Deep in the Heart

by Gilbert, Morris

  “From Pa?” Brodie said weakly, still dizzy from the beating.

  “Yep, sure enough.” Taliferro turned and faced the Brattons. “You tell him if he don’t die, he can have his pistol back anytime. I reckon I’ll be stayin’ in these parts awhile. If he wants it back, all he has to do is come apologize to Miss Hardin here for usin’ vile language in her presence.” He gave the two Bratton boys his steady attention, then said in his soft voice, “If you two are feelin’ frisky—why, go ahead and jump.”

  Brodie stared at the Brattons and saw that both of them stood absolutely still. Taliferro grinned at them, then turned away, nonchalant as anything. Brodie, still trembling from the beating, accompanied Taliferro back to his fine bay, and then the man turned to him and said, “I bet you’re Brodie.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Your pa has told me all about you. Here, you get on this horse and ride. Me and Miss Moriah, we’ll walk alongside for a time.” He picked up the two sacks of cattails and asked, “What d’ya do with these here cattails?”

  “Our ma shore knows how to cook them up for a meal,” Moriah said.

  “Does she, now?” Clay replied, but thought, They sure must be going through hard times to have to eat cattails.

  Brodie hung on to the saddlehorn and glanced back to see the three Brattons glaring at the man. He looked down and saw that Clay Taliferro was completely untroubled. He felt strange, as if something had come into his life he had been looking for. “Do you really know my pa?” he asked, looking down at the tanned face of the newcomer.

  “Why shore as a cat’s got climbin’ gear I do!”

  As the three of them moved away, Horace spat in the dirt and cursed. “I’ll get him. You see if I don’t!”

  Ellie laughed harshly. “Why didn’t you take that pistol away from him when he give you the chance?” She turned her head to one side and said thoughtfully, “I reckon a real tough man has come to this here territory, boys!”

  Jerusalem was busy cleaning up the cabin, taking advantage of the quiet while her mother slept and her grandfather was out fishing. Her peace was broken when she heard Clinton cry out, “Somebody’s comin’, Ma! I ain’t never seen him afore.”

  Jerusalem put down her cleaning rag, walked to the door, and stepped outside. She took in the fine bay with Brodie sitting in the saddle and Moriah walking alongside the stranger dressed in buckskin. She did not say anything, but she let out a little gasp when she saw Brodie’s bloodied face. Moriah broke away from her conversation with the man and came running toward her.

  “Ma, this is Clay. He’s a friend of Pa’s.”

  Jerusalem studied the man as he came forward and pulled his hat off. “Howdy, ma’am. I’m Clay Taliferro. Friend of your husband’s.”

  Jerusalem saw that he was not a handsome man but had a strong, masculine appearance. He had a wide mouth, high cheekbones, and his hair was tawny and tied by a short piece of leather behind his neck.

  “I’m glad to know you, Mr. Taliferro.”

  “I reckon Clay’s all the handle I need. I’m right proud to meet you, ma’am. Jake’s told me all about you. I feel like I know the whole family already.”

  Moriah interrupted the exchange, spilling over in her excitement to tell her mother what had happened. “Them old Brattons stopped us on the road, and Luke Bratton, he said somethin’ bad about you, so him and Brodie got into a fight, and Luke was—”

  “Hold on, Moriah,” her mother chastised her. “You can tell me about it when we’ve taken care of our guest . . . and it looks like your brother could use some attention.” Turning to Clay, she said, “Please come inside. Clinton, go turn Mr. Taliferro’s horse into the corral. And give him some feed.”

  “I expect he’d appreciate that, ma’am.”

  Jerusalem turned and led them all into the house. After inviting their guest to be seated, she told Moriah to go fetch some water, then said to her son, “Sit down, Brodie. Let me wash your face.”

  “Oh, I can do it, Ma. I ain’t hurt bad.”

  Jerusalem looked at the puffy eyes and said, “We need to get some cool water on those, or you won’t be able to see out of them.” When Moriah returned with a bucket of water and handed it to her mother, Jerusalem insisted Brodie sit down, then, taking a clean cloth, applied the water to his wounds.

