Julie turned and watched Catchall brush his moustache. It was thick and droopy and covered his lower lip completely. “Is that a moustache, or are you trying to eat a muskrat, Jack?” Julie laughed as Catchall blinked and his face flushed. “You ought to cut that thing off, or I’ll do it for you if you like. Let me borrow your knife, Charlie.”
Charlie Hillhouse, seated across from Julie, pulled out a huge bowie knife and said, “Here. You want me to hold him for ye?”
“Put that pig sticker away, Charlie,” Catchall snapped.
Hillhouse laughed and put the knife back in the sheaf at his side. Then picking up a bottle, he filled the three glasses with whiskey.
“I t-think I’ve had enough,” Julie slurred.
“There ain’t never enough whiskey,” Charlie said. He was a huge, brawny man, with a broad face and a thick neck. He wore buckskins, and a livid scar marked the left side of his face, running from his eyebrow to under his collar. He tossed the liquor off as if it were water and then filled the glass up again.
“Who’s that, Charlie?” Catchall said. “Never seen him before.”
“Don’t know. He looks like a lawyer, don’t he now?”
Julie turned in the direction of the door and saw Rhys Morgan coming through the door. She sat up straighter, and her lips drew together in a tight line. She was drunk enough that she did not want to talk to him, but she said, “That’s Rhys Morgan. He’s a preacher.”
Hillhouse grinned. “A preacher! How come you know him, Julie? I don’t reckon you spend a lot of time in church.”
“What’s he doin’ in here?” Catchall said.
“He’s looking for me.” Julie took the bottle, poured her glass full, and held it up as Rhys crossed the floor. Everyone in the saloon had turned to watch him, but when he reached the table where Julie was, his face was pleasant and he made no mention of Julie being drunk.
“Hello, Julie,” he said.
“What do you want, Rhys?”
“I would like to have a talk with you.”
“She’s busy,” Catchall said. “Are you blind or somethin’?”
Julie drank the whiskey off and slammed the glass down on the table.
“I don’t want to talk to you,” she said, knowing it would do no good. She had learned that Rhys Morgan was always kind, but when he got a notion in his head, he had a stubborn streak.
“It won’t take but a few minutes, Julie, if you’d just come outside.”
“You go outside. I’m staying here.”
Charlie Hillhouse laughed, but there was no humor in it. “Mister, I can’t stand preachers. Get out of here before I bust you up.”
“I wish you wouldn’t do that. All I want is a talk with this lady.”
“You got a hearing problem, Preacher?” Hillhouse said, his face turning red with anger. “Get out of here!”
“I just came from talking to your sister, Julie,” Rhys said. “I thought you might like to know how everyone’s doing.”
“If I want to know, I’ll go to the house and find out for myself. Now leave. This is no place for you.”
“Oh, I’ve been in lots of saloons like this with plenty of whiskey. And I always woke up the next day with a splitting head. But the Lord showed me that life was more than getting drunk all the time. He delivered me from all that.” He looked around and surveyed the room with interest.
“All you fellas need to give your hearts to the Lord.”
Charlie Hillhouse stood up so abruptly his chair fell over. He came around the table swiftly for a big man and cursed as he, without warning, threw a roundhouse right that would have knocked Morgan flat out if it had landed.
Julie cried out, “Leave him alone, Charlie!” But it was too late.
Whenever he got drunk, he would get angered by the least little thing. She had seen Hillhouse demolish two men already in fights in the last week.
And after he had pummeled them to the ground with his huge fists, he’d had no compunction about kicking them repeatedly.
Amazingly, the second blow did not connect either. Rhys simply moved his head a couple of inches. The punch went over him, and the force of Hillhouse’s rush drove him forward. Rhys stepped aside and let the big man lumber by.
“Bust him up, Charlie!” Jack Catchall said. “We didn’t send for no preacher to spoil our fun.”
Julie started to get up, but Jack grabbed her arm. “Let him alone, Julie. I ain’t seen a preacher whipped in quite a spell. This is gonna be good.”
