Deep in the Heart

by Gilbert, Morris

  “You reckon I’m that bad a sinner?”

  “Yes, you are. Gettin’ drunk every chance you get and carryin’ on with bad women is just what God wants to save you from. Come on. I’ll go with you.”

  Clay simply laughed. “It’s not my time, Clinton.”

  Clinton shook his head and said, “If you get kilt, you’ll be sorry.”

  “That’s enough of that,” Jerusalem said sharply. “I reckon we can go now.”

  Brodie was angry with Clinton, for all he seemed to do was criticize everyone. “Shut up, Clinton.”

  “Don’t tell me to shut up!”

  Brodie snapped back, and Clinton lost his temper and hit Brodie in the chest. Before he knew it, Brodie had hauled off and socked him a good one in the face, giving Clinton a bloody nose. Jerusalem stepped in and separated them, and Clinton threatened, “I’ll whip you tomorrow—see if I don’t!”

  They left the campgrounds, and Jerusalem told Brodie to drive for her. Brodie was carrying Mary Aidan, who was sound asleep. He waited until his mother got into the wagon, handed the baby up, and then climbed up and took the lines. He said nothing for a long time. Overhead, the stars sparkled like tiny diamonds on a velvet cloth, and the moon shone full and silver. After they had ridden for a few moments, Jerusalem said, “How come you’re so quiet, son?”

  “I guess I was thinkin’ about what Clinton said to Clay. I’m a sinner, too, Ma.”

  “Then why didn’t you listen to the preacher and let Jesus save you?”

  “I don’t know. I just couldn’t make myself go down. I never have figured it out. You’re a Christian, ain’t you?”

  “Yes, I am,” Jerusalem said quietly.

  “Why ain’t you never been baptized, then? It bothers Clinton a lot.”

  Jerusalem reached over with her left arm and put it around Brodie’s shoulders. She hugged him tight, and he looked at her with surprise. She smiled and the moonlight was kind to her face. She looked very young to Brodie at that moment, and she smiled at him in a way that made him feel warm inside.

  “You’re a good boy, Brodie. You’re the brightest of all my children. Of all the family, really.” She kept her arm around him and looked down at the baby’s face. Mary Aidan was fast asleep in the crook of her right arm.

  Brodie thought she was through and couldn’t understand what she was trying to say. Finally she spoke, and her voice was quieter than usual. “I called on the Lord a long time ago when I was just a girl, and something happened to me. I don’t know why I didn’t join the church. I just didn’t. And then when I lost my boys, I got mad at God. I wouldn’t speak to Him until about a year ago. Then I began reading my Bible again and trying to pray. At times I feel far from God. But, Brodie, I know one thing. I love Jesus. He was a real man. I read the parts over and over again where He was good to women and how He picked up little children and held them. That always makes me a little bit teary. So, I guess I’ve had a few disappointments in my life, but Jesus never disappoints me. I expect I’ll decide some day what kind of a church I want to belong to. So far most of ’em have been a big disappointment to me. I reckon I’m too hard to please.”

  Jerusalem squeezed Brodie and shook her head, then said, “I’ll be glad when we find your pa.”

  Brodie knew that the conversation about religion was over as they pulled back into camp. He had never heard his mother speak so openly about her faith in God before. As he got ready to turn in for the night, he began to think on what she had said about Jesus. He looked around to make sure nobody saw him, and then pulled out a Bible his mother kept wrapped in a cloth in their wagon and started to read, looking for what it was about Jesus that held his mother so captive.

  Jerusalem went over to where Clinton was lying and saw that he was awake. “Clinton, you shouldn’t have hit Brodie.”

  “Well, he didn’t need to tell me to shut up!”

  Jerusalem spoke softly for a time, stroking Clinton’s hair, and finally she said, “You ought to forgive your brother.”

  Clinton knew how he had reacted was wrong, but sometimes he just got plumb fed up with his older brother. He mumbled, “All right, Ma, I’ll forgive him.”

  “That’s my good Baptist boy!”

  “I’ll forgive him now, but if I don’t die tonight, I’ll shore whip him tomorrow!”

