“Take Brodie with you.”
Brodie brightened up at once, and he moved over to stand beside Clay. Clay shook his head. “He don’t need to be in that kind of a place that I expect she’s in. It wouldn’t be fittin’.”
“Take him,” Jerusalem said shortly.
Clay gave his shoulders a shaking and then said sharply, “All right, let’s go, Brodie!”
Brodie fell in beside Clay, but no word was spoken as they headed toward the town. Darkness was falling now, and some bats fluttered overhead. Finally, Clay said, “A Cheyenne squaw’s got judgment, I think.”
The remark made no sense at all to Brodie, who was puzzled for a time and hurried to keep up with Clay. “What’s that about Cheyenne squaws?”
“They got more judgment, I think, than other women. Now, you take your ma. You think she’s got good judgment, but she’s just like all the rest of ’em. They ain’t no reason to a woman, Brodie. They go on emotions— not like us men. We go on hard facts.”
Clay’s reasoning did not make sense to Brodie, who had found out that it was exactly the opposite, at least as far as Clay and his ma were concerned. She was the one who went on facts, and Clay was the one who was likely to fly off the handle just because he felt like it. “I don’t know what you mean. I think Ma’s pretty smart.”
“Why, they ain’t smart at all!” Clay protested. “They poke things.”
“Poke things? What are you talkin’ about?”
“Did you ever see a woman pick a tomato? She pokes at it.”
“That’s to see if it’s ripe.”
“Well, maybe so, but they poke at other things too. Like a man. They poke at a man just like they poke at cantaloupes.”
Brodie listened to Clay closely, but to him Clay Taliferro was a strange mixture of wisdom and what seemed like pure foolishness. He didn’t understand a bit of what Clay meant by his remarks on women and did not interrupt him until they reached town.
The town itself was small, with one main street. Lanterns burned brightly over two or three of the businesses and a couple of saloons.
“I never knew a town perched on the bank of a river that was worth dried spit,” Clay muttered. Two men were strolling along, and Clay said, “Howdy. Can you tell me where the nearest sin parlor is?”
One of the men laughed and turned to point. “Right over there, mister. The Silver Moon.”
The other, a short chunky man with a round head and a tall, peaked hat that made him look comical, said, “Watch out for the bartender in there. His name’s George.”
“I’ll watch out for him,” Clay promised. “Come on, boy.”
The Silver Moon, Brodie saw, was nothing more than a framed building with two windows flanking the one door. The door stood wide open, and the sound of a tinny piano came out along with plenty of ribald laughter. As soon as he stepped inside, he almost choked on the smell of sweat, tobacco smoke, and raw alcohol. But he didn’t let that bother him. He had never been in a saloon before and avidly took it in. There were more than a dozen men and three women. He expected a bar, but there was none—only a table with some bottles and jugs on it and a bunch of glasses. A bulky man stood behind the table staring at them. A poker game was going on at one table, and one of the women was standing beside the piano trying to sing to the music. She was mumbling the words and from time to time would giggle and take another drink from the glass on top of the upright piano.
“Why, hello there, boys. Come on over and join us,” she said, winking at Clay.
Brodie looked over and saw Julie seated at a table with a black-haired man who wore a white shirt and a string tie. A deck of cards was lying on the table, and Julie had a half-full glass in front of her.
Everyone seemingly had turned to look at them, or so Brodie felt. He followed Clay as he ambled over and sat down in an empty chair. “Good evenin’, Julie.”
“Who are you?” the black-haired man said.
“Why, this here is Clay Taliferro, and this is my nephew Brodie.” Wicked humor glinted in Julie’s eyes, and she smiled and waved her hand.
“Clay here is my keeper. My sister pays him to keep me from havin’ any fun.”
Laughter broke out around the room, and Julie waved toward the man beside her. “This is Clyde. He knows how to have fun, don’t you, Clyde?” She leaned over and put her hand on the gambler’s arm.
“I sure do, honey, and we don’t need no preachers in here if that’s what you are.”