Julie struggled to break free, but at the same time she kept her eyes on the two men. Hillhouse was incensed that he had missed again. And now he came back more carefully, eyeing Rhys with a calculated look filled with more anger.
“I’m gonna mess you up real good, Preacher,” he said. His eyes looked red under the yellow lantern, and he made a fearsome sight, for he had huge muscles that bulged against the leather shirt he wore. He swung again, but this time he took more care. But once again he could not land the blow on Rhys. “Why don’t you stand still? What are you, some kind of a dancing master?”
“I’d rather not have any trouble,” Morgan said. But at the same time, he lifted his hands with fists closed. “I’ll just step outside if my presence bothers you.”
“You ain’t steppin’ nowhere!” Hillhouse roared and rushed again.
Julie did not see exactly what happened. Morgan’s hands moved too fast. They seemed to be pumping, and she heard a splat!—splat!—splat! as three blows caught the big man in the face. The first one stopped Charlie dead in his tracks, and the second and third drove him backward so that he fell full-length on his back. Everyone in the whole saloon gasped at the sight of Hillhouse sprawled out on the floor. They’d never seen him take a blow before in all the fights they’d watched. He stared up dazed. His right eyebrow was split open, and blood was running down his face and over his shirt. He seemed confused and shook his head, wiping the blood from his face.
“Quit foolin’ around with him, Charlie!” Catchall called out.
Hillhouse slowly got to his feet. He stood staring at Morgan. “What’d you hit me with?”
“Nothing but my fists,” Morgan said. “Come on, Charlie, let’s quit this foolishness before somebody gets hurts.”
“Grab him, boys; he’s too slick!” Hillhouse shouted.
Julie watched helplessly as several men rushed forward and grabbed Morgan, holding him as Charlie stepped in front of him, sneering with rage.
Hillhouse laughed and said, “Here, see how this fist suits you.” He struck Morgan square in the face with a powerful blow that drove the preacher’s face around. Then Hillhouse began to pummel him repeatedly with his huge, meaty fists.
“Let him alone, Charlie, you’ll kill him!” Julie called out.
“I aim to!” Charlie said as he punched Morgan in the face again.
Julie reached over suddenly with her left hand and pulled the revolver out of Jack Catchall’s belt. She aimed it carefully at Charlie and pulled the trigger. The explosion rocked the saloon.
Hillhouse yelled and stepped back, reached up and grabbed his ear, which was bleeding. “You shot me!”
“The next one will be right in your stupid head, Charlie! Now, everybody back off!” she yelled.
As the men who were holding Morgan upright released him, he slumped to the floor, his face bleeding.
Julie stepped around, and her eyes were flashing. “All right, Charlie, you and Harry there pick him up.”
“Pick him up! What for?”
“Take him to my room.” When Hillhouse hesitated, Julie pulled the hammer back and aimed right in his face.
“Wait a minute! Be careful with that thing,” Hillhouse said.
“Come on, Harry, pick him up—now!” Julie ordered.
Julie followed the two men as they carried Morgan’s limp body outside. Turning, she said, “I’ll keep the gun in case I have to shoot Charlie.”
She turned then and left, and the saloon at once burst in
to loud talk.
Pete Borders, who had watched the whole thing, came over and sat down beside Catchall. He was a small man with a dark face and black hair.
“I think she’d have shot him, Jack.”
“I think so, too.” Catchall shook his head. “She sure is a hard woman to figure.”
Julie leaned over and mopped Rhys Morgan’s face with a damp cloth. “Well, congratulations, you’re not dead.” Rhys blinked his eyes and tried to sit up, but Julie put her hand on his chest. “You lie down there. You’re in no shape to be getting up after the beating you just took from Charlie.”
Rhys licked his lips, then said, “Where am I? How’d I get here?”
“Well, you sure didn’t walk here. I made Charlie and one of his thugs carry you.” Julie put her hand on his head and turned Morgan’s head sideways. “I don’t guess you’ll need any stitches, but you’re lucky you still have all your teeth. I’ve seen Charlie knock a feller’s teeth right out with one blow.”