  Jerusalem could not keep back the laughter. She grabbed Clinton and hugged him, saying, “Your religion needs fixing, Clinton, but you’re a good boy!”

  August had come now, and the days were hot and the nights warm. The animals were getting tired, and so was everyone on the journey. Clay was riding his bay twenty yards in the lead. He began to sing, the words floating back to Julie and Jerusalem, who were riding in the lead wagon:

  I found a rose in New Orleans,

  Sweetest flower I’d ever seen.

  Coal black hair and sparkling eyes

  And rosy lips for telling lies.

  Clay had a good baritone voice and sang the chorus with sorrow and great feeling:

  Deep in the heart!

  O deep in the heart!

  Naught can be lost

  That’s deep in the heart!

  Once I held her in my arms,

  She swore we’d never part,

  But now I only hold her charms

  Way down deep in the heart!

  All flowers may fade

  Their fragrance depart—

  But my New Orleans maid

  Will ever be deep in my heart.

  He sang the final chorus, then Julie called out to him, “Hey, Clay, come here.” He turned his horse and waited until they drew the wagon alongside of him. “Who was this shady lady from New Orleans you’re carrying on about?” Julie asked.

  Clay shoved his hat back and stared at her. “You ain’t got no respect for a broken heart, girl!”

  “Tell us about her,” Jerusalem said, smiling. “You should have told us you were suffering from a broken heart. We’d have been more careful of your feelings.”

  “You two don’t know what it’s like having your heart busted all up,” Clay announced. “Women, they don’t feel things as deep as men do.”

  “Clay Taliferro, I can’t believe you said that!” Jerusalem said.

  Clay stared at the two, then said, “That New Orleans rose was a real woman! You can’t hardly ever find them no more. Women just ain’t got it here!” He put his hand over his heart, gave them what he considered a soulful look, then turned his horse and galloped off.

  “I don’t think he’s sufferin’ too much,” Julie laughed. “He just wants us to think he’s a ladies’ man with a broken heart.”

  “Maybe he is,” Jerusalem said, watching as he rode on ahead, a cloud of dust rising after him.

  “Clay? Don’t you believe it! He’s tough as leather.”

  Jerusalem didn’t answer, and for fifteen minutes the two were silent. Finally, Jerusalem said, “I wonder what she was like?”

  “What who was like?”

  “That girl who betrayed Clay in New Orleans.”

  Julie stared with disgust at Jerusalem. “Don’t ever believe what a man tells you. They’re all liars where women are concerned. He was probably the one who left her!”

  It came as a relief one day when they stopped for noon break to eat a cold lunch and Clay pointed ahead and said, “I reckon we’ll be pullin’ into another town pretty soon.”

  “What town is that?” Julie asked.

  “Well, I don’t know what they call it. There’s two of ’em by the same name. Some call it NAK-atush, which is the way the French say it, but other people call it Nako-DO-shus. That’s Spanish style, I reckon.”

  “What happens when we get there?” Brodie asked.

  “We turn west and head down what they call the El Camino Real.”

  “What does that mean?” Moriah demanded.

  “Means ‘the royal road.’ It goes most of the way through Texas, I guess. But pretty soon—” Clay broke off and pulled up beside a grove
of trees, placing his hand on the revolver at his side. “There comes somebody, and he ain’t out for no pleasure walk.”

  Jerusalem turned to see a man come reeling out of the woods. He was alone, and his face was scratched. He fell as he started toward them.

  “That fellow’s hurt,” Josiah said. “We’d better see to him.”

  As Clay and Jerusalem rushed forward toward the man, she noticed that Clay’s eyes were searching the woods. When they got to the man, he had risen to his feet, and he was trying to catch his breath. He was a short man dressed in a suit of some kind that had been ripped by the briars in the bushes.

  “What’s wrong, fella?” Clay said.

  “Indians! They’re killing them! You . . . you’ve got to help them!”

  Clay straightened up, and his face grew hard. “Where abouts?”

  “Back there along the river. Give me a gun. I’ve got to go help ’em.

  They’re torturing them. Can’t you hear their screams?”

  At that instant Jerusalem saw a new side to Clay Taliferro. His eyes suddenly had a hard gleam in them.

