The Yellow Rose (26 page)

Clinton walked over and stood there staring at him. “Rice, this ain’t right.”

“What isn’t right?”

“Why, fighting and playing poker in a saloon.”

“Well, you know, Clinton, Jesus had the same problem. Every time he ate with sinners, he was in trouble with the real religious folk. We’ll probably be in trouble, too, but this is the only way I know.” He looked over then, and his eyes were dancing. “Deal the cards, Julie, and I’ll see you in church Sunday.”

Thirty minutes later, when Clinton and Rice stepped out of the saloon, Clinton was silent. Rice looked at him and said, “I suppose I’m to look for a few words from you?”

“Well, Rice, it don’t seem fittin’ to me—Christians going into a saloon.”

“I imagine that some of the church members will have exactly the same thing to say. Will you stand with me when they say that?”

Clinton felt an enormous liking for Rice Morgan. He did not understand the Welshman, but he knew that there was solid truth in the man.

“Sure, Rice. I can do that.”

“There’s proud, I am, to have a partner like you.” Rice slapped him on the back and said, “Come along. We’ll do a little bit more hunting for sinners and introduce them to Jesus.”

For the next two months, the Reverend Rice Morgan made quite an impression in Jordan City. He made no half-hearted disciples. People were either for him and his methods or against him. Clinton was his shadow, and the two were as likely to show up in a bar as they were in a pulpit. Clay was delighted and often said, “That’s the kind of a preacher I needed to meet about twenty years ago.”

The deacons split down the middle, half of them admiring Rice and his bold methods, the other half demurring and saying that the ministry had a dignity to maintain. They were all united, however, concerning his preaching, which was excellent and true to the Bible. The church building was running over at every service, not just with aged, old-line believers, but with the disreputable element of Jordan City as well.

Brodie and Quaid came back in early June, both of them thin and worn down. They were met as they rode into the ranch by Jerusalem, who watched them dismount wearily. Both of them looked like tramps, their clothes ragged and patched. The only thing about them that looked clean were the rifles and guns at their sides. Going forward at once, she put her arms around Brodie and pulled his head down and kissed him. “You look half starved,” she said.

Brodie grinned. The dust coated his face, and he had not shaved, it seemed, for weeks. “I reckon you’re right, Ma. I’m pretty hungry.”

“Quaid, it’s good to see you.” Jerusalem put her hand out, and Quaid, who had been standing back, stepped forward and took it.

“Hello, Miss Jerusalem.” He pulled his hat off, and the sun caught his silver hair. His skin was tanned, and his deep-set, light blue eyes made a contrast against his tanned face.

Brodie knew his mother was waiting for news about Moriah, and he shook his head. “We didn’t catch up with ’em, Ma, but we’re goin’ to. We got a trace of a rumor about a white captive held by a Kiowa tribe. It took us a long time to run it down, but she was the wrong woman.”

“Did you bring her back?”

“As a matter of fact, she wouldn’t come back.”

Jerusalem’s eyes widened. “She wouldn’t come back? Why not?”

It was Quaid who answered. “She’d been a captive since she was ten, ma’am. She didn’t even remember how to talk much English. She had become Kiowa, I guess you might say.” He shook his head sadly. “She just wouldn’t come.”

“It’ll be different with Moriah, though,” Brodie said quickly.

The hope that had risen in Jerusalem seemed to leave all at once. It was that way with her, but she was determined not to show it. “Come on in. I’ll feed you. You could use it. . . .”

For two days Quaid and Brodie stayed close to the ranch, mostly sleeping and eating. Everyone was surprised at the difference in Quaid Shafter— Clay most of all. He was filled with anger toward Shafter for letting Moriah get captured, although he finally had admitted that Shafter would have made little difference. Clay saw that there was a new silence about Shafter, and somehow Quaid reminded Clay more of his father, Jed. Clay had thought a lot about what Jerusalem had said about forgiving Quaid. He had struggled with it for weeks, but he knew he had to talk to the young man. Instead of running from his mistake, Quaid had risked his life for months trying to find Moriah in Indian territory. On the second day, he found Quaid brushing down his horse in the barn and said, “I was wrong to bawl you out like I did, Quaid.”

