The Yellow Rose (33 page)
All the way back Al rode behind Clinton, but he glanced from time to time at the doe that was tied securely down on the sorrel. Clinton had talked continually.
Listening’s what seems to be what you do when you’re around Clinton,
Al thought.
Clinton said, “I’ve been thinkin’ about all this stuff I’ve been tryin’ to teach you about men and women, and I decided what I got to do.”
“What’s that, Clinton?”
“I’m gonna look for a nice young girl for you to start courtin’.”
“Why, that’s thoughtful of you, Clinton! You sure it won’t be too much trouble?”
“Oh, I don’t mind trouble. After all, we’re buddies, ain’t we?”
“We sure are.”
Al said nothing for a time, and then asked curiously, “How are you going to be sure it’s the right girl for me?”
“Well, I’ll test her out.”
“Test her! Test her how?”
“Well, the first thing, of course, I’ll test her theology.”
“Theology? You mean what she thinks about God?”
“Oh, sure. That’s
real
important. Got to be sure we get you a woman who ain’t got any off-breed ideas about religion.”
“I see. Anything else?”
“Well, got to be sure that whoever this gal is that she understands a woman’s place.”
“A woman’s place?”
“Well, I mean so far as men are concerned. You know, Al, the Bible says that a woman’s made out of the rib. You wouldn’t expect a rib to be uppity, but they get that way sometimes. So, I’ll have to be sure that she’s read that part in the Bible that talks about how a woman’s supposed to be submissive to her husband.”
“Submissive?”
“Oh, yeah, submissive. You know what that means?”
“You mean a woman always lets a man have his way?”
“Well, that’s scriptural right there. You hang on to that idea, Al. And the next thing—” Clinton did not finish his sentence, for a sharp, dry buzzing almost beneath them startled both horses. Clinton’s gelding reared so suddenly that Al suddenly disappeared. Clinton yelled and pulled his gelding back. As he came off the horse, he pulled his pistol and shot one time. The shot blasted the six-foot rattler, his body as thick as Clint’s wrist. Both horses galloped away at the explosion of the pistol, but Clinton shoved his pistol back in his holster and knelt down beside Al, who lay crumpled up. “Hey now, you all right, Al?” Anxiety coursed through him.
He had not seen Al hit the ground, but he had known people could break their necks when they were thrown from a horse.
“Al, are you all right?” He picked the limp figure up into a sitting position and said, “Come on, now. Don’t be hurt. Did you hit your head?” He reached up, knowing he had to examine the head for bruises or cuts, and yanked off Al’s wide-brimmed black hat.
The instant the hat came off, he froze and stared at the long, blond hair that fell all the way down to Al’s shoulders. He could not speak for a moment, and he reached out with his free hand and touched the hair as if he didn’t believe it.
Al’s eyes suddenly opened, and Clinton was relieved. “Are you all right, Al? I was afraid you broke your neck.”
“No, I’m okay. Let me get up.”
“Here, I’ll help you.”
Clinton pulled the young woman to her feet, for obviously that’s what she was. As soon as she was upright, she said, “I don’t usually fall off horses, but—” She reached up to touch her hat, and a look of confusion crossed her face. She felt the hair down around her shoulders and then glanced down and saw her hat on the ground. She whirled then and saw that Clinton Hardin was staring at her in absolute astonishment. “Well, what are you staring at?” she said.
“You ain’t no boy!”
“Well, now, ain’t you
clever
! You found that out all by yourself.” She pulled away from his grip, reached down, and picked up the hat. She put it on her head and shoved the golden hair up under it. Her face was flushed, and she waited for Clinton to speak, but at that moment he could not think of a thing to say—a rare moment in Clinton Hardin’s life!
Finally, Clinton cleared his throat and said, “Oh, shucks! I knowed you were a girl all the time.”
“Oh, really? Why didn’t you mention it?”
Clinton was rapidly inventing a scenario he fervently wished had happened. “Well, I seen you was tryin’ to keep it a secret, so I thought it might be best not to mention it. And, anyway, you got a boy’s name.
There ain’t no girls named Al.”
“My name is Aldora—Aldora Catherine Stuart.”
“Well—I knowed you was a girl, anyway.”
