The Yellow Rose

by Gilbert, Morris

  “You don’t understand,” Clay said. He almost said unnerstand but pronounced the word very carefully to show them that he was not affected by all the of liquor he had downed. “I win at cards because I have a pure heart, don’t you see?” He laughed at Hack’s expression and said, “I don’t think you have a pure heart, Hack. I think you are a mean man.”

  “You’re gonna find out!”

  At that instant Clay looked up at a man who had just entered the saloon. He blinked his eyes and had some effort focusing, then he carefully stood up, saying, “Don’t nobody leave. I’ll be back in a minute to show you how a pure-hearted man can win at cards.”

  “You’d better come back. I’m gettin’ even,” Dempsey snarled.

  Clay walked carefully, holding himself erect, over to where Brodie stood. “What are you doing here, Brodie? This is no place for a young man to be. It’s only for us people who have pure hearts.” He laughed at his own joke and said, “Come on to the bar. I think they got some sarsaparilla.”

  Brodie grinned and followed Clay to the bar. He leaned up against it, and Clay said, “Clyde, give me a drink of whiskey, and give my boy here a sarsaparilla.”

  “I don’t want no sarsaparilla, Clay, and you ain’t my pa.”

  “Why, son, I’m the same as your pa. Ever since your poor dad died, I just felt like you was my own son, and I’m gonna look out for you. I surely am. I want you to have a pure heart like me.”

  Brodie laughed aloud and said, “I’ll have a whiskey.”

  Clay studied Brodie owlishly and finally nodded, saying, “All right.

  You can have one drink, but that’s all.” He took his own drink, tossed his head back, downed the whiskey, and then pulled at Brodie. “Come on. I’ll teach you how to play cards.” He walked back to the table, slumped down into his chair, and said, “Pull up a chair there. This here is my friend Brodie. I’m gonna teach him how to play cards, but he can’t have but one drink. Don’t be givin’ him none, you hear me?”

  “I hear you,” Dempsey grunted. “Now, play cards.”

  The game began, and Brodie drank the whiskey. It was not his first drink, despite what Clay was thinking. He watched as Clay played, and when Clyde came around with a bottle of whiskey, he let him fill his glass.

  “Remember now. You can only have one drink,” Clay said, his speech a bit slurred.

  Brodie took the drink and grinned at the woman sitting with Clay. “I bet when you were my age, you had more than one drink.”

  “When I was your age,” Clay said, swinging his arm around in a grandiose gesture, “I went to church every Sunday. And I helped old ladies across the street.”

  Brodie drank his drink, and Clay said, “Well, that’s one, and that’s all you get, Brodie.”

  “Sure, Clay,” Brodie said as he sat back and watched the game go on.

  The bartender brought drinks several times, and each time Clay would say, “That’s right, Brodie, you can have one drink.”

  By the time Brodie had enough drinks to make him feel numb, a hard-faced young woman had come to sit on his lap. Clay could barely sit in his chair, but he was still winning hand after hand. He looked up and screwed his face up, trying to focus on Brodie. “You can have one drink, Brodie— unnerstand?” He looked around at the rest of the players and said, “I’ll allow him just one drink a day.”

  The young woman named Lena, who was sitting on his lap, giggled.

  “Is he always this way?”

  “Sure,” Brodie said. “We get drunk every day like this.”

  Clay handled his cards awkwardly but managed to win a large pot.

  Hack Dempsey threw the cards down and shouted, “You cheated!”

  Clay could barely sit up. He swayed as he stood up and started walking around the table. “I . . . I can’t allow you to talk to me in that manner, Hack. We can’t be friends with talk like that.” He took a wild swing and missed Hack by a foot. Hack Dempsey drew his arm back and struck Clay a tremendous blow that caught him right in the mouth and drove him backward. Everyone in the saloon turned to watch, and Brodie pushed the girl off his lap and tried to stand up. He found he could barely do so.

  Clay struggled to a sitting position. His mouth was bleeding, and he looked up owlishly at the big man who stood over him. “Have you had enough, Hack,” he demanded, “or do you want some more of the same?”

  Dempsey laughed and launched a kick that caught Clay in the ribs.

