Deep in the Heart

by Gilbert, Morris

  “Well, you got your pistol.”

  Clay pulled the pistol out and said, “Yep, it’ll shoot six times, so I can kill six Comanches, but they got to be pretty close.”

  As always, Brodie soaked up every word Clay said. Brodie’s great-grandfather had taught him the basics of shooting, for he had been a mountain man and knew guns.

  Brodie fell silent, and Clay glanced over at him. “You look like you swallowed a porcupine. What’s the matter?”

  “Aw, shucks, Clay, I’m worried.”

  “Worried about what?”

  “About this here trip. Lots of bad things could happen.”

  “Don’t be thinkin’ about all that.”

  “But we’ll be goin’ through Indian lands.”

  “Sure will. As a matter of fact, we’re in ’em right now. Of course, Cherokees ain’t likely to give us no kind of trouble, but you take them Comanches. They’re a troublesome lot.” He smiled and punched Brodie on the shoulder. “ Well, if a Comanche kilt you, he couldn’t kill you but once, could he?”

  Clay’s ribbing helped to relieve Brodie’s fears, and it drove his own bad humor away, causing him to laugh. “Well, once would be a-plenty. You know, I ain’t a Christian like Clinton. I’d go straight to hell if I died.”

  “Me too.”

  “Don’t it scare you, Clay, to think of dyin’?”

  “Some. I try not to think on it regular.”

  “You think you’ll ever be saved?”

  “Sure hope so.” He lifted his rifle and fired a shot, then shook his head. “Mostly, I’d hate to die in my condition because of Curly Bill Prentice.”

  “Who was he?”

  “He was a feller I had to partner with for a while—the worst fella I ever got hooked up with. Mean as a rattlesnake. Never gave a man a decent answer.”

  “What does he have to do with you dyin’?”

  “Well, he took a Pawnee arrow in his liver, and he went out cussin’ God and me. I couldn’t stand Curly Bill even on a two-week canoe trip! Think how much worse it’d be to have to put up with him in the pit as a permanent thing.” Clay had a mind that hopped from one subject to another without warning, which made him hard for Brodie to follow. “Clinton told me about gettin’ converted in that Baptist meeting. What held you back?”

  Brodie stared at the ground and muttered, “That preacher tried to scare everybody into gettin’ saved. I didn’t like that. If I get saved, it won’t be because I’m skeered into it.”

  “Sounds like good theology to me. Come on, let’s get back before it gets dark. Don’t look like we’re gonna have fresh meat tonight.”

  Moriah was helping her great-grandfather put the bedrolls for the men and the boys under the wagons. Jerusalem and Mary Aidan would sleep in one wagon, and Julie and Moriah in the other, but the men would sleep on the ground.

  As always, Moriah asked questions steadily as they worked. “Grandpa, how’d you happen to marry up with Grandma?”

  “Why, I had to fight for her. Lots of fellers wanted to marry her. I had to whip a whole string of ’em.”

  “Well, nobody will ever want to fight for me.”

  “What makes you say that, sweetheart?” Josiah reached out and turned the girl around. He put his hand under her chin and smiled down at her.

  “I’m too skinny. Clinton says I look like a rake handle. I ain’t got no shape at all.”

  “Pay him no mind. In a few years you can take your pick.”

  “So you still miss her? Grandma, I mean.”

  “Every day of my life, girl! But I’ll see her pretty soon.”

  Moriah leaned down and straightened up one of the blanket rolls.

  They had put oilcloth under the blankets and kept another out in case it rained. “You mean you’ll see her in heaven?”

  Josiah reached out and took Moriah by the waist and lifted her up in the air. He was still a strong man in spite of his eighty-three years. He laughed and then hugged her. “Why shore in heaven! You don’t think I’m aimin’ to the other place, do you? She was the best Christian I ever knowed, Moriah. Took her nigh onto thirty years to get me converted, but she done it. She prayed for me every single day until I saw the truth of it all. And I’m forever grateful.”

  “I’m glad. I’m gonna get converted myself someday, but it may be a long time.” Without breaking the rhythm of her speech, she said, “Grandpa, where do you go when you go out of your mind like you do?”