“Why, you . . . you
liar
!”
Clinton noticed that Al’s eyes were enormous, and now that he was in on her secret, he could see the planes of her face were not those of a man. And he had never seen a boy or a man with such smooth complexion as that of Al Stuart.
Al waited for him to speak and then said, “You give me all this dumb advice about how a man ought to treat a girl, and yet you’re telling me you knew I was a girl?”
“Well, no, not exactly. I was just—”
“I’m going home.” She put two fingers in her mouth, whistled, and the sorrel came trotting back. She swung up behind the deer and turned the mare’s head toward the house.
Clinton watched her ride off and yelled, “Hey, get my horse, will you, Al?”
Al turned and yelled back, “Use your charm on her like you do with all those women who lean on you!”
Clinton stood there as shocked and spellbound as he had ever been in his life. He watched until she was a hundred yards away and then muttered, “Just like I always said, women are plumb deceitful!”
Turning toward his horse, he felt immensely sorry for himself. He yelled, “Come here, you no-account critter!” But the horse had a mind of its own and wandered farther off. Finally, after half an hour, he managed to sneak up on the horse and get into the saddle. He thought once about going to the Stuart house, but then decided that would not be the best.
“I better not bother them,” he said. “I’ll just go on home and let ’em have all the meat.”
He rode home, talking to himself all the way, and when he dismounted, unsaddled, and went into the house, he found Jerusalem sitting in the living room sewing.
“Did you get a deer?” she asked.
“Well, I got one, but I gave it to the Stuarts. It was just a doe.”
Jerusalem looked up, for something in the sound of Clinton’s voice struck her as being odd. “What’s wrong?”
“Well, shoot, Ma, I hate to tell you this, but I got bad news.”
“What’s the matter?”
“Well, that Al Stuart, the one that brought me home? Why, she ain’t a boy at all. She’s a girl.”
Jerusalem laughed loudly and put her sewing aside. She came to Clinton and put her hand on his shoulder. “Well, of
course
she’s a girl, and a very nice one, too.”
Clinton stared at her and exclaimed, “You knew she was a female?”
“Yes, I did!”
“Well—when did you find out?”
“The first time I saw her, of course.”
Clinton stared at her, and then he could not bear the thought of being wrong. So he blustered, saying, “Well, she’s mighty close to being a . . . a
hussy
, that’s what! Running around with a man’s name and dressin’ like a man!”
“I expect she’ll outgrow that.” Jerusalem grew curious. “What did you two talk about when you thought she was a boy?”
Clinton’s face instantly reddened. “I . . . I don’t rightly remember, Ma.”
“Clinton Hardin, you are absolutely the worst liar that I have ever met in my whole life!”
Clinton’s face flushed, and he turned and walked away, saying over his shoulder, “Well, I’m going to tell her about the way she’s acting.” He hesitated, then said firmly, “It’s
unseemly
, that’s what it is!”
M
oriah sat perfectly still as Loves The Night took one of the long spines pulled from a prickly pear plant. She watched as the woman heated it in the small fire, then bent over and took Moriah’s earlobe between her fingers. Moriah sat still, ignoring the pain as the barb went through her flesh. Loves The Night perforated the other ear and then drew three lengths of horse hair knotted at one-inch intervals through. Moriah knew that each day they would pull one of the knots through each ear, and by the time the horse hair was through, the ears would be healed.
Loves The Night smiled then. “It will be a good, clean wound,” she said. “We will not paint you now, but sometime soon you will learn.” She explained the process carefully. “The black paint is never worn by women except in mourning, but we will find reds and yellows that will make you beautiful.” She reached out and ran her hand down Moriah’s hair, which was not braided and hung below her waist. “We will start using ochre in your hair to give it color.”
Ethan was standing to one side watching the ear piercing silently. He was fourteen months old now, and like most Comanche children, he had learned the habit of silence. Moriah could not understand how this would happen, but she knew that it was true. Ethan had cried like any white child at first, but somehow binding one onto the cradle board did something to them that she could not fathom.
Loves The Night saw Moriah glancing at Ethan and nodded. “He will be a great chief of The People. He has some of his father and some of you.”
