"Have you seen Marshal Cogburn this morning?"
"Is that Rooster Cogburn?"
"That is the man."
"We have not seen him."
There were few passengers at that hour but as soon as one or two turned up the ferry would depart. It seemed to have no schedule except as business demanded, but then the crossing was not a long one. As gray dawn came I could make out chunks of ice bobbing along out in the current of the river.
The boat made at least two circuits before Rooster and LaBoeuf appeared and came riding down the incline to the slip. I had begun to worry that I might have missed them. Rooster was mounted on a big bay stallion that stood at about sixteen hands, and LaBoeuf on a shaggy cow pony not much bigger than mine.
Well, they were a sight to see with all their arms. They were both wearing their belt guns around their outside coats and LaBoeuf cut a splendid figure with his white-handled pistols and Mexican spurs. Rooster was wearing a deerskin jacket over his black suit coat. He carried only one revolver on his belt, an ordinary-looking piece with grips of cedar or some reddish wood. On the other side, the right side, he wore a dirk knife. His gun belt was not fancy like LaBoeuf's but only a plain and narrow belt with no cartridge loops. He carried his cartridges in a sack in his pocket. But he also had two more revolvers in saddle scabbards at his thighs. They were big pistols like mine. The two officers also packed saddle guns, Rooster a Winchester repeating rifle and LaBoeuf a gun called a Sharps rifle, a kind I had never seen. My thought was this: Chaney, look out!
They dismounted and led their horses aboard the ferry in a clatter and I followed at a short distance. I said nothing. I was not trying to hide but neither did I do anything to call attention to myself. It was a minute or so before Rooster recognized me.
"Sure enough, we have got company," said he.
LaBoeuf was very angry. "Can you not get anything through your head?" he said to me. "Get off this boat. Did you suppose you were going with us?"
I replied, "This ferry is open to the public. I have paid my fare."
LaBoeuf reached in his pocket and brought out a gold dollar. He handed it to one of the ferrymen and said, "Slim, take this girl to town and present her to the sheriff. She is a runaway. Her people are worried nearly to death about her. There is a fifty-dollar reward for her return."
"That is a story," said I.
"Let us ask the marshal," said LaBoeuf. "What about it, marshal?"
Rooster said, "Yes, you had best take her away. She is a runaway all right. Her name is Ross and she came up from Yell County. The sheriff has a notice on her."
"They are in this story together," said I. "I have business across the river and if you interfere with me, Slim, you may find yourself in court where you don't want to be. I have a good lawyer."
But the tall river rat would pay no heed to my protests. He led my pony back on to the slip and the boat pulled away without me. I said, "I am not going to walk up the hill." I mounted Little Blackie and the river rat led us up the hill. When we reached the top I said, "Wait, stop a minute." He said, "What is it?" I said, "There is something wrong with my hat." He stopped and turned around. "Your hat?" said he. I took it off and slapped him in the face with it two or three times and made him drop the reins. I recovered them and wheeled Little Blackie about and rode him down the bank for all he was worth. I had no spurs or switch but I used my hat on his flank to good effect.
About fifty yards below the ferry slip the river narrowed and I aimed for the place, going like blazes across a sandbar. I popped Blackie all the way with my hat as I was afraid he might shy at the water and I did not want to give him a chance to think about it. We hit the river running and Blackie snorted and arched his back against the icy water, but once he was in he swam as though he was raised to it. I drew up my legs behind me and held to the saddle horn and gave Blackie his head with loose reins. I was considerably splashed.
The crossing was badly chosen because the narrow place of a river is the deepest and it is there that the current is swiftest and the banks steepest, but these things did not occur to me at the time; shortest looked best. We came out some little ways down the river and, as I say, the bank was steep and Blackie had some trouble climbing it.
When we were up and free I reined in and Little Blackie gave himself a good shaking. Rooster and LaBoeuf and the ferryman were looking at us from the boat. We had beaten them across. I stayed where I was. When they got off the boat LaBoeuf hailed me, saying, "Go back, I say!" I made no reply. He and Rooster had a parley.
Their game soon became clear. They mounted quickly and rode off at a gallop with the idea of leaving me. What a foolish plan, pitting horses so heavily loaded with men and hardware against a pony so lightly burdened as Blackie!
Our course was northwesterly on the Fort Gibson Road, if you could call it a road. This was the Cherokee Nation. Little Blackie had a hard gait, a painful trot, and I made him speed up and slow down until he had achieved a pace, a kind of lope, that was not so jarring. He was a fine, spirited pony. He enjoyed this outing, you could tell.
We rode that way for two miles or more, Blackie and I hanging back from the officers at about a hundred yards. Rooster and LaBoeuf at last saw that they were making no gain and they slowed their horses to a walk. I did the same. After a mile or so of this they stopped and dismounted. I stopped too, keeping my distance, and remained in the saddle.
LaBoeuf shouted, "Come here! We will have a conversation with you!"
"You can talk from there!" I replied. "What is it you have to say?"
The two officers had another parley.
