The Yellow Rose (28 page)

It was this prolonged silence that had troubled Brodie, for Shafter had not been like this when he had first come to Star Ranch. He had been one of the most happy-go-lucky, cheerful, young men that Brodie had ever seen. He was always telling stories or talking to the young women whenever he’d go to town. Brodie had even admired Shafter for this quality, though Clay had warned him that Quaid was not a stable young man. But Brodie had seen another side of Shafter during these months in his company. For one thing, he had learned that Shafter was a tougher man than he was. Quaid endured the burning heat and the numbing cold without complaining. He didn’t gripe about the lack of food, nor did he seem to mind the solitude of the great plains of Texas. These hardships seemed not to trouble him as they did Brodie.

Never once has he mentioned turning back or giving up,
Brodie thought as he watched the man sitting there like a statue in the gray light of the morning. There was a grim and silent finality in Shafter now, and Brodie had been wondering about it for a long time. He cleared his throat, and said, “Why are you doing this?”

Shafter looked up. His eyes were hooded by the hat that was pulled down low on his head. “Doing what?”

“Risking your life in Comanche territory to get a woman back that’s no kin to you.” The question lay between them, and Quaid made no attempt to answer. He was silent for so long that Brodie decided that there would be no response.

Finally, Quaid said, “I’ve been no good all my life.” He reached down, picked up a stick out of the fire, held it in the flickering, yellow flame until it caught on fire, then held it up before his eyes like a candle.

He watched the flame twist and burn in the morning breeze and then tossed it into the fire. “My pa was a good man, but I wasn’t. I never cared that I let everybody down who ever trusted me.” He stood to his feet and shook his head. “But when I let the Comanches take your sister, it did something to me.”

“Well, you don’t even know her.”

“That don’t matter. I’m going to find her and take her home. I know you hate me, Brodie, and I don’t blame you. But if it’s any consolation, you don’t hate me as much as I hate myself for what I did. And I aim to do what I can to make it right to your family.”

Brodie got to his feet slowly and studied the man. “I guess I said some rough things when they first took Moriah, but I’ve been thinkin’ a lot about it, Quaid.” He shook his head, for he had gone over this many times in his mind and had tried to find a way to say it. “They would have taken Moriah even if you had been there. And they would have scalped you.”

“I should have been there.”

Brodie felt the power that lay in the man. Quaid Shafter was standing absolutely still, but Brodie saw in his eyes and in the set of his lips the tremendous energy that Shafter was putting into finding his sister. “What if we can’t find her, Quaid?”

“We’ll find her no matter how long it takes. I won’t never quit until we get her.”

Suddenly, Brodie felt a release. He had kept at a distance from Quaid Shafter, but now the two were united in a common goal. He was not alone out here in the vast Texas plains. Quaid was not his friend exactly, but the two of them were linked together in their search for Moriah. He stretched and tried to grin. “Well, I’m glad you’re here. I reckon we’d better go to that bunch that the Kiowas told—”

Brodie did not finish his sentence, for he felt as if someone had struck him a sharp blow with a fist in his side. It turned him around, and as he was falling, he felt a tremendous astonishment that anyone would hit him. Then he heard the sound of the shot and knew that it was a bullet and not a fist that had struck him. His gun belt was beside him, and he felt nothing but numbness from the bullet. Glancing up, he saw Indians rushing out of the brush and yelled, “Quaid, there they are!” He made a grab for his gun, but even as he pulled it free, he heard the rapid fire from Quaid’s revolver.

Quaid had jumped in front of him, and he could not see at first. But then to the left he saw an Indian screaming and running straight for them, a lance in his hand cocked to throw. “Quaid, look out!” he yelled and saw Quaid twist and get off a shot. It caught the Indian in the chest and stopped him dead in his tracks. His lance dropped, and then he collapsed on his face. By this time Brodie had pulled his gun free and gotten off a shot at a shadowy figure he saw. He missed and then he saw Quaid stagger.

“Are you hit, Quaid?”

“Not bad.”

“How many are there?”

He saw Quaid turn, but his eyes were searching the brush. “Not many or we’d be dead.”

At that moment a bullet kicked up dust right between the two of them, and Quaid leaped forward. He limped as he ran, and Brodie struggled to his feet. Looking down, he saw that his side was soaked with blood, although it still felt numb. He called out, “Quaid, where are they?” but got no answer. He moved toward a tree to take cover but then heard two more shots and a scream that was cut short.

