Deep in the Heart

by Gilbert, Morris

  Surprised, Clay turned to face her. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, look at what you’ve gone and done. You’ve got me and my four kids. You’ve got a make-believe wife, and you’ve got Lucita and her two youngsters to look after. That’s quite a bit for a bachelor.”

  Clay grinned wryly. “Well, I wasn’t cut out to be a hermit. And it don’t look like I’m gonna be one, does it? But I’ll get everybody settled down before I leave for the mountains.”

  Jerusalem suddenly reached out and placed her hand lightly on his chest. Clay grew very still at her touch. As the silence ran on, he thought about what he knew about this woman. As he looked into her eyes, he suspected a woman’s silence could mean many things. She was looking at him in a most peculiar fashion that made him nervous. He wasn’t sure what it meant in Jerusalem Hardin, but it pulled at him. It caught at his own solitary thinking, and he felt a certain excitement, as if he were on the edge of a discovery.

  He had been caught by the force of this woman’s personality as he’d watched her day after day these last months. She was attractive, but it wasn’t just her beauty that drew him. She had a strength of character that he admired. He was absolutely certain that if the need arose, she could lift a shotgun and shoot someone if it meant protecting her friends and family. She also had a temper that could either charm a man or chill him all the way down to his boots. The strength she possessed to face the difficulties of life square in the face in no way took away from the femininity he saw in her bathed in the moonlight in the pretty tan dress she was wearing.

  The silence ran on, and Clay’s heart began to race. Then he saw a look in her eyes that said more than words ever could.

  The moment broke when she whispered, “Clay, I wish—” She broke off suddenly and removed her hand.

  As she turned to walk away, he caught a glimpse of tears in her eyes.

  Clay Taliferro stood astonished as she opened the door and quickly stepped inside. The door closed, and he heard her footsteps as she walked down the hall to the room she shared with Mary Aidan. “Well, plague take it! Now, I’ve went and upset her. What’d I do this time?”

  He heard a thumping sound and turned around. He saw the big dog stretched out flat, leaning against the house. “Well, Anthony Wayne, you stay away from females. There’s no way to figure them out.”

  Anthony Wayne thumped his tail on the floor, and Clay entered the house and went to bed.

  Nothing changed on the landscape, except the heavy breathing of Anthony Wayne.

  When the moon had risen high in the sky, something stirred on the horizon. Three mounted figures appeared—Comanche warriors sitting on their small rugged horses. They sat silently, watching the house for a long time, and then one of them pointed his lance toward the house. He spoke briefly and then turned his horse away.

  Overhead the moon was round and luminescent. It was what some called the Comanche Moon, for it was the sort of moon that Comanches wait for to ride on their deadly raids.

  The three disappeared, and inside the house some slept and dreamed, while others stayed awake and could not find the blessings of sleep as they thought of what was past and of what was to come.

  PART FOUR:

  THE TEXICANS

  1833—1835

  CHAPTER

  SEVENTEEN

  Zane Satterfield felt the cramps coming on in his legs again. Desperately, he pushed his feet as hard as he could against the end of The Box, although he knew it was useless. When a man was lying on a cot at night in a cell and a cramp came, all he had to do was roll off the cot and stand on the leg tip-toe until the cramp went away. But inside The Box, there was no room to stand up. As the cramp doubled the muscles of his right leg, Zane kneaded it with his hands, trying to make it go away.

  A cold sweat covered Zane’s emaciated body as he worked feverishly to get rid of the cramp. It was September now, Zane thought, but he couldn’t be sure. He knew it was 1833, but that meant little to him at the moment. The weather was bearable, unlike those scorching days in August when the Louisiana heat could turn The Box into a furnace that dried every bit of moisture out of a man’s body so that his tongue swelled up and pushed out of his lips. But even now, the agony of being forced into a stooped-over sitting position for three days with one pint of water twice a day and living in his own filth kept Zane in a continual state of insanity.

  The Box did that to men. It caused most to become inhuman, a mere lump of twisting, knotting, suffering flesh with the passage of time coming to a halt. Zane could tell night from day by the sun that shone through the cracks, and now he saw the same pitch-black darkness outside that was inside The Box.