  He whirled quickly and yelled, “Get all the guns!” He grabbed his rifle and tossed the other Hawkin to Brodie, then said, “Get a shotgun, Clinton. Josiah, you got your rifle?”

  “Shore have.” Josiah was looking into the man’s face and said, “How many of them was there?”

  “Not many. Only eight or ten, but they’re killing the professor.”

  Clay looked at Jerusalem and said, “You women stay here.” Then turning back to the man, he said, “Show us where they are.”

  Jerusalem came to stand before Clay and said, “You have to go?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then take care of my boys, Clay.”

  “I’ll do the best I can.”

  Brodie was more scared than he had ever been in his life. He had no trouble keeping up with Clay, who led the way. When he glanced across at Clinton, he saw his brother’s face was pale. Brodie wondered if he could kill a man, even an Indian, but the tale the newcomer, whose name was James Langley, had told them had chilled him to the bone. When Clay asked him how many were in the party, he had said, “There was five of us—me, the professor, two drivers, and a guide.”

  “How’d you get away?”

  “I’d gone down to the river for water, and I heard the devils screamin’. I started back toward our camp, but I saw ’em kill the guide, and they had caught the others. We’ve got to get back, or they’ll torture them.”

  “I expect that’s right,” Clay said grimly. He kept up a hard pace, as fast as Langley could go.

  Finally Langley, gasping for breath again, said, “They’re right over that rise there in a clearing.”

  “Everybody keep quiet and spread out,” Clay said. “We’ll see what it’s like before we do anything.”

  Brodie took his place in the line as they advanced slowly through the thick undergrowth. The briars scratched his face, but he brushed them aside. Josiah was on his left and Clinton on his right, and they all reached the tree line at about the same time. “Look at them Indians,” Josiah said. “They got those poor fellers staked out.”

  Brodie took one look and grew sick. Two of the men had been stripped naked and were stretched out, tied to stakes in the ground. Some of the Indians were gathered around laughing and cutting at them with knives. Past them, a tall man, also stripped naked, had been tied and hung from his ankles. The Indians had started a fire under him. Two of them were going around cutting him with knives, shouting and screaming.

  Brodie felt his stomach turn over and closed his eyes to shut out the sight, and then he heard Clay say, “All right. Here’s what we’ll do. They won’t be expecting us. They’re occupied and won’t be suspecting anything. Here, take my rifle, Josiah.”

  Clay handed his Hawkin to Josiah and pulled out his pistol. “I’ll get as close as I can and make a rush at ’em. I got six shots here. As soon as you hear the first one, start shooting. Your shotguns won’t reach that far, Clinton, so wait until you come in closer. Josiah, you’ll have two shots.

  Brodie, you’ll have one.”

  Brodie noticed that Clay’s skin was stretched tight across his face, but otherwise he appeared calm. “Clay, you ain’t goin’ in alone,” Brodie whispered.

  “They won’t be payin’ any attention to me. They’re havin’ too much fun with their dirty business. Watch now and don’t miss. Make every shot count.”

  Brodie watched as Clay stepped out of the tree line and then started running toward the clearing. Brodie had never seen a man as fast as Clay Taliferro. Clay had raced with him and some young men who had gathered at the farm one day. Clay had simply run off and left them in the dust. Now, as he ran toward the men held captive, he was as swift as a deer.

  “Get ready, boy!” Josiah said hoarsely as he took aim. He already had one of the Hawkins up, the other one leaned ready against the tree. “As soon as they see him and you get a clear shot, shoot ’em. Don’t try for the head. Right through the belly’s a good place.”

  Brodie lifted the Hawkin and balanced it against a low-growing limb.

  As he took aim with the now-steady gun, the Indians jumped into focus as if he had looked through a telescope. The two men who were staked out had been screaming, and now, even as Brodie watched, two of the Indians raised their tomahawks and with a dull thud cut off their screams abruptly.

  One of the Indians looked up and saw Clay running toward them. He let out a shrill scream and raced to meet Clay. An explosion jolted Brodie as Josiah fired his weapon. The shot caught the Indian in the throat. He fell to the ground, kicked once, and then was still. At that same moment, Clay began shooting. Indians fell with every shot.