  Seeing Clay groaning on the floor, Brodie got angry. He picked up the half-full whiskey bottle by the neck, lifted it, and brought it down on Hack’s head. The bottle broke, and Hack collapsed to a sitting position.

  Instantly, one of Hack’s friends came over and hit Brodie and knocked him down. Brodie remembered getting up, and he remembered shouting and screaming as a fight broke out. He staggered as he tried to throw punches, but he received more than he threw, and then one of Hack’s friends landed a blow in Brodie’s jaws. All he saw was a blackness engulfing him as he fell to the floor.

  Jerusalem looked up to see Serena, whose face was tense. She had ridden in, jumped off her horse, and come running to the house. She seemed so terribly upset that Jerusalem said, “What’s wrong, Serena? Somebody sick?”

  “No, it’s Clay and Brodie.”

  Instantly, Jerusalem straightened up. “What’s wrong with them? Are they hurt?”

  “I don’t think so. Just beat up pretty bad. They got drunk in the Dry Gulch and started a fight, so the sheriff threw both of them in jail.”

  Jerusalem stood absolutely still. “Thank you, Serena,” she said.

  “I don’t think it’s anything very serious,” Serena said. “Just fighting and disturbing the peace.”

  “I’m glad you came and told me.”

  “Do you want me to go with you and get them out?”

  “No, I’ll take care of it.”

  Clay lay flat on his back on the cot, and Brodie sat on the floor, his back against the adobe wall of the jail. Both of them had been sick several times during the night, and there was no one to clean up the mess. Brodie held his head very still, for every time he moved, it was as if someone had drilled a hole right through the center of it.

  The jailer, a tall, lean man named Andy, appeared at the door to their cell. “Well,” he said in a loud voice, “you boys are gettin’ out.”

  “Could you speak a little quieter?” Clay whispered.

  Andy laughed. “Come on, Taliferro. You’ve been sprung.”

  Clay rose up to a sitting position, swung his feet over the edge of the cot, and sat there staring at Andy. His eye was a colorful shade of purple and rose, and the dried blood on his face gave evidence of the fight the night before. He stood up slowly, for his head hurt something fierce. He looked over at Brodie. “Are you all right, Brodie?”

  “No.”

  “Well, me neither. Let this be a lesson to you. I told you only one drink!”

  Brodie shook his head and got to his feet and leaned against the wall.

  “Why, you’ve had enough lessons. You should have had better sense.”

  “You fellows can argue when you get out of here. Come on, if you can walk.”

  The two moved carefully out of the cell and walked down the short hall. As soon as they stepped in the office, both of them saw Jerusalem standing waiting for them. The sheriff was there, too. He had some money in his hand and glared at the two.

  “If I was you, ma’am, I’d let them two stay in jail for a week or two.

  Why, they made a wreck out of that saloon, and there’s some fellers who’re gonna be out to get even.”

  “I’ll be responsible for them, Sheriff. You don’t have to worry.”

  She turned without another word or another look at either of the men and walked outside. Brodie muttered, “I’d druther be shot as face up to her.”

  “So would I,” Clay said, “but it’s got to be done.” The two walked outside and saw that she had brought the buggy into town. Their horses wer
e tied to the back of it. Clay walked over and said, “Jerusalem, it was Brodie’s fault.”

  “My fault! What do you mean?” Brodie yelled and then grabbed his head. “It was your fault! You’re the one who started the fight.”

  “I didn’t neither, and if you’d just had one drink like I told you, none of this would have happened.”

  Jerusalem said, “There are your horses. Get on them if you can. Come home and get cleaned up.”

  After Clay untied the horses, she stepped into the buggy, spoke to the team, and then pulled off at a rapid clip. Clay stared after her and was shaken. He had never seen her like this. “I ain’t goin’ back, Brodie. I’m goin’ prospectin’.”

  “I’m goin’ with you.”

  “No, you’re not. That’s your home and she’s your ma.”

  They got into an argument, and finally the sheriff came out and said, “Do you two want to go back to jail?”

  “No, I don’t reckon I do,” Clay said. He stared at Brodie and seemed to slump. “Come on. Let’s go take our medicine.”