  The old man scratched his chin thoughtfully. “I can’t say. It bothers me considerable. I hope I don’t do nothin’ shameful.”

  Moriah reached out and took his hand. “Are you gonna die, Grandpa?”

  “We all are, sweetheart. Every one of us. The death rate’s a hundred percent.”

  The smell of wood smoke and frying meat laced the thin night air, and everyone filled up on fried ham, red-eye gravy, and day-old biscuits.

  “I brought my sourdough starter with me,” Jerusalem said as she dipped a biscuit in the red-eye gravy and gave Mary Aidan just a taste of it. “We’ll eat good with what we brought out of the smokehouse.”

  She hesitated, then shook her head. “I forgot. There was a little honey left. Moriah, it’s in that jar in the wooden box right under the seat. You go get it, please.”

  Moriah jumped up and came around and poured honey carefully on the biscuits that everyone held out for her. When it was almost gone, Clinton protested that he wasn’t getting a fair share. He grabbed at the jar, and he and Moriah struggled over it.

  “I thought you was a Christian!” Moriah yelled.

  “I am, but that don’t mean I can’t have my fair share.”

  “Does too! You’re not supposed to be selfish none.”

  “It ain’t bein’ selfish to want my honey—now give it to me!”

  “That’s quite enough,” Jerusalem shouted. “Christian or not, you two had better share like civilized human beings, or neither of you’s gettin’ any.”

  While the children settled their squabble more quietly, Jerusalem rose, walked over to the wagon, and came back with a small jar and handed it to Clay. “Here, Clay, I brought you some apple butter. Since the honey’s about gone, you might like this with your biscuit.”

  She looked at Clay, who took the jar but with the same stubborn expression he’d worn since their earlier disagreement.

  “I admit I was rough on you about buying the mules. I know I’m hard to get along with at times. Maybe this will make up for it.”

  Suddenly Clay laughed, and the stern look on his face cleared. “Oh, you wasn’t too bad, Jerusalem. I been skinned plenty worse.”

  “By a woman?”

  “Of course by a woman. Why, I shot a feller once who lit into me like you did!”

  Jerusalem hesitated, then when he had slathered a thick layer of apple butter on the biscuit, she reached out and took it from him. She took a bite and nodded, “That’s good. There’s plenty more.”

  She stood there for a moment staring out into the darkness. When she didn’t say anything, Clay looked up and saw a strange look on her face.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked.

  “Maybe that’s why Jake ran away—because I was too hard on him.”

  Clay looked uncomfortable. “Oh, I don’t reckon so. That’s just his way.”

  The others were not listening to the conversation, and Jerusalem lowered her voice. “He hasn’t been true to me with women, has he, Clay?”

  She immediately saw Clay’s lips tighten and shook her head. “You wouldn’t say even if he had,” she said, then turned and walked away.

  Clay looked at the biscuit in his hand. He ate it thoughtfully, then closed his eyes and leaned forward toward the fire.

  The cry of a night bird broke into Julie’s dream, and she lunged and awoke, gasping as if she had run a long distance. Moriah, sleeping beside her, said something in her sleep and turned over.

  Julie sat up, threw the blanket back, and crawled out of the back of the wagon. Her
legs were unsteady, and when she passed her hand over her face, it was wet with cold sweat.

  A gentle breeze stirred the sweet and pungent odors of the wood, but she turned to look at the glowing coals and the yellow flames breaking the darkness of the night. Clay was sitting there cross-legged staring into it, and she walked toward him.

  He looked up at her and asked, “What’s the matter?”

  “I had a bad dream.” Sitting down beside Clay, she leaned against him, pulled her knees up, and encircled them with her arms. They sat in silence staring into the dancing flames for a moment, then she straightened up and said, “I guess I’m all right now.”

  The firelight illuminated Clay’s face, casting dark shadows in his eye sockets and highlighting his cheekbones. “What’d you dream about?”

  “I dreamed I was chasing someone—a woman.”

  “Why was you chasin’ her?”

