Don’t even think about puttin’ their names on their businesses.”
He stepped out of the saddle and stretched himself wearily. When a short, chunky man with a black patch over one eye came out, Clay said, “Grain him and give him a rubdown.”
“Cost you extra.” The reply was brief and laconic, and his eyes looked over horse and man carefully. “Looks like you had a hard ride.”
“Pretty hard. Where’s the best place to eat?”
“Hotel. My name’s Jeffries. You be here long?”
“No, not long.”
Jeffries seemed to be concerned for some reason. Perhaps he was just prying. His single eye was bright as a crow’s, and he asked, “You goin’ far?”
“Not too far, I guess. Take care of this horse. He’s a good one.”
“I always do,” Jeffries said in an offended voice. He asked quickly, “You got business here, I take it.”
Clay grinned. “Not quite sure. I’ll let you know as soon as I make up my mind.” He saw the light insult brush across the man and laughed. He pulled his saddlebags and blanket off the horse and started toward the hotel. The town was asleep, it seemed, although he could hear the tinkling of a piano from the saloon. He stepped inside the hotel and found what he had expected, a worn, tired lobby with stairs with rickety steps leading to the second floor. To the right was a bar, and to the left was some sort of a drawing room for ladies. A tall, thin man with a hook where his right hand should have been greeted him amiably.
“Howdy, just get into town?”
“Just got in. You got a room?”
“Got all the rooms you want. Put your name down right there, friend.”
The hotel clerk watched as Clay signed, then looked at the name.
“Reckon you say your name Tol-e-ver instead of Tal-i-ferro?”
“That’s right.”
“You must be from the South.”
Clay nodded and said, “I need a bath and a shave and something to eat and a little recreation.”
“Take number eighteen upstairs. You can get a bath and a shave down at Charlie’s Barbershop down the street on the right. The best place to eat is here in the hotel, if I do say so. Golden Lady Saloon is where you might find a game.”
“Thanks.”
Clay climbed the stairs, aware that the man was staring at him.
Strangers were always interesting in these out-of-the-way towns. Clay opened the door to room eighteen and found it no better nor worse than he had expected. A worn carpet, a bed with a sagging mattress, a washstand, and a chair. He tossed his bedroll down on the bed along with his saddlebag, looked at the bed, and was tempted to simply lie down, but he needed to sluice the weariness out of his tired body. Turning, he went down the stairs, nodded to the hotel clerk, and walked down the street to Charlie’s Barbershop.
He had a long bath in a copper tub, luxuriating in the warm water.
After thirty minutes, he got out and dried off with a fresh towel. He put on fresh underwear but merely shook the dust out of his shirt and pants.
After paying his fifty cents for the bath, he went back to the hotel to get something to eat. Being in the saddle all day had given him a hearty appetite. He entered the restaurant and sat down at a table, and a middle-aged Mexican woman came and took his order. When the food came, he was surprised to find that it was very good. The steak was fairly tender, and the beans that went with it were well done and spiced. When he had finished, he left the payment for the meal on the table and walked out of the restaurant and headed for the saloon.
The afternoon had gone now, and dusk was coming. The sun seemed to melt into a shapeless bed of gold that painted the tops of the mountains off in the distance. The air was becoming cooler, and he stood for a moment outside the Golden Lady Saloon, watching the colors of the land run and change along the horizon. He watched the shadows creep up to the eaves of the building and the houses farther out on the prairie. The dusty road took on soft, silver shadings. The day’s heat was running out of the earth, and it felt good to Clay. He took one more look at the dust that whirled in the flat of the street, then turned and pushed through the double-hinged doors of the saloon.
Raucous sound and smoke filled the place, and Clay had no doubt that this was the most active place in Jordan City in the evenings. It was still early in the evening, but the place was half full. His eyes ran over the blackjack game to his right, a poker game closer to the wall, and a roulette wheel that no one was using, watched over by a sharp-eyed man in a fancy vest. He moved over to the bar, and the burly barkeep came over. He had heavy shoulders, a thick neck, and a pair of steady gray eyes.
