Deep in the Heart

by Gilbert, Morris

  “When Mary Aidan had diphtheria, Clay, you were the one who sat up all night with me for so long.” She tightened her grip, squeezing his hand so hard he had to tighten his own hand to meet it. “I couldn’t say what I felt, Clay,” she whispered, “because I knew I’d do what I’m doing right now.”

  Clay saw the tears in her eyes then and muttered, “Why, Jerusalem Ann, I was right proud to do it.”

  “I know it, but I had to say it out loud. Wait, now, don’t you move.”

  Jerusalem got up, walked to the gate of the small fence that enclosed the cemetery, and stood for what seemed like a long time. After a moment, she wiped her eyes with her apron and came back and sat down beside him.

  She looked at the ground, her shoulders rounded as if they bore some heavy burden. “I’ve always hated to ask favors, Clay, and I especially hate to ask you. You’ve done so much already.”

  “Why, shoot, you just ask it, Jerusalem. What is it?”

  “You’ve heard about my sister Julie?”

  “I just know that you have one. The kids have mentioned her a couple of times.”

  “Ma wants to see her before she dies.”

  Clay started. It was the first time death had been mentioned, although he was as aware as the others that Jewel Satterfield could not live long.

  “Where is she?”

  “She’s at Fort Smith.” Jerusalem turned. “Will you go get her and bring her here?”

  “Why, certainly I will!”

  Jerusalem’s eyes held him. “You may have to make her come, Clay.”

  “Make her come? Why—”

  “Julie is twenty-five now, but she started going wild by the time she was in her teens. She ran away when she was fifteen, and she’s led a hard life since then. She’s working in saloons now, and . . . well, you know what that means.”

  Clay listened as Jerusalem spoke of her sister, not missing the pain in her voice. When she was finished, he said with as much confidence as he could muster, “Why, I’ll be proud to do it, Jerusalem.”

  “Clay . . . it’ll be harder than diggin’ a well.”

  “I’ll leave tomorrow.” He got to his feet, and she rose with him. He hesitated, then said, “You mean actually make her come back? That could get a man in trouble.”

  “I know it, Clay. I hate to ask.”

  Clay smiled crookedly. He put out his hand and squeezed Jerusalem’s arm. “Why, shucks, Jerusalem, I’ll bring that scamp back! I’ll turn on my charm. She’ll come along like a cat following her mama.”

  Jerusalem smiled briefly. “You don’t know Julie.”

  “I don’t know her, but I promise to bring her back.”

  Jerusalem put her hand on Clay’s chest right over his heart. Her eyes were like diamonds, and she whispered, “God be with you, Clay.”

  CHAPTER

  FIVE

  Shore is a tired-lookin’ town. Ain’t worth doodly squat.” Clay eased his horse to a halt in front of the livery stable and glanced up and down the street with a critical eye. The main S street pretty much defined the town, and the saloons outnumbered all the other businesses at least two to one. All the buildings were wooden. One or two had a coat of fresh paint, some had only the remembrance, and some had never known even one coating but stood silvery gray in the twilight. Slipping off the bay, Clay lifted the Hawkin down and held it loosely in his left hand. He led the horse toward the barn that bore the sign Williams Livery Stable and was met by a short, lean individual whose left cheek was stuffed with tobacco.

  “Hep you, mister?”

  “Need to put my stock up.” Clay handed over the reins of his bay and the sorrel to the hostler, who nodded.

  “I’m Burt. You want me to grain ’em?”

  “Yeah, and rub ’em down good too. I’ll pay extra,” Clay said as he pulled the bedroll from behind the saddle and threw it over his shoulder.

  “Shore ’nough. Fine-lookin’ animals. Come fer?”

  “Not too far—and yet pretty far too.”

  The hostler grinned. “If you want to put up, it’ll have to be at the Elite Hotel. Only hotel in town.”

  “Food any good?”

  “You can manage to keep it down, I ’spect.”

  “Did you ever hear of a woman named Julie Satterfield?”

