Deep in the Heart

by Gilbert, Morris

  “What’d he say, Grandpa?” Jerusalem whispered.

  “He said, ‘No thank ye,’ and that made me mad. I said, ‘You too good to drink with us, are ya?’”

  “You said that to General Washington!” Brodie exclaimed. “Wasn’t you scared?”

  “What could he do—shoot me? He needed men for his army too much for that. Besides, by that time none of us keered much. No, he got off his horse and came over and took that jug away from me and took a big swig, then handed it back to me without sayin’ a word.”

  “Did you say anything?” Clinton asked.

  “Shore did. I looked at him, and it was the only time I remember tears in my eyes. He done that to men, somehow. I said, ‘Now, General, I’ll fight for you until the last drop of my blood!’”

  A silence went around the table, and they all looked at Josiah Mitchell. Then suddenly the old man fell silent, and the spark of memory faded from his eyes. Clay said, “What happened after that?”

  But Jerusalem saw that he was slipping into one of his memory lapses, and wherever it was that her grandfather went during those times, his mind had left behind those at the table. “He’s through talkin’ for a while, Clay.” The children all looked away from the old man, and Jerusalem said quickly, “I’m going into town to make the loan payment at the bank.”

  “Maybe I could go along with you,” Clay said. “I need a few things.”

  “All right. Brodie, you go hitch up Abishag to the buggy while I get ready.”

  “Can I go too, Ma?” Moriah began to beg.

  “No, you can’t,” she said.

  Both Brodie and Clinton asked also but received a flat denial. All of them knew that when their mother said no in a certain way, she meant it.

  As they passed by the small farms that closely surrounded Arkadelphia, Jerusalem remarked, “We’re going to be behind on our plowing.”

  Clay looked out at a farmer who was plowing with a span of big mules. “I reckon so,” he said. He slapped the reins on Abishag’s back and said, “She’s mighty small for heavy plowin’.”

  “Yes, we had to sell our best mule to make it through the winter. Now all we got left is Abishag and that monster Samson.”

  “He’s a good-lookin’ mule—big and strong.”

  “He’s mean as Satan himself. He bit Jake one time right in the small of the back. Jake had turned his back on him just for a minute. I thought Jake would beat him to death, but Samson is hardheaded. Brodie can’t hitch him up at all. Maybe we can find some good mules. We need a good one.”

  “Maybe I can have a little talk with Samson.”

  “You know how to plow?”

  “I looked at the hind end of a mule every day of my life, it seems like, until I was fifteen. Then I quit.”

  Jerusalem turned and stared at Clay. She was a blunt woman at times and asked what had been on her mind ever since Clay had arrived. “Are you married, Clay?”

  “No.”

  The answer was curt, but Jerusalem Hardin was a persistent woman. “Have you ever been married?” She waited for him to answer, and he paused for so long that she said sharply, “It’s a simple question, Clay.” Clay turned to stare at her, and she saw something in his face she had not seen before.

  “I had an Indian woman, but we only got married by her tribe’s customs. Not white man’s ways.”

  “Where is she?”

  “Dead.”

  From the finality with which he answered and the look on his face, it was as if he had hung up a No Trespassing sign, and at once she changed the subject. “Well, here we are. What are you going to do?”

  “I’ll let you out at the bank, and then I’ll tie up somewhere.”

  “It’s right over there on the corner,” Jerusalem said, pointing to a building.

  Clay pulled up in front of the bank, but there was no room to park the buggy. It was a busy Saturday afternoon, and the town was more crowded than usual.

  “I shouldn’t be too long,” she said. “I need to go to the general store. You can help me get some things and get what you need for yourself.”

  “All right, Jerusalem Ann.”

  Jerusalem got out of the buggy, carefully holding Mary Aidan. She walked into the bank, and her eyes took in Rusk, who was standing beside the row of cages talking to one of the clerks. When he turned and saw her, she could not help noticing the look of shock on his face. She had not seen him since the other day when she had made it clear to all at the bank that their banker lacked noble intentions when it came to married women. Serves him right, Jerusalem thought, for the way he acted.

  He looked around and then came to her and said, “Well . . . hello, Jerusalem.”

  “I’ve come to make a payment on the note.”