“No, you weren’t wrong. You had every right for what I done. It was my fault Moriah got captured, ’cause I was drunk.” He suddenly shifted his shoulders and said, “I’m pulling out tomorrow. But I reckon Brodie needs to rest up before he goes looking again.”

“Pulling out for where?”

“I spent a lot of time with these Comanches, Clay. I think it’s going to take a lot of looking to find Miss Moriah, but I’ve got an idea.”

“You’d better stay and rest up.”

“I guess not.”

Quaid would not change his mind, though all urged him. Brodie was totally exhausted, but after Quaid left, he told the story of how he would have been helpless without Quaid Shafter. “He knows a lot about Indians, and he’s tougher than most anybody I’ve ever seen. Why, he can go forever on half a rabbit and a few sips of water! He had to take care of me most of the time.”

Jerusalem listened as Brodie talked, then, “Maybe you don’t need to go back with him, Brodie. Maybe it’s something he can do better by himself.”

“No, I can’t quit thinkin’ about Moriah,” Brodie said. He seemed to have matured considerably in the few months that he had been on the trail with Shafter. “If Quaid don’t come back in a few weeks, I’ll take off and find him. He told me where he’d be looking, and I can’t do anything until I find Moriah.”

Bear Killer stared at his brother Lion. They were talking to Runs Fast, the chief of a Kiowa tribe. Runs Fast was a small man, older than most war chiefs, but was one of the most cunning of the Kiowa. The three men had been smoking a pipe inside Bear Killer’s teepee. The talk had gone on for a long time, and finally Runs Fast, who had been watching Moriah, said, “Two men came looking for a white woman living with The People.”

“Who were they?” Bear Killer said.

“One was very tall. The other had white hair but was not old. The Silverhair could speak our language. The tall one could not. They were looking for a captive, a captive taken by The People.”

Lion, at this point, looked across at Bear Killer. “It is as I told you, brother. This woman will cause trouble. Sell her to another tribe.”

“I will buy her myself,” Runs Fast said at once. “I need a new wife.”

Bear Killer shook his head. “No. She carries my child, and I want a son.”

Bear Killer had two wives, a young woman named Dove, who had borne him two daughters. His first wife was called Loves The Night. She was childless, but though she bore him no sons Bear Killer loved her the most.

Lion was silent then, for he knew the longing Bear Killer had for a son to lead the tribe when he was gone. Runs Fast studied Bear Killer and offered his opinion. “The Silverhair, he could be trouble.”

“He is only one man,” Bear Killer said.

“You are only one man.” Runs Fast nodded. “But the white eyes fear you. One man can bring down many braves if he is determined.”

But Lion knew that Runs Fast was wasting his breath. He shook his head and said no more, but his eyes grew hard as they turned on the white captive. From the beginning he had been in favor of selling her, but Bear Killer would not listen. Many thought that Lion possessed the gift of seeing into the future, and something about this white woman they had come to call The Quiet One disturbed him.
After the child is born I will convince my brother to get rid of the white woman. . . .

CHAPTER
TWENTY-ONE

M
oriah felt the sting of the switch across her back as she struggled to carry the heavy buffalo paunch filled with water. She hunched her shoulders and said nothing. She had learned that Bear Killer’s youngest wife, Dove, loved nothing better than to hear her cry out or to see her flinch. Ignoring the blow as well as she could, Moriah straightened her back and made for the village as quickly as possible. She was never allowed to go to the river alone. Someone always went with her, lest she try to escape. As she moved across the broken ground, she found it hard to believe that she had been a captive of Bear Killer for six months. When she was exhausted and had been beaten, it seemed more like six years.

Memories now came flooding back on Moriah, and she remembered with vivid intensity the day she had been brought to the camp of Bear Killer. She had been totally exhausted from the hard days of riding from dawn to dusk. Still the memories of the squaws punching her, hitting her with sticks, filled her mind. Even the children had been cruel to her. She even remembered how one of the women had thrown her a chunk of liver barely seared over one of the small camp fires and sprinkled with liquid from a buffalo gallbladder. It had made her nauseous, but she had managed to keep it down. At that moment she knew that she would somehow survive.

