The Yellow Rose (23 page)

He said, “Eat.”

Surprised that he could speak English, she said, “No, I’m not hungry.”

“White woman no good. You die if you don’t eat.”

Knowing it was useless, Moriah struggled to her feet. “Please,” she said through parched lips, “let me go.”

The Indian stared at her. His dark eyes seemed to have nothing behind them. All the blackness was on the surface. He was a handsome man, his nose aquiline and slightly hooked. He stared at her as if she were some sort of disobedient animal that he had to bend to his will. “White people kill my woman. You will take her place.” He watched to see her reaction, and then a cruel grin turned the corners of his lips upward. “I am Bear Killer.”

Moriah had heard of him. Clay had told her he was one of the worst of the Comanches, the cruelest and the strongest and the most fearless.

She stared at him, knowing that she could expect no mercy. In one smooth motion Bear Killer pulled out his knife. He grabbed Moriah by the hair and tilted her hair back, and she felt the edge of the knife on her throat.

“You will choose,” he said. “Live or die.”

“What—do you mean?”

“You will be my woman, or I will kill you now. Choose.”

Something in Moriah wanted to cry out, “
Kill me
,” but the desire to live was strong. She thought,
Somehow there is always hope,
and that hope was like a tiny pinpoint of light amidst the darkness. She shuddered at the guttural laughter of the Indians. She knew the cruelty that women could expect who were captured by the Comanches. The door on the good life she had known with her family had now closed, and the fear of the unknown stalked her like a wild animal. Being loved and protected and honored would no longer be part of her life. She whispered, “I want to live.”

Instantly, Bear Killer released her hair. She watched as he put his knife into his belt.

He stared at her, his obsidian eyes filled with an emotion that she could not understand. Finally, he said, “I should kill you. You have brought shame to me.”

“No! I never saw you!” Moriah whispered.

“You do not remember me, but I remember you. You were captured with your mother and sister by Red Wolf and brought to our camp. When a Comanche warrior is shamed, he takes revenge on the family of the one who did it.”

“My mother never shamed anyone.”

“Her man, the White Ghost, he is my enemy.” Bear Killer’s lips tightened into a thin line, and hatred glittered in his eyes. “He came through all of us, like a spirit, right into the presence of Red Wolf. No man should have been able to do that.”

Moriah was frightened by the look on the Comanche’s face. “But . . . it wasn’t just
you
who let him get through. It was the whole tribe.”

“I was next to Red Wolf, his war chief. Anything that happened was
my
shame!”

Moriah had never felt so helpless. She could not run, and her life was in the hands of one of the most murderous Comanche warriors living. He could kill her now, and no one would ever know. Her breathing grew shallow, and she could only pray,
Lord, let me live!

But then Bear Killer suddenly laughed harshly. “I will take you. That is a shame to white eyes—to have their women taken by one of The People,” which is what the Comanches called themselves.

And then he reached for her, and Moriah Hardin closed her eyes as his strong hands gripped her. She tried to pray, but she knew that it was useless.

CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN

I
think you’d better go for Doctor Woods, Clay.” Jerusalem’s words, though quiet, shocked Clay Taliferro. He had been putting dishes back up into the cabinet when her words came to him. They startled him so much that as he whirled, he dropped a plate, which shattered on the floor. Ignoring it, he took two steps toward Jerusalem, who was sitting in a straight chair. One look at her face, and he said, “I’ll send Clinton. I ain’t leavin’ you.”

He whirled and ran outside the house shouting, “Clinton!”

Clinton appeared from the barn, carrying a bucket in his hand. “What is it, Clay?”

“It’s your ma’s time. Get on your horse and go get Doctor Woods.

Break him down if you have to!”

“I will,” Clinton yelled. He turned and disappeared into the barn, and in a few moments he came out, not even bothering to saddle his horse but hanging on to the bridle. “I’ll get him, Clay!” he shouted as he drove the horse at a dead run out of the yard.

Clay watched him go and had to struggle to make the fear he felt inside subside. Taking a deep breath, he turned and walked back into the house. He went over to Jerusalem and said, “Clinton will get him here quick. Can I do anything?”

“No, this is my job, Clay.”