  Disappointment flared in Rusk’s eyes. “Oh, so you’ve got it, have you!”

  “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”

  “All right. Come over to my desk. I’ll take care of it myself.”

  Jerusalem stepped over to the desk but did not sit down. “Just make out a receipt,” she said. She reached into the leather bag Clay had brought the money in, took the bills out, and counted some of them.

  Rusk stared at the note, looked up, and said, “Where’d you get this cash?”

  “I held up a bank,” she said straight-faced, thoroughly enjoying the fact that for once she had the upper hand.

  Rusk flushed, and his eyes went small with anger. He snatched up a pen, jabbed it in the ink, and wrote out a receipt. Jerusalem took it, but at that instant she saw Rusk’s eyes open wide. She turned around to see that Clay had entered. She had not seen any of his weapons except for the two rifles he had brought, but now he had a cartridge belt, and a huge pistol hung from his left side. She had already noticed that he was left-handed. The huge bowie knife he carried was in a sheath stuck into his belt. She was used to seeing armed men, but there was something sinister about Clay as he stopped and looked across the room. He was looking, she saw, at Rusk, not at her.

  Clay slowly walked over to the desk, not taking his eyes off of Rusk. “Is your business finished, Miz Hardin?”

  “Yes, it is. I’m ready.” She turned to go, but Clay did not move.

  When Rusk stood up abruptly, Clay had to look up into the banker’s face. But to Jerusalem it was as if Rusk had shrunk. “I don’t reckon we’ve—”

  “I’m a friend of Jake Hardin, Rusk.”

  Clay’s voice was different from anything Jerusalem had heard come out of him. It had a steely timbre in it. He usually spoke with a soft, lilting voice, pleasant and agreeable, but now he spoke with all the hardness and keenness of the knife that hung at his side.

  Rusk tried to speak but could not seem to find the words.

  “Jake’s not here to take care of his family—but I am.”

  The same silence that had fallen over the tellers and the customers when Jerusalem had accused Rusk on her previous visit now seemed to fall again. One clerk had his pen raised to sign a paper, and he held it there, as if frozen in place.

  Rusk suddenly said in a high-pitched voice, “Look, there’s been some kind of . . . of misunderstanding here. Miss Hardin, I reckon I spoke hastily. You’ll have to accept my apology.”

  “All right. I accept your apology. Come along, Mr. Taliferro.”

  As soon as they stepped outside, Jerusalem began to laugh.

  “What in the world are you laughing at, Jerusalem?” Clay’s voice was normal again.

  “I never saw a man so scared, Clay. He was shaking. Did you see that?”

  Clay grinned. “I reckon he was a mite agitated.”

  “He was sure he was gonna be scalped.”

  “Maybe he’ll mind his manners a bit more from now on. Come on, let’s go get our things.”

  The two went to Mason’s General Store, and Jerusalem used some of the money Jake had sent to buy staples. After she had given the store owner the money, she saw Clay perusing the men’s clothing.

  He looked up and said, “
I’ll reckon I’ll go buy a few clothes and get my hair cut.”

  “I have some other things to do. I’ll meet you out at the buggy at three o’clock.”

  “Sounds about right.”

  Jerusalem had finished earlier and waited until three o’clock, but Clay had not appeared. She had nursed Mary Aidan, who had gone to sleep, and put her down in the seat of the buggy, wrapped in a blanket. She got out and walked back and forth, looking up and down the street. Finally, after twenty minutes, her eyes fell on the saloon. An idea came to her, and she picked up Mary Aidan and walked across the street, dodging a heavy-laden freight wagon pulled by four struggling mules. She stepped up on the boardwalk and went to the swinging doors, hesitated a moment, then stepped inside.

  It was dark inside the saloon, which was lit by oil lamps, and at first she couldn’t see very well. Her eyes ran around the room, and then she halted as she spotted Clay at a table talking to a black-haired woman in a scanty, low-cut dress. He did not see her until she walked across to him and said in a spare voice, “Let’s go, Clay.”

  Clay had a glass of whiskey in his hand, and he turned so quickly that some of it spilled out over his hand. He set it down and said, “Why—” He could not seem to finish the sentence.