  The two managed to get on their horses and turned and rode out of town at a slow walk.

  Zane and Julie both enjoyed the sight of Brodie and Clay dragging in. They seemed to have been waiting for them, and when the two almost fell off their horses, Zane looked at their battered faces and said, “Well, I see you two have been enjoyin’ yourselves. You should have invited me along for the fun.”

  “Shut up, Zane!” Clay snapped.

  “Why, Clay, what a mean way to act.” Zane pretended to be hurt.

  Julie came over and lifted Brodie’s face. He had kept his hat on and his head down, and when she examined the cuts and bruises, she said, “Listen, the next time you two want to go in and have fun, don’t leave me at home.”

  “Leave me alone, Aunt Julie.”

  Mary Aidan came sailing out and threw herself at Brodie. He did not bend over to pick her up but tried to turn away. She looked up at Clay then and saw his battered face. “What’s wrong with your face?”

  “I fell down,” Clay said loudly, then turned and walked away toward the barn. Brodie followed him, and Clinton was right with them, preaching at them at full steam.

  “You’d better leave ’em alone, Clinton,” Julie said. “They’re liable to whip you like they did all those other people in the saloon.”

  Julie went inside and found that Moriah and Jerusalem had been watching. “They look terrible and they smell worse,” Julie said. “You gonna whip ’em, sister?”

  “I feel like it,” Jerusalem said. “But it was partly my fault. I nagged Clay.”

  “Men don’t need much naggin’ to raise the devil,” Julie said.

  Moriah was worried. She had caught a glimpse of Brodie’s face and said, “It’s not like Brodie to do something like this, Ma.”

  “He’s sullied up over Serena,” Jerusalem said. “I guess I can’t blame him too much. When I was about his age, I lost a beau of mine to another girl. I wanted to scratch her eyes out. I probably would have with just a little encouragement, but I just cussed her out.”

  “You did that, Ma?” Moriah was shocked.

  “I did worse than that, but I’m not telling. Come on. There’s work to be done.”

  The evening meal was rather strained. Clay and Brodie had cleaned themselves up as best they could, but their faces were puffy and scarred.

  Clay could barely turn from a blow he had taken in the ribs. Zane thought it was hilarious and made mild remarks about fighting in saloons. “The wages of sin is getting your face busted. At least that’s been my experience.”

  Jerusalem gave him a stern look, and Zane shrugged and ceased teasing. Moriah, who was serving, stopped more than once to put her hand on Brodie’s neck, and she gave him a smile. He tried to smile back, but it hurt his face.

  As for Clay, he did not say a single word. Indeed, he did not even look up. He was deeply ashamed at what had happened, not so much for himself, but for dragging Brodie into his drunken foolishness. He could not look Jerusalem in the face nor anyone else, and despite Julie’s effort to cheer him up, he refused to speak. Finally, Jerusalem, who had been helping Moriah serve, sat down and finished her meal. She looked around, and as she did, a silence fell on the room. Only the sound of flies buzzing was audible, and Jerusalem took a deep breath, then said, “We’re leaving this place. I’ve decided we’re going to raise cattle.”

  “We don’t have enough land for that,” Zane protested.

  “I know that. We can’t do it here.”

  “Ma, we don’t know how to raise cattle,” Moriah said.

  Jerusalem said, “There are a million cows wandering around Texas and probably that many wild horses. We can sell out here and buy a lot of ground up north. We catch some cattle and horses and brand them.”

  Clay had raised his head, and his eyes were fixed on Jerusalem. One was almost swollen shut, but he said quietly, “You think the Comanches will agree to let you do it?”

  “It can be done,” Jerusalem said.

  “This is a family matter, Jerusalem,” Clay said. He half rose to leave, but Jerusalem’s voice caught him.

  “No, you can’t leave,” she said.

  Clay stared at her, and for a moment the two seemed locked in some sort of struggle. Clay sat down slowly, and Jerusalem repeated, “No, you can’t leave. You’ve got to go find us a place.”

  “Why me? Why not send Zane?”

  “I want you to go and find some land where we can raise cattle, Clay.”