He lifted his gun as someone moved, but he saw Quaid and dropped it again. Quaid came back and shook his head. “I put one more down. There were at least two more, but they ran away. They get you bad?”

“I don’t know.”

“Let me look at it.”

“They got you in the leg?”

“Bullet went right through. Didn’t hit a bone, but you’re bleedin’ like a stuck pig.”

Quaid threw more wood on the fire, and then stripping Brodie down, he looked at the wound and said, “It’s not bad, but it’s gonna hurt. We gotta keep it clean.”

Quaid bound up his own wound in his upper thigh and shook his head. “I’m gonna be stiff as a board from this. You, too.”

“Quaid, look at that Indian. He’s still alive!”

Quaid turned quickly and saw that the first Indian he had shot in the chest was moving. He ran over to him, kicked the lance away, and bent over the figure. He spoke in the Comanche language, and Brodie limped over, holding on to his side, which was beginning to come alive with searing pain now. The Indian’s eyes were glazed, and blood was bubbling out of his lips. Suddenly his dark eyes seemed to clear, and he said something that made Quaid glance up at Brodie with astonishment.

“What did he say?” Brodie asked.

“He said for us to forget about the white captive. We’ll never get her.”

He turned back and questioned the Indian, but death was already coming.

He made one more statement and then began his death song, but it was cut short with a gurgle as blood flooded his throat. They watched as he died without saying another word.

“What did he mean by that? What did he say there at the last?”

Quaid shook his head. “They were sent to kill us, Brodie. I reckon word’s gotten out that we’re huntin’ for Moriah. We’re lucky they didn’t send a bigger war party.” He looked down at the dead Indian and shook his head. “He’s a Comanche all right, but I don’t know which band.”

“What are we going to do, Quaid?”

“We’ll have to go back to the ranch. We can’t do anything in this weather. Besides that, we’re gonna be stoved up for a while. But we’ll be back,” he said.

The two packed their few belongings, and Brodie felt tremendous pain as he swung into the saddle. He saw that Quaid was hurting, too. As they rode out, Brodie looked down at the dead Indian and thought,
They could have gotten us easy, but they didn’t. I guess the Lord must be with us.

“Jerusalem, come out here!”

Jerusalem heard Clay’s call from the porch and came outside without a coat. The wind was cold. He motioned and said, “There they come.”

Jerusalem saw the two horsemen approaching. They were moving slowly, as if they were in the last stages of exhaustion. She waited until they got closer and saw that as Quaid got off his horse, he moved stiffly as he went over to catch Brodie, who fell off his horse. Clay ran forward to help him.

“You fellas hit trouble, I take it.”

“Pretty much,” Quaid said. “Brodie’s hurt worse than me.”

Running over, Jerusalem held out her hands and touched Brodie.

“Where are you hurt?”

“In the . . . side, Ma.” His lips were held tightly together, and his eyes were barely open. “We didn’t get Moriah,” he whispered.

“Well, you’re back alive, and that’s somethin’,” Clay said briskly.

“Come on in.”

Clay practically carried Brodie inside the house, and Clinton came in from the back. His eyes widened when he saw that his brother was hurt, and he said, “Did you find her?”

“No,” Quaid said. “We got a lead on her, though.”

“We’ll talk later,” Jerusalem said. “I want to look at these wounds.”

She began heating water, and for the next half hour, she did not allow any talk. She washed the wounds of both men, bound them with fresh bandages, and then sat them down at the table. She made fresh coffee and a huge panful of scrambled eggs, which she put before them along with the morning’s biscuits.

As the two men ate, Brodie became more alert. “Ma, this sure is better than the grub we been eating on the trail.” He spoke slowly at first, and as he told them the story of the Comanche attack, he saw that they were staring at him strangely. “If Quaid hadn’t been there, my scalp would be on some Comanche’s shield.”

Jerusalem was sitting across from Quaid, and she reached across the table and took his hand. “Thank you, Quaid.”

Quaid stared at her, then finally said, “We had good luck. But those Comanches didn’t just happen on us. They came for our scalps. They were sent.”

“What do you mean?” Clay said, his glance sharp. “How do you know that?”