“Oh, I ain’t no preacher. We left him back in the camp. His name’s Clinton. He wouldn’t be seen in a sinful place like this.”
Clyde suddenly laughed. He had a thin face and a thin black moustache. His clothes were a little on the foppish side, but he had a thick chest and a breadth to his shoulders that spoke of a powerful frame.
“You better go back and tell Jerusalem that I ain’t comin’ back until I’ve had my share of fun, Clay.”
Clay took off his hat and put it down on the floor beside him carefully. “Maybe I’d like a bit of fun myself,” he said.
“Now you’re talkin’!” Julie said. “George, bring another bottle over here and a couple of glasses.”
Brodie was shocked when Julie took the bottle, poured a glass full for Clay and about an inch and a half for him.
She handed it to him and said, “Did you ever drink whiskey, Brodie?”
“No, I never did.”
“Well, it’s time you started. Swallow that.”
Brodie looked at Clay, expecting a protest, but Clay shrugged and drank his own whiskey down.
“That’s pretty poor whiskey,” he said.
“I reckon if it’s good enough for us, it’s good enough for you,” Clyde said.
His eyes bored into Clay, but Clay did not seem to notice. Brodie didn’t want to be made fun of, so he tipped the glass back and swallowed the amber-looking liquid. Within seconds he felt as if he had swallowed a red-hot poker. His eyes watered, and he began to cough.
Julie laughed and came over and slapped him on the back. She looked over at Clay and said, “I expected you to have a fit when I offered him a drink.”
Clay suddenly smiled at her. “I’m in the mood to have some fun.”
“You a gamblin’ man?” Clyde asked with a thin smile.
“As far as poker or fightin’ or women are concerned, I can’t be surpassed, exceeded, whipped, or outdone,” Clay said loudly for all to hear. “So, deal the cards, Clyde, and I’ll show you where the bear sat in the buckwheat.”
Clyde laughed and began to deal the cards. There were two other men in the game, and Brodie watched with interest as they made their bets on each hand. He did not even know how to play poker, and the science of it was beyond him. He was surprised to find more whiskey in his glass. When he looked at Julie, she smiled and winked at him. He drank it down and put his attention back on the card game.
As the evening wore on, Brodie slowly began to realize that his body seemed to be going numb—especially his lips. They wouldn’t move right when he tried to talk. From time to time Julie would come and give him a squeeze, and he would find more whiskey in his glass.
After a time everything seemed funny. He laughed when Clay raked in a hand and laughed when Julie poured more whiskey in his glass. Amused at seeing her nephew like that, she said, “You’ve laughed more, Brodie, tonight than I’ve ever seen you. I’m proud to see it.”
Afterward, he remembered only bits and pieces of what happened. He remembered dancing with a woman who had on a low-cut dress. Some people were laughing at him, he knew, but that was funny, and so he joined in and laughed at himself.
Finally, he heard the gambler called Clyde raise his voice and begin cursing. Then he heard Clay say, “I don’t tolerate foul language in the presence of ladies.”
After that he remembered very little except the sound of breaking furniture, and that he had thrown himself into what appeared to be a fight. Something struck him on the head, and he remembered falling but never remembe
red hitting the floor.
Jerusalem heard the sound of stumbling footsteps and a voice raised in a querulous fashion. Josiah had slipped out of this world into some private one and simply leaned against the wagon wheel staring out into the darkness. Clinton had gone to sleep, and Moriah was sitting down behind Jerusalem asking questions. She had gotten down to the subject she always brought up, “Why did Pa leave us, Ma? Don’t he like us?”
Jerusalem knew she didn’t have an answer that would satisfy her daughter. Now she stood up and said, “They’re comin’ back.” Just to be on the safe side, she handed Mary Aidan to Moriah and picked up the shotgun leaning against the tree. As the figures came out of the darkness, weaving their way into the corona of light from the fire, she put the gun back and waited.
Clay came first with Brodie draped over his shoulder. When he moved to one side, Jerusalem saw Julie behind him. Her hair was down in her face, and her eyes were wild.
