The Yellow Rose

by Gilbert, Morris

  Now, as she listened to Rice, she was amazed to find that he had weaknesses— the same weaknesses in some ways that she had, for she, too, was afraid.

  “What do you want me to do, Rice? I can’t even help myself.” Rice seemed to straighten, and she saw a steadfastness in his eyes.

  “I want you to marry me,” he said plainly.

  Julie thought she had not understood Rice. She stared at him and couldn’t speak, and then she laughed bitterly. “Why, you’re crazy, Rice!

  I’m a saloon woman. They’d throw you out of church!”

  “That would be their problem, not mine.”

  Julie suddenly stood up, and Rice rose with her. She could not think clearly. Other men had asked her to marry them, but they had been as depraved as she felt herself to be. She knew Rice Morgan was a good man, good to the bone, that he was steadfast and honorable, and that a woman could depend on him to the very end of life.

  Rice reached out gently and took Julie by the shoulders. He turned her around and pulled her closer. He did not kiss her on the lips but kissed her bruised face very gently, almost like the touch of a butterfly. She had not known much gentleness like this. As she stared into his eyes, she felt something that moved her deeply. He accepted her and loved her just as she was with no judgment.

  “I need you, Julie, in every way. I want to wake up every morning of my life and see your face, and I want to know you love me all that day. I want to hold a child in my arms someday, and I want to see your beauty in our child’s face. I want us to grow old together, and when your hair is white and I’ve lost all mine, I want to hold on to you and have you hold on to me in love.”

  Julie was absolutely shocked into immobility. She could not move.

  She waited for him to say more. She waited for him to kiss her, and the thought came to her, This is some new kind of a trick!

  But Rice released her and said, “I’ll wait for your answer, and I know it will come one day.” He turned and walked to the door, but before he left, he turned and faced her, and then he smiled. “If you could ever come to love me, Julie Satterfield, I’d count myself a king among men.”

  He turned and shut the door behind him, and Julie stared after him.

  Then suddenly her shoulders began to shake. Tears filled her eyes and rolled down her cheeks. She made her way into the bedroom, fell across the bed, and pressed her face into the coverlet, her entire body shaking as she wept with an abandon such as she had never known.

  Clinton stepped off of his horse, tied him to a hitching rail, and then started down the streets of Jordan City. He was excited about going to the dance, and Lucy, who had promised him one or two dances, didn’t know that he intended to have far more than that. As he came by the stairway that led up to Doctor Woods’ office, he saw someone coming down and turned to see it was Al. “Hello, Al,” he said. “I stopped by and took some food for your grandma.”

  “Thanks, Clinton. Your mother is always good about that.”

  Clinton saw the sadness on the girl’s face and impulsively laid his hand on her shoulder. She looked rather pathetic in the baggy clothes she insisted on wearing, and he bent down to peer at her face. “Now looky here. It’ll be all right, Al. Why, I’m goin’ by to ask Brother Morgan to pray for your grandma.”

  “Thanks, Clinton.”

  Al’s voice was so miserable that Clinton felt a wave of compassion. He had always liked Al, and now he put his arm around her and squeezed her.

  “It’s gonna be all right. You wait and see!”

  Just at that moment a voice came to him, and Clinton looked up to see Tom Ellis, who was walking down the street with Lucy, headed for the dance. The two had stopped, and Clinton felt uneasy about having his arm around Al’s shoulder. He dropped it at once, but Tom Ellis was laughing.

  “I’m glad you got yourself a girl there, Clinton.” He turned and said, “Lucy, Clinton’s got himself a woman. You’d better watch out, or you’re going to have competition.”

  Ellis was an overbearing oaf as far as Clinton was concerned. He was large and heavy and had a tiny mustache that made him look like an idiot—or so Clinton had always thought.

  Ellis leaned forward and peered at Al and said, “Where’d you buy your dress, girlie?”

  Clinton sensed Al’s tensing and glanced down at her face and saw embarrassment and shame there. Anger rushed through Clinton, and he said, “Ellis, you got a big mouth. Keep it closed, or I’ll close it for you.”

