Deep in the Heart

by Gilbert, Morris

  A silence as profound as that of an ancient tomb buried in the sands of Egypt reigned over the room. Every individual in the bank sat or stood as if frozen, every eye fixed on the tableau playing out before them.

  The first sound was a strangled gasp from Ryland Rusk, whose face had turned crimson. He got up from his desk, knocking over an ink bottle in his haste. He ignored the black mess spreading over all his papers and took two steps toward Jerusalem. “That’s . . . that’s not the truth!”

  Jerusalem turned to face him, holding her baby close. She met his eyes and was disgusted by what she saw there. “You’re a little man, Ryland Rusk, a bully and a liar.” Knowing that Rusk was hoping to become the new bank president upon Alvin Carstairs’s impending retirement, she inwardly gloated at the damage she hoped she was bringing to his reputation. With her back straight, she walked right past Rusk until she got to the door. Then she turned, her green eyes glowing with the anger that burned within her. “When my husband comes back, I’m sure you can expect a visit from him, and it won’t be a pleasant one.” She whirled on her heel and swept out the door.

  The color left Rusk’s face as he scanned the room, seeing every eye fixed on him. “That . . . that woman is unsound! Why . . . this is absurd. There’s something wrong with her mind.”

  Martha Grimsley’s robust voice rang out. “There ain’t nothin’ wrong with Jerusalem Ann Hardin’s mind, Rusk.”

  Desperately, Rusk retorted, “She . . . she’s running scared. Why, she tried everything she could think of to get me to extend that loan.”

  Another one of the customers standing in line, a thickset man wearing a black alpaca coat and a fawn-colored hat pushed back on his head, had been watching Rusk. He turned and aimed a mouthful of amber tobacco juice at the brass spittoon, then wiped his lips with the back of his sleeve and said in a clear, piercing voice, “If I was you, Rusk, I’d arrange to be out of town when Big Jake comes back.”

  Ryland Rusk stared at the man, and his voice turned squeaky. “I tell you, there’s nothin’ to what that woman says!”

  Rusk looked around at all the people who were staring at him, and an awkward silence greeted him. At that moment he knew he had made a grievous mistake. He knew Big Jake Hardin’s reputation as a fighter and a brawler, and fervently wished he had never laid eyes on Jerusalem Hardin!

  Moriah Hardin grabbed a young cattail and pulled it out of the mud along the river’s edge. She broke off the muddy base and tossed the stalk alongside others she had stacked on the bank. The Ouachita River was higher than usual, so she had to wade out a ways in order to add to her stock.

  “I hate pullin’ these old cattails, Brodie. Ain’t we got enough yet?” The thin girl looked over toward Brodie with her plaintive brown eyes and whined, “I wanted to go hunting this morning with Grandpa.”

  “We gotta have these cattails. We need ’em to eat.”

  “I ain’t no cow to eat stuff like that.”

  Brodie smiled at his sister. He was very fond of her and said, “You like ’em pretty good when they’re cooked into one of Mama’s good stews.”

  “Just because I like to eat ’em doesn’t mean I like to gather them,” she said.

  Cattails had become a staple of the Hardin family diet during the recent hard times. Every part of the plant was edible, from the roots all the way up to the green spikes. Peeled and boiled, they served as a vegetable. They could be pickled for salads, and the young shoots were a fair substitute for poke sallet. Jerusalem had even learned how to grind the roots into a flour that could be used like cornmeal. She had taught Moriah how to cut up the whole sprout, roll the pieces in cattail flour, then add salt and pepper and fry them.

  As the youngsters continued with their task, Moriah’s bad humor did not abate. She kept complaining about getting all muddy until finally Brodie came up behind her, threw his arms around her, and picked her up. “I’ll just throw you in the river,” he threatened. “Maybe it’ll wash some of the orneryness out of you.”

  Pinioned by Brodie’s strong young arms, Moriah struggled to get free. “You let me down!” she cried.

  “No, I think you need to be baptized.” He laughed, then added, “You see what a nice fellow Clinton’s been since he’s been baptized.”

