The Yellow Rose (30 page)

Clinton closed his eyes and did not have strength enough to open them. The wagon seemed to be moving in a circle, and he felt sick. But he felt the quilt underneath, and Al’s hand guided him down. He lay flat on his back, and a pillow was shoved under his head. “Just lay still there,” Al said. “Grandpa, I’ll come back as soon as I take this fellow home.”

“All right, Al. I’ll go tend to your grandma.”

“What’s wrong with your grandma?” Clinton whispered.

“She’s been ailin’ ever since we got here. Don’t know what it is, but she’s powerful sick.”

“Doc Woods is a mighty handy man. Have you had him out to look at her?”

“No, but I reckon we’re gonna have to. You lay down now. I’ll take it slow and easy and try to avoid all the potholes I can.”

“Thanks a heap, Al.”

The laudanum had taken hold by the time the wagon had traveled a quarter of a mile. The swaying and the bumps seemed to be happening to somebody else, and Clinton tried to call out but only managed a whisper. “Al, the Lord is takin’ care of me. I got whipped, but I didn’t get kilt.” He remembered no more than this, or if he did, it was as if what had happened to him was happening to somebody else in a bad dream.

Twilight had begun to fall across the prairie, and Jerusalem stopped from feeding the chickens to glance around the landscape. It troubled her some how much she had grown to love her home. She had said once to Clay, “It’s almost like idolatry, Clay, how much I love this place.”

Clay had grinned and said, “This ugly old place called Texas?”

“It’s not ugly,” she had said. “It’s got some size to it. A person ain’t all squeezed together on some measly little old thirty-acre hardscrabble farm.”

Every evening she would come outside and look across the immense distances of the prairie and thank God that she was here and not back on the farm in Arkansas waiting for a husband who rarely showed up. She started to turn and then narrowed her eyes. She saw a wagon coming over the rise that hid most of the road. She stood there trying to identify the single driver but could not. All of her family were inside getting ready for the supper she had cooked. She waited until the wagon got closer and took in the youthful face of the driver. She did not recognize him.

“I’m lookin’ for the Hardin place,” the driver called out.

Jerusalem smiled. “This is it. I’m Jerusalem Taliferro.” Although she was now a Taliferro instead of a Hardin, the ranch had gotten branded with the Hardin name.

“I’m Al Stuart, Miz Taliferro. I got a feller here who’s in the wagon.

He’s in poor shape. He says his name is Clinton Hardin.”

Instantly, a chill ran over Jerusalem. “What’s wrong with him?” she said quickly as she made her way to the side of the wagon bed.

“He got beat up. There was two fellers from Skull Ranch. They hurt him pretty bad, ma’am.”

Jerusalem was only half listening. She had come to the edge of the wagon and looked down at the distorted face of Clinton and caught her breath. “He looks awful,” she whispered.

“Well, his face ain’t the worst of it,” Al said. “He got kicked, too. His ribs is awful sore. May be busted, Grandpa said.”

“Who are you? Where do you live?”

“I’m Al Stuart. We just moved into the old Bartley place a week ago, my grandma and grandpa and me.”

“I’ll have to hear more about this later, but right now I need to get him in the house.”

“I dosed him up with laudanum, ma’am, but it’s probably starting to wear off by now.”

“Pull up to the front porch. I’ll get my menfolk to carry him in.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Jerusalem hurried toward the house and entered at once. “Zane, you and Clay come here. Clinton’s been hurt.”

The two men had been sitting in the big room arguing over something, but they got up at once and hurried toward her. “What’s wrong with him?” Clay said.

“Two of the Skull hands beat him up. Some new folks have moved into the Bartleys’ place. One of them brought him home in a wagon.”

“Is he shot?” Zane said as he hurried out.

“No, but his face is beat up, and his ribs is stove in.”

When they got to the wagon, Zane climbed up into it and looked Clinton over and exclaimed, “Why, they beat the poor boy to pieces! Look at that face.” He leaned over and said, “Can you hear me, Clinton?”

“Yeah, I hear ya. Zane, ain’t it?”

“Yes, it’s Zane. Listen, we’re gonna move you now. It’s gonna hurt.

Just grit your teeth. Holler all you want to.”

Zane was a large man and strong. He simply picked up Clinton as he would a child and moved to the end of the wagon. He stooped down, and Clay was waiting to take him. When he lowered Clinton, Zane heard the boy gasp and jumped down. “Where do we put him, Jerusalem?”

“Put him in our bedroom.”