Then LaBoeuf shouted to me again, saying, "If you do not go back now I am going to whip you!"
I made no reply.
LaBoeuf picked up a rock and threw it in my direction. It fell short by about fifty yards.
I said, "That is the most foolish thing that ever I saw!"
LaBoeuf said, "Is that what you will have, a whipping?"
I said, "You are not going to whip anybody!"
They talked some more between themselves but could not seem to settle on anything and after a time they rode off again, this time at a comfortable lope.
Few travelers were on the road, only an Indian now and then on a horse or a mule, or a family in a spring wagon. I will own I was somewhat afraid of them although they were not, as you may imagine, wild Comanches with painted faces and outlandish garb but rather civilized Creeks and Cherokees and Choctaws from Mississippi and Alabama who had owned slaves and fought for the Confederacy and wore store clothes. Neither were they sullen and grave. I thought them on the cheerful side as they nodded and spoke greetings.
From time to time I would lose sight of Rooster and LaBoeuf as they went over a rise or around a bend of trees, but only briefly. I had no fears that they could escape me.
Now I will say something about the land. Some people think the present state of Oklahoma is all treeless plains. They are wrong. The eastern part (where we were traveling) is hilly and fairly well timbered with post oak and blackjack and similar hard scrub. A little farther south there is a good deal of pine as well, but right along in here at this time of year the only touches of green to be seen were cedar brakes and solitary holly trees and a few big cypresses down in the bottoms. Still, there were open places, little meadows and prairies, and from the tops of those low hills you could usually see a good long distance.
Then this happened. I was riding along woolgathering instead of keeping alert and as I came over a rise I discovered the road below me deserted. I nudged the willing Blackie with my heels. The two officers could not be far ahead. I knew they were up to some "stunt."
At the bottom of the hill there was a stand of trees and a shallow creek. I was not looking for them there at all. I thought they had raced on ahead. Just as Blackie was splashing across the creek Rooster and LaBoeuf sprang from the brush on their horses. They were right in my path. Little Blackie reared and I was almost thrown.
LaBoeuf w
as off his horse before you could say "Jack Robinson," and at my side. He pulled me from the saddle and threw me to the ground, face down.
He twisted one of my arms behind me and put his knee in my back. I kicked and struggled but the big Texan was too much for me.
"Now we will see what tune you sing," said he. He snapped a limb off a willow bush and commenced to push one of my trouser legs above my boot. I kicked violently so that he could not manage the trouser leg. Rooster remained on his horse. He sat up there in the saddle and rolled a cigarette and watched. The more I kicked the harder LaBoeuf pressed down with his knee and I soon saw the game was up. I left off struggling. LaBoeuf gave me a couple of sharp licks with the switch. He said, "I am going to stripe your leg good."
"See what good it does you!" said I. I began to cry, I could not help it, but more from anger and embarrassment than pain. I said to Rooster, "Are you going to let him do this?"
He dropped his cigarette to the ground and said, "No, I don't believe I will. Put your switch away, LaBoeuf. She has got the best of us."
"She has not got the best of me," replied the Ranger.
Rooster said, "That will do, I said."
LaBoeuf paid him no heed.
Rooster raised his voice and said, "Put that switch down, LaBoeuf! Do you hear me talking to you?"
LaBoeuf stopped and looked at him. Then he said, "I am going ahead with what I started."
Rooster pulled his cedar-handled revolver and cocked it with his thumb and threw down on LaBoeuf. He said, "It will be the biggest mistake you ever made, you Texas brush-popper."
LaBoeuf flung the switch away in disgust and stood up. He said, "You have taken her part in this all along, Cogburn. Well, you are not doing her any kindness here. Do you think you are doing the right thing? I can tell you you are doing the wrong thing."
Rooster said, "That will do. Get on your horse."
I brushed the dirt from my clothes and washed my hands and face in the cold creek water. Little Blackie was getting himself a drink from the stream. I said, "Listen here, I have thought of something. This 'stunt' that you two pulled has given me an idea. When we locate Chaney a good plan will be for us to jump him from the brush and hit him on the head with sticks and knock him insensible. Then we can bind his hands and feet with rope and take him back alive. What do you think?"
But Rooster was angry and he only said, "Get on your horse."
We resumed our journey in thoughtful silence, the three of us now riding together and pushing deeper into the Territory to I knew not what.
*
Dinnertime came and went and on we rode. I was hungry and aching but I kept my peace for I knew the both of them were waiting for me to complain or say something that would make me out a "tenderfoot." I was determined not to give them anything to chaff me about. Some large wet flakes of snow began to fall, then changed to soft drizzling rain, then stopped altogether, and the sun came out. We turned left off the Fort Gibson Road and headed south, back down toward the Arkansas River. I say "down." South is not "down" any more than north is "up." I have seen maps carried by emigrants going to California that showed west at the top and east at the bottom.
Our stopping place was a store on the riverbank. Behind it there was a small ferry boat.
We dismounted and tied up our horses. My legs were tingling and weak and I tottered a little as I walked. Nothing can take the starch out of you like a long ride on horseback.