  “Why, you’re a preacher, ain’t ya? But you’d better get your sweetie lookin’ more like a lady before you come to the dance.”

  Clinton stepped forward and grabbed Ellis by the shirt front. “I told you to shut up!”

  Ellis hit Clinton in the chest, and Clinton fell backward. He heard Lucy scream, but that was all he heard, for the temper that he worked to control suddenly spilled over. He threw himself at Ellis, struck him in the middle of the body, and wrapped his arms around him. The two of them hit the hitching rail, and it snapped beneath their combined weight. The force of Clinton’s plunging attack drove Ellis backward, and the back of his knees hit the edge of the large horse trough.

  “Hey, you—” Ellis yelled, but then he fell into the horse trough with Clinton on top of him. The tremendous splash of their bodies rose up and engulfed Lucy, who caught the force of it right in her face and down the front of her dress.

  The shock of the water brought Clinton to himself. He scrambled out sopping wet and saw Lucy standing there, her mouth open, uttering a soundless scream.

  “Lucy,” he said, “I didn’t mean—”

  “You stay away from me, Clinton Hardin!”

  Ellis was scrambling out, too, and yelling, and he started for Clinton, but at that instant Rice suddenly appeared. He put a hand on Ellis’ chest and held him there. “What’s this all about?”

  Ellis was shouting, and Rice could make no sense of what he said. He looked over and saw Clinton dripping wet with Al Stuart standing by, her eyes large under the shadow of the broad-brimmed hat she wore. “What’s this all about? Who started it?”

  Clinton sputtered, “Well, he used rude language to Al here. I can’t abide rude behavior, Rice. You know that.”

  Al suddenly pulled a big red bandanna from her hip pocket, a grin on her face. She extended it to Lucy, saying, “You need to borrow my handkerchief? It ain’t big enough to dry you all off, but maybe you can get your face clean.”

  Lucy glared at her, then whirled and started away at a run. Ellis took off after her. “I’ll take you home, Lucy.” He yelled back, “I’ll get you, Clinton. You see if I don’t!”

  Rice stared at the two and by supreme effort was able to keep from laughing at the scene. “You’d better come up to my room and dry off, Clinton.”

  “No, I ain’t gonna do it. I’m goin’ home.”

  Rice watched as Clinton stalked away, the water squishing out of his boots. As the young man got on his horse and rode out of town, Rice turned and said, “Well, that was unpleasant, wasn’t it, Aldora?”

  “I guess it was. He was takin’ up for me, though.”

  “I’m sure he was. Look, why don’t you ride after him? Maybe you can talk to him and make him feel better.”

  “Yes, sir, I’ll do that.”

  She got on her own horse and took off after Clinton. She caught up with him when they were about two miles out of town, and when she came up beside him, he gave her a look such as she had never seen on his face.

  To tell the truth, Clinton was mortified. He knew he had made a fool out of himself, but he refused to speak.

  After they rode along in silence for a while, Al said in a small voice, “I’m right sorry I caused you trouble, Clinton.”

  Clinton gave his shoulders a shake, but he turned to her and shook his head. “It wasn’t you, Al. It was that no-account Tom Ellis!”

  “Well, anyway, I thank you for takin’ up for me.”

  Clinton rode for a few moments without answering, and then he tur
ned to her and managed a grin. “Well, I reckon you’re almost as much a sister to me as Mary Aidan is. A fella’s got to take up if a man insults his sister, ain’t he now?”

  Clinton expected Al to agree with this sentiment. It seemed reasonable enough to him, but she glared at him and said in a tight voice, “I ain’t your sister, Clinton!”

  Staring at her, Clinton shook his head. “Well, maybe not. But I couldn’t stand it when he made fun of you.”

  Suddenly, Al laughed. It made a musical sound on the air. “It was somethin’ to see you dunk that ol’ Tom Ellis!”

  Clinton was a bit shocked at how fast he had lost his temper, and now the memory amused him. “I’ve been wantin’ to do somethin’ like that for a long time.”

