The Yellow Rose

by Gilbert, Morris

  Indeed, Clay had become as good a rancher as he had a husband and father. He had hired Mexicans to help him round up the wild cattle that roamed the plains as well as enough wild horses to form a good-sized remuda. With the help of Zane and Clinton, Star Ranch had, indeed, prospered. They had been able to sell off one sizable herd in New Orleans and make a considerable dent in the loan they owed to Fergus.

  Finally, both Jerusalem and Clay put the twins down on the floor. They immediately began to maul Bob, who apparently enjoyed it. Ignoring their squeals, Jerusalem remarked, “I’m worried about the church, Clay.”

  “Well, I am, too. It looks pretty bad.”

  “I think maybe you should have let them make you a deacon.” The church had approached Clay and had asked him to become a deacon, but he had refused, saying that he was not founded in the faith enough and needed more training. Then three weeks later tragedy had struck when the pastor had left under bad circumstances. He had fallen into an affair with a local woman and had left his wife and two children. Since then the church had wavered, and many had fallen by the wayside.

  After speaking about the problems of the church, Jerusalem asked, “Where’s Clinton? I haven’t seen him all day.”

  “Oh, he’s off girling.” Clay grinned briefly and winked at her. “He thinks he’s in love with that Abbot girl.”

  “He’s too young to be thinking about things like that.”

  Clay laughed. “Too young! He’s eighteen years old. Why, when I was his age, I had already been in love half a dozen times!”

  “I don’t want to hear about your old sweethearts again.”

  “It does you good to hear about ’em. Makes you appreciate being married to a man the gals all liked. You know, one of them gals was the daughter of a millionaire. She was nice. I should have married her. Missed my big chance.” Accustomed to his teasing, Jerusalem sat there as he continued to speak. When she didn’t say much, he looked at her more closely and said, “I reckon you didn’t sleep a whole lot last night. You worried about Moriah?”

  “Yes, I am. I know the Bible says it’s wrong to worry, but I just can’t help it. I keep remembering the time we were attacked and dragged off by Red Wolf. And to think Moriah is suffering the same thing again is more than I can bear at times.”

  “I know. I’ve thought a lot about that too,” Clay said.

  Clay grew more sober. He rose and came over, knelt down beside her rocker, put his arm around her, and squeezed her. “Brodie and Quaid, they won’t stop until they find her.”

  “I was surprised at Quaid. This has shook him up pretty bad. He’s not the same man.”

  “No, he ain’t. He’s plumb serious now. I think—” He suddenly rose and said, “Somebody’s comin’.” He walked to the door, opened it, and said, “Well, I guess I’ll have to be good for a spell. It’s Rice. I hate for a good-lookin’ preacher to be hangin’ around my wife!”

  Jerusalem got up, and stepping around the twins and the big dog, she said, “It’s good to see him.” The two waited until Rice pulled up and stepped out of his saddle. He tied the reins over the hitching post and then came forward, smiling.

  “Well,” Rice said, “there’s proud I am to see you.”

  The trip had covered him with a fine coat of dust. He removed his hat as soon as he came to stand before them. His deep-set gray eyes were warm with welcome as he shook hands with both of them. “Has this man been behaving himself, sister?”

  “Yes, he has.”

  “Well, surprised I am to hear it, but proud, too.”

  “Come on in the house, and I’ll tell you all of our problems,” Clay said. The three of them went inside, and Rice went over and picked up Samuel. He held him high in the air and got a squeal out of him.

  “Is this the lad or the lass?”

  “That’s Samuel.”

  “Well, a fine lad you are.” He put him down and picked up Rachel, who was studying him soberly. “Come now, admiring you I am, girl! Give me a smile.” He continued to hold her, tickling her until finally she squealed. “There’s a charmer! You’ll be like your ma.”

  “I never saw a preacher who wasn’t hungry.” Jerusalem smiled. “I’ll fix you something to eat.”

  “No, thank you. I’m not hungry. I’ve come to give you some news.”

  “Good or bad?” Clay said.

  “I’m not sure. I’ll let you decide. The deacons have asked me to be pastor of the church in Jordan City.”