  The cramp eased, and Zane tried to think of something pleasant. After three days of being locked up in The Box, a man was lucky to think at all.

  He willed his mind back to the hills of Arkansas, thinking of the verdant lushness of the mountains beside the home where he had grown up as a boy and left as a young man. He forced himself to picture in his mind the clear water of the river that flowed beside the cabin. By sheer force of will Zane managed to shove away the horrors of his surroundings, at least for a time.

  The noise of voices, muted by the heavy, wooden sides of The Box, came to him faintly. And even muffled as it was, he immediately recognized the voice of Alf Renzie.

  Renzie had a mushy voice, but at the same time penetrating, and Zane knew he would never forget it for as long as he lived.

  “All right, open the door,” Renzie ordered. “Pull that scudder out of there. He’s had enough vacation.”

  The lock rattled in the hasp outside and the door swung open. Even though it was almost dark, the last fading rays of the sun struck Zane Satterfield, and he closed his eyes.

  “Come on out of there, boy! You had enough of an easy life. Pull him out of there. He’s actin’ like he’s hurt.”

  Rough hands seized Zane and dragged him out of The Box. He tried to straighten his legs, but all his strength was gone, and his limbs were sore and stiff. His eyes were shut tight against the fading sunlight, and he felt the butt end of Alf Renzie’s bullwhip strike him against the shoulders. More than one man had died under the cruelty of that whip, but Zane could not obey. A burly guard swore at him and punched him.

  “All right, Short. You and Williams drag him out of here. You get a good night’s rest, Satterfield. I got a feelin’ I’ll be seein’ you early tomorrow. Got a special little job that ought to suit you just fine.”

  Zane opened his eyes to mere slits and saw the beefy, red face of Renzie. He was a big man, well over six feet, padded with plenty of muscle and fat. He had the brutal face of a butcher and the reputation of being the toughest guard who had ever worked at Melton Penal Camp, which was quite a distinction, considering the stiff competition.

  Zane felt hands under his arms lifting him up. His legs were like rubber, and he heard Bennie Short whisper, “Come on, Zane, you can do it. Here, put your arm over my shoulder.”

  By the time the two inmates had helped Zane back to the cell block, he had recovered part of the use of his legs. The heavy thumping of the guard’s feet behind him silenced the voices in the cells.

  “Here we go. Just lie down on your bunk there, Zane,” Bennie said.

  Zane lay down and stretched his legs full-length, feeling tremendous relief in his cramped muscles. He heard Bennie begging the guard to bring him some water and food, and he heard the guard laugh harshly.

  “All right, I figure he’ll have a tough day tomorrow with Alf. I’ll see if I can round up somethin’.”

  By now Zane’s eyes had become accustomed to the darkness of the cell. Only one lantern in the middle of the hall gave off any light for the inmates. He could hear the breathing of the convicts and the muttered voices, a familiar sound that he had listened to now for almost three years. He did not try to move, but finally he heard the guard come back and shove a tin plate under the bars.

  “Here, Zane, sit up and eat somethin’.”

/>   Zane sat up on the bench and took the plate that Bennie put in his lap. His tongue was so swollen he could barely eat it, and he had to soak it with the tepid water in the tin cup until finally he was able to eat the vile-smelling stew, the first food he had had in three days.

  “That there stint in The Box was a rough one, Zane.” Bennie Short was a small, young man of twenty-two, with hair white as the cotton he had spent most of his life working with. He had buck teeth and pale hazel eyes, and his skin was so fair the hot Louisiana sunlight constantly blistered it. His body was scarred from all the beatings he had taken in prison. But he was the closest thing to a friend that Zane had managed to make during his sentence. Bennie was in for a year, and he lacked only one month of fulfilling it, whereas Zane was looking at fifteen years and understood well that he would never live it out.

  “You ought not to sass Renzie, Zane,” Bennie said. “You just make it hard on yourself.”

  Zane sat there drinking the water, feeling the moisture slake his immense thirst. He could barely see the outline of the young man sitting on the cot next to his and did not have the strength to answer.