  Clay stared at her and then finally made some sort of helpless gesture with his hands. “All right, I’ll go find you a blamed ranch—but after that I’m goin’ lookin’ for gold.”

  His words did not seem to bother Jerusalem, for she smiled and said, “You’re too hung over to leave tonight, but you can leave early tomorrow morning.”

  Clay was up before dawn, dressed, and when he went into the kitchen, Jerusalem was already there. She had cooked flapjacks, which he liked best of any breakfasts. She smiled as he poked holes in them with his finger, then filled them with the dark molasses. He always did that with pancakes and biscuits. She sat down with him while he ate.

  “Does your mouth hurt?” she said.

  Clay reached up and touched his mouth. “I don’t know as I hurt any place particular. Just kind of all over.”

  “I hate to send you out like this, Clay, but you’re the only one that I can trust.”

  “You can trust Zane.”

  “He’s never done anything right yet, but I’ve got hopes for him.”

  “Well, my record ain’t none too good, Jerusalem.”

  “You’ll do it,” she said. “I know you will.”

  Clay finished his breakfast, got up, and said, “Guess I’ll go saddle my horse.”

  “I’ll put some grub up for you to take. You may be gone a long time.”

  She turned to gather the food, and Clay went out to the barn. He saddled his horse, and when he went back, he found her on the porch. She had gathered some of his clothes and tied them up in a tarp. He fastened it on behind his saddle and put the bag of food over the saddle horn. His rifle was shoved into the boot.

  The two had not spoken much, and finally he turned to her, but before he could speak, Jerusalem came forward. She put both her hands on his shoulders and said, “Be careful, Clay. I can’t spare you.” She put her arms around his neck and kissed him hard on the lips, lingering for a time, and then turned and walked back into the house without another word.

  Clay stared after her and then felt a weight on his feet. He looked down and saw Bob sitting on the toes of his boots, as he always did. He looked up and barked, “Whoof!”

  Clay laughed. “That’s my sentiments, you mangy critter! Now, git off my feet.” He shoved Bob away, stepped into the saddle, and took one final look at the house. He reached up and touched his lips and thought for a long time, then turned the horse around and said, “Come on, Caesar, let’s go find us a ranch.”


  CHAPTER

  TEN

  The sea of grass stretched for miles before Clay and faded into an undulating brown wave toward the horizon. The scorching heat pressed down upon him and made a thin, unseen turbulence as he rode his weary horse toward the town he had spotted earlier in the day. The cry of a flight of blackbirds made a harsh incantation as they flew overhead. For weeks he had traveled across Texas, passing rivers turned to dust, and had slept in buffalo-rutted depressions. He licked his lips and smelled the odors that drifted to him, a combination of baked grass and sage and bitter, strong dust. Two hours earlier he had lain down and drunk from a tiny stream fed by a trickle from a spring. He was exhausted and felt the burning sun on his skin. His errand had taken him long distances, and he let Caesar take his own gait as he rode toward the town. Clay sat easy in the saddle, even-balanced to save his horse, while his eyes searched the endless land. Once he caught sight of a fleeting herd of wild mustangs racing somewhere across the land.

  Caesar suddenly lifted his head, snorted, and quickened his pace. Clay smiled, leaned over, and patted the sweaty shoulder of the animal. “I think you smell somethin’ good in that town. Maybe like water.” He straightened up and glanced around. “Must be a hundred and fifteen degrees out here.” His saddle was too hot for comfort, and the sun hitting the metal on his bridle sent painful flashes across his eyes.

  Thirty minutes later he rode into the town that was perched on the side of the Brazos River. He had been riding all day, and now his shadow ran before him as he entered Jordan City. A slight smile twisted the corners of his lips up, and he murmured, “Not much of a city here. Just barely a town.” It huddled beside the river, facing the desert, a double row of buildings, with other buildings scattered around. Clay’s eyes moved from side to side as he rode between the lines of buildings. Most of them were painted, but the paint was faded out by the blistering sun and scoured by the sands when the winds came. One of the signs said simply “Hotel,” as if there were no other hotels in the world. Across the street was another building that proclaimed itself only as “Stable.” Turning Caesar toward this building, Clay murmured, “They ain’t very proud of their town.