“What’ll it be?” he asked pleasantly.
“Some beer would help wash the dust out of my throat pretty well.”
“You got it.”
Clay took the beer and drank it slowly. He was not much of a drinking man, and his last escapade with alcohol had embarrassed him. He looked the crowd over, wondering if he would have to wait till the next day to find someone who could tell him about the possible land for sale.
Several men were at the bar, but none of them seemed particularly interested in conversation.
Clay moved his head to look around at one of the poker players, and his eyes narrowed. A slight smile containing a little bitterness, perhaps, touched his lips. He drained the beer and put the glass down, then walked over and moved slightly to the right of a medium-sized man wearing a red calico shirt and a gray hat pushed back on his head.
“Hello, Lou.”
The man with the gray hat turned around quickly and was surprised when his eyes saw Clay. He didn’t speak at first, and the other three men playing at the table became interested. One of them, a well-put-together man with black, curly hair and smoothly shaved cheeks, said, “Introduce us to your friend, Burdette.”
Lou Burdette did not move. He held his cards in his hand, but he seemed to have forgotten them. Finally, he nodded and said, “I didn’t expect to see you, Taliferro.”
“It’s been a long time. When did you leave the mountains?”
“Two years ago.”
“Well, if Lou won’t introduce us, I’ll introduce myself,” the black-haired gambler said. “I’m John Barr. Everybody calls me Frisco.”
“Clay Taliferro.”
“Glad to know you, Taliferro. This is Charlie Hake, and this here is Prince Daniels. Sit down and take a hand.”
“Thanks,” Clay said. He pulled a chair over from one of the tables while Hake moved over to make room for him. “You two were in the mountains together,” Frisco said.
“Been a while,” Clay nodded. “Those were good times, but I guess I was glad to get out of it with my hair.” He turned to face Burdette and said, “You still running with George Macon?”
“No. George took an arrow in his liver and died on the Little Missouri.” The words were grudging, and the three men at the table could sense Burdette’s animosity. “Are we gonna play cards, or are we gonna talk?” Burdette grunted. He was a tall man, lean almost to a fault. His skin was burned dark by the sun, and he had black eyes and hair to match. There was a wildness in him that lay underneath a thin veneer of civilization.
Clay joined in the game then and, as usual, found himself winning. He was a fine poker player, drunk or sober. He had proved that only recently.
As the game continued, he studied the other men, as he always did. He had learned to read the eyes of those who played cards with him, noticing that a man could not really control the little movements of his eyes and his eyelids. A good hand would always bring some sort of reaction, the lids slightly pulling down and the pupils growing larger.
As they played, Frisco Barr, without being at all pushy, carried on a conversation with the other men. He was a better card player than the other three and often drew out when Clay had a good hand. He also gave a good bit of information about the town and the surroundings. “Not much of a town now,” he said cheerfully, “but it’s a good spot on the river here.
One of these days it’ll boom.”
“Not if the Comanches don’t agree to it,” Charlie Hake grunted.
“They pretty troublesome?” Clay asked, studying his cards.
“They can be pesky.” Hake shook his head. “They rode into town a year ago and just about held us hostage. Rode off with three women and one young boy. Never did catch ’em.”
“Hard to catch a Comanche,” Clay remarked.
At some point Clay mentioned that he had come from close to San Antonio, and at once Frisco asked, “That Alamo was quite a business.
Don’t suppose you were there?”
“No, I was at Goliad, though.”
“Goliad! That was a rough thing, from what I hear.”
“It was pretty bad. General Portilla’s men massacred most of us. I was lucky to get away. Not many of us did.”
Burdette took no part in the conversation, and his eyes often glanced at Clay as he studied his cards. He had thin lips that he kept pulled into a fine line except when he was speaking, and he threw his cards down violently whenever he lost a hand. His eyes seemed to glow with an inner fury.
Clay remembered this man well. They had not been partners, and at one of the meetings of the trappers, the two of them had gotten crossways.