Moriah knew what she said was true. Ethan’s features did have some of Bear Killer’s appearance—the high cheekbones and the wide mouth made Moriah think of the man who called her his wife. Ethan was much fairer, however, than any of the other children, taking his coloration, apparently, from Moriah herself. She looked over and saw that Loves The Night was staring at Ethan. She knew that the woman loved him almost as if he were her own. It pleased her, and she said, “I want him to be a good man.”
Loves The Night suddenly looked at Moriah. “Will he serve the Jesus God or the gods of The People?”
Moriah could not answer, for the religion of the Comanches seemed strange indeed to her. From what she had learned, they worshiped the world of nature. Gods were everywhere, and it was so confusing that she had given up trying to understand it all.
Her own faith had grown stronger. It was the world inside that she kept inviolate from the indignities of the life that were forced upon her among The People. As soon as the shock of her captivity had worn off, she had vowed to God she would be faithful. And every day she prayed to Him to deliver her, and every day she spoke English to Ethan, determined that he would know English words.
“He will serve the Jesus God,” she said firmly.
At once Loves The Night said, “Tell me again how the Jesus God died.”
The story of the death of Jesus fascinated the Indian woman. She was shocked the first time Moriah had shared her faith, but since then many times she had made this same request. “Tell me how the Jesus God died.”
Patiently, Moriah spoke of the death of Jesus, and she saw a longing in Loves The Night’s eyes.
“Why did the Jesus God die?”
“Because He loves us. His father, the Great Spirit, loves us, and He sent His Son to become a man like all men, and as a man He died for the sins of everyone.”
“He does not know me. How could He know my sins?”
“He knows everything about us. Every Indian, every white person, everyone in the whole world. And Jesus loves everyone.”
Loves the Night sat for a long time as Moriah continued to speak of the love of Jesus for sinners. Finally, she said, “It would be good. I wish I had this Jesus.”
“You can have Him,” Moriah said simply.
“How? Do I bring Him a sacrifice?”
“He has said that the sacrifice He wants is a humble heart, and that anyone who believes in Him can ask forgiveness and receive it.”
Moriah waited breathlessly, and Loves The Night said, “I will think on this.”
Moriah felt a glow of happiness. She said no more, for she had learned enough of the Comanche mind to know that Loves The Night would ponder the words she had heard.
The two women heard a babbling outside the tent, and they rose and went outside, followed by Ethan. Loves The Night whispered, “I never saw children like that. They’re black!”
Indeed, there were three black children tied together at the neck with a slip of rawhide. Their captors were Pawnees, and the two women listened as they spoke of their pride in their capture.
“Have you ever seen black people before?”
“Many times,” Moriah said. She felt a tug of compassion for the children who were frightened out of their wits. She wanted to go to them and comfort them, but they were the captives of the Pawnee, and Bear Killer would never permit that. She turned away grieved, knowing that the fate of the three would not be good. They would suffer more than she had.
Bear Killer had seen her, and he came to her as she moved away. “We will move tomorrow,” he said, watching her intently.
“As you say.”
“Why do you never smile? I never see you laugh.” He waited, but she gave no answer. “They call you the Quiet One even to me.”
Moriah had no words to say. She had told Bear Killer shortly after her captivity that she would not be a good wife for him. She had urged him to take her for a ransom, but he had been adamantly against it. And he still was. “You will become a woman of The People. It may take a long time, but you will forget your life from before.”
Moriah turned and faced him squarely. “I will not forget,” she said.
Bear Killer knew how to fight men, but he had no way to fight this woman. He said, “We will entertain the Pawnee.”
“Yes, as you say.”
Moriah had helped Dove and Loves The Night feed the Pawnees. They had gambled until very late, and both Dove and Loves The Night had gone to sleep. Moriah was restless as she lay there listening. One of the Pawnee spoke Comanche, and she was shocked suddenly to hear him say, “There were two of them as we have heard. Tall Man and Silverhair.”
Instantly, Moriah grew still. Bear Killer said, “Where did you see them?”
“To the south.”
“That is where I captured her, on the river called the Brazos.”
“These two are killers, and there may be others. The men in black coats that have pistols that fire many times, they will come for the woman, the Quiet One.”