“Let me sit up,” Morgan said.
“No, you need to stay there for a little bit and rest.”
Rhys lay still for a time. He looked around and commented, “This is a nice room. Is it yours?”
“Yes.”
The room was nicer than usual for Texas. He had been in a lot of homes on his travels that didn’t have much of anything, just the bare essentials. Julie’s room contained a settee, a rocking chair, a dressing table with a mirror over it, and a bed with a colorful quilt that was pushed back to make room for the reverend. “I messed your bed up,” Rhys muttered. Reaching up, he touched his face and winced. “I can’t open my eye.”
“It’s all swollen shut. I been puttin’ cold wet packs on it, but I imagine it’ll stay closed for a day or two until the swelling goes down.”
Morgan shook his head and suddenly sat up. “I thought I heard somebody shooting.”
“That was me. If I hadn’t put a bullet in that ornery Charlie Hill-house, he might have killed you. He’s done it before, you know.”
“You shot him?”
“Just a piece of his ear. He’s so mean nothin’ would kill him but a slug between his eyes. How do you feel?”
Morgan smiled lopsidedly. “Wonderful. Thanks for saving my life.”
“You’re a fool, Rhys Morgan! Why didn’t you leave when you had the chance?”
“I needed to talk to you.”
Julie moved over, sat down on the bed, and stared at him. “Talk about what?”
“About your family. They’re worried about you—and so am I.”
“I’m none of your concern,” she said as she got up to get more cold, wet cloths.
“Why, sure you are, Julie,” Morgan said.
“So, now I guess you’ve come to preach at me.”
“That’s my business, but I don’t guess you’d listen, would you?”
“No.”
“I just want to tell you that Jesus is the best friend you’ll ever have.
You can go to all the saloons you want, but you’re not going to find anything that can match what He can give you.”
“I don’t want to hear it, Rhys.” She came back over toward the bed and reached out and put her hands behind his neck, locking her fingers. A wicked smile came to her lips. “You know, even beat up like you are, you’re a handsome fella. If you weren’t a preacher, maybe you and I could get to know each other better.”
Rhys shook his head and pulled her hands loose. “That’s mighty tempting, but I guess I’ll be moving along now,” he said, then quickly stood up. He moved over toward the door and stopped. “Where’s my hat?”
“Back in the saloon, but I wouldn’t go back for it, if I was you.”
“I guess I won’t.” Rhys hesitated. “I want to be your friend, Julie.”
Julie stared at Rhys Morgan, and then something passed over her face.
“I’ve had men want to be my friend before.”
Rhys shrugged. “I’ll be seeing your family tomorrow. Anything I can tell them?”
“Tell them I said not to send you to see me anymore, and if you know what’s good for you, you’ll stay out of saloons. I’m not always going to be there to save your hide.”
Rhys grinned and said, “I’ll be coming back. Good evening to you, Miss Julie.”
As soon as Rhys closed the door, Julie sat down on her bed and started to tremble. It was not liquor, she knew that, but rather what Rhys Morgan had said that disturbed her. She did not want to think about it.
She went to the window and watched Rhys as he mounted his wagon and drove away.
“The crazy fool could have been killed,” she said aloud, then turned away abruptly from the window.
Jerusalem had been thinking about Julie, for Rhys had told her he’d gone and visited her. When Jerusalem saw his battered face, he had laughed and said he had run into a “little” trouble, but it was nothing to worry about. The thought bothered her, but before she could ask him anything else, she heard a knock at the door. The next thing she knew, the door flew open and Jake stepped inside and came over to where she stood.
“I gotta talk to you, Jerusalem.”
“All right, Jake. You want to sit down?”
“No, this won’t take long.”
Jerusalem studied this man who had been her husband for so many years. In many ways he was like a stranger to her now. He had been gone from her life more than he had been with her. Now she saw something was troubling him, and she couldn’t imagine what it was. “Somebody sick, Jake?”
“No, it ain’t that, but I come to ask a favor.”