Clinton tried to argue, saying he wanted to go in his own room, but Jerusalem said, “You shush now, son. Now, do what I tell you, Clay.”

Clay walked inside, moving as carefully as he could. Jerusalem ran ahead and opened the doors. Mary Aidan was watching with big eyes and asked, “Is Clinton hurt, Ma?”

“Yes, he’s hurt. Now stay out of the way, Mary Aidan.”

The two men got Clinton into the bed and Clay said, “What happened? Who done this?”

His eyes were hard as agates, and Jerusalem recognized this mood.

She knew she had married a man who could be as hard and tough as he needed to be, and he was very fond of Clinton. “Don’t pester him now, Clay,” she protested.

“It’s all right, Ma,” Clinton said. Now that he was lying flat again, the pain had subsided. He managed to open his eyes and look around and said, “I bet I’m a pretty sight, ain’t I?”

“Never mind that,” Clay said. “Tell us what happened?”

His voice was harsh, and Clinton stared at him. He related his story and ended by saying, “The Stuarts wasn’t doin’ nothin’. It was that Burdette and Dee Nolan. I tried to fight ’em, but I couldn’t handle ’em.”

“Well, we’re gonna get you fixed up, boy,” Clay said gently, but he had a savage glint in his eyes. “What do we do, Jerusalem?”

“I expect we need to get his clothes off and take a look at them ribs.”

“Wait a minute, Ma. You can’t take my clothes off. It ain’t decent!”

“You hush up, Clinton. I don’t want any of your foolish modesty. You lay there now while I go get some water.

“You boys take his clothes off.”

As Jerusalem went back, she suddenly remembered that she had left the young Stuart outside. She went outside the door and said, “Sorry, I forgot about you.”

“Why, that’s all right, ma’am. I hope he’ll be all right.”

“I think he will. You say you folks just moved in?”

“Yes’m, we did. Just Grandma and Grandpa and me.”

“Well, we’re beholden to you. What’s your name?”

“Al. Al Stuart.”

“We’re mighty grateful to you, Al, for bringing my boy home.

I’ll have more to say later when we visit. You come in and stay the night.”

“No, ma’am. I got to get back. My grandma’s poorly, and I don’t like to leave the place.”

“Let me tell you one thing, Al. Don’t you worry about gettin’ thrown off your place. I don’t know if Kern Herendeen knows about what his foreman did or not, but he’s going to hear about it pretty soon. So, you tell your grandparents not to worry, that the Hardins and the Taliferros will be on their side.”

The youthful face suddenly lightened. Even under the oversized hat that covered the boy’s face, there was a sudden burst of hope. “That sounds good, ma’am. We’ve had kind of a hard time.”

“I’ll hear about it later, Al. Now, you scoot on home before it gets dark. I’ll be comin’ around to visit to see how your grandma is, probably tomorrow.”

“Thank you, ma’am. Mighty kind of you.”

Jerusalem watched the youth bound into the wagon and line the mules out at a fast clip. She was thinking in her mind of what she might say to Kern Herendeen and looked forward to confronting him. “Kern’s gotten too big for his britches, and so has Burdette!” She remembered the look on Clay’s face and said grimly, “I imagine Clay and Zane will have a few words to say to Burdette and Dee Nolan . . .”

Julie’s eyes flashed with anger as Clay finished telling her the story of how Clinton had gotten badly beaten by Lou Burdette and the Dee Nolan from the Skull Ranch. It was nearly evening, and the crowds were beginning to come into the saloon. She had been glad to see Clay and Zane but knew at once that something was wrong from the stern looks on their faces the minute they walked in. She listened while they told her the story, and now she exclaimed, “That no good Burdette! Somebody needs to shoot him!”

“That ain’t too far-fetched, Julie,” Clay said.

Something in his attitude warned Julie that he had come to town prepared to meet Skull’s foreman. He was wearing one of the new repeating pistols on his right hip and the huge bowie knife that he had taken from Jim Bowie’s own hand back in earlier days.

“We thought maybe he might be in here,” Zane said. He also was armed and had a glint in his eye.

“They don’t come in here, Zane, because of me, I guess. I can’t stand any of them. They think they own the earth. They spend most of their time over at the Silver Dollar.”

“Guess we’ll pay the Silver Dollar a call.”

Julie said suddenly, “There’s usually a bunch of them over there.

You’d better get some more help.”

“More help for those cowards? I only hope Herendeen’s there,” Clay said.