Clay stared at Doctor Woods and swallowed hard. “What do you mean? How is she, Doc?” Woods had just come out of the bedroom, and his face was drawn as he clawed at his whiskers.

“She’s in a bad way, Clay,” he said, shaking his head.

“You’ve got to do somethin’, Doc. You’ve got to!” Clay pleaded.

“I’ll do all I can, Clay. You know that. But . . . I think . . .” He struggled for words, and then in an unusual gesture, he reached out and gripped Clay’s shoulder hard. “I think you’d better prepare yourself.”

The stark words struck Clay with all the force and impact of a fist. He looked down at his hands and saw that they were trembling. “Is it . . . is it that bad, Doc?”

“It’s not good. I’ll do the best I can.”

Clay watched as Woods went over, got a drink of water, and then turned and went back toward the bedroom. Turning, Clay moved across the floor, but he felt a numbness. He had been shot once, and what he remembered was not the pain, but the numbness that had spread through him. He felt that way now, as if a bullet had struck him somewhere in a vital place. Though he was walking and thinking, he felt like one on his way to death.

Dusk had come now, and Clay stood on the porch watching the shadows creep across the land. He was alone, and he could hear Jerusalem’s moans all the way outside. Every one of them struck him like a blow on an anvil. Jerusalem was not a crying woman, he knew that, and her cries were muted. Still, each one of them revealed the agony that she was suffering.

He began to pace slowly along the long front porch that extended the width of the house. He had walked steadily now for hours, and now, as at other times, he felt the impulse to leave, to get on a horse and run as far away as he could from what was happening inside that bedroom.

Jerusalem said that it was her job to have the baby, and he longed in some way to take some of the pain from her. But that he could not do. He reached out and put both hands against one of the pillars that supported the roof. He gripped it hard until his hands ached, and then he placed his cheek against it and clung to it as a sailor might cling to the rigging on a ship when the wind was about to take it to the bottom. He wanted to close his ears, but that would be cowardly.

As he stood there clinging to the post, everything about Clay Taliferro suddenly became dim and indistinct. He could still hear Jerusalem’s moans. He was aware of the stars in the sky vaguely, but a distinct realization was happening on the inside.

It came to him slowly. Then with all the certainty of anything that had ever touched him, Clay knew that his running from God was over. He slumped down to his knees, still clinging to the post. He pressed his face against it, and words of desperation and need for God began to form deep inside him. They did not come out at first, but finally his lips began to move, and he, for the first time in his life, began to call upon God for himself.

Clinton had been out walking in the darkness, getting far away from the cries of his mother. He knew he had to return, and when he did, he rounded the corner and stopped as abruptly as if he had run into a wall.

He saw Clay down on his knees and heard his broken cries. Clay Taliferro was weeping, and it shook Clinton down to his foundation. He stood without moving for a time, and then finally Clay grew quiet. Clinton watched as he got to his feet, and when he was standing, he came over and said, “Clay, are you all right?” He watched as Clay turned. The tears had made tracks down his face, and Clinton saw that his mouth was twitching.

“I’m all right, Clint.”

“I . . . I was worried about you.”

“I called on God, Clint. I think maybe for the first time—and He heard me.”

Clinton felt a sudden rush of gratitude and joy, even in the midst of this terrible crisis. “I’m glad, Clay,” he said.

“I’ve been runnin’ from God my whole life, but I’m through running.”

Jerusalem’s voice came then, and Clinton grew silent. Finally, he said, “Do you think there’s any hope for Moriah?”

“For her life there is. Any woman taken by the Comanches will have it hard, but she’s stronger than she thinks, Clinton. She’s like her ma.

There’s hope.”

The bright rays of dawn crept over the horizon. Clay had been standing in the same position for what seemed like hours. Clinton had gone off again. Clay did not know where. Suddenly, he heard the sound of footsteps, and the door opened. Clay turned instantly and could not speak.

Doctor Woods came out and put his arm around Clay’s shoulder. “She’s all right, Clay.”

Clay began to tremble. It was all he could do to keep himself upright.

He cleared his throat and blinked his eyes, then asked huskily, “And the baby?”

“Go and see.”

Clay walked stiff-legged into the house and down the hall. He turned into the bedroom. The door was open, and he saw the morning light throwing its beam over the figure in the bed. He moved to the bedside and bent over. His eyes were fixed on Jerusalem, and he reached out and touched her cheek. “You all right?”