  “Is this your wife, honey?” the black-haired girl sitting in front of him asked.

  “No,” Clay said quickly.

  “She must be your mama, then.”

  The other customers in the saloon laughed, and Clay got to his feet, his face red.

  “I reckon I’m ready,” he said.

  “Come back, honey, when your mama says it’s all right,” the girl said, laughing.

  Clay followed Jerusalem outside and walked silently across the street. He helped her into the wagon, then climbed in and picked up the reins. He turned to her and said, “Jerusalem Ann, it ain’t fittin’ for you to go into a place like that.”

  Jerusalem did not answer. She was staring at Clay and said, “You don’t look like yourself.”

  Indeed, Clay Taliferro didn’t look like himself. The buckskins he had worn to town were gone, and he was wearing a pair of gray trousers, a white shirt, and a colorful vest. A string tie fell over his chest, and a pair of fine black boots shone on his feet. His hair had been cut, and the beard had been shaved off, leaving his skin glowing. He had, she saw, a wedge-shaped face and looked ten years younger without the beard and the shaggy hair. “You smell wonderful,” she said dryly.

  “That was the barber. He put some cologne on me.” Clay’s face was set in a frown.

  Jerusalem suddenly began to laugh. “I bet your mama never came in and dragged you out of a saloon before.”

  “No, nor my wife neither,” Clay said, but suddenly he turned to her and grinned. “You pull a man up short, Jerusalem Ann Hardin. You purely do!”

  At breakfast the next morning, Jerusalem discovered that Clay had bought not only a set of fine clothes, which he told her she could bury him in if it came to that, but work clothes, heavy jeans, a blue denim shirt, and heavy-duty brogans.

  “We’re gonna do some plowin’ this mornin’, boy,” Clay said to Brodie as they ate.

  “Oh, shoot, I hate plowin’.”

  “So do I, partner. I ran away from Tennessee when I was fifteen so I wouldn’t have to look at the back end of a mule, but you know”—he winked at Jerusalem—“somehow I miss it. I’ve been longin’ to be lookin’ at a mule’s hind end for quite a few years now. Maybe I can get the plowin’ caught up.”

  “You don’t have to do that, Clay,” Jerusalem said quickly. “I know you hate it.”

  “Didn’t you hear me? I been missin’ it.”

  “Can’t nobody plow with that old Samson,” Clinton scowled. “He’s one mean ol’ mule.”

  “You think he’s mean?” Clay said. “Well, boy, you ain’t seen mean yet. I’m the one who’s mean. Come on and let me give you a lesson in how to make friends with a mule.”

  The whole family traipsed out, and Moriah whispered, “Ma, he’s liable to get hurt. You know how mean old Samson is. Pa couldn’t hardly handle him, and Samson is a lot bigger than Clay.”

  Jerusalem did not answer. She had her eyes fixed on the two mules in the corral.

  “Brodie, you bring Abishag out here. That’s gonna be your mule. That nice old Samson, he’ll be mine.”

  The whole family was nervous.

  “He’s dangerous at both ends, Clay,” Brodie warned. “He’ll bite you, or he’ll kick your brains out if you give him a chance.”

  “Oh, this mule’s just been misunderstood. He probably had a hard time when he was a baby, but I’m gonna make friends with him.”

  Jerusalem stared as Clay walked up to the big mule. Samson was a huge animal, and the whites of his eyes showed as Taliferro approached him. She was caught unprepared for the suddenness of it, for as soon as Clay was within striking distance the big mule’s head shot up, his lips spread, and his big teeth looked enormous. She could not follow the movement of Clay’s hands, they were so fast. He gripped the mule’s lower lip with his left hand and ran the other hand into his upper lip. She saw the big mule rear up and try to strike at Clay, but somehow Clay was lifted off the ground. She saw him twist and pull at the mule’s lips, at the same time avoiding the slashing hooves. Samson brayed as if a mountain lion had bit him, and Jerusalem saw blood flowing over Clay’s hand. Samson tried to back away and flung his head. Clay’s feet left the ground again, but his hands were clamped in a death grip on Samson’s lower lip. The blood was down over his elbows now and spattering his face.

  “He’s gonna kill Clay, Ma!” Moriah cried out.