  As she cleaned up his face, she listened to Moriah finish her story in rapid-fire fashion, ending with, “. . . and then when Duke horned in, Clay here, he just pulled that gun Duke always carries and whacked him over the head with it! Old Duke went down like an acorn falling off a tree.”

  Clay was watching the girl with a slight smile. “Well, he used vile language in front of your daughter. I purely can’t abide vile language, ma’am.”

  Nodding, Jerusalem said, “It’s almost noon. I know you must be hungry. I’ll fix something.”

  “That’s right kind of you, ma’am. I could use a bite,” Clay Taliferro said. “It’s been a mighty long ride to get here.”

  Jerusalem had warmed up the snake and possum stew, but had eaten none herself. She was sitting across from Taliferro, who had told them about how he had met her husband, Jake, and how the two of them had become partners in the fur trade, trapping in the headwaters of the Missouri high in the Montana Rockies with a Frenchman named Henry Saint-Cyr.

  “We done right well, ma’am,” he said, taking a sip of the sassafras tea. “We got snowed in the last part of September, and then we left, but a few days out, Jake stepped in a bear trap.”

  “Stepped in a bear trap! How did he do that?” Clinton demanded, his eyes big.

  “Some fool set it and hid it, and Jake stepped into it. Them things is mighty powerful.”

  “Was he hurt bad?” Moriah asked.

  “Broke his leg. Me and Henry set it, but he was gonna be laid up for a while.”

  “You left him at Fort Laramie?” Jerusalem asked.

  “Yes, ma’am, I did. Jake wasn’t able to make the trip. He asked me to bring you this letter and this cash money to take care of things.”

  Jerusalem took the leather pouch that Clay extended toward her. She opened it and found a dirty half sheet of paper. She read it silently and then lifted her eyes and looked around. “Your pa says he misses you something fierce, and he hopes to see you soon.” She turned to the man in buckskins, who sat slouched back in the chair, studying him and wondering what sort of man he was. “Why didn’t Jake come home again last year before the winter started?”

  The question seemed to embarrass their guest. “Why, I don’t rightly know, ma’am. We didn’t do too well the first year. Maybe he wanted to get more furs.”

  The answer did not please Jerusalem, but she did not comment. “He spelled your name here—but I can’t make it out. It looks like T-a-l-i-f-er-r-o, but you said your name was Tolliver.”

  “That’s the way you say my name, Miz Hardin, just like it was Tolliver. I wish it was spelled right, but I reckon my ancestors was pretty poor spellers.”

  “Why don’t you change the way you spell it?” Moriah asked.

  “Oh, I’m used to it now. Gives me somethin’ to talk about.”

  “How’d you lose the tip off your finger?”

  “Bear bit it off.”

  “Why did you—?”

  “Moriah, hush! Don’t pester Clay with your questions.” Jerusalem smiled at Clay. “We’re in debt to you for bringing the letter—and the money.”

  “Why, I owe Jake a lot. Me and him got along fine.”

  “When will Pa be comin’ home?” Brodie asked quickly.

  “I can’t rightly say. It depends on that leg pretty much.”

  Somehow Jerusalem knew that Clay Taliferro was not telling all that he knew about her husband, but she did not want to pry, especially in front of the children.

  She was holding the baby, and now she said, “Moriah, you go change this baby and put her down for a nap.” She stood up, handing the baby to Moriah, then extended her free hand toward their guest. Cla
y was surprised, but he blinked and took it gingerly.

  “We thank you for your trouble. You’ll stay for supper, won’t you?”

  “I ain’t in no hurry to go no place, ma’am.”

  “We’d be happy if you’d stay the night with us. You can sleep in my grandfather’s room. We’ve got a spare bed in there.”

  “That’s shore kindly of you, ma’am. I’d be mighty obliged.”

  “Clinton, please show Mr. Taliferro where he can sleep and put his things.”

  Jerusalem waited until the room was cleared, except for Brodie, who was standing by the fireplace. She went over to Brodie and looked up at him. There was a special bond between these two. He was by far the most intelligent, and the most sensitive, of her children. She often feared for him, knowing he was growing up fast and would soon be entering a rough world on his own. Her heart ached for him because times had been hard since his father had been gone so long. Now she put her hand gently on his battered face. “So you got whipped.”

  “Real bad, Ma. But I’ll stomp him when I get bigger.”