  The two of them rode along talking about the incident. Clinton was able to laugh, and Al’s laughter made a counterpoint to his.

  A wolf came out of the night with a lizard in his mouth. He stared at the two, his green eyes glowing beneath the moon. Seeing them, he turned and loped away into the darkness.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  The country that Brodie and Quaid moved through was lined with deep canyons and heavy strands of straight pines. The smell of the pines was rich, but as they traveled northward, they left the trees and came out into the great plains again. For two days now they had been aware that they were being trailed by a single rider. Quaid had spotted him first, and they had pulled up and waited for him to catch up, but the rider had simply hung back. The next day he had been there again, a dot that kept with their pace.

  “Well, he ain’t tryin’ to hide, is he?” Brodie observed as they pulled up for camp on the second night. “He’s been behind us all day there.”

  “He’s come closer,” Quaid said. “It’s like he wanted to catch us, but he’s afraid to.”

  “Well, there’s just one of him, so I don’t reckon he’ll be that much trouble.”

  The two men unsaddled their horses, hobbled them, and then turned to the business of making supper. Both were wearing two pistols and cartridge belts, and their heavy rifles were in the saddle holsters. They had ridden heavily armed so long that they were completely unaware of the guns now, but they would have felt incomplete without them.

  Brodie cooked up a supper of two prairie hens he had managed to shoot. He had decided to broil them, since the meat would be tough and stringy if they roasted too close to the fire. He found some narrow branches with a crook in each one. He drove them into the ground away from the fire so they wouldn’t catch. Then he stripped a narrow branch and pierced the hens and then hung them above the fire. The shadows drew longer, and when the fowls were done, Brodie gave one of them to Quaid, and the two sat back and began picking at the flesh. The birds were soon devoured and Brodie observed, “We’re gonna run out of salt pretty soon.”

  Quaid did not answer but suddenly came to his feet. “He’s comin’ in!”

  Brodie leaped up, for he had heard the sound of a horse coming toward them. Quickly, without saying a word, they moved apart, taking cover with their guns half lifted.

  A voice called out to them out of the darkness. Brodie said, “You understand him, Quaid?”

  “Yes, he’s a Pawnee. Says for us not to shoot. “ He lifted his voice and said, “Come in slow.”

  Both men watched cautiously as the horseman came slowly forward and pulled up ten feet away from the fire. He held one hand out in the universal sign of peace and said again, “Do not shoot.”

  Quaid moved forward cautiously and saw that Brodie was staying back. He approached the Indian, and by the light of the fire, he saw that he was a short, squatty man with terrible scars on his chest. “Who are you?

  Why have you been following us?” he asked in Pawnee.

  “My name is Steals Many Horses.” He sat there and looked around in the direction of Brodie and waited until he came out, holding his gun directly on the Indian.

  “I think he’s alone,” Quaid said.

  “What does he want?”

  “I don’t know. His name is Steals Many Horses. He’s Pawnee, all right. “Get down from your horse,” Quaid said and waited until the Indian got down. “We have a little food. You’re welcome to it.”

  Steals Many Horses hobbled his horse, watching as the two men holstered their guns. He carried a knife in his belt, and on the saddle hung a bow with a quiver of arrows. He sat down and ate the meat that Brodie set before him, drank thirstily of the water, and then he said, “I have heard much of you. You are Silverhair, and you are Tall Man.”

  Quaid interpreted his words to Brodie, then said, “Why are you following us?”

  “You seek the white woman, the captive of The People.”

  Quaid said, “He’s talking about Moriah.”

  “Does he know where she is?” Brodie said tensely.

  “What do you know about the white woman?” Quaid asked.

  Steals Many Horses turned his eyes on Quaid. The Indian’s scarred face was emotionless, but his dark eyes glittered. He was cautious, but finally he said, “Maybe I know.”

  “He knows where she is,” Quaid said. “Don’t show any excitement, though. He’ll want to bargain for her.” He spoke to the Indian, “Where is she, Steals Many Horses?”