They got into a fistfight, and when Clay had whipped him soundly, Burdette had pulled out a knife. Clay had pulled his own knife, and when Burdette had gotten a slash across his neck—the scar was still there—he had backed off. Clay was careful after that not to turn his back on Lou Burdette. He knew the man was like a wounded animal seeking an opportunity to strike back.
Burdette was drinking steadily, and after two hours, he was starting to get more aggressive. Clay remembered he was always belligerent when he was drunk.
Finally, Clay pulled in the biggest hand of the evening, and Burdette cursed and threw his hand down in anger. “You were always too lucky at cards to suit me, Taliferro.”
“Take it easy, Lou,” Barr said quickly. “Let’s keep it friendly.”
Burdette smiled and cursed again. “I’ve always said you cheated at cards.”
A silence began at the table and spread all around the room, for Burdette’s words had been loud enough for everyone in the saloon to hear. Clay was watching Burdette’s eyes. He saw them suddenly change and knew that Burdette was going to pull his gun. The men at the table did not even see Clay move. They saw Burdette hitch his arm up and pull his pistol half out of the holster. Suddenly, the gun was in Clay’s hand, aiming right at Burdette’s heart. Burdette paused and his face froze.
“I ain’t pullin’,” Burdette said.
Clay studied him for a moment and then reholstered his gun. “Second thoughts are usually best,” he said mildly.
Burdette glared at him, shoved his chair away, and walked stiffly out of the bar.
“Well, I take it you two don’t enjoy the warmest friendship in the world.” Frisco grinned.
“I never saw anybody do that to Burdette,” Prince Daniels said, staring at Clay. “It ain’t over, though.”
“It is as far as I’m concerned,” Clay said. He gathered his winnings, and Daniels and Hake stood up from the table and left.
Frisco said, “How about a drink?”
“Just one. I’m tryin’ to quit.” Clay grinned.
“Wise idea.” Frisco signaled the bartender, who brought over a bottle and two glasses and poured them full.
Clay took the glass and stared at it. Then he grinned and held it up.
“Here’s to clean living,” he said.
Frisco laughed. “I can see you’re a man of peace and would like things to be like that.” The two men drank, and then Frisco studied the other man who sat loosely in his chair. “Lou Burdette’s a pretty tough fellow, but I guess you already know that.”
Clay had decided that Frisco Barr was a man that could be trust-worthy, at least as trustworthy as any gambler could be. “Maybe you can help me out, Barr,” he said. “I’m lookin’ to buy a place.”
“What kind of a place?”
“Looking for a place to raise cattle. It’s not for me. It’s for a family down closer to the Gulf, an Austin settlement. They want a big place, but they don’t have much money.”
“Nobody in Texas has much money now. I’m about to starve to death at my trade.”
“You don’t know of anything?”
Barr poured himself another drink but did not touch it. He twirled the glass around in his fingers, studying it as if some sort of answer lay in the amber liquid. After a moment he said, “I may not be doin’ you a favor to tell you about a place I know.”
“Try me.”
“Well, Burdette works for a man named Kern Herendeen. He’s got the biggest ranch in this part of the country. He’s pretty big potatoes around these here parts.”
“He wants to sell his place?”
“No.” Frisco smiled. “He wants to make it bigger. He’s been trying to buy another ranch to add to his. It belongs to a fellow named Tucker Howard.”
“Howard’s place for sale?”
“Not to Herendeen. He’ll never sell to him.”
“Why not? Sounds like he’s got the money.”
“Bad blood between the two.” Frisco sipped his drink and then shrugged. “They had trouble over a woman a long time ago. Howard was going to marry a woman named Margaret Hendricks, but Herendeen came along and took her away from him. Married her. She died a year ago.
But Tucker hadn’t spoken to Herendeen since he stole his woman away from him.”
“How big a place he got?”
“Pretty big. I’m not sure. I think somewhere around ten thousand acres. Maybe more.”
“You know what he wants for it?”