Clay’s shirt was covered with blood. His nose had bled, and he had a wicked cut over his left eyebrow that was still bleeding.
He brought himself to a halt, swayed, and glared at Jerusalem.
“Well,” he said in a royal tone, “I reckon you think I’ve been drinkin’.”
“Haven’t you?”
“I ain’t touched a drop.”
“Here. Bring Brodie over here and sit him up by this tree,” Jerusalem demanded.
Clay opened his mouth to argue but then obeyed. Julie helped him put Brodie down, and Jerusalem saw that his mouth was cut and he had a puffy eye. “I’ll have to clean him up.”
Jerusalem quickly went to get some rags and a bucket of water. She was aware that Julie was watching her, but she didn’t say a word to her.
She came back and began to wipe the blood from Brodie’s face. He woke up and stared at her with glassy eyes.
“I feel awful sick, Ma,” he slurred.
Julie came over to him, saying, “Come on, Brodie.” She hauled him to his feet and barely got him outside the circle of the campfire when the sound of his vomiting broke the silence of the night.
Jerusalem walked over to Clay and, reaching up, turned his face around. “That cut over your eyebrow has got to be stitched. Go sit down while I get my needle and thread.”
Clay made his way to the tree, turned around, and leaned up against it. He slumped down until he was sitting. Jerusalem came back with a small box. She set it down and then picked up the wet cloth and wrung it out and began to wipe the blood from his face.
“Jerusalem?”
“Yes, what is it?”
“I have so been drinkin’. I don’t care what anybody says. I been drinkin’.”
“You brought them back, Clay. That’s the important thing. Now, this is gonna hurt.” She sewed up the wound quickly and efficiently as if it were a patch on an old shirt, then took her scissors and clipped off the ends of the thread. “Now, go to bed.”
Clay tried to get up and fell over on his side. Reaching down, Jerusalem got him upright and led him to the wagon. He got on his hands and knees and crawled under, falling on his bedroll. When Jerusalem went back to the fire, Clinton said, “Ma, Brodie is drunk. They all three are.”
“Go to bed, Clinton.”
Clinton started to argue as he always did, then seeing the look on his mother’s face, he turned and left. He started toward the bed, but Jerusalem said, “You stay with your grandfather. I don’t want him wandering off. You better tie a rope to his hand and tie the other end to yours.”
Jerusalem began to gather up her equipment, but Julie came over and stood before her. She pushed the hair back out of her face, and her lips were drawn into a tight line. “I expect you’d like it if I left you.”
“No, I don’t want that.”
“I’ll do it again. I’m tellin’ you.”
“I expect you will.”
“I ain’t fit to be around Brodie and the kids.”
Jerusalem was holding the sewing kit in her hand. She looked at Julie and said, “You’re our kin, Julie. Now go to bed.”
Julie stared at her sister for a moment and then without another word turned and made her way to the bed in the wagon. Jerusalem and Moriah heard her crawling in, and then Moriah said, “I thought you’d be mad at them, Ma.”
“Brodie’s my son,” Jerusalem said evenly. “Julie is my sister, and Clay’s my friend. No matter what they do, nothing can change that.”
Moriah chewed her lower lip and then looked up at her mother. “You mean if I turn out to be a bad woman, you’ll still like me?”
Jerusalem put her free arm around the girl and looked down at her.
“I will, Moriah—for always, no matter what.”
CHAPTER
NINE
For two days after the Silver Moon incident, not much conversation went on among the travelers. Mary Aidan actually was the most cheerful and vociferous of all of them. She kept crying and laughing just as if nothing had happened. Julie was quiet, but she showed no sign of remorse for her behavior nor for allowing Brodie to get drunk. But Clay found it more comfortable to ride his big bay horse out in front rather than drive one of the wagons.
Brodie asked him once why he was saying so little and keeping his distance. Clay closed his eyes and shook his head. “Well, boy, it’s better to walk soft around your ma for a time after you’ve made a plumb fool of yourself.”
