Clay suddenly laughed. “You’re the only man I ever heard of who went lookin’ for Comanches. Most people spend most of their time tryin’ to run away from them.”
“I see I was a bit ill advised.”
Nightingale’s eyes were the brightest blue that Jerusalem had ever seen. “Will you be going back to England now that you lost your men?” Jerusalem asked.
“Oh no. I didn’t actually know those fellows. They were recommended and not particularly handy. I think the guide was lost most of the time.”
“We’ll have to bury them,” Clay said.
“We’re going down right through Texas,” Jerusalem said. “At least that’s our plan. Perhaps you ought to come along with us for a time at least.”
“Thank you, madam. That’s most kind. I believe I will take advantage of your offer.” He tilted the bottle up again and said, “Beastly drinking champagne out of a bottle. James, see if you can find a goblet, will you? Drinking from a bottle—hardly civilized, wot?”
CHAPTER
TEN
The grave was as deep as Brodie’s chest, which meant that Clinton could barely see over it. Clay had put the two of them to the task of digging the grave for the three men who had been slain. They had been working hard for the better part of an hour, and Clinton had done nothing but complain since they began. Now Brodie threw a shovel full of dirt up over the edge and turned to stare at his brother.
“Clinton, I’m sick and tired of listenin’ to you argue about everything all the time.” Brodie looked over at the three corpses, each wrapped in a separate blanket, and shook his head. “Them fellas done set their buckets down, and that’s all there is to it! And it’s our job to bury them.”
“I don’t care! It ain’t right to bury folks one on top of another like pancakes in a stack!” Clinton gripped his shovel, but he shoved his jaw forward as he always did when he was engaged in an argument—which was most of the time. “I don’t think Clay’s got any feelin’s a’tall. He sure ain’t showing any respect for the dead.”
“He’s tryin’ to save us the trouble of diggin’ three graves. What difference does it make?”
“Difference! Why, Brodie, you ain’t got no more sense than a stubborn mule! When the resurrection comes, how are them fellas gonna get out of here all stacked up like that?”
Brodie shook his head wearily. It was the sort of foolish argument that Clinton loved, but he himself despised. He began throwing the dirt out again, trying to ignore Clinton’s hairbrained theological arguments. As he worked, he wondered what Clay and Josiah had done with the bodies of the Indians. They had left camp early the next day, telling the boys to be bring shovels in an hour to the spot where they had fought the Indians. By the time the boys had gotten there, the bodies of the Indians were all gone. Clay had simply said, “Dig one grave right there. Make it deep enough for all three of ’em.”
Clinton had looked around and blurted out, “Where are them dead Indians?”
“I put ’em where the dogs won’t bite ’em. Now, get to diggin’. Brodie, if that sorry brother of yours don’t hold his end up diggin’ that grave, slap him with his shovel.”
After another ten minutes, Brodie said, “I reckon that’s about deep enough.” He had to give Clinton a boost out of the grave. Then he scrambled out and brushed the dirt off the front of his clothes. It gave him a queasy feeling to look at the three blanket-covered forms. He had seen the awful things that the Indians had done to them. He had even had a bad nightmare about it, and now he looked quickly away. “Clay didn’t say whether to put ’em in or not.”
“I ain’t touchin’ ’em!” Clinton said, backing away from the grave.
“Well, I don’t reckon I will either. I guess Clay and Grandpa can take care of that.”
At that moment Clay rode up on his bay, followed by Josiah on one of the mules named Jemima. They got off, and Clay came over and looked down into the hole. “That’ll have to do, boys, I reckon. We got to hurry. The womenfolks are comin’ to have the funeral.”
Clay looked at Brodie’s face and then at Clinton. “You boys go wash up and change clothes. When you get that done bring the wagons up here. We’ll be movin’ out right after the funeral.”
Brodie turned, and Clay said, “Take the horse and the mule.”
The boys got on and headed back to camp. As soon as they got there, Jerusalem had them wash up and put on clean clothes. Then they all moved out to have the funeral before continuing on their journey. The professor rode in one of the wagons beside Julie. She was wearing one of her good dresses, Brodie noticed, and the professor was dressed in what looked like a new suit. He had on a white shirt, a pair of blue trousers, shiny black boots but no coat. I reckon he’s too sore to put much more on. The way he’s cut up, I’m surprised he’s wearing anything at all. Brodie had been shocked at the way the women had treated him when Clay brought him back to the wagons. The poor man hardly had anything on, yet Jerusalem and Julie had treated him with both compassion and dignity as they cared for his wounds. Clinton had been even more shocked, for his strict view of religion caused him to be extremely modest, even around his brother.
Brodie noticed that the professor was lively enough and kept up an animated discussion with Julie. More than once, he heard Julie’s deep laugh at something the professor had said. Sitting beside his mother, he said, “It looks like Julie is enjoyin’ herself.”
“She’s got a new man to make eyes at,” Jerusalem said.
“The professor! Why, that ain’t likely, Ma. He’s cut all to bits.”
“I think a man would crawl out of his grave if Julie smiled at him. She always was like that.” She suddenly laughed, and the laugh sounded like Julie’s. “So was I, believe it or not.”
Brodie turned and looked at his mother. “Really, Ma? I can’t believe that.” It was hard for him to picture her as a young woman courted by young men and acting like his aunt Julie. It bothered him to think she was anything like her sister when it came to men.
She turned to him and and saw his expression of unbelief at what she had said. Digging her elbow against him, she said, “Don’t worry about it.
Your children will look at you someday and say, ‘Why that old codger, squiring around after girls and kissin’ on ’em.’”
Brodie blushed and did not speak. His ma had the ability to embarrass him, and he did not say another word until they reached the spot where they were going to have the funeral.
Clay and Josiah had finished burying the men, for the grave was already covered as they approached. Brodie was glad for that, since neither he nor Clinton would have been up to it. Digging the large grave was hard enough. He already had bad memories of the horrible things he had seen yesterday, and he didn’t want any more to think about.
The professor got down out of the wagon and came over to the grave, where Josiah and Clay were standing. He looked around and said, “I wish we had a bishop here, but I suppose we’ll muddle through. Maybe we could have a song.”
The others gathered around and Jerusalem began singing a hymn. Those of them who knew it joined in. After the sound died down, the professor took his hat off. He looked very tall standing there, and he was as lean as a snake. His homely face puckered up, and he looked up directly at the sky and said in a conversational tone, “I say there, Lord, I didn’t know these men at all, so to speak, but you know them. So, none of us can judge ’em, but you are always fair, so we leave them in your hands.” And then the professor began speaking in some other kind of language.
Brodie didn’t know what it was, and he could tell from looking around that no one else knew it either.
Finally the professor turned, and his face was sad. “Well, amen. We’ll all be in a hole like this one day.”
“Well, ain’t that a cheerful thing to say!” Julie said out loud.
“Sorry, my dear. I didn’t mean to offend you.”
The professor had two wagons, both of which were the best money could buy, with canvas
on the top. Brodie and Clinton had both peered inside and were in awe of one of them. It was made up just like a tiny room with a long bed that folded up against the side. It also had a desk, a bookcase, a wine rack, and all sorts of conveniences, some of which neither of them had ever seen before. The other wagon was loaded with plenty of food, clothes, and things that the boys could only wonder about. The professor’s servant James drove one of them, and Clinton drove the fancy one with the bed in it. Clay and Josiah had tied the Indian ponies together so that they could all be handled in a line. As they left the clearing, Brodie looked back, remembering the horrible fight that took place here yesterday. He was driving the wagon his mother was in. Nothing much had been said about the fight, but he knew that Clay had told her that he had saved his life. She had not asked him about it, but he could sense she was only waiting for the right time.
Brodie looked straight ahead as the wagons moved out, then swallowed hard and said, “Ma, I . . . I don’t ever want to have to see what I saw yesterday.”
Jerusalem waited a moment before saying anything. Then laying her hand on his arm, she said, “It worried you that you killed that Indian?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I’d be ashamed if you didn’t, but it had to be done. It’s a horrible thing to have to kill someone, but you saved Clay’s life, and he won’t ever forget it. I hope you learned somethin’ from it.”
Brodie could not answer. He had, indeed, learned something, but he could not explain exactly what it was. His mind couldn’t seem to let go of it, and his thoughts drifted back to the vivid scenes from the day before. As they rode on in silence for a while, he knew he was grateful that he had saved Clay’s life. He remembered the bad nightmare that kept him tossing and turning most of the night. He kept seeing the bullet strike the Indian and then seeing his face as he fell back dead. When the first rays of the sun had come up, he had gotten up to gather wood for the fire. He had tried to put it all out of his mind, but a somber restlessness continued to bother him. He had wanted to ask Clay, who had killed at least six Indians, or his great-grandfather, who had killed two, but he couldn’t think of a way to put it. By the time they had dug the grave, packed up, and had the funeral, he didn’t have the chance. At the sound of his mother’s voice, his thoughts returned to the present. Somehow, he now understood a little of what it must be like when Grandpa’s mind went off somewhere.
He turned and looked at his mother and said, “I guess I’ll forget about it someday, Ma. I sure hope so, and I hope I don’t ever have to do it again.”
By the time they had traveled with the professor and Langley for two days, they had learned a great deal about Fergus Nightingale. He could speak a half-dozen languages, and he had studied at the famous Oxford University in England. Langley had told them this, although the professor hadn’t mentioned it. He also told them that Nightingale’s family was extremely wealthy and owned a great deal of land. Nightingale could have stayed in England and had the best of everything, but his immense curiosity to learn had led him to Africa, and now here to study the Comanches. Langley also informed them that when the professor’s father died he would inherit a title and become Sir Fergus Nightingale III.
The professor was beginning to heal up well, for the cuts had only been superficial. None of them really knew what to make of him. He could look straight at you and make you feel that he was laughing, although his horse face would be sober as a judge. But something in his eyes twinkled from time to time, and his sense of humor took odd streaks. He talked more to Julie than to the rest of them, and the two of them drank freely from the bottles of champagne that he had brought along in his wagon. Around the campfire at night, he would tell them tales so tall that at times they were all amazed. One time he told them of living with a tribe in Africa called the Masai that killed lions with only a spear.
“I say, that was a bit much for me! A gun’s one thing when you’re up against a ferocious beast, but to see a black-maned lion running at you . . . and you with just a spear. I begged off on that one.” After a while he told them about the Masai’s favorite meal. “Their favorite meal was to take a jug and milk one of those big cows of theirs until the jug was half full. Then they would open a vein on its neck with a sharp knife and finish filling the jug with blood.”
“What’d they do with it?” Clay asked.
“Why, they’d mix it up and drink it.”
“Drink it!” Clay stared at him. “Sometimes I doubt that you’re re-memberin’ things straight, Professor.”
“Upon my word it’s true. I tried it myself.”
“What’d it taste like?” Brodie asked.
“Tastes like blood and milk mixed together. Wouldn’t care for a steady diet of it.”
As they continued on their journey, they discovered that the professor was almost as good a shot as Clay, who was an expert. He had four rifles in his wagon and some fancy dueling pistols that interested Clay. One day when the professor was showing them to Josiah, Clay had picked one of them out of its leather case, sighted it, and then looked at the tall Englishman. “Did you ever use one of these?”
“Oh, once or twice.”
“What was the trouble over?”
“The blighter insulted me. He said my tie didn’t match my trousers.
Can’t put up with that, you know.”
“Did you kill him?” Julie asked, wondering if it was another of his tall tales.
“Kill him! Why, bless you, child, no! Just pinked him in the arm a mite. Can’t kill a man because he’s got poor taste.”
“If you did that in this country, there wouldn’t be nobody left,”
Josiah said and laughed.
Langley was talking one day about his employer as they approached Nachitoches. “Why, the professor’s not afraid of anything. I’ve seen him stand right up to a charging elephant, I did. It bothers me. I think he’s going to get himself in a fix someday that he can’t handle.”
“Well, he’d better be afraid of the Comanches,” Clay said. “They’re worse than a charging elephant.”
As they pulled into Nachitoches the next day, Clay said, “Well, if this is the best they got in the way of towns, you can pardon me.”
Indeed, Nachitoches was a sorry-looking place. The few scattered houses that made up the settlement were built with no apparent plan. The tiny town had only a blacksmith shop, a trading post, a small hotel, and two saloons. It didn’t even have a church, which Jerusalem thought was strange.
When the caravan pulled up in front of the trading post and Clay jumped off of his bay, he heard a voice calling his name.
“Well, if that’s not Clay Taliferro, I’ll be dipped!”
Jerusalem was getting down off of the wagon and saw Clay turn and stare at a tall man wearing a fine-looking suit and smoking a long cheroot.
She took the baby and stood beside Clay as the man walked down the steps of the trading post.
The man held his hands out from the guns at his side and said, “Don’t shoot, Clay.”
“Hello, Jim. Sure didn’t expect to see you here.” Clay put out his hand, and the other man looked relieved as he shook hands. “Let me introduce you to Miz Jerusalem Hardin. Jerusalem Ann, I’d like you to meet Jim Bowie. You’ve heard me speak of him.”
Bowie had penetrating blue eyes, tawny hair and had a reckless air about him. He was a handsome man and bowed in a courtly fashion toward Jerusalem. “I’m happy to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Hardin.”
“Miz Hardin’s on her way to meet her husband in Texas. He’s bought some land from a fellow named Austin.”
“Oh yes, the Austin settlement. I don’t believe I’ve met your husband,” Bowie said.
“I doubt he’s been there too long, sir,” Jerusalem said. “Have you two met before?”
Bowie gave Clay a quizzical look, and for a moment the smile left his face. Jerusalem had the feeling that he could be a very dangerous man. She had heard he was a fighter and knew that the scar on Clay’s chest had
come from Bowie.
“I see you still got that knife I gave you, Clay.”
“You didn’t give it to me, Jim. I took it away from you. I guess old age has addled your memory a bit.”
For a moment, a stormy look swept across Jim Bowie’s face, and then he grinned and laughed aloud. “That you did. The only man who ever did it. The others didn’t fare as well as you did. You still got that reminder on your belly.”
“And you still got the one on your neck, I see.”
“I got the one on my arm under here too. I thought I’d lose that arm for a while.”
“What did you gentlemen disagree about?” Jerusalem asked.
For a moment both men were silent. “I disremember,” Bowie said. “What was we fightin’ about, Clay?”
“I think it was over a dog, but I ain’t right sure.”
“Well, in any case, it’s all over now.” Bowie’s eyes took in the wagons and said, “It looks like you are gonna have a good start, Mrs. Hardin.”
“We don’t know much about the lay of the land, Jim. What about you?” Clay asked.
“Oh, I live in Mexico. I guess you’d call me a Texican. Married a beautiful Spanish woman. I’ve got two fine children.”
“Glad to see you’ve finally settled down.”
“Well, thanks, Clay.” Bowie looked at Jerusalem and said, “I expect your womenfolks are worn out. How far did you come?”
“All the way from Arkansas Territory.”
“Some came a lot farther. Me and Clay came from Tennessee, and others came from Kentucky. But look. Why don’t you make camp and let me buy you folks a meal.”
“That would be very kind of you, Mr. Bowie,” Jerusalem said.
“You can pull your wagons up almost anywhere,” Bowie said. “Plenty of fodder to be had. That’s a hotel over there. The food’s not as good as I’d like, but it’s the best there is here in Nachitoches. As soon as you set up camp and get cleaned up, I’ll meet you there.”
An hour later, they all came back to what Bowie had called a hotel. It was just a large building with a cook shack on the back. They sat down at a couple of tables and watched as Jim Bowie spoke in broken Spanish to the two Mexican girls who worked there. A few minutes later, when one of them brought out a large platter of crawdads, Clinton stared at it with horror and then shook his head stubbornly.
Deep in the Heart Page 13