“No, I don’t. He’s let it go down. He stopped runnin’ cattle. Most of ’em were run off by rustlers, or the Comanches took them.” He finished the drink and shrugged and said in a quieter voice, “There are some rumors that say Herendeen took some of them himself.”
Clay sat there for a moment in his chair. “Maybe I’ll talk to Howard.”
“Might work out for you. I hope so. Tucker told me he’d sell to the devil before he’d let Kern Herendeen have an inch of it. If you ride out to see Tucker, tell him I sent you. We’ve known each other a long time.”
“All right. Thanks. I reckon I’ll hit the sack.”
“Good luck. I hope it works out for you.”
Frisco watched as Clay left the room, and the bartender came over and picked up the glasses. “The fastest thing I’ve seen with a gun. He could have blown Burdette away.”
“Yes, he could,” Frisco murmured. “He’s thinkin’ about settling around here. Be interesting to see how him and Burdette get along, won’t it?”
CHAPTER
ELEVEN
A small tribe of Cherokee had lived close to the Hardin family in Arkansas. They had been peaceful, not like the Plains Indians, and were ready to learn how to farm and to become civilized. One of the recipes Jerusalem had picked up from them was Cherokee Indian bean bread. It was late afternoon, and she had thought about making a batch of bean bread, so she had boiled dried beans in water until they were tender. Now she poured boiling beans and some of the soup into a large pot. She had decided to make bean dumplings instead of baking it, so she lifted the pot and put it over the open fire in the fireplace. She covered the pot and went about preparing the rest of the meal. As she did, she could not keep from thinking about Clay and wondering if she had done the right thing. The choice had been hers, but now everything was in Clay’s hands.
For the next hour she worked in the kitchen, cooking up a huge bowl of grits and a batch of squirrels that Clinton had shot.
Bob had been lying in the doorway, as if dead, which both aggravated and amused Jerusalem. She walked over and picked up one of his heavy legs and then let it drop back. Bob did not stir. “You are the craziest dog I ever saw!” she exclaimed. She picked up his head. He opened one eye slowly and stared at her,
but when she dropped his head, the eye closed, and he immediately went back to sleep. “I believe you’ve got the sleeping sickness.”
It was quiet in the kitchen, which was unusual. Clinton had insisted on taking Moriah, Mary Aidan, and Zane fishing while Brodie and Julie rode over to see the Lebonnes. The quiet seemed to seep into Jerusalem, for it was a rare thing in her world.
Suddenly, Bob rose up and faced the door, a low growl in his throat. “What is it, Bob?” Jerusalem asked. She walked over and put her hand over her chest when she saw Clay riding in at a slow trot. She stood there watching him, thinking about how this man had become such a part of her family. Jerusalem’s feelings for him were mixed. She was a lonely woman needing a man’s touch and a man’s presence, and this troubled her, but she could not seem to put the idea away.
Stepping out on the porch, she said, “Welcome home, Clay.” She waited until he stepped up on the porch and put out her hand. He took it and held it for a moment. She squeezed it and said, “Come on in. I know you must be worn out and hungry.”
“Well, I am, for a fact. It just come to me a minute ago, Jerusalem. I ain’t twenty years old anymore.”
Jerusalem smiled as he took a seat at the table in the kitchen, and she began to fill a plate for him. “What made you think of that?”
“Well, when I was twenty, I could have made a little ride like this and then gone and danced all night. That’s all passed me. I’m an old man, worn out and not much use for anything.”
Jerusalem laughed and set a platter full of fried squirrel in front of him and a huge bowl of grits. She put some fresh butter and salt out to mix with the grits and then dipped out some Cherokee bean dumplings. “Get on the outside of this. It’ll make you feel twenty again.”
“Cherokee bean dumplings, my word! I swan, that’s just what I need!
Set down and eat with me.”
“No, I’ll wait for the others.” She filled a glass up with buttermilk, and he drank it down without stopping. She refilled it, then sat down and said, “Don’t eat so fast. You’ll kill yourself.”
The Yellow Rose Page 10