  Burt spat an amber stream on the ground, scratched his whiskers, and shook his head. “Nope.” That seemed to be the extent of the conversation, for he turned and led the horses into the dark interior of the barn.

  The abruptness of it caught Clay off guard. Turning, he starting moving down the street. He discovered that the Elite Hotel was a two-story building almost in the center of town. He entered and found himself inside a foyer with a set of steps to his right and a door to the side that led to some sort of parlor. Through the door at the back, he could see a restaurant of sorts.

  A beefy man with a steel hook for a right hand nodded and said, “Lookin’ for a room?”

  “Yep.”

  “That’ll be two dollars in advance.”

  “Can a fella get somethin’ to eat?”

  “Right on in there,” the clerk said, nodding. “Tell Hallie I said to cook you up a steak or whatever she’s got. Your room is upstairs. Second door on the left.”

  “I’m obliged.”

  “Just git in?”

  “Yep.” Clay half turned, then halted. “Ever hear of a woman named Julie Satterfield? I’m lookin’ for her.”

  “Nobody by that name I know of.”

  Clay nodded and went upstairs. He was tired from the trip, and although the room was no more inviting than most of its kind, he found the bed fairly comfortable. He stripped off his clothes, washed as best he could with the tepid water in the pitcher, then shaved carefully. When he finished, he unrolled the bedroll, put on his best clothes, and brushed his hair. For a moment, he stood there staring at the pistol. Normally, he would have slipped it into the pocket in his vest, but he wrapped it back up in the bedroll and shoved it under the bed. Leaving the room, he went downstairs and entered the restaurant and took a seat. A tall, raw-boned woman approached him.

  “You wanna eat?”

  “Yes’m, I’m pretty hungry.”

  “Got chicken or steak or fish for a dollar.”

  “I’ll have the steak, rare.”

  “I got some green beans just pulled fresh.”

  “Give me some of those and any other vegetable you can find in there—and some milk if you’ve got it.”

  The woman disappeared through a door into the kitchen, and Clay sat back. It was early yet for supper, and only three customers were there, a couple to his far left and a young man in the corner wearing a suit. The young fellow glanced at him and then stared back at his heaping plate of food. Clay waited for his meal to come, relaxing as best he could after his quick, hard ride. He had brought the extra horse to spell the animals now and then, and also for the woman—if he found her. Now that he was here, he wasn’t sure what to do next.

  A few minutes later, the woman returned with a plate heaped with green beans and a large steak. She set the plate and glass of milk down, then turned to leave. “Excuse me, ma’am,” Jake said. “I’m lookin’ for a young woman named Julie Satterfield.”

  The woman studied him carefully, then said, “What you want with her?”

  “She’s my cousin.”

  “Nobody by that name in this town I know of, but then she might be in one of them saloons. I don’t go in them places.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  Clay ate the meal, left money on the table to cover the tab and a tip, and walked out of the hotel. His eyes ran over the town. It would be getting dark soon, and the five saloons he saw would be open. Until then he would just ask around to see if anyone knew Julie Satterfield.

  For the next two hours he made his way from the general store to the barber shop, where he stopped to get his hair cut. He tried to be tactful about asking about Julie, but no one had ever heard of her, and he learned nothing o
f her whereabouts.

  Finally, the sun began to dip below the horizon, and the saloon lights began to go on. One by one he began visiting them. He bought a drink in the first one and finally worked his way through three of the remaining four. By that time he was feeling the effect of the liquor he felt forced to buy in order to ask his questions. Two of the saloons had women available for hire, and he had asked his question but got no response except, “What do ya want with her when you got me, honey?”

  He entered the last saloon called the Arkansas Diamond. He wandered in and saw a table with some men playing poker. Walking over, he said, “Mind iffen I sit in on a few hands?”

  “Have yerself a sit, mister. We’ll take your money, just as well,” said the dealer, a short man with a pockmarked face and a thin, black mustache.

  After losing a few dollars, Clay turned to the dealer and said, “Ever heard of a lady by the name of Julie Satterfield.”