“What kind of a favor?”
“I’ve got to go to Santa Fe.”
“Why would you be going there?”
“I’ve always thought I might like to get into the freightin’ business. I heard of a fellow there who wants to sell out. The thing is, I want to ask you to keep an eye on Awinita.”
Jerusalem had heard that Awinita was pregnant, and she was honestly concerned for the woman. “You’re going off and leave her at a time like this?” Jerusalem said bluntly.
Jake’s eyes shifted, for he could not meet her gaze. “I’ve got to go. Will you look out for her?”
As much as she wanted to tell him he hadn’t changed, she knew it would fall on deaf ears. “Yes, I’ll see to it.”
“Thanks. I knowed you’d do it.” Jake started to go. He put his hat on his head and then turned to face her. “Why don’t you get a divorce, Jerusalem? I won’t fight it.”
“I can’t do that, Jake.”
“I don’t reckon we’ll ever be together again. You might as well have another man.”
“Good-bye, Jake. I’ll look after Awinita and the kids.”
Jake stared at her and then, without another word, turned and left the house. Jerusalem went to the window and watched him go. As he rode away, she thought, He’ll always be riding away from whatever woman he’s with.
Brodie was saddling up alongside his great-grandfather and listening to him talk. He was always happy when Josiah had one of his good days, and this morning the old man’s eyes were bright and clear. He was reminiscing about his earlier days for a long time after breakfast while Brodie did his chores. The old man was fascinating to listen to, for he had known some of the heroes of the Revolution. It made Brodie sad whenever his great-grandfather lost the light in his eyes and his mind seemed to wander to another distant time in the past. But today was not one of those days, and Brodie was hanging on to every word as Josiah told another story about George Washington.
Brodie slipped the bridle onto his horse. As he was fastening it, he turned and said, “Grandpa, can I ask you something?”
“Why, shore, boy. Anything you’d like.”
“You think you’ll go to heaven?”
Josiah laughed heartily. “Why, boy, I’m plumb sartain of it.”
“That’s good. Maybe I’ll get saved someday.”
“You’d better, boy! ’Cause the Bible says the other option ai
n’t too appealing.”
“What do you think heaven will be like?” Brodie started leading the horse over to where Clay was mounting up.
Clay turned to listen as Josiah said, “Heaven? Well, I’ve studied on that a heap, son. I think it’s gonna be green fields and high mountains with pretty white snow on top of ’em. And there’ll be clear streams ten feet deep that look like they’re a foot deep, just like the Yellowstone.”
Brodie saw that Clay was listening, and he said, “The Bible says it’ll be golden streets. You think that’s so?”
“I don’t care nothin’ about them golden streets. Never was a town man. What I really think, boy, is that if Jesus is there, He’ll make it all right. If you got Him, you don’t need anything else.” Josiah reached out and slapped Brodie on the shoulder with his hand, still strong after eighty-five years of living. “Don’t miss heaven, boy.” He glanced over and winked, “You, too, Clay.”
Brodie stepped easily into the saddle and said, “Good-bye, Grandpa. Tonight maybe you can tell me some more about that heaven of yours.”
“I’ll do ’er, boy. I’ll do ’er.”
Brodie spurred his horse, and as he galloped off beside Clay, he said, “You reckon that stuff about heaven is for real?”
“I ain’t no expert on heaven, Brodie, but your great-grandpa’s a pretty smart man.”
Brodie said no more, lost in thought as the two rode over the ridge. He looked back once and saw his great-grandfather waving at him. Brodie waved back and then turned, and the horses plunged down the ridge, and the house was lost to view.
Clinton watched the cork carefully, and when it went under with a noisy plunk, he yanked up and tried to pull the fish out. “It’s a whale!” he yelled. “It’s a whale, Anthony Wayne!”
The big dog began barking in staccato fashion, and when finally Clinton dragged the fish to shore, the dog came over and sniffed it cautiously. The fish flopped, and Anthony barked and jumped back.
Deep in the Heart Page 23