The memories of the months that had followed passed through her mind quickly, some of which she would give anything to forget. She had become the third wife of Bear Killer. Trying to shut that out of her mind, she walked as rapidly as possible to keep out of the range of Dove’s switch as she hurried back toward the camp.

Looking up, she saw Loves The Night standing over a fire, cooking a chunk of meat, and felt a warmth toward her. This woman alone had shown kindness to her at a time when she had desperately sought it. Many nights after Bear Killer had come to her, she would lie for hours silently weeping. It was Loves The Night who would come in the middle of the night and sit by her and stroke her hair, trying to comfort her. It had taken Moriah a long time to understand the nature of Bear Killer’s two wives. Finally, she had come to understand that the younger woman Dove was not the first wife. Dove had borne two daughters to Bear Killer, but no sons. She also had discovered little by little that barren women among the Comanche have little standing. Bear Killer, however, had made it very clear that Loves The Night was his chief wife, and the woman had been as kind as Dove had been cruel.

“Come, you eat.” Loves The Night looked up and smiled and came to take the buffalo paunch filled with water from Moriah. She hung it carefully beside the teepee and then saw Dove frowning. Sharply, she said something in Comanche, and Dove went sulkily away. “You eat,” Loves The Night said firmly.

As Moriah sat down, she remembered the first bit of hope she had had after being captured. The squaws had been harsh to her, and Bear Killer treated her mostly with indifference except when he would appear at night. But the first week, her dress, which had been torn by the mesquite branches on the way, was practically hanging on her in shreds. Loves The Night had pulled her into the teepee and began making her a dress. She would hold portions of soft animal skins against Moriah’s body, mark it with the end of a burned stick, and then cut it into pieces. All the while she had talked, and although she spoke no English, she had been a comfort to Moriah.

As Moriah sat there eating the meat, she let her gaze run over the camp and realized with a slight shock that six months had given her a basic vocabulary to understand more of Comanche than she realized. She watched the children running and playing even as white children would, shouting, pushing, and shoving. She saw Buffalo Heart, one of the warriors, go by wearing a long-fringed deer robe, moving about and ordering his wives with a harsh voice. Across from her, Morning Flower was working on a shield that had four eagle feathers on it, gently brushing the veins. Some women were piling buffalo chips to make fires, and farther off Bear Killer was surrounded by a group of tribal leaders in some kind of meeting.

Even as she watched the activity in the camp, she remembered how the acrid stench of it had almost suffocated her at first, but now, remarkably enough, she had grown accustomed to it. The sounds and the sights and the smells of a Comanche war camp, something that had been foreign to her, now made their way into her mind.

Moriah thought of her first two months in the camp and how she had almost lost her mind. Immediately after her capture, she thought only of rescue, staring to the south every day, hoping to see a large body of men coming to rescue her. But as the weeks had passed, the hope had faded as the tribe had moved farther and farther northward into the dreaded Comanche country, where few white men would dare venture to risk their lives. She had become almost dead with despair, and her thoughts seemed paralyzed at times.

At what point she had passed beyond this despair into some sort of hope, Moriah could not remember. She had gone from a stage of being confused and frightened into insensibility ’til now her mind was clear, and she knew she was stronger than she had ever been. She had heard of the cruelty of the Comanche to those who were not strong enough to meet their standards. She realized that these hard months had been a test for her. Though she had been forced to become Bear Killer’s wife, she had determined not to give up. She had worked hard and learned to do all the labor required of all Comanche women. Some of the women who had been cruel to her were now trying to teach her the difficult language.

Then she thought of the terror that had come when she discovered that she was pregnant. That had been worse than any of the physical hardships or torments handed out by Dove or the other squaws. She had always looked forward to having children, but now, carrying the baby of a Comanche war chief seemed to be the most terrible fate that a white woman could endure.

As Moriah finished the meat and sat there quietly, she thought of the hours she had spent praying, accepting the baby that she carried. She knew it had something to do with what Rice Morgan had called a leap of faith.

“It’s like you’re on a precipice,” Rice had said once. You’re standing there, and God tells you to jump. And you look down, and see if you do, you’ll be smashed. Well, what’s for it, then? You either stand there and shrivel up—or you believe God and you jump. Whatever you face is in God’s hands then. Nothing you can do about it, so when you get to the point where there’s no hope, just jump into the arms of God.”