  “Never heard of her. She a fancy woman?”

  “Not real sure,” Clay said. “I’m lookin’ at the request of her family.”

  “There ain’t no fancy women named that here in Fort Smith or anywhere close around that I know of.”

  Clay nodded his thanks, threw his hand of cards in the middle of the table, and said, “I guess my three kings takes this hand.” Gathering the few dollars he had won, he got up and left. As he walked down the street toward his hotel, he wondered why no one had ever heard of Julie. When he got back to his room, he sat on the bed for a time and looked out the window. Finally he undressed and lay down. “I reckon,” he murmured, “I just have to go back and tell Jerusalem her sister’s moved on somewhere else.”

  “You movin’ on?” The hostler named Burt looked the worse for wear. He shook his head and said, “A man my age ort to know better than to drink a quart of whiskey in one night, but a man hates to admit he’s gettin’ old.”

  Clay grinned. “You’re okay. You’re still vertical. More than I can say for some of my mornings after.”

  “I grained them horses. Fine animals you got there, mister.”

  “I guess I’ll move out. What do I owe you?”

  “A dollar and a half.”

  He took the money Clay gave him and blinked. “You ort to hang around. You might enjoy the trial.”

  “Trial?”

  “Yep,” Burt said. “Might get to see a woman hang.”

  “Not my style,” Clay said.

  “Well, plenty of ugly women gets hanged, but Marie Jones . . . she’s a real looker. She’s got that red hair and green eyes—it’s enough to make any man weak in the knees.”

  Clay instantly stopped and turned. He had started to move toward the horses, but he asked cautiously, “Red hair and green eyes, eh? What’d she do?”

  “Why, she kilt her man is what she done. She’s a fancy lady. Shot him right in the belly with a thirty-two.”

  “Killed him, eh?” Clay asked.

  “No, he ain’t dead yet, but he likely will be. Anyway, the judge is waitin’ for him to die so he can try Marie for murder instead of somethin’ else.”

  “Who’d she shoot?”

  “She didn’t show no sense about who she shot. She shot Bart Hunter.

  He’s the son of the attorney general of Missouri. If his son dies, she’ll git hanged all right! Old Man Hunter is real hard on crim’nals. He ain’t about to let anybody get by with shootin’ his only son. She’ll hang if he dies, or if the feller does live, she’ll spend ten years in the pen for the shootin’.”

  Clay said at once, “Reckon I’ll get me some breakfast before I leave town. Maybe I’ll stay over.”

  “You better. That’d be some sight to see that pretty red hair go under a hangman’s noose.”

  Clay had noted the sheriff’s office the previous afternoon as he had ridden into town. He walked right in and found the sheriff sitting in a chair tilted back with his head against the wall. “Howdy, Sheriff, I’m John Williams.”

  “I’m Sheriff Speck—Harold Speck. What can I do for you?”

  “I’d like to visit your prisoner.”

  “Which one? We got five.”

  “Marie Jones is the one I’d like to see.”

  Sheriff Speck brought his chair down and put his hands on his desk. He was a mild-eyed individual with a round face and a drooping walrus mustache of an indeterminate yellowish color. He brushed it back constantly as if it were a fly bothering him. “What do you want to see her for?”

  “Well, she’s a relative of mine, Sheriff. My cousin.”

  “That’s too bad. Marie is in a mess, and she ain’t gonna get out of it neither.”

  “You mind if I talk to her?”

  “Be all right with me. She ain’t had no visitors. I’ll take you up to her. I’ll have to lock you in, though.”

  Clay followed the sheriff up a set of creaky stairs, at the top of which were four cells, all but one occupied by rough-looking men. “Ain’t got no women cells. Had to make do with blankets to give her a little privacy.”

  One of the cells at the end was covered by blankets, and Sheriff Speck said, “Marie, you got a visitor.” There was no answer, and Speck shrugged his shoulders. “She ain’t very hospitable, Williams.” He unlocked the door, and Clay took off his hat and stepped through, pushing the blanket back. “Just holler when you want out. I can hear you downstairs.”