“One of them didn’t die right off. He told me that we’ve got names now. I’m Silverhair, and Brodie here is Tall Man. They know we’re hunting for Moriah.”

Clay stared at them. “I’ve been talking about getting a bunch of men together and going after them. Maybe even getting some of them ranging men that Sam Houston’s organized.”

“I don’t think it’d do any good, Clay.” Quaid shook his head. “If we knew where she was, I’d say yes. But we’ve got to find her first, and I can do that better than a bunch of men out shooting every Indian they see.”

“I think Quaid’s right,” Brodie said. He looked down at his side and touched it. “This will have to get well first.”

“I think we’d better wait until spring,” Quaid said, “although I’ve got some Indian friends, if I can find them, that can help us—if it doesn’t kill me first.” He smiled grimly then and shook his head. “The Indians are pretty sore about us whites takin’ over their land. They’re apt to shoot first and ask questions later.”

“That’s enough of that. I want you two to get in bed right now and get some rest. Both of you are worn down,” Jerusalem insisted.

Neither Quaid nor Brodie argued but let Jerusalem hustle them off into the bedroom.

Clay sat there drinking coffee until finally she came back and said, “It’s a wonder they’re alive.”

“It sure is. Four Comanches against two men not lookin’ for trouble . . .” He shook his head and said, “That’s the good Lord, nothin’ else! You know, I’m right glad Quaid is goin’ along with Brodie. It seems like he growed up all at once.”

Jerusalem sat down and then folded her hands in front of her. “I think you’re right. But they’re in no condition now to go looking for anyone until they heal up.”

“That’s right. Be better to wait for good weather.”

“You’d like to go with them, wouldn’t you, Clay?”

“Well, I’d like to help. But don’t worry. My place is here with you.”

He came over and put his hand on the back of her neck and squeezed it gently. “I’ve got you, Clinton, Mary Aidan, Sam, and Rachel to think about now.”

“Are you sorry?”

“Sorry!” he said with surprise. “I reckon not! I got what I want. If it wasn’t for Moriah, everything would be perfect. But we’ll get her back. Don’t worry.”

The two men rested and ate Jerusalem’s good cooking for the next week. The time on the trail searching for Moriah had drained and weakened both men more than they realized. They were so worn down that they spent most of their time sleeping and ate enormous meals when they were awake. But both of them were tough men, and by the end of the week, Brodie was getting restless. He had not mentioned Serena, and no one had brought up the subject. But when Clinton went in early one morning, he said, “Ma, Brodie’s gone.”

“I know. He got up almost before daylight.”

“Where’d he go to?”

“He went to find Serena. He left a note.”

“But she ain’t there, Ma.”

“I know.” Serena and her mother had left the country. They had sold their place and gone back to Mexico to be with Mateo. Mateo himself had become rather famous, at least along the border. He had gathered a group of discontented men, and they made raids across the Rio Grande on a small scale. After Santa Anna had signed the treaty, Mateo had become bitter at the defeat and took up his own fight against the Texans.

“I’m gonna go find him, Ma, before he gets there.”

“He was gonna stop in Jordan City and get his horse shod. You can probably catch him if you hurry. I wish you’d try, Clinton.”

“I sure will, Ma. That woman Serena, she ain’t worth it. Ever since Brodie left with Quaid, she’s was goin’ bad, drinkin’ and goin’ out with all kinds of men.”

“I know it, son, but it seems like that doesn’t seem to matter much.

When a man’s got a woman on his mind, his good sense flies out his ears.”

Clinton stared at his mother. “Well, maybe some men, but you won’t ever have that trouble with me.”

Jerusalem began to laugh. She came over and put her arms around him and hugged him. “I love you, Clinton! You don’t think anything can ever happen to you, but you’re nineteen years old. Just at the right age to get brought down by some woman who pokes a curve at you or flutters her eyelashes.”

“Aw, shucks, don’t talk like that, Ma! I’m not about to get foolish over any woman.”

Jerusalem smiled almost sadly. “You remember the Bible says, ‘Let him that thinketh he standeth take heed lest he fall.’”

“Sure, I know it, but I ain’t gonna fall,” Clinton said stoutly.

“Well, David fell, and he was a man after God’s own heart.”

“Never understood that. Runnin’ around after that old Bathsheba!”