  Bennie filled up Zane’s cup three times, then said, “That’s all of it, Zane. I could try to get some more.”

  “No, don’t get ’em stirred up,” Zane whispered. “The way they are, they just might lock you in The Box.” His voice was rusty, and he cleared his throat. “You’ve got to behave yourself and get out of this place next month.”

  “Shore will be good. I’m gonna get as far away from this here place as I can,” Bennie said.

  “Better go to sleep. They’ll come and get us early in the morning.”

  “I do dread that. I don’t know what Renzie’s got on his mind, but it ain’t never no fun. Good night, Zane. I’m glad you’re out.”

  “Good night, Bennie.”

  Zane lay on the bed, his body tense, waiting for what he knew would come next. It never failed, and when it came he found himself flinching. The sound was always the same. The crack of a whip split the silence as it cut into a man’s flesh, followed by horrendous screams, followed by Alf Renzie’s laughing. It was the same every night. Inmates worked all day, and if they committed a fault, no one said anything. But at night, after they had put in a full day’s work and were shoved in their cell, Renzie would come by later and take them out and say, “You didn’t pick enough cotton today, boy. I’m gonna have to teach you a lesson.” The brutal whipping seemed to go on interminably. Men screamed until they had no voice left. More than one man had died under the whip of Alf Renzie. Zane had tasted that whip half a dozen times during his sentence. And because of it, his hatred for Alf Renzie bordered on insanity. Zane’s back would carry the scars from Renzie’s brutality for the rest of his life. Zane spent hours thinking of ways he could kill him slowly and painfully.

  Finally, Renzie gave a last laugh, and then silence fell over the prison. Zane Satterfield dropped off into unconsciousness, dreading the morning and Alf Renzie’s whip.

  When morning came, Zane and Bennie ate the meager breakfast provided, and then waited for Alf Renzie to appear. About a half hour later, Renzie swaggered out of the guard’s quarters, his dreaded black whip coiled at his side. From time to time, he caressed it as a man might touch a woman, but today he evidently was in a better mood than usual.

  “Come on, boys. We got some clearing to do in the bayou,” Renzie said.

  Renzie mounted his fine roan stallion, and the two convicts, carrying axes over their shoulders, hobbled along after him. The bayou was accessible by trails that led through the high ground, but it took more than an hour until Renzie pulled his horse up and said, “There, cut that tree down.”

  The tree was a massive cypress, surrounded by knobby knees. The undergrowth had to be cleared out before Zane and Bennie could even get to the base of the trunk. They fell to work, and from time to time Zane glanced over toward Renzie, who was sitting down, drinking out of a bottle. As the sun rose slowly, the first rays of dawn threw a light across the horizon that outlined the mud flats. The moss in the cypress and oak trees seemed to shimmer like gold in the morning light. As the sun slowly climbed to its zenith in the blue sky, it burned like a torch so that even September’s coolness fled away.

  By noon both men’s arms felt like lead, but they continued to flail at the massive trunk. It was like chopping at rubber, for the dull axes seemed to rebound off the trunk.

  Renzie was working himself up into a rage, and finally he got up and lumbered toward them, limbering his whip. He cursed loudly as he approached. His eyes glowed with a brutal pleasure as he swung the whip back and brought it down across Zane’s bare back. The lash burned like fire, and Zane flinched but held back from crying out.

  Renzie turned on Bennie with the whip, lashing Bennie like a crazy man. Bennie went down on the ground, pleading and begging, but to no avail. Zane had seen this before, and he felt sick as he watched the red stripes appear on Bennie’s pale body and then begin to bleed.

  Suddenly, without any provocation, Renzie reversed the butt of the whip and swung it with all his force, striking Bennie in the temple.

  The crunching sound turned Zane’s stomach sick, and he knew Bennie was dead. Suddenly, all the hate he had buried inside started to rise in him like a bursting dam that could not be stopped. The insanity that had been growing in him for months turned on Alf Renzie. The sight of his friend’s pale body criss-crossed with stripes, the eyes open but staring at the open sky, pushed Zane over the edge. With a growl deep in his throat, he flung himself at Renzie, throwing his arms around him and dragging him down. He flailed at the thick body, and Renzie, caught off-guard, shouted and began struggling to get loose. Ordinarily, that would have been easy enough, for he was brutally strong, but he was wrestling with a man driven by rage who had waited for this moment far too long.