“Yes.” Jerusalem’s voice was weak. “I’m fine.”

“I got somethin’ to tell you.” He cleared his throat, tears in his eyes.

“You got yourself a new husband. Out there on the porch sometime last night God caught up with me. I reckon you’ll have to help me, but I’m going to serve Him as best I can.”

Jerusalem uttered a glad cry and reached up. He bent over and buried his face against her hair, and when he lifted his head, she said, “I have a surprise for you.” He straightened up and watched as she unfolded a blanket wrapped around a small form. “It’s a girl, Clay.”

Clay took a deep breath and began to smile. “Just what I wanted— a girl.”

Jerusalem was worn and tired, but joy sparkled in her eyes as she said, “And this”— she loosened another blanket that Clay did not notice—“is your son.”

Clay stared at the two babies and could not speak for a moment. “A boy
and
a girl? God is good!”

Jerusalem saw the tears in Clay’s eyes, and she reached her free hand out. “I got the right man.” He leaned over and kissed her and then picked up his newborn daughter. He looked down into the face of the infant and then smiled at Jerusalem.

“I don’t reckon we’ll name her Jezebel.”

“No, and we’re not naming your son Hash, either.” Jerusalem felt a deep joy at the new life God had given her with this man she loved with all her heart. “God is so good, Clay, isn’t He?”

Clay reached down and picked up his son. He held a baby in each arm and looked from one to the other. “Yes, He is,” he said quietly. Then he smiled at Jerusalem and said, “I sure hope they look like you and not me!”

CHAPTER
NINETEEN

C
lay finished putting the diaper on his son and then looked up, aware that Julie was watching him. “What are you starin’ at?”

“You.” Julie smiled. “I can’t believe it. A tough hairpin like you—diapering a baby!”

“I think I’m pretty good at it.” He held up the baby and admired the red, wrinkled face. “You are going to be as handsome as your pa. Don’t you reckon so, Julie?”

“He’s already better looking than you are, but he’s hungry.” She reached over and took the baby from Clay and carried him to Jerusalem, who was already nursing his sister. “Here,” she said. “I hope the supply holds out.”

“It will,” Jerusalem said. “I never had any trouble nursing my babies.”

“You never had two at the same time before, either,” Julie said, but she was smiling.

She had come to take charge as soon as she had heard of the twins’ birth, and Clay had been relieved to see her. He sat down and watched as the babies nursed, and the sight of Jerusalem’s tender look at them touched him deeply. He listened as the two women spoke about babies, and finally he said, “We’ve got to pick names out for these young’uns. I’m tired of calling them number one and number two.”

Jerusalem’s face was smooth. The birth had been hard, but she had recovered quickly, and she looked up and said, “You find a name for our son. I’ll name our daughter.”

“I’ve already got a name for him.”

Jerusalem looked surprised. “What is it? You never said.”

“I thought you might want to name ’em both.”

“No. I want you to name him—but you’re not naming him Mahershalalhasbaz.”

“Oh, that was just a joke,” Clay said.

“Well, what name do you like?”

“My pa’s name was Sam, and I admire Sam Houston mighty well. I’d like to call him Samuel Taliferro.”

“That’s a fine Bible name.” Jerusalem smiled. “I like it.” She hugged Sam and leaned over and kissed the top of his fuzzy head. “Samuel it is.

Samuel, when you’re naughty, and Sam, when you’re good.”

“What about our daughter? You got any name in your head for her?”

“Yes, I have. I’ve always liked Rachel for a name. Do you like it, Clay?”

“Rachel Taliferro—I like it! It’s got real dignity.” Clay got up from his chair and came over to touch both silken heads. “Sam and Rachel. It sounds right natural.”

Julie had watched this quietly, and she went about doing the small jobs about the kitchen while the two talked. Finally, she heard Jerusalem say, “Do you think we’ll be hearing from the men who went after Moriah pretty soon?”

Clay tried to hide his apprehension, but both women saw that he was troubled. “They may take a long time. Those Comanches can ride a hundred miles in twenty-four hours, I think.”

“What about Quaid?” Julie said coldly. “What are you going to do about him?”