  “What’d he say about me?”

  Brodie dropped his head. “Oh, nothin’ much, Ma.”

  “Brodie, don’t lie to me. Don’t ever lie. No lie is ever as good as the truth. Now, what’d he say?” She listened when he told her, and then she put her arms around him. He was half a head taller than she now, and she felt his thinness but knew that his strength would develop in the years to come. She looked up into his face. “Always stick up for your family, Brodie, even if you take a beating for it.”

  “I will, Ma.” He hesitated, then said, “Is there enough money to pay the bank off?”

  Jerusalem had already counted the money in the pouch. She took a deep breath and said, “Enough to hold them off for a time—and then we’ll see.”

  CHAPTER

  THREE

  Ma, this here baby ain’t no girl child! She’s a plumb ol’ fountain! ” “You just change the diaper, Moriah, without any comment.” A slanting ray of pale sunlight came in through the window, illuminating Moriah and the baby. Moriah expertly changed the diaper, then M shoved the baby into a flannel nightgown as if she were shoving a piglet into a sack. Picking up her little sister, Moriah held her high in the air and jostled her until Mary Aidan began to giggle. “Go on and giggle. We’re gonna have a second flood if you keep wettin’ so much—and we ain’t got no ark neither.”

  “Let me have her,” Jerusalem said. “I want to feed her before she starts hollerin’.”

  Moriah handed the baby over to her mother, who sat down and began to nurse her. “You better go out and gather some eggs. I hope they keep on layin’ like they have been.”

  “Ma, did you know I told Clay about that old Rusk and what he done to you?”

  Jerusalem stroked Mary Aidan’s silky red hair and said, “And who told you about all that?”

  “Oh, shoot, everybody knows that, Ma!” Moriah said airily. “You know how it is in Arkadelphia. Everybody knows everybody else’s business.”

  “Now, you shouldn’t be tellin’ Mr. Taliferro things like that, and you shouldn’t call him Clay.”

  “He told me to, Ma. And he told Brodie and Clinton the same thing.”

  Jerusalem rocked slowly back and forth, stroking Mary Aidan’s hair and thinking about the three days that had transpired since Clay Taliferro had arrived. He certainly had made himself at home and talked freely about Jake—except for those things Jerusalem desired most to know about her husband. Something about the whole story of Jake’s failure to come home for nearly a year and a half, except for one short visit, did not ring true in Jerusalem’s mind. Though she was by now used to her husband’s wanderings, his behavior was still not acceptable to her. Her musings were interrupted by Clinton, who came running in and yelling.

  “Clay’s back, and he done brung a big, fat deer, Ma!”

  “Well, that’s good. We can use some fresh meat.”

  “I’m gonna go out and help him dress it out,” Clinton said importantly. “He said I could use that big ol’ knife of his.”

  “I’m going, too, Ma,” Moriah said.

  Jerusalem nodded as she continued to rock the baby. When Mary Aidan was satisfied and had dropped off to sleep, Jerusalem gently laid the baby down in the cradle. She turned and walked outside to the dogtrot, stepped down, and walked over to the skinning tree. Clay was standing in front of the fat doe he had strung up by the hind legs and turned to face her when he heard her footsteps.

  “Good morning, Jerusalem Ann,” he said cheerfully. He had not shaved, and his tawny, straggly beard had a hint of red in it. “Brought in supper.”

  “That’s good, Clay.”

  “I’m just fixin’ to let Clinton here do a little of the work, if that’s all right with you.”

  “He needs to learn.”

  Clay looked down at his buckskin shirt for a moment and then shook his head. “This is going to be kind of messy. I think I’ll save a little wear and tear on my shirt, if you’ll pardon me, ma’am.” Before she could reply, he pulled his shirt off over his head.

  For a moment Jerusalem was taken aback by the sight of his bare chest. Her first impression of him had been that he was skinny, but now she could see that she had misjudged him. Clay did not have the heavy, bulky muscles her husband had, but there was not an ounce of spare flesh on him. His arms writhed with lean muscles whenever he moved. His stomach was flat and marked with small squares of solid muscle, and there was a hint of speed and quickness about him. He reminded her of the mountain lion she had shot once that was trying to take one of her cows. Taliferro possessed the same grace and strength she had seen in that animal.