  “I don’t know, but I just knew that I had to catch her. And I ran as hard as I could, but I couldn’t catch up with her—and then finally I did.” The memory of the dream came back, and a shiver ran through Julie’s body. She put her head down on his chest and clung to him. She turned her face around. “And . . . and she had my face, Clay. It was me.”

  “Well, it was just a dream. They don’t mean anything.”

  “Why, you were telling Moriah yesterday about how Indians get all kinds of meanings out of their dreams!”

  “They think they mean something, but I don’t.”

  “I think they do.”

  Julie made no move to leave. She knew from past experience that she had stirred him. She looked up at him and put her hands behind his neck. “You change your mind, Clay?”

  “About what?”

  “I made you an offer when you busted me out of jail. You turned me down. I don’t give a man a second chance, as a rule—but I reckon I’d make an exception in your case.”

  Clay did not move, even though he was very aware of Julie pressing against him. He was aware of the crackling of the fire and the smell of Julie’s hair, and finally he said, “I don’t reckon so.”

  Julie straightened up immediately. She brushed her hair back and stared at him with anger. “You don’t want me. Is somethin’ wrong with you?”

  “Plenty.”

  “I mean, don’t you like women?”

  “I’ve liked a few.”

  “Then why don’t you take what I’m offering?”

  Clay carefully reached out, picked up a stick, and touched the end of it to the small yellow tongue of flame. It caught, and he held it up in front of his eyes, staring at it as if it had some sort of answer. Finally, he shook his head and tossed it into the fire. He turned to face Julie and said, “I don’t know. It’s got something to do with—I don’t like love used to pay for things. It’s like saying, ‘If you’ll do this for me, I’ll give you that.’”

  Julie was utterly still. She was staring at him with her eyes wide open, and finally she said, “You make too much of what goes on between a man and a woman.”

  Clay did not answer, but the moment had passed. Julie rose then and looked down at him. “You know, a woman always wants what she can’t have. Be on your guard, Clay. I’ll get you sooner or later.” She reached out, leaned over, and put her hand on his cheek. “A man always has his weak moments—and I’ll find yours.”

  Clay did not move until Julie went back and got into the wagon. Then he took a deep breath, held it, and expelled it forcefully. He shook his head, then got up and walked over to the second wagon. Clinton was rolled up in his bedroll, and he did not stir when Clay pulled the blanket back and lay down. He reached out cautiously and touched the bottom of the wagon where Jerusalem and Mary Aidan were asleep. He was startled when Jerusalem’s voice came softly, “Good night, Clay.”

  Suddenly, Clay Taliferro was glad that he was under the wagon, for he knew his face was red. She’s heard everything that fool sister of hers said! he thought. Aloud he whispered just loud enough so that she might hear him, “Women who listen to other people’s talk might hear somethin’ they don’t need to hear.” He waited for her to respond, but she did not. He lay there trying to go to sleep but could not, knowing that Julie’s words would stay with him for a long time. A wolf howled somewhere off in the distance, and he turned his head and listened until the sound died away. Then he rolled over and closed his eyes.

  CHAPTER

  EIGHT

  The next day they broke camp early and rode hard again all day. Late in the afternoon, Clay pulled the wagon off the road and stopped beside a small river. A large flock of blackbirds rose up from an adjoining field of corn, wheeled, and flew away into the gathering darkness. As soon he could, Clinton jumped out of the wagon, trotted up, and said, “We ain’t gonna stay in here beside this old river, are we, Clay?”

  “Yes, we are.” Clay was bored with sitting on a wagon all day and glared down at Clinton. “You don’t do nothin’ but complain, Clinton. When you get to heaven, I reckon you’ll find something there to complain about too.” Clay jumped off the wagon and started unhitching the mules. He noted that Brodie, who had driven the other wagon for a good part of the day, had pulled up behind him. “Get them mules unhitched, you boys!” Clay called out.

  “Why are we stoppin’ beside this river? There’s a town up there. Can’t you see it?” Clinton demanded.

  “You hush, Clinton. I need me a bite of catfish. We’re gonna catch ’em out of that river and fry ’em up for supper.”

  Josiah had ridden up on Clay’s bay, and now he patted the animal on the neck and said, “That sounds real good. Nothin’ like fresh catfish.” He straightened up in the saddle and peered down the road. “Looks like we got company.” He stepped off the horse and stood there watching as a man came weaving unsteadily down the middle of the road. “Look likes he’s so drunk he don’t care no more than Claude Harris’s mule.”

  “Who was Claude Harris, and what was wrong with his mule?” Clinton demanded.

  “Never you mind, boy! It’s just an old sayin’.”

  As the others got down from the wagons, Clay caught a glimpse of Julie, who was grinning at him. She winked but said nothing, and he turned hastily away. He called out, “Hello. Can you tell us where we might be?”

  Their visitor was a tall, lanky man of indeterminate years, somewhere between forty and sixty. He had not shaved in several days, and the front of his shirt was filthy, where he had, no doubt, thrown up. One eye was closed almost shut. He stared at them for a moment, then said, “You’re in Louisiana. Ain’t you got no sense a’tall? Don’t even know where you are?”

  “What’s the name of that town?” Clay asked pleasantly.

  “It’s the devil’s headquarters no matter what the name is.”

  Julie laughed aloud. “Sounds like my kind of place. Looks like you’ve had about all the enjoyment of it you can stand.”

  The man stared at her for a moment, then without another word staggered off down the road, weaving from side to side.

  Clinton called out, “You keep on drinkin’ that liquor and goin’ into them saloons, you gonna wind up in the pit!”

  The man did not turn his head, but they heard him curse and say, “Shut up!”

  “I don’t think he’s a Baptist, Clinton,” Clay said, grinning.

  “He don’t smell like one.”

  “Depends on which ones you been smellin’,” Julie said.

  “Me and the boys are goin’ fishin’,” Clay announced. “I’m partial to a bit of fresh catfish.” He looked at Jerusalem, expecting an argument, but she only smiled.

  “That would go down right well, Clay,” Jerusalem said. “Bring ’em in as soon as you catch ’em. We’ll be waitin’ to fry ’em up.”

  “Look, Ma, we caught enough fish for everybody!” Clinton said.

  Jerusalem rose to meet them as they came out of the darkness. She smiled as Clinton held up a fish so big it took both hands. “Look at this, Ma, ain’t he a sockdologer!”

&
nbsp; “My, did you catch that fish, Clinton?”

  “I pulled him in, but Brodie had to help me. I could have done it by myself, though.”

  “Here, let’s skin this here fish,” Clay said. “Nail him up to that tree, Brodie.”

  As Brodie found a hammer and nails and proceeded to nail the fish up to the tree, Clay went to the coffeepot on the fire, picked up a tin cup, poured it full. He drank it off without stopping, and Josiah shook his head. “I swan, Clay, I believe you could drink that coffee straight out of the pot.”

  “Ain’t such a thing as a cup of coffee too hot.”

  “Julie’s gone,” Jerusalem commented.

  Clay bent over to fill the cup again, but at Jerusalem’s words, he straightened up. “What do you mean gone?”

  “She went into town.”

  At once Clinton piped up. “I bet she went to a saloon. That’s what she did. She’ll be drinkin’ demon rum. You watch and see iffen I’m right.”

  “Hush up, Clinton!” Clay said sharply. He turned to face Jerusalem squarely.

  The two did not speak, and as Brodie watched them, he saw something pass between them. He had discovered that his mother and Clay seemed to be able to communicate without words. Sometimes just one look from Jerusalem would cause Clay to be glum for hours. On the other hand, sometimes Clay would make a remark with a certain glint in his eyes that would put his mother in a happy frame of mind, bringing out a deep laugh, when Brodie could see nothing funny.

  “I reckon you want me to go after her.”

  “Well, we’re not leavin’ her here, Clay,” she said, her hands on her hips.

  “Just let her come back by herself,” Clay said grumpily.

  “No, you go get her.”

  Again the two exchanged looks, and Clay, without another word, went to the wagon. He pulled out his gun belt and strapped it on. He already had a bowie knife in the sheath on his left side. “All right. I’ll go fetch her back. You cook the fish.” He started to turn, but Jerusalem’s voice caught him.