“I’m changin’ clothes,” Julie said. “I’m goin’ back and help Jerusalem take care of Clinton.”

“Well, that’d be good. She’s always glad to see you,” Clay said.

Without another word he turned, and the two men left the saloon. As they walked along the street toward the Silver Dollar, neither of them spoke.

Finally, Zane said, “I sure wish Julie would get out of that saloon business. I ain’t one to talk, for she ain’t done nothin’ I ain’t done, but it bothers me.”

“It bothers Rice Morgan, too. I’ve always thought he’s had a special feeling for Julie,” Clay said.

“That’d be somethin’ to see a preacher marry a saloon girl. He’s in enough trouble with church folk already goin’ into saloons and draggin’ the wild ones into church. I’m surprised he’s lasted this long.” They were approaching the Silver Dollar now, and Zane said, “Looky there. A bunch of Skull horses tied up out front. Must be six or seven of them.”

“We’ll divide ’em right down the middle, half for you and half for me,” Clay said. “Any odd ones we’ll match for it.”

The two walked into the saloon and saw that the place was already filled—mostly with Skull riders. They were a rough-looking bunch of cowhands. They looked around and spotted Lou Burdette. He was at a table talking with a woman no longer young but still attractive.

“How do we start the ball, Clay?”

“It’s Burdette and Nolan I’m out to get. The rest of them can stay out of it if they want to. If they don’t, they take what comes.”

“I’ll back your play. Let her flicker,” Zane said. “I’m ready to teach them cowards a lesson they ain’t likely to forget for a long time.” He was smiling, and he saw that Burdette had spotted the two of them. “It looks like Burdette’s got his eye on us, Clay.”

Clay stepped over to the bar at his right, and Zane joined him. When the bartender, a short rotund man with thin, black hair greased against his skull, asked what he’d have, he said, “Give me the best you got in the house.” He raised his voice and said, “I hear there’s some of them ring-tailed Skull riders in here that think they’re tough. You seen any of ’em?”

The bartender’s eyes opened, and then in alarm he glanced over toward Burdette and backed away from the bar.

Clay turned around and hooked his elbows over the bar.

“I hear they figure they’re some pumpkins because two of ’em were able to take out a boy. I wonder how they’d do with a couple of men.”

Silence filled the room, for everyone had heard Clay’s voice. Clay grinned and winked across the room at Devoe Crutchfield. “Well, Devoe, you seen any of them big, bad Skull riders?”

“I reckon I seen a few of ’em, Clay.” Devoe had been playing poker, but now he laid his hand flat on the table and ran his eyes around the room.

“Any of you Skull riders here feelin’ froggy I guess now’s the time to jump.”

Lou Burdette suddenly rose to his feet, shoving the woman away. He moved over to take a stand at the bar some five feet away from Clay.

“What’s eatin’ on you, Taliferro?”

“Well, Lou, my old friend. It’s good to see you,” Clay said. He smiled and turned to meet Burdette. “Haven’t seen much of you lately. I thought we’d pay you a visit.”

“You’re mighty noisy about it.”

“I didn’t disturb your siesta, I hope.”

“Say what you got to say,” Burdette said. He had looked over the room and saw at least six Skull hands, and he knew he had their loyalty.

“What’s on your mind?”

“Why, you’re on my mind, Lou. I come special to see you and your friend Dee over there. Hello, Dee.”

Dee stood up and came over to stand beside the foreman. The hulking man with hazel eyes had a reputation as a wicked barroom brawler.

“See you come loaded for bear.” He grinned and nodded at the big knife.

“Where’d you get that little item?”

“I had a fight with Jim Bowie and took it away from him.”

A murmur ran around the saloon, for this story had, indeed, been told all over, and it was true.

“You sayin’ you whipped Jim Bowie? You’re a liar!” Dee Nolan said.

“You’re callin’ me a liar?”

“That’s right,” Nolan said. “You make one move for that knife or that gun, and I’ll make you eat ’em.”

“Why, I don’t reckon I need a knife or a gun to handle a weasel like you, Nolan. What do you think, Zane?”

“You ought not pick on the feeble-minded, Clay.” Zane grinned. He was enjoying the scene a great deal. His eyes were everywhere though, watching the other Skull riders.

“Never mind all that. Say what you’ve got to say,” Burdette snapped.

“Well, I come to town to whup your tail, Lou, like I’ve done before.

It seems like you don’t have a very good memory. If you’ll remember, up on the Little Missouri we crossed once, I trounced you good, and you didn’t get out of bed for a month.”