  “Golly, Clay, what done that to you?” Moriah asked.

  Clay turned and looked down at his chest. A huge scar started just below his left shoulder and ran all the way down to his right hip, marring the symmetry of his lithe form. “That? Why, I got that little scratch from a fellow by the name of Jim Bowie.”

  “You was in a knife fight?” Moriah said, her eyes fixed on the scar.

  “Yep, and this here was the knife that done it.” Clay pulled a huge knife with a twelve-inch blade out of its sheath and held it up. It glinted in the morning sunlight, and Clay shook his head. “I took it off of Jim and gave him something to remember me by. It was quite a fracas.”

  “What were you fighting about?” Jerusalem asked.

  “Oh, I disremember.”

  “I’ll bet it was over some woman, wasn’t it, Clay?” Moriah demanded.

  Clay suddenly laughed and reached out and tousled Moriah’s hair. “You’re too smart, young lady. Now, let’s get this here deer cut up. Here, Clinton, you take this knife and slice this doe right down along here.”

  “This here girl child’s got a right pretty name—Mary Aidan. How do you spell Aidan?”

  “A-i-d-a-n,” Jerusalem said. “It was my grandmother’s name. It’s Irish.”

  Clay was holding Mary Aidan on his lap, tickling her chin and grinning, when she giggled at him. “She’s gonna be spellin’ that name for people all of her life—just like me.”

  Old Josiah was sitting at the end of the table. It was one of his good days. His eyes were bright, and he spoke up, saying, “How come you know so much about babies? You handle that there young’un like you knowed about ’em.”

  “Oh, I know all about babies and women,” Clay said, nodding with assurance. “I got me a foolproof system that makes ’em all love me to death.”

  “I’d like to hear it,” Jerusalem said, staring at him oddly.

  “Well,” Clay shrugged, “you handle babies and women just alike. You give ’em everything they want when they want it, and they’ll hush.”

  Jerusalem laughed aloud. She had a beautiful laugh that came from deep inside, and her eyes lit up. “That’s the most foolish thing I ever heard in my life, but I like it.”

  “Why, it’s foolproof if you think about it. When Mary Aidan here gets hungry she holler
s, and as soon as you feed her, she’s got what she wants, so she hushes.”

  Jerusalem was amused. “I feel sorry for your wife.”

  Clay lifted his eyebrows in surprise. “Sorry? Why, what woman wouldn’t want to be treated like that. Wouldn’t you?”

  “No, it’d be like being married to a bowl of mush.”

  “Well, I’d like it,” Moriah said. “When I grow up you can marry me, Clay.”

  “Why, I might do that, honey. But likely not. In another couple of years, there’ll be so many young bucks around here chasin’ after you, you won’t be able to count ’em—and I’ll be too old to chase ya.”

  He turned to Josiah and asked, “Did you ever see General Washington, Josiah?”

  “Many a time in all weathers.”

  Clay shook his head in wonder. “I reckon it seems to me like seein’ the Lord Himself.”

  Clinton spoke up loudly, “That there is idolatry, Clay. You go to perdition for sayin’ things like that. Why, you might as well bow down to a graven image!”

  Clay winked at Jerusalem, then said, “Well, pardon me, Clinton. I didn’t mean to offend your religious sensibilities. What’d he look like, Josiah? George Washington, that is.”

  “A big man, big all over. But it was more than size. He could make men do jest about anything, Clay.” Josiah Mitchell sat loosely in his chair, his mind going back to a time long ago. They all waited for him to say more, for he was like a living history book. Finally, he smiled and said, “I had a drink with him once.”

  “You drank with General Washington!” Clay exclaimed. He leaned forward, his eyes alive with interest. “How’d that come about?”

  “It was that one winter at Valley Forge. We was a lean bunch of scarecrows, I’ll tell ya. Half of us didn’t even have shoes. We had to wrap our feet in rags. I’d got me a jug from somewhere, some kind of rotgut whiskey. We’d been eatin’ shoe leather almost, and the general he come by. He stopped and looked down at us. He didn’t say nothin’, but I seen somethin’ in his eyes, and finally I said, ‘Have a drink, General.’”