“And Jake? I guess he’s about as usual?”
“No, he’s not. He’s got an Indian wife now. He lives close by, but we don’t have anything to do with each other.”
Zane saw the sorrow that marked the lines on Jerusalem’s face. “I reckon things have gone downhill with all of us, sister.”
CHAPTER
NINETEEN
Athought came to Jerusalem as she pinned one of Brodie’s shirts on the clothesline. She looked up into the steel gray sky. Removing the clothespin from her mouth, she spoke aloud her thought: “Well, here you are, 1834. I sure hope you’re better than last year.” She waited as if the sky could speak back, then shook her head. “I’m talking to myself now. That’s the last stage, I reckon.”
She hung up the rest of the wet clothes and turned to go to the house, but looking up she saw a wagon coming down the road. It had rained slightly the night before, so no dust arose as it did in the hot, dry summers. She recognized Rhys Morgan and waited until he pulled up in front of the house. He jumped out, walked over to her, and removed his hat.
“Hello, Jerusalem,” he said. “I think we have got some bad weather headed this way.”
As always, Jerusalem was glad to see Rhys Morgan. It had been two months since he had brought Zane back, and in that time he had covered more ground preaching than any other man in Texas. He stood before her now, his black hair falling down over his forehead in a curly lock, and smiled at her. He was a cheerful young man of twenty-one, well-built and neatly dressed. He’s fine-looking, but he doesn’t know it. Jerusalem had thought this before, and now she said, “Come along. I heard a rumor that preachers like fried chicken. Anything to it?”
Rhys patted his stomach. “I’ve got a fried chicken graveyard down here, ma’am, but plenty of room for one more.”
Jerusalem carried the basket to the porch, and as they walked around the house, Rhys spoke of his travels. He was not allowed to hold meetings, for Protestants were forbidden by law to do such in Mexico, or in Texas for that matter. Still, he had made a habit of simply stopping by houses, and Protestants who had agreed to become Catholic gathered with neighbors and held services.
Reaching the backyard, Jerusalem stepped inside the fence. She’d had to fence the chickens in because of the coyotes, foxes, and other varmints. Now she stood in the middle and clucked to the chickens, tossing them some grain she kept in a can on top of a post. They came running and surrounded her in a flurry of feathers, clucking and pecking at the grain. For a moment she was undecided, then she waded through the bunch to find a mottled hen and reached down and picked her up.
Rhys opened the gate for her as she stepped outside, and he grinned, saying, “Why did you wade through all the rest to get to that one? It almost makes a man believe in predestination.”
“I only kill the stupid ones,” she said, laughing.
Jerusalem wrung the chicken’s neck with one quick twist and stood there watching as it flopped around wildly for a few seconds. Jerusalem had a way of making odd statements and changing the subject, and she turned to Morgan and said, “The boys were breaking the garden, and they found some bones in it. Somebody was buried there.”
“You know, I thought about that myself. With all the miles I’ve covered these last few weeks, I saw dried bones from buffalo and wild animals, and also people too.” A strange look came into his eyes. “You know, maybe right now, Jerusalem, we’re standing on the bones of a man and woman who fell in love and died together and were buried right under our feet.”
Jerusalem turned to face Morgan. “You’re too romantic to be a preacher.”
“Oh, I don’t think so. I think preachers should be romantic.”
“Some of them are a mite too romantic, if the rumors you hear are true.”
“You mean me?”
“Oh, of course not, Rhys. Just in general.”
“Well, preachers should be romantic in a sense, believing in things that you can’t see. That’s romanticism. That’s being romantic.”
“You are one strange preacher, Rhys Morgan.” Jerusalem suddenly laughed. “Go and talk to Josiah while I dress this chicken.”
All the while Jerusalem was frying the chicken, she paid close attention to Rhys, who had sat beside her grandfather. It was one of Josiah’s clearminded days, and he talked quietly, answering Rhys’s questions. She was glad when Morgan brought up the subject of faith in God.
“Have you ever met the Lord, Josiah?” Morgan asked in a nonoffensive way.
Josiah nodded quickly and said, “I did at a revival meeting back in Arkansas. I got plumb downright converted. Right to the core.”