  Instantly, both Clay and Jerusalem began to speak. “Why, that’s the best news I’ve had in a long time!” Jerusalem exclaimed.

  “Right. You can get this church back where it belongs.” Clay nodded.

  “Well, the deacons weren’t exactly united, but I got a majority. Some of them said I was too plain spoken.”

  “That’s what we need around here,” Clay said. “Some straight -forward, turn-or-burn preaching.”

  “I’m so happy, Rice,” Jerusalem smiled, “or I suppose I should say Reverend Morgan?”

  Rice simply shook his head. “No titles. I’m the same man I always was, Jerusalem, but I came over to talk to Clinton. He’s going to have to give me some help.”

  Clay suddenly grinned. “Well, he’s been waitin’ for the chance ever since I’ve known him. He loves to preach.”

  “He’s a good young man,” Rice said quickly. “A little bit too forward at times and maybe a little bit lopsided in his theology.”

  “Some folks have called him a fanatic,” Jerusalem said tentatively.

  “Well, I’d rather try to restrain a fanatic than resurrect a corpse.” Rice laughed. “God can use fanatics, but not dead people. And,” he added quickly, “I’m going to work on Julie.”

  “Lots of luck.” Clay grinned. “She’s tougher than old leather.”

  “She’s not too tough for God,” Rice said. “Now where’s Clinton? I’m ready to start my ministry in Jordan City, Texas! . . .”

  Clinton had received Rice’s news with great excitement. His eyes had gleamed, and he had done everything but dance. “Well, that’s plumb good news, Rice. I mean, Brother Morgan. Now we can start getting something done in that church. Maybe you can shake some of them loose from their money—like old man Morton. That man is so stingy he breathes through his nose to keep from wearing out his false teeth! But you’ll stir ’em up!”

  “I’m glad you think so, Clinton,” Rice said. “We’re gonna start right today. That’s why I came to get you.”

  The two were standing out at the corral, where Rice had found Clinton breaking in a new horse, and now he put his hand on the young man’s shoulder and smiled broadly. “We’re going to start with the Golden Lady Saloon.”

  Clinton stared at him and suddenly sobered. “The saloon?”

  “I’m sure you know the place I mean,” Rice said dryly. “So, we’ll introduce ourselves to the town there. That’ll be the busiest place, if I’m not mistaken.”

  Clinton perked up at once. “Well, shoot, most of them fellers in there are so drunk they can’t see through a ladder, but I’m with you, Preacher.

  Let me get a horse saddled, and we’ll go right in.”

  Rice watched as Clinton expertly roped a gelding and saddled him efficiently, and in five minutes the two were on their way to Jordan City. The whole way to town, Rice listened mostly as Clinton expanded on his plans of how to handle the situation at the church. It amused Rice that Clinton saw everything in life simply as black or white. There were no gray areas in his mind or in his judgment. He’s a good lad, and grow in faith he will, when life throws its hard edge at him, Rice thought as they rode along.

  When they finally pulled up in front of the saloon and tied their horses to the hitching rail, Rice said, “Clinton, saying nothing against you I am, but maybe it would be better if I did the talking and you did the praying.”

  Clinton said at once, “Why, sure, Preacher. You just turn your wolf loose!”

  The two pushed open the swinging doors and walked into
the saloon. They looked around and spotted Julie. She was wearing a low-cut emerald green dress, and her red hair was fixed on top of her head in an ornate hairdo. She wore more makeup than either of them liked, but she smiled as the two crossed the floor, which was already beginning to fill up for the evening’s festivities.

  “Well, if it’s not Rice Morgan and my good-looking nephew. How are you two?”

  Morgan took off his hat and smiled, saying, “Why wouldn’t I be fine with all that the good Lord has done for me?” He spoke in a normal tone, but several of the men at the bar turned around to stare at him.

  Julie was aware of Morgan’s rather outspoken ways where God was concerned, and she certainly knew Clinton well enough to expect something of the same. “I hope you two didn’t come in here to preach,” she said.

  “As a matter of fact, I have news. I’m the new preacher at the church here in Jordan City. Clinton and I are making the rounds of the business establishments to invite people to church.”

