but Jerusalem shook her head. “No, Clinton, you stay here.”

The three of them watched Zane and Brodie as they rode off on fresh horses. Clay said, “They’ll bring her back.” But his words were hollow. He knew that the Comanches could outride and outlast any white man that went after them. “Come on in and sit down.” He walked inside with Jerusalem, and neither of them spoke as they sat down.

Clinton stood and watched the dust from Zane’s and Brodie’s horses, and fear had its way with him.

Clay heard the sound of the horse coming at a slow walk. Jerusalem was in bed, trying to sleep, so he got up and walked softly out. Clay took one look at Quaid Shafter as he stepped off his horse. Clay walked over and without warning struck Shafter a tremendous blow that caught him high on the cheekbone. It staggered Shafter, and Clay said bitterly, “I ought to kill you!”

The news of Moriah’s capture had spread everywhere. After Quaid had learned that Moriah had been captured by a band of Comanches, he had drunk half a bottle of whiskey. Finally, Frisco Barr had told him coldly, “Get out of here, Shafter. We don’t need you, and I don’t want you in my place.”

He had borrowed a horse from Devoe Crutchfield, the blacksmith, and ridden back to the ranch. Now blood ran down his cheek, and he stared at Clay. “I’ll go bring her back,” he muttered.

Clay shook his head in disgust. “You never came through in your life, Shafter. You’re a useless drunk! Get out of my sight!”

For the next two days and nights, the Indians rode at top speed, stopping only twice for rest. The ordeal was a nightmare to Moriah, who was exhausted and frightened, wondering if she would ever see her family again. The Comanches had extra horses and kept swapping them to keep half of the animals fresh. When they had stopped to eat, they only had dried meat to gnaw on.

They had stopped again by a small water hole fed by a spring. One of the Indians dragged Moriah off her horse, and she staggered as the warrior shoved her. She fell down and did not have the strength to get up. She lay there in the dirt unable to move. The farther they rode away from the ranch, she discovered that the horror and the screaming, clawing fear that grew in her could not be maintained. She had become numb inside from that terror of what could happen to her. For all practical purposes, she looked at herself as dead.

Suddenly, the leader of the Comanches stood before her. He extended his hand, and she saw a hunk of greasy, half-cooked meat. She shook her head.