  “He’s been meaner than a snake ever since he got religion! Now, you lemme down!” Moriah demanded.

  “Here you go.” Brodie pretended he was about to heave her into the river.

  “If you throw me in,” Moriah screamed, “I’ll catch you asleep snoring with your mouth open and drop a worm in it!”

  Brodie laughed. “You would too, wouldn’t you?” He put her down, pinched her cheek, and said, “Come on, I guess we got enough cattails to make a load.”

  The two gathered up the cattails into two cotton sacks. They had made a good haul. As they turned to plod homeward along the road that ran parallel to the river, Moriah calmed down and began to talk seriously. Brodie was more of a listener than a talker, and the young girl had become accustomed to sharing her problems with him.

  “Brodie, there’s somethin’ wrong with me.”

  “There’s nothin’ wrong with you.”

  “Yes, there is. Look at me. I’m skinny as a snake.”

  Brodie glanced at Moriah in her thin cotton dress. She was indeed slender. She had begun shooting up but not filling out, and now she was as awkward as a young colt.

  “Martha Grimshaw is just the same age as me, and she’s already gettin’ a bosom and I ain’t. What if I never do?”

  Brodie was amused at his sister. “Don’t worry. You’re only twelve. Some girls don’t get their figures until they’re fourteen or fifteen. You’ll get everything you need when you get older.”

  “But what iffen I don’t?”

  “You’ll be as purty as Ma when you get your growth.”

  Moriah considered this for a time and shook her head. “Ain’t got no more shape than a skinny ol’ rake handle!”

  Brodie was carrying his sack over his left shoulder. He reached out and put his arm around her. “You’re going to be prettier than a pair of green shoes with red strings.”

  Moriah flashed him a beautiful smile. Her coloring was something to see, with skin as clear as could be and red hair that caught the sun and had golden gleams in it. The two walked along, but Moriah was not through with telling her problems. She had the habit of going down a list with Brodie of all the things that troubled her. “I’m afeared we’re gonna lose our farm, Brodie.”

  “We ain’t gonna lose it.”

  “We are, too, iffen we don’t pay that bill. I shore wish Pa would come back.”

  Brodie did not answer, for he was worried as well, although he tried to cover it. Their father had been gone for almost a year and a half now, and the last time he had returned from his travels, he had stayed no more than a month. It seemed it had become Jake Hardin’s habit to leave for extended periods and come back just long enough to give his wife another baby. It had not always been like this. Brodie could remember when his pa stayed around most of the time. He used to take Brodie hunting and fishing, and had spent a lot of time with him. He had worked on the farm, too, apparently contented. But now Brodie had trouble remembering what his pa looked like.

  “Pa’ll come back, and we’ll pay off that loan.”

  Moriah looked at him, fear reflected in her eyes. “Grandpa is losing his mind, ain’t he, Brodie?”

  Brodie could not speak for a moment. Though he didn’t want to think about it, they were all aware that something terrible was happening to the old man. Whenever Brodie needed advice about anything, he had always looked to his great-grandfather, especially during recent years with his father gone so much. For as long as Brodie could remember, his great-grandfather Josiah had had a sharp, keen mind, but lately it seemed to leave him at times. The periods were getting longer and longer when he was not himself. “I reckon he ain’t right.”

  “It seems like everythin’ bad’s happenin’. Why is that, Br
odie?”

  “I don’t know, sis. I just don’t know. But we’ll make it through all right. You’ll see.”

  Brodie continued to encourage Moriah as they walked along. When they reached a bend in the river, they looked up and saw two mules carrying four riders.

  “It’s them old Brattons,” Moriah muttered. “They ain’t worth dried spit.”

  Indeed, the Brattons were considered a lower order among the civilized folks of the Ouachita River basin. They made their living mostly by making corn whiskey and selling it, but rumor had it they were involved in other illegal activities such as stealing, and there was suspicion of even worse things.

  Brodie grew tense, for the Brattons were bad news. “Give ’em the road, Moriah,” he said.

