The Yellow Rose by Gilbert Morris Page A

Clinton and Julie.
    “Clinton, what’s wrong with you?”
    “I wish you’d look at them pants she’s got on, Ma. She ain’t no better than a hussy! Why—”
    “You leave her alone, Clinton.”
    Clinton stared at his mother, affronted. “I’d think since you’re her sister, you would be more interested in her.” He turned around and stalked toward the house, slamming the door as he went in.
    Jerusalem turned and eyed Julie, who was watching her warily. “Don’t start on me, Jerusalem. You know how he is.”
    “I know, but be patient with him.”
    “It’s easier to be patient with a chigger than it is him,” Julie laughed.
    “Did you hear what he said? He said I’d go to hell for wearing forked pants. Now, where did he get a hare-brained idea like that? If that’s the worst thing I ever did, I’d feel pretty good.”
    “Well, they do make you look pretty—obvious.”
    “Let him look the other way.”
    Jerusalem shook her head, knowing that it was useless to talk to Julie when she was in a mood like this. Going back into the house, she found Clinton in the kitchen drinking a glass of water thirstily. He gave her a hurt look, and she went over to stand beside him. She noticed how tall he was getting. In a few more years, he would be a big man like his father. She knew he really was sensitive to anything she said. Julie had said many times, “He’s nothin’ but a mama’s boy.” His soft side did not bother Jerusalem, for she liked the obvious affection Clinton was capable of showing. She waited until he was through drinking, then reached out and took his arms. His eyes were even with hers now, and she said, “You’re growing up, Clinton. Before you know it, you’re going to be big like your pa and strong like he was.” She smiled and reached up and ruffled his hair.
    “And good looking like he was, too.”
    As she had known it would, this sudden gentleness on her part melted Clinton. “Aw, Ma,” he said. “That ain’t so.”
    “Yes, it is.” She ran her hands down his cheeks and studied his face.
    “You look so much like him it frightens me sometimes.” She continued to talk gently to him, then gave him a hug. “Try to understand Julie. I know she’s a pain at times, but it doesn’t do any good to fuss at people, son.”
    She stepped back and shook her head. “It’s what’s on the inside that has to change.”
    At that moment they heard the sound of a horse running hard, and Clinton turned and looked out the window. “There’s Clay,” he said.
    “Where is he goin’ ridin’ so hard?”
    “Probably to get drunk,” Jerusalem said.
    Clinton swirled around. “To get drunk! Why?”
    “Because I nagged him. I should have learned by this time, Clinton, that Clay’s a man, and he’s got to make a fool of himself from time to time.” A reluctant smile turned the corners of her lips up. “It’s in all men.
    Once in a while it just has to break out.”
    Clinton was staring at her incredulously, and then his eyes danced.
    “What about women?”
    Jerusalem laughed and said, “No, we’re all sweet and soft-spoken and nice all the time. Haven’t you noticed?”
    Clinton laughed aloud. He had a crooked grin, the exact replica of Jake’s, which brought memories back to Jerusalem. “Well,” he said, smiling broadly, “women are taken pretty easily by serpents.”
    “Now, was that a nice thing to say to your poor, old mother?”
    “You ain’t poor, and you ain’t old either.”
    “Why, that’s the nicest thing you’ve said to me all day! I’m gonna make you a pie of your very own. You don’t even have to let Brodie have any of it. What kind will it be?”
    “Apple!”
    The Dry Gulch Saloon was not particularly attractive, but it was the biggest one in town, and Clay had made himself at home for the past two hours. He had been drinking steadily and playing cards, and a woman, whose name he now forgot, was sitting beside him, egging him on. He had been winning steadily,