  He had expected no answer, and he got none. His experience in trading with the Indians had taught him that it was best not to rush them.

  The fire crackled in the silence, and from far off a coyote howled, wailing his sad, mournful song. Steals Many Horses finally said, “I went on a raid with our warriors. We went to steal horses from The People.” He paused, looked into the fire, and then shook his head. “It did not go well.

  Four of our warriors were killed.”

  Quaid did not take his eyes from Steals Many Horses. He knew that it was useless to hurry the man, and he listened as the Pawnee spoke of the raid.

  “I was wounded,” he said, “and captured. They were going to put me to the fire the next day, but I escaped that night.”

  Quaid waited until he had finished, then said, “What about the white captive woman?”

  “They call her the Quiet One. I saw her. She had red hair, and she had eyes that were brown, and she had a scar by her eye here.”

  Quaid took a deep breath. “He’s describing her. He knows about the scar on her face.”

  “She got that scar when she was six years old. Fell against a post and cut her face pretty bad.” Brodie stood absolutely still. “That’s got to be her!”

  Quaid said, “Which tribe holds her, Steals Many Horses?”

  “What will you give me if I tell? That is why I followed you.”

  Quaid had expected this. “What do you want?”

  “I want one of your pistols that shoots many times, and I want many bullets for it.”

  At once Quaid unbuckled the cartridge belt with the pistol on it and handed it to Steals Many Horses.

  “You’re giving him your gun?” Brodie asked with surprise.

  “That’s his price. I’m not arguing,” Quaid said. Turning to Steals Many Horses, he said, “I will teach you how to shoot it in the morning.”

  Steals Many Horses pulled the gun from the holster. He ran his hands over it, then looked up and said, “She is with Bear Killer.”

  “Bear Killer of The People?” Quaid said.

  “Yes. He is a mighty warrior. He killed my brother, and he would have burned me. But I will kill him now that I have the pistol.”

  “Where are they, Steals Many Horses?”

  “Bear Killer always winters in what white men call The Staked Plains. . . .”

  Quaid listened as the Indian gave the location of the tribe. Steals Many Horses was still fascinated by the pistol. He put the belt around his waist and buckled it awkwardly and then looked up.

  “You will not take the woman with only two of you. It will take many warriors. Bear Killer is well named.”

  “We will take her,” Quaid said, and a hard finality edged his tone.
/>   “Will you sleep here?”

  “No, I will go back now that I have the pistol.” He got to his feet and walked to his horse. He slipped off the hobbles and in one smooth move mounted. For one second he looked at them and said, “You will not take Bear Killer unless you have many warriors.” Without another word he turned, and the horse leaped forward, disappearing into the darkness.

  “What did he say, Quaid?”

  “He said the two of us wouldn’t take a captive away from Bear Killer.”

  “Did he say where she was?”

  “Llano Estacado.”

  “The Staked Plains.” Brodie made a face. “I wish he was someplace else.”

  Quaid turned to face him. “I’d go after him if he was at the North Pole.”

  “I don’t know, Quaid. I’ve heard he’s got a big band. Maybe we need to go get some of the rangers to help us.”

  “We don’t know where he is, Brodie. We’ve got to find him first then we’ll see.”

  Moriah had worked with Dove and Loves The Night getting ready for the winter. They had picked wild plums, mesquite beans, sometimes wild cherries. They had added this to ground-up dried buffalo meat. The two of them had packed the mixture in the bladders of buffalo sealed with tallow. As she worked, she often thought of how much like canning garden vegetables this process was.

  Bear Killer had gone to meet with a small group of chiefs of several tribes, and Lion had been left to guard the camp. Lion had been angered because he had not been permitted to go. He came in now to Bear Killer’s teepee, where the three wives of Bear Killer worked, a scowl on his face, and snatched up one of the small bundles that Moriah had made and snapped, “This is bad work!” He threw it down, causing it to burst.

  “There’s nothing wrong with it, Lion,” Loves The Night said. She knew that Lion hated the Quiet One and stood between the two of them as much as possible.