  The two hugged the side of the road, but instead of passing them, Luke Bratton pulled up the nose of his mule and turned to face his sister, saying, “Lookee what we got here, Ellie. Some fine, upstandin’ citizens.”

  Ellie Bratton was seventeen. Her face was not entirely clean, as was usual, but that did not detract from her good looks. “Why, that’s Brodie Hardin! Gettin’ to be a real man, ain’t you, now? You better come callin’ on me someday pretty soon.”

  The three Bratton boys looked exactly alike. They all had muddy brown eyes and roughly cut black hair, and were dressed in a motley assortment of overalls, pants, and denim shirts. They were large for their size, the largest being Duke, who sat with his brother Horace on the other mule. Duke was holding a jug balanced on the back of the mule. He grinned and said, “You need more man than that, Ellie.”

  Luke hopped off the mule and stood there looking at Brodie and Moriah. All three of them had been drinking, and he said, “Gimme that jug, Duke. These two look thirsty.” Duke laughed crudely and surrendered the jug.

  “Shore, let ’em liquor up a bit. It’ll make ’em look happier.”

  Luke came over and said, “Here, Brodie, take a belt of this.”

  “Don’t reckon I’d care for any.”

  The Brattons all had volatile tempers, and at Brodie’s refusal to have a drink, Luke Bratton’s eyes grew hard. “Too good to drink with me, I reckon.”

  “No, I just don’t wanna drink.”

  “All right, then. We’ll let missy here try it. Here, what’s yore name, missy?”

  “None of your business,” Moriah snapped. “And I don’t want none of your old rotgut neither.”

  All the Brattons laughed, and Horace, the middle brother, said, “She got the best of you there, Luke. Come on. Let’s git to town. We’re wasting our time here.”

  Luke, however, was angry. “You’re gonna take a drink of this, girl!”

  He reached out and grabbed Moriah by the back of the neck and lifted the jug to her lips.

  At once Brodie stepped forward and tore his hand away. “Leave her alone, Luke.”

  “Well, lookee here,” Luke said. “From what I hear, your womenfolks ain’t all that high-tone anyhow. I hear your ma’s been real obligin’ to that banker just to get her loan renewed.”

  Brodie broke out in a cold sweat as he faced the burly Bratton boy. He was fully as tall as Luke, but all of the Brattons were broad and muscular, and Brodie felt like a sapling by comparison. But he did not even think about that. His arm flew up almost of its own will and caught Luke Bratton squarely in the mouth. Sturdy as he was, Bratton stumbled backward, and blood spurted out between his thick lips. Advancing toward Brodie, he snarled, “Hardin, I’m gonna teach you a thing or two. First I’m gonna bust you up real good, and then I’m gonna bash your teeth out so you’ll have snags! When I’m done with you, you’ll walk astraddle when you try to get home.”

  “You leave him alone!” Moriah shouted. She stepped beside Brodie and tried to put herself between them, but like lightning, the two older Brattons jumped off their mules, and Horace grabbed her and held her back.

  “Let me hold that jug,” Duke said, grabbing it out of his brother’s hands. “We don’t want nothin’ to happen to that.” Then stepping back, he said, “Now bust him up, Luke.”

  Brodie knew he had absolutely no chance against the brawny Luke. Nevertheless, he flung himself against him, throwing one or two blows that had no effect. And then a solid punch from Luke caught him high in the temple, and the world seemed to whirl around him. Brilliant flashing lights, red and yellow and green, exploded, and he did not even feel it when he hit the ground.

  Moriah fought against the grip that Horace Bratton kept on her, screaming and kicking, but he merely cuffed her on the side of the head and said, “You be still, girl. That brother of yourn needs to learn hisself a lesson.”

  Moriah tried not to watch as Brodie staggered up, over and over, to strike feebly at Luke, who merely laughed and knocked him down again. Finally she began to cry, “Please, let him alone!”

  “He ain’t had enough yet,” Luke said.

  Ellie spoke up in Brodie’s defense. “I guess that’s about enough, Luke.”