  Zane pummeled Renzie’s thick face. His blows closed an eye and loosened a tooth, but he also felt his strength ebbing. He knew he wouldn’t last long against his opponent.

  Renzie had been shocked at first, but now his cries of rage scored the air. He reached for the pistol in the holster and pulled it out. Zane locked both hands around the wrist. The pistol exploded, and Zane felt the fiery blow as if someone had struck him in the left side with an iron rod. He felt the burly guard turning the pistol to shoot him in the middle, and with one final burst of strength, Zane twisted the guard’s hand around. The gun fired again, and Renzie uttered a surprised sound, and suddenly his body went limp.

  Zane’s face was not a foot away from Renzie’s as he kept his hold on the man’s arm. He saw Renzie’s eyes staring at him in disbelief, and when he looked down, Zane saw a crimson flower of blood spreading over the man’s stomach. He wrenched the gun out of the hand that held it loosely. Alf Renzie was sitting down, and his eyes went down to his stomach. He pressed on it as if trying to hold the crimson flood in, then looked up and whispered, “You done kilt me, boy.”

  Zane nodded, and a smile turned the corners of his lips. “Good! The best day’s work I ever did. Go on and die. For all the men you’ve killed with that whip, you deserve to die.” Zane stood there watching as the blood poured out of the big man.

  Renzie slowly slid to the ground, as if he were preparing for a night’s sleep. He muttered, “The sun’s in my eyes.” He put his arm over his face. Suddenly his body loosened, and his arm dropped toward the ground.

  For a moment Zane stared at the body, and then turning, he went over to where Bennie Short lay exactly as he had fallen. Reaching out, Zane touched the boy’s neck and felt the stillness of it. A bitterness welled up inside, and he glanced over at Renzie’s body. “I wish I could have killed you a dozen times. You cheated me!” He laid his hand back on Bennie’s hair for a moment and then said, “I hate to leave you with that scum, but I got to git.”

  He hesitated, then found Bennie’s shirt, tore it into strips, and made a crude bandage. He picked up Renzie’s cartridge belt and holster, belted it on,
and then took the money Renzie had in his pocket and a fine, gold watch that Renzie was particularly proud of.

  Zane moved over to the horse, mounted, and for one moment looked down with great sorrow at the body of his friend, Bennie Short. He shook his head and whispered, “I wish you were going with me, Bennie,” then turned and kicked the horse into a dead run.

  Rhys Morgan was sitting loosely on the seat of the wagon whistling a tune when suddenly the sound of a horse’s cry came to him.

  “Whoa, boys!” Pulling back on the reins, Rhys listened. For a time he heard only the singing of birds in the top of a tall tree, whose heavy growth shielded the road from the sun.

  And then it came again. “Well, that’s something,” Morgan said, as he had gotten into the habit of talking to himself. He jumped out of the wagon, secured the lines, and moved off into the undergrowth. He was no woodsman, but he could faintly smell wood smoke. As he continued making his way through the undergrowth, he heard the thrashing sound of a horse grunting.

  Cautiously, he moved ahead, wishing that he were armed in some way. Then he caught a sudden motion up ahead and stood still for a moment. Moving forward slowly, he pushed his way through the brush until he saw a horse tied to a sapling.

  “Whoa there, boy,” he said as the horse whinnied as he approached. It was a fine animal, saddled, and Morgan searched the ground quickly. He saw nothing, and then when he glanced over to one side at the base of a large hickory, he saw the form of a man. He waited for a moment, for he did not like to wake a man up out of a sound sleep. It was too likely to get a man hurt. “Hello,” he called softly and then more loudly. “Hello, are you awake?”

  Rhys Morgan heard a faint moan. He walked over to the tree and saw that the man’s shirt was off, and a bandage soaked with blood covered his chest and side. At the sight of a gun in the man’s hand, he stopped dead still. “Having a bit of trouble, you are. Let me help you, but don’t shoot.”