  Julie glanced over at Frisco Barr and saw that he was smiling broadly.

  “What about it, Frisco? We’ve got two preachers in here. You want to have ’em thrown out?”

  Barr shook his head and said, “If you’re looking for sinners, Preacher, you’ve come to the right place. Go ahead and make your pitch.”

  Taking Barr at his word, Morgan turned from Julie and saw that most of the customers had already sized him up. “It’s glad I am to be here with all of you gentlemen and ladies, too,” he said. “I am announcing that you are all invited to services Sunday morning at ten o’clock.”

  A big man named Mick Sullivan with a week’s growth of beard was sitting at the poker table. He had been losing, apparently, and was in a bad humor. He had been drinking heavily. Sullivan owned a small ranch south of Jordan City. He stood up and walked over to where Rice Morgan stood beside Julie. He towered over Morgan and said in a loud, surly voice, “I don’t remember sendin’ for no sorry preachers. Why don’t you get yourself out of here and go play church somewhere else?”

  Rice’s smile did not change. “I don’t believe we’ve met. My name is Rice Morgan.”

  “This is Mick Sullivan,” Julie said, watching with some apprehension.

  Sullivan was a rough and tumble fighter and had badly broken up several men.

  “Get yourself out of here—both of you!” Sullivan said loudly. He was obviously looking for trouble, for he needed fights as other men needed drinks. He had a thick chest, and the muscles in his arms strained against his shirt.

  Rice studied the big man and lifted his eyebrow. “Tell me now. Would you be a gambling man?”

  Sullivan stared at him. “Sure, I like to gamble. You gonna preach against that?”

  “No, I thought I’d make a little wager with you.”

  “A preacher gambling?”

  “Well, in a way. I’ll tell you what. Let’s you and me have a boxing match.” He saw surprise wash across Sullivan’s blunt features and continued smoothly. “If you win, I’ll come and work for you for a week doing anything you’d like.”

  Sullivan’s broad mouth curved upward in a smile. “And what if you win—which you ain’t gonna do?”

  “If I win, you come to church next Sunday.”

  Mick laughed loudly. He turned and winked at his companions, pleased with the wager that he was sure would end in his favor. He was known around the town for beating the best of them. “All right. Let’s have this here boxing match.”

  “If you break any of the furniture, you’ll have to pay for it,” Frisco called out.

  “The only thing I’m going to break is this preacher’s face!” Sullivan said.

  Immediately, men got up and began to move tables and chairs around. Clinton was watching nervously, and he whispered to Morgan, “This ain’t exactly what I thought we’d be doing.”

  Julie was troubled also. “I think you’d better get out of here, Rice.”

  “Oh, I will. Just a little matter here of a small wager.” He handed his hat to Clinton and said, “Be careful with that. It cost me ten dollars.” He turned then and walked toward the cleared space where Sullivan was staring at him in disbelief. “I’m ready now, Mr. Sullivan, any time you are.”

  Anger ruffled the big man then, for he could not stand a challenge.

  With a roar and a curse he lunged forward, bringing a punch that would have taken off Rice Morgan’s head if it had connected. Rice simply moved his head slightly, and as the big man rushed toward him, he pulled his right arm back, and with his left, he threw three blows so fast that they were almost impossible to see. They all struck Sullivan in the face, bringing him to a stop. Then Rice struck a tremendous blow with his right that caught Mick Sullivan right in the pit of the stomach, exactly at the point where the ribs divide and where the nerves are thick. It made a sound something like “Boom!” And Mick Sullivan suddenly found he could not draw his breath. Everyone in the saloon was staring at the big man as he tried to suck in air. Even as he did, Morgan sent another thunderous right that caught Mick on the side of the neck. It drove him sideways, and as he collapsed, his head hit against the bar with a loud thud. His arms and legs thrashed as he fell to the floor.

  Julie stared at Mick Sullivan and then turned her eyes on Morgan. She had never seen a man demolished in such a fashion, nor had anyone else!

  “Barkeep, a little water and a cloth, is it?”

  Ed Simmons, the barkeep, obeyed silently, and the talk buzzed around the room as Morgan knelt beside the big man. He lifted Sullivan’s head, saying quietly, “Now, don’t worry. You’ll get your breath back in a minute.”