  Brodie saw one Indian over to Clay’s right who still had his bloody tomahawk in his hand. When he turned and started for Clay, Brodie pulled the trigger without hesitation. Black smoke billowed out, and the Indian fell forward with a bullet right in the chest. Josiah fired the other Hawkin, then yelled, “Come on!” He came out of the woods, and the others followed him.

  When they got to the clearing, however, the echoes of Clay’s last shot were fading. The Indians lay in sprawled positions, and without hesitation, Clay pulled out his knife and said, “Cut that fellow down while I hold him, Brodie.”

  Brodie had to shimmy up the tree to the first limb and slash at the rawhide thong that tied the man’s feet. Clay caught him as he fell, and the man called Langley came over, his face white as paste, and said, “Are you all right, Professor?”

  They all crowded around the man, who was bleeding freely from half a dozen cuts. He was a long-faced man with long arms and legs like a spider. His fingers were longer than anyone’s Brodie had ever seen. He had canary yellow hair and a pale complexion. The eyes opened, and the man’s lips began to move. He looked up at Clay, and then around at the dead Indians, and a smile pulled the corners of his wide mouth upward. “I say, old chap—good show.”

  “He’s all right, Langley. Breathed a little smoke. Brodie, you and Clinton tear back to camp and tell them we’re all right. They’ll be worried somethin’ fierce about you,” Clay said.

  “You want me to bring ’em here?”

  “No, I don’t want them to see all this. Bring a couple mules back. We’ll get these fellows back to camp.”

  The Englishman was struggling to sit up. He coughed and said, “I say, how did you find us?”

  “Your man Langley told us.”

  The Englishman’s eyes went to Langley, who was kneeling beside him. “I’ll have to give you a raise.” He started to say something else but fell backward in a faint.

  “He’ll be all right,” Clay said. “Luckily, they’d only just started on him.”

  “Them other fellers are dead.”

  “Some of them Indians ain’t dead,” Josiah remarked. “They’re still a-twitchin’.”

  Clay rose and plucked his bowie knife from his belt. “They will be soon,” he said calmly.

&nb
sp; Jerusalem had dressed the cuts on the Englishman’s body, and the servant Langley had seen to it that fresh clothing was provided. The professor was sitting now with his back against one of the wagon wheels drinking liquor from a bottle that Langley had brought.

  “I thank you, ma’am. You’re a fine doctor.”

  “You lost a lot of blood,” Jerusalem said as she gathered up the strips of cloth left over from making bandages.

  “Well, this will build more blood,” the Englishman said. He drank from the bottle and then said, “I haven’t introduced myself. My name’s Fergus St. John Nightingale—the Third. You met my servant James here.”

  “What are you doing in these parts, Professor?” Jerusalem asked.

  “Oh, a little study, don’t you see. I’m writing a book on aboriginal races.”

  “What’s that?” Julie asked. She had helped Jerusalem staunch the flow of blood and then bandaged him up.

  “Savages,” Nightingale said.

  “Any particular kind?” Clay asked. Langley had brought back two bottles, and now Clay tilted one and sipped it. “What is this?”

  “It’s champagne,” Langley said.

  “Makes my nose tickle.”

  “See if it’ll make mine tickle,” Julie said. She reached over and took the bottle, tilted it, and drank deeply. “Not much to it, is there?”

  Nightingale said cheerfully, “Well, it is a bit frothy, but what can you expect from the French? I’m writing a book on savages. I started in Africa.

  We had quite a time there, didn’t we, James?”

  “Yes, sir, we did indeed.”

  “Will you have something to eat?” Jerusalem asked.

  “A bit later perhaps.” He looked up at Clay. “I say, old boy, were those Comanches? I’m particularly interested in studying the Comanches.”

  “No, if they had been Comanches, we’d all be dead. Those were San Carlos Apaches. Don’t know what they were doin’ this far east. Comanches pretty well wiped them out around here. Run ’em out a long time ago.”

  “Where were you headed?” Josiah asked.

  “We’re going to Texas. I understand the Comanches are there.”