A black mule was tied up to the porch of the store. He had a cotton rope around his neck right under his jaw. The sun had caused the wet rope to draw up tight and the mule was gasping and choking for breath. The more he tugged the worse he made it. Two wicked boys were sitting on the edge of the porch laughing at the mule's discomfort. One was white and the other was an Indian. They were about seventeen years of age.
Rooster cut the rope with his dirk knife and the mule breathed easy again. The grateful beast wandered off shaking his head about. A cypress stump served for a step up to the porch. Rooster went up first and walked over to the two boys and kicked them off into the mud with the flat at his boot. "Call that sport, do you?" said he. They were two mighty surprised boys.
The storekeeper was a man named Bagby with an Indian wife. They had already had dinner but the woman warmed up some catfish for us that she had left over. LaBoeuf and I sat at a table near the stove and ate while Rooster had a conference with the man Bagby at the back of the store.
The Indian woman spoke good English and I learned to my surprise that she too was a Presbyterian. She had been schooled by a missionary. What preachers we had in those days! Truly they took the word into "the highways and hedges." Mrs. Bagby was not a Cumberland Presbyterian but a member of the U.S. or Southern Presbyterian Church. I too am now a member of the Southern Church. I say nothing against the Cumberlands. They broke with the Presbyterian Church because they did not believe a preacher needed a lot of formal education. That is all right but they are not sound on Election. They do not fully accept it. I confess it is a hard doctrine, running contrary to our earthly ideas of fair play, but I can see no way around it. Read I Corinthians 6: 13 and II Timothy 1: 9, 10. Also I Peter 1: 2, 19, 20 and Romans 11: 7. There you have it. It was good for Paul and Silas and it is good enough for me. It is good enough for you too.
Rooster finished his parley and joined us in our fish dinner. Mrs. Bagby wrapped up some gingerbread for me to take along. When we went back out on the porch Rooster kicked the two boys into the mud again.
He said, "Where is Virgil?"
The white boy said, "He and Mr. Simmons is off down in the bottoms looking for strays."
"Who is running the ferry?"
"Me and Johnny."
"You don't look like you have sense enough to run a boat. Either one of you."
"We know how to run it."
"Then let us get to it."
"Mr. Simmons will want to know who cut his mule loose," said the boy.
"Tell him it was Mr. James, a bank examiner of Clay County, Missouri," said Rooster. "Can you remember the name?"
"Yes sir."
We led our horses down to the water's edge. The boat or raft was a rickety, waterlogged affair and the horses nickered and balked when we tried to make them go aboard. I did not much blame them. LaBoeuf had to blindfold his shaggy pony. There just was room for all of us.
Before casting off, the white boy said, "You said James?"
"That is the name," said Rooster.
"The James boys are said to be slight men."
"One of them has grown fat," said Rooster.
"I don't believe you are Jesse or Frank James either one."
"The mule will not range far," said Rooster. "See that you mend your ways, boy, or I will come back some dark night and cut off your head and let the crows peck your eyeballs out. Now you and Admiral Semmes get us across this river and be damned quick about it."
A ghostly fog lay on top of the water and it enveloped us, about to the waist of a man, as we pushed off. Mean and backward though they were, the two boys handled the boat with considerable art. They pulled and guided us along on a heavy rope that was tied fast to trees on either bank. We swung across in a looping downstream curve with the current doing most of the work. We got our feet wet and I was happy to get off the thing.
The road we picked up on the south bank was little more than a pig trail. The brush arched over and closed in on us at the top and we were slapped and stung with limbs. I was riding last and I believe I got the worst of it.
Here is what Rooster learned from the man Bagby: Lucky Ned Pepper had been seen three days earlier at McAlester's store on the M. K. & T. Railroad tracks. His intentions were not known. He went there from time to time to pay attention to a lewd woman. A robber called Haze and a Mexican had been seen in his company. And that was all the man knew.
Rooster said we would be better off if we could catch the robber band before they left the neighborhood of McAlester's and returned to their hiding place in
the fastness of the Winding Stair Mountains.
LaBoeuf said, "How far is it to McAlester's?"
"A good sixty miles," said Rooster. "We will make another fifteen miles today and get an early start tomorrow."
I groaned and made a face at the thought of riding another fifteen miles that day and Rooster turned and caught me. "How do you like this coon hunt?" said he.
"Do not be looking around for me," said I. "I will be right here."
LaBoeuf said, "But Chelmsford was not with him?"
Rooster said, "He was not seen at McAlester's with him. It is certain he was with him on the mail hack job. He will be around somewhere near or I miss my guess. The way Ned cuts his winnings I know the boy did not realize enough on that job to travel far."
We made a camp that night on the crest of a hill where the ground was not so soggy. It was a very dark night. The clouds were low and heavy and neither the moon or stars could be seen. Rooster gave me a canvas bucket and sent me down the hill about two hundred yards for water. I carried my gun along. I had no lantern and I stumbled and fell with the first bucket