  Clinton watched in disbelief as Rice bathed the big man’s face. As Sullivan began to suck in air in great gulps, Clinton looked up and saw Julie staring at the two men in disbelief. “Well,” Clinton said loudly, “I guess that shows where we stand at the Jordan City Church.”

  Rice helped Sullivan to his feet, holding on to the big man to keep him steady. Sullivan was holding his head where it had hit the bar, but he was staring at Rice in sheer disbelief. “What did you hit me with, Preacher?” he muttered.

  “Just my fist. I did a bit of boxing once. As a matter of fact, I went twenty rounds with the champion of Wales when I was younger. Very few could stand up to me in those days. I guess a little bit is left in me.” He looked around the saloon, saying, “Anybody else want to make a little wager?”

  Little Jimmy French laughed. “I won’t fight you, Preacher, but let me tell you. If me and Mick came to church, your nice little Christians would throw us out.”

  Instantly, Rice said, “Bring the whole bunch here.” He waved at the drinkers and gamblers. “If they give them trouble, you can throw them out—and I’ll help you do it.”

  Laughter went around the saloon, and Jimmy French found it amusing. “Fellas, let’s do it.”

  Julie was amazed at how easily Rice had won acceptance from the rough crowd of the saloon. She said little but watched as Rice and Clinton went around getting names and shaking hands.

  When they were done talking to everyone, the two came over to her, and Rice said, “Well, I’d like for you to be at church, too, Sunday.”

  “That would clean the church out,” Julie said. “A bad saloon woman in church.”

  Rice smiled and said quietly, “It would please me a great deal if you would come.”

  Julie found herself unable to find an answer. She saw Frisco Barr watching her closely and tried to think of a way out. “You sit down,” she said, “and play poker with me. If you do that, I’ll come to your church Sunday.”

  Rice said, “All right. Come along.” He led her over to a table and pulled the chair out for her and then went over and sat down himself.

  Clinton walked over and stood there staring at him. “Rice, this ain’t right.”

  “What isn’t right?”

  “Why, fighting and playing poker in a saloon.”

  “Well, you know, Clinton, Jesus had the same problem. Every time he a
te with sinners, he was in trouble with the real religious folk. We’ll probably be in trouble, too, but this is the only way I know.” He looked over then, and his eyes were dancing. “Deal the cards, Julie, and I’ll see you in church Sunday.”

  Thirty minutes later, when Clinton and Rice stepped out of the saloon, Clinton was silent. Rice looked at him and said, “I suppose I’m to look for a few words from you?”

  “Well, Rice, it don’t seem fittin’ to me—Christians going into a saloon.”

  “I imagine that some of the church members will have exactly the same thing to say. Will you stand with me when they say that?”

  Clinton felt an enormous liking for Rice Morgan. He did not understand the Welshman, but he knew that there was solid truth in the man.

  “Sure, Rice. I can do that.”

  “There’s proud, I am, to have a partner like you.” Rice slapped him on the back and said, “Come along. We’ll do a little bit more hunting for sinners and introduce them to Jesus.”

  For the next two months, the Reverend Rice Morgan made quite an impression in Jordan City. He made no half-hearted disciples. People were either for him and his methods or against him. Clinton was his shadow, and the two were as likely to show up in a bar as they were in a pulpit. Clay was delighted and often said, “That’s the kind of a preacher I needed to meet about twenty years ago.”

  The deacons split down the middle, half of them admiring Rice and his bold methods, the other half demurring and saying that the ministry had a dignity to maintain. They were all united, however, concerning his preaching, which was excellent and true to the Bible. The church building was running over at every service, not just with aged, old-line believers, but with the disreputable element of Jordan City as well.

  Brodie and Quaid came back in early June, both of them thin and worn down. They were met as they rode into the ranch by Jerusalem, who watched them dismount wearily. Both of them looked like tramps, their clothes ragged and patched. The only thing about them that looked clean were the rifles and guns at their sides. Going forward at once, she put her arms around Brodie and pulled his head down and kissed him. “You look half starved,” she said.