  A barred window to Clay’s right admitted the morning sunlight. It fell full on a woman sitting on a cot with a shucked mattress. The only other furniture in the cell was a table containing a pitcher of water and a basin, and over in the corner a bucket.

  “Who are you and what do you want?”

  Clay studied the woman for a moment. There was no doubt in his mind that he had found Julie Satterfield.

  He moved closer, and the woman straightened up, her eyes glinting. She had the same red hair and green eyes as Jerusalem Hardin. She was wearing a dance-hall-style dress, low-cut and the worse for wear. “Julie, I’ve come to get you out of here.”

  The woman’s eyes opened. She cursed and said, “Who are you? What kind of lie are you telling?”

  Clay lowered his voice to a whisper, for the other prisoners were calling out ribald remarks. Clay moved forward and whispered, “Your ma is dyin’. She wants to see you before her time comes.”

  Something changed in the woman’s face. Her lips twisted, and she stared at Clay. “It won’t do her no good to see me. I don’t know why she wants to.”

  “I don’t know either. Do you want to go or not? I can’t make you go, but I’ll take you if you will.”

  “You must be crazy. They’re gonna hang me.”

  “Will you go?”

  “You can’t get me out of here, I tell you.”

  “That’s my problem.”

  “Okay. I got nothin’ to lose. If I stay here, I’ll be hanging from a noose a’fore long. I’ll go if you can get me out of here.”

  Clay stared at her. “All right.” He stood up and called out to the sheriff, who came back quickly. When he stepped outside, the sheriff stared at him.

  “That didn’t take long.”

  “Nope. I’m gonna get her a good lawyer. Who’s the best in town?”

  “Thad Mullins, but he’s out of town right now. It won’t do much good.”

  Clay followed him downstairs and said, “I’m gonna get a lawyer, and I want to come back and see my cousin. How long will you be here?”

  “We don’t have no visitors after nine o’clock.”

  “Well, it may take longer than that. If I’m a little late, I’d appreciate you lettin’ me in.”

  “I got a man sick,” Sheriff Speck said. “I’ll have to stay until midnight. The night man is George; he comes on later. He wouldn’t let you in, though. He’s too scared. He won’t even answer the door.”

  “I’ll be here before midnight. Thanks, Sheriff.”

  Clay walked out of the sheriff’s office and slowly moved down the street. He glanced up and saw Julie Satter
field staring at him out of the window. She did not speak or move a muscle but was watching him intently. He turned and ambled away and went back to the hotel. He had breakfast and sat for a long time thinking as he consumed cup after cup of the black, scalding coffee.

  Night had come, but Clay had left town late in the afternoon. He had bought a stock of supplies from the general store, had loaded them on the two horses, and given the stablehand an extra dollar for leaving them longer.

  The moon was high overhead, round, and as he waited for midnight, he could see the pockmarks on the silver disk. “Looks like somebody has been takin’ pot shots at you,” he murmured.

  Clay had no watch, but he was a good judge of time. When he rode back into town, all the lights were out except in the saloons. He could hear the raucous laughter and the tinny piano music, which suited him fine. He moved back into the alley behind the jail, tied the two horses, and then went silently up the alley toward the front of the building, where he stood silently. There were no streetlights, and only one of the saloons directly across from the jail shed a few yellow beams out of the double doorway. Finally, he saw a man coming across the street toward the sheriff’s office. Clay did not move out of the shadows, but when the man approached the door, knocked, and said, “Sheriff, it’s me, George,” Clay moved quickly out. He pulled the pistol from the holster at his side, and his moccasins made no sound. He came up directly behind the man as the door opened. Instantly, Clay gave George a tremendous shove. George let out a cry, “Hey—!” and went crashing into the sheriff. They both fell flat as Clay stepped inside and shut the door. The two men were scrambling up, but when the sheriff lifted his head, he found himself looking into the muzzle of Clay’s pistol.

  “Take it easy, Sheriff.”

  “Don’t shoot,” Sheriff Speck said. “What do you want, Williams?”