  But Samson suddenly began to whinny in a strange, high-pitched sound. Clay’s feet came to the ground, and he held the mule down and seemed to relax his grip. “We’re gonna be friends, Samson. Just depends on you how soon.” Clay released one hand and wiped the blood off on his shirt. He did not take his eyes off the mule. He held his head close to the ear of the mule and began speaking softly.

  Jerusalem and the children watched as if hypnotized as Clay finally released the mule’s big lip. Samson’s eyes were white and rolling, and he was trembling all over. Clay walked over to the trough, washed the blood off his hands, and came back and said, “Get me some grease, Brodie. Samson’s got a sore lip and a sore nose.”

  As Brodie ran into the barn to get the grease, Clay walked back to Samson. The mule made another attempt to bite him, and Clay simply clamped down on his lip and nose again, and Samson screamed but began trembling worse than ever.

  When Brodie brought out the grease, Clay applied it to the mule’s lips and nose. Samson trembled as if he were in a high wind, and Clay turned to say, “He’ll try it again a few times, partner.” He looked over at Jerusalem, who was squeezing Mary Aidan too hard, making her squeal.

  “Mules are like women, Brodie,” he said loudly. “You gotta be firm.”

  Jerusalem suddenly smiled. “You tried this method on many women, Clay?”

  Clay grinned. “Yep, on two that I can remember. One of ’em shot me in the leg and the other one stabbed me with a hatpin.”

  “Stabbed ya with a hatpin!” Moriah said, her eyes big. “Where’d you get stabbed?”

  Clay winked at her and said, “It wouldn’t be proper for me to say, honey.”

  Jerusalem stared at Clay, a glint in her eyes. “You know more about mules than you do about women, Clay Taliferro.”

  Clay stared at her. “Don’t bet on that, Jerusalem Ann.”

  An hour later Brodie was walking along behind Abishag. He passed by his mother, who was standing at the edge of the field. He stopped the mule and said, “I’ve never seen nothin’ like that, Ma!”

  “I never did either—and neither did Samson.”

  “Ma, do you think he’ll stay around?”

  Jerusalem looked at Clay, who was walking along singing some sort of foolish song behind Samson. The big, powerful mule pulled the plow through the rich earth as if it were nothing. S
he studied him for a moment and then smiled. “I reckon he will, Brodie.”

  CHAPTER

  FOUR

  The knifelike pain came so suddenly it took her breath away. Sometimes it would gnaw at her steadily for hours or even days. There were good times when she could smile and move around, but when it hurt like this, she could only struggle to keep from crying out and disturbing others.

  As Jewel Satterfield lay in her bed holding her stomach and compressing her lips, a bar of pale sunlight shone through the window to her right. She watched the tiny dust motes dancing in the beam and forced herself to think of pleasant moments in her life, anything other than the white-hot pain that tortured her without mercy.

  For months now this room had been her prison, but Jewel knew it would not hold her much longer. One day soon she would step out into the blazing light of God’s glory. For her, heaven was as real as the logs that bound the walls of the room, as real as the sunlight that touched her face with warmth and made her blink and turn away from its brilliance. Her faith in heaven had always been strong, even when she was a small girl. Now fifty years of thinking about it, reading about it in the Bible, and listening to sermons had created in her heart a deep assurance that all her suffering was only temporary.

  Hearing a door open, Jewel quickly moved her hands, ignoring the pain. She smiled at Jerusalem as she entered the room. “Good morning, daughter.”

  “Good morning, Ma. I’m going to clean you up and feed you a good breakfast today.”

  Jewel wanted nothing more than to stay in bed, but she knew she would make the effort for Jerusalem’s sake. “All right, daughter. I hate to be such a bother.”

  Jerusalem merely smiled and began to bathe her mother’s face from a basin of warm water she had brought in. Jewel knew she was searching for signs that would indicate how good or bad a day her mother was having. Hiding the pain had become a game to Jewel, but it was difficult because Jerusalem was a discerning woman. She always had been, and now as Jewel submitted to her daughter’s ministrations, she kept her face from revealing the excruciating pain that went on within. Instead, she asked about the family and kept Jerusalem occupied with her questions.