  “You keep out of this, Ellie. You’re too tenderhearted.”

  Moriah’s eyes were dim with tears. She felt helpless as she watched Brodie slowly try to get to his feet. And each time, Luke pounded him again with his fists, bloody now from the mess he had made of Brodie’s face.

  “I reckon that’ll be sufficient.”

  Everyone turned at once, for no one had heard the horse approach, nor had they heard the man dismount and come up behind them. Luke blinked his eyes and stared, his mind still preoccupied with the beating he was doling out.

  “What’d you say?”

  “I said that’ll be sufficient.”

  The speaker was not a big man, and he was slender of frame. He was wearing buckskin pants, a fringed jacket, and moccasins instead of boots. He had an odd-looking fur cap on his head. He had the lightest blue eyes Moriah had ever seen, but they appeared sleepy as he looked casually over the group.

  “Butt out of here,” Luke said, sneering at the stranger.

  “Be mighty happy to, son, but I guess you’ve had fun enough with that boy.”

  Luke took a step toward the man and looked down at him. He cursed, then said, “This ain’t none of your put-in.”

  “I said leave that boy alone.”

  Luke Bratton was a tough sixteen-year-old. He had beaten up grown men many times, and he feared no one. He opened his mouth to speak again, but something in the stranger’s expression brought him to a halt. He took a step backward and quickly ran his eyes over the man. He saw no sign of a knife or a gun. Glancing back at the man’s horse, he saw two rifles with the barrels sticking up from their case.

  Duke stepped forward now, scowling. The man’s back was to him, and he had not yet seen his face. He yelled, “This ain’t none of your put-in! Get on your way!”

  The man turned and studied Duke. His voice was summer-soft as he said, “I guess, old son, you’d better be on your way.”

  No one had challenged Duke Bratton in a long time, and the man standing before him looked almost frail next to his own bulk. Duke had beaten men until they had nearly died, broken their ribs, and had reputedly gouged out a man’s eye in a drunken brawl in another town. Now he was seething. He hated to be crossed. Pulling back his light denim jacket, he exposed a heavy pistol stuck inside his belt. “Git on your way, mister, ’fore I stomp you!”

  Moriah could not believe what she saw next. The buckskin-clad man simply reached out, in no apparent hurry it seemed to Moriah, plucked the pistol out of Duke’s belt, lifted it almost casually, and brought it down on his head. The thick, thumping sound was much like that of a hammer striking a watermelon.

  The man kept his gaze on Duke, who stayed upright, even though his eyes began to roll up so that the whites were visible.

  “Duke, are you hurt?” Ellie asked.

  Bratton made no answer. He slowly turned and took two steps. As he walked, his knees grew rubbery, and he went down slowly, a section at a time. His knees hit first, and then his entire upper body fell forward. He made no at
tempt to protect his face, which struck the hard dirt.

  “You kilt him!” Ellie cried.

  “Maybe not,” the man said, his voice casual. He walked over to Duke’s prone body and stared at it, then said pleasantly, “I reckon he won’t be botherin’ you anymore today.” Turning to Moriah, he said, “You ready to go, missy?”

  “Shore nuff am!” Moriah had been released by Horace, and she ran toward her rescuer.

  “How about you, partner?” the stranger said to Brodie.

  Brodie’s vision was clearing now. His face was all bloody, and he ran his hand across it. “I’m ready.”

  “Come along, then.”

  He turned to the rest of the Brattons, who were staring at him openmouthed. The young woman had jumped off the mule, run to her brother, and turned him over. He was breathing, but his eyes were still rolled upward. She felt his head and said, “You done busted his skull!”

  The man seemed not to have heard. He held the revolver, looked at it carefully, and then said, “I’m lookin’ for the Hardin place.”

  “That’s us! I’m Moriah Hardin.” She stared at the man and asked, “Who are you?”

  “My name’s Clay Taliferro. Well, life’s full of coincidences. Maybe you’d be willin’ to take me to your place. I’ve got a letter for your ma.”