By the time Saturday came, everyone seemed to be on better terms. No one had brought up what had happened at the Silver Moon. Jerusalem knew she had to talk to Brodie, who sat in silence beside her in the wagon, but she decided to wait for an appropriate time. Since the mules had strained to pull the loaded wagons all morning, Clay stopped them long enough to switch teams and water them, since the road wasn’t far from the river.
Jerusalem had taken the reins to spell Brodie for a while. They hadn’t gone far when she saw an enormous pothole in the road. She tried to pull the reins to the right and swerve the mules around it, but it was too late. The front left wheel dropped down into the pothole with a thud and collapsed as the iron rim popped off. When Clay came over and looked at it, he shook his head. “It’ll take a wheelwright to fix that.” He looked back and said, “We’d best camp here and get that wheel off. I’ll have to take it back to town and get it fixed.”
It was late in the afternoon, and the town they had passed through was only two miles back. To no one’s surprise, Jerusalem said, “I’ll go with you.”
Clay gave her an odd look but shrugged. “That’s your say-so,” he muttered.
By the time they rode back into town and found the wheelwright, it was getting dark. To Clay’s dismay the man said he couldn’t fix it until Monday because he didn’t work on the Sabbath day. Clay lifted one eyebrow and said, “I didn’t know folks from Louisiana kept the Sabbath.”
“Usually we ain’t too particular about it, but the whole town is right in the middle of a camp meeting. Y’all ought to come.”
When they got back to camp, Jerusalem got off her horse and went over to take Mary Aidan, who was squalling and wiggling in Brodie’s arms. “That baby’s hungry,” she said as she climbed into the wagon to nurse her and quiet her down. When she got Mary Aidan settled, she came back and said, “There’s a camp meeting going on. Service is tonight and tomorrow. We’ll all go.”
“I won’t go. Not me,” Julie said abruptly. “You can count me out.”
“We better eat now because it might be late when we come back.”
Julie didn’t go, but everyone else did, including Clay, which surprised Jerusalem. Clinton wanted to know if the preacher was a Baptist preacher, and when Jerusalem told him it didn’t matter, he stared at her with a hard expression. “ ’Course it matters. It might be some stodgy old Episcopalians.”
“Episcopalians don’t have camp meetings, Clinton. They have too much dignity. Don’t be foolish,” Jerusalem had returned.
“I didn’t know there was this many religious folk in all of Louisiana,” Clay said a
s he looked around at the crowd that had gathered for the camp meeting. He was sitting on one of the benches in the brush arbor holding Mary Aidan in his lap, standing her up and letting her stroke his face.
Jerusalem glanced around at the crowd and said, “It’s a passel of folks,” she said. “You want me to hold the baby for a while?”
“She’s doin’ right well where she is. She sure don’t look like Jake, does she? That’s a blessing.”
Jerusalem smiled. “I’m glad you’re not sullied up anymore after what happened in town at the Silver Moon.”
Clay knew she wasn’t happy about his getting everyone drunk, especially Brodie, and chose to ignore her comment. He knew the least said at the moment, the better.
He had a way, Jerusalem noticed, of going deaf when his personal faults were ever mentioned. She smiled and thought how odd it was and said, “Strange how that child takes to you.”
“Females always take to me, but this one’s especially got good taste. She beats hens a-pacin’, don’t she?”
At that moment a short, chubby man with a red face stood up and began to welcome everyone to the meeting. He was the “songheister,” as Clay called him, and lined the hymns out they would be singing for the meeting. He would speak one or two lines of the hymn, those gathered would sing them, and then he would give out a couple more lines. He had a piercing voice like a trumpet. Since there weren’t enough seats to go around, the crowd simply surrounded him.
The evangelist was a fine-looking man of forty, tall, strong, and deep-chested, with a pair of light blue eyes that hit with the force of a musket ball. He preached for an hour and a half with no apparent loss of volume. When he ended with an invitation to sinners to come and find salvation, at least twenty people went down, many of them crying. Every time one of them “pressed through,” shouts of joy went up.
When the service was just about over, Clinton, who was seated down the row from Clay, got up and came to stand before him. “You need to go down and get saved, Clay.”
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