A real gladness filled Jerusalem’s heart as she heard her grandfather describe how he had come to faith. As she continued to prepare the meal, she noticed that Mary Aidan had climbed right up on Morgan’s lap. She called out, “Mary Aidan, don’t pester the preacher.”
Mary Aidan paid no attention at all to her mother. She sat bolt upright, staring into Morgan’s face.
“Does she always stare at everyone like this?” Rhys asked. He reached out and touched the child’s smooth face and shook his head. “You certainly never met a stranger, Mary Aidan.”
“I don’t know why she does that,” Josiah murmured. “She looks at people as if she was trying to look right down inside of ’em. I think she’s tryin’ to figure people out.”
“She does too,” Jerusalem said as she brought a platter of fried chicken over to the table. “She knows people better than most grownups.”
“Well, I wish I did,” Rhys said. “Be nice for a preacher to have that gift. That way I’d know just what to tell them so they’d open their hearts and let God fill ’em with His love.”
The three of them sat down, and Mary Aidan insisted on sitting on Morgan’s lap. When Jerusalem tried to remove her, she clung to him and said “No!” in a very determined tone.
“Let her stay there. I’ll give her a bite of chicken once in a while to keep her good.” As Rhys began to eat, he said, “Tell me all about the family. How are they doing?”
“I don’t have good news about Julie,” Jerusalem said and shook her head, sadness marring her features. “She’s been going into town, San Antonio and San Felipe. She’s even got a room in San Antonio, where she stays. I hate to think about what she’s doing, but I guess I pretty well know.” She looked up and said, “Rhys, why don’t you talk to her?”
“I have,” Rhys admitted, “but she just laughed at me.”
Jerusalem studied him for a moment. “Or flirted with you, I’d guess.”
Rhys colored slightly. “Well, I guess you know your sister pretty well.
A little of that, I guess.”
When Rhys finished his meal, he got up, put Mary Aidan down, and said, “I think I’ll go over and visit the Lebonnes.”
Jerusalem nodded. “That’s good. Those youngsters are growing up so fast.” She walked with him to the door, and when he stepped out and put on his hat, she said, “Don’t visit with Lucita unless the kids are there.”
Rhys blinked. “Why’s that?”
“People talk, Rhys. Haven’t you discovered that?”
“I guess you’re right. I’ll be careful. Thanks for the meal.”
“Come back tonight and preach at us a little bit. We can all use it.”
“I’ll do that.”
As soon as Brodie walked in, Jerusalem saw that something was troubling him. She could always read his mind as if he had a piece of plate glass over his forehead. She knew it bothered Brodie a great deal, for he could keep nothing from her. When he sat down at the table, she gave him a chicken leg and said, “That’s all you get before supper. Now, what’s bothering you?”
Taking a huge bite out of the chicken leg, Brodie chewed it and then said reluctantly, “It’s Uncle Zane.”
“What’s he gone and done now?”
“Mateo said he got into a fight with a man over cards and beat him up pretty bad. They put him in jail. He’s out now
.”
“He hasn’t changed. He was getting into trouble like that when he was not much older than you.”
“He sure is tough. Mateo said the man he whipped was the roughest man in San Felipe.”
Instantly Jerusalem said, “Don’t model yourself on Zane, Brodie.”
Startled, Brodie looked up and blinked. “Why, I . . . I—”
“I know young boys admire tough men, but I don’t want you to turn out like your Uncle Zane.”
Brodie was about to answer when they heard the sound of horse’s hooves. Moving over to the door, Jerusalem said, “It’s Clay, and Jim Bowie’s with him.” Turning back to Brodie, she said, “Don’t model yourself after Jim Bowie either, or that William Travis.”
“Why not?”
Jerusalem did not answer but went to open the door. When the men came in, she greeted them. “Hello, Clay.” Turning to Bowie, she nodded, “Hello, Mr. Bowie.”
Mary Aidan ran straight for Clay and threw herself at him, crying out, “Papa!”
Clay caught her, and his face turned red. “Brodie, you taught this child to call me that!”
“I did no such thing!” Brodie said indignantly. “She just thought it up all by herself.”
Jim Bowie was smiling, but Jerusalem could tell he was not happy. She knew he was pretending so nobody would know the grief that still ate at him. Jerusalem had been concerned ever since Jim had lost his entire family the previous year—wife, daughter, and son—in a cholera epidemic. She knew the devastating loss had nearly killed him, and she also knew that he drank too much to try to forget. “Come inside. I’ve got what’s left of a chicken fried up. The good parts are mostly gone, but you can finish off what’s left.”
“Sounds good, Mrs. Hardin,” Bowie said.
Every time Jim Bowie came around, Brodie would stop everything he was doing, as he did now, just to listen to him. The tales of Jim Bowie’s wild deeds were known by everybody in Texas. And Brodie was hoping to hear another one.
The two men sat down, and Mary Aidan stared up into Clay’s face with the same rapt attention that she had given to Morgan. Clay stared back at her and shook his head. “I don’t know what this child is thinking. I’m afraid for her to grow up. She’s gonna be one mighty discerning woman.”
“Not hard to discern you, Clay,” Jerusalem said. “You’re the easiest man to read I ever saw.”
“I am not!” Clay protested. “I’ve had women call me plumb mysterious.”
Jerusalem sniffed. “Women! A lot you know about women. Never mind him, Mr. Bowie. Tell us what’s going on. We never get news way out here.”
Bowie had started in on the chicken, but he paused long enough to shake his head, and his face turned gloomy. “I don’t have any good news.
Steve Austin has been arrested by the Mexican government.”
“Arrested!” Jerusalem stopped and turned from the stove, where she was taking out a fresh biscuit. “Arrested for what?”
“You remember that assembly they had at San Felipe last year? Well, they sent Steve Austin there to take our grievances. They paid no more attention to him than if he was an armadillo! So he cooled his heels, and finally he wrote a pretty hot letter back home. When he started back, somebody turned that letter over to the authorities. So now they’re holdin’ him in jail.”
“They can’t do that legally, can they?” Clay asked.
“They don’t worry too much about legality down in Mexico. But I’ll tell you one thing that they did at that assembly. They wrote a constitution. And you know why they done that? Because most of the people I know think one day Texas is gonna be taken in as a state. That’s the way you do it. You give it a constitution.”
“I hear Sam Houston’s big on that,” Clay remarked.
“Well, he was President Andy Jackson’s righthand man. Fought for him in the Indian wars. Jackson thinks there’s nobody like Houston. Everybody’s startin’ to rally around Sam.”
“What kind of a man is he?” Jerusalem asked. “I’ve never seen him.”
“Well, he’s a big man. Two or three inches taller than me, and seems even bigger than that,” Bowie said.
“He got in some kind of scandal, didn’t he?” Jerusalem asked. “I remember reading something about it.”
“When he was governor of Tennessee, he married a pretty young girl. Nobody knows why, but she left him after a few weeks. Stories started going around, and Sam resigned from being governor. Went to live with the Cherokee Indians for three years. They called him The Big Drunk, or something like that.”
“But he’s practicin’ law here in Texas now, isn’t he?”
“Yes, he is, and everybody’s got their eye on him. If trouble comes, he’s the one we want on our side.”
The talk ran around the table, mostly between Clay and Jim Bowie, and finally Jim said slowly, “That fellow Santa Anna is not gonna be satisfied until he runs every Anglo out of Texas.”
“Why, I thought that scamp was on our side!” Clay said with astonishment.
“He was, but he changes his politics more often than a man changes his socks. Sam says we’ll have to fight Santa Anna if we’re gonna stay here, and I think he’s right.”
A silence fell over the room, and Jim looked around at the gloomy faces. “I hate to be the bearer of bad tidings, but sooner or later we’ll have to fight if we want to stay in this country.”
Evening had come now, and the wind had died down, but the night air was chilly. Jerusalem put on her heavy coat and left the house. She walked fifty yards away and stood staring up at the sky. It was clear, and the stars winked as if signaling a secret. She was startled when she heard Clay’s voice behind her.
“Are you all right, Jerusalem?”
Jerusalem did not turn around. She was a strong woman and had borne her share of troubles, but all day long she had been struggling with a dark depression that she could not explain.
Suddenly, she bowed her head and put her fist against her mouth to choke back the sobs. But as hard as she tried not to cry in front of Clay, she couldn’t stop the emotion that welled up inside her. Her shoulders began to shake and soon she was weeping loudly.
Clay stood there astonished. For months he had seen her face troubles with a strength most women did not have. Jerusalem was not a crying woman. But now he felt helpless and afraid for her. He stepped up and put his arm around her but said nothing. She turned to him, and her body sagged so that she almost fell. Her face was pressed against his shoulder, and he felt the tremors in her body. As much as he wanted to say something to comfort her, he could not think of one single thing to say. So he stood there holding her, not understanding what had broken her like this.
Finally, Jerusalem straightened up, reached into the pocket of her coat, pulled out a bandanna and wiped her face. After a moment she turned to him, and he saw the light of the silver moon reflected in her eyes.
“Most men would have left a weepy woman to herself. Thanks for staying, Clay.”
“What’s wrong? Something I don’t know about?”
“It’s everything. I’m worried about Zane. It seems every time he goes to town, he gets drunk and into a fight. And Julie . . . I . . . I don’t even know what to say. Both of them are so lost. Brodie’s unhappy. He thinks he’s in love with Serena, but she doesn’t seem to care for him. I don’t have a husband, Clay, and the country’s falling apart all around us with everyone wanting to control this land.” She shook her head sadly. “I wish things would go wrong one at a time, but they never do.”
Clay had learned to admire this woman’s strength. Now that he saw that it wasn’t limitless, he stood in front of her, wishing he could help.
“You know what troubles me, Clay, and it’s so foolish.”
“Tell me. Maybe I can help.”
“No, you really can’t. I miss the boys that I buried back in Arkansas Territory. I’ve told myself a thousand times that they’re not really there. I know in my heart that they’re with God. But when we lived t
here, every time I would get sad, I would go out and sit in that cemetery. I don’t know why it was, but somehow it helped me. Every time you sing that song about the woman in New Orleans, I think of them. But I’ve got my boys deep in my heart, like the song says. Nobody can take that away from me!”
Clay did not speak, and Jerusalem shook her head and dashed the tears from her eyes. “I’m a foolish woman, Clay Taliferro. I don’t know why you put up with me. Nobody else would.”
She turned and walked away so abruptly that Clay was startled. He followed her, but she went into the house. When she didn’t come back out, he stayed out on the porch. He sat down in the chair, tilted it back, and watched the moon and stars that dotted the sky. The stars, bright as they were, seemed cold like ice, and it troubled him that Jerusalem Hardin could hurt so much.
CHAPTER
TWENTY
At some point liquor stopped making Julie Satterfield feel good and brought up a mean streak in her that disgusted her. As she sat slumped in a chair in Pete Border’s saloon, she knew she had passed that mark some time ago. All around her flowed the sound of raucous men who had come to Pete Border’s place to get drunk. The room reeked from the smell of stale tobacco smoke, wine, raw whiskey, and unwashed bodies. Most of the men who sat at the tables scattered around the room were dressed in animal skins or sweat-faded Eastern clothes. Few of them were shaved, and their faces were raw from windburn and the alcohol they poured down their throats day after day. Almost all of them wore pistols and knives. A hand touched her knee, and reaching down, Julie grabbed the little finger and bent it back with all her force.
“Ow! Blast, Julie, you almost broke my finger!” The man sitting beside Julie was Jack Catchall, better dressed than most, for he was able to afford it. He was one of the many land speculators who had flooded into Texas to make money. Now he sat there glaring at Julie, holding on to his finger. “What’d you go and do that for?”
“If I want you to put your hands on me, Jack, I’ll let you know.”
Catchall stared at her, anger bringing a flush to his face. He had a thick moustache and thin, brown hair, which he combed over the top of his head to try to cover a bald spot. He had a habit of brushing it continually, and now he tried to smile. “You shouldn’t try to break a feller’s finger just for being friendly, Julie.” He brushed his moustache again and leaned closer. “After all, there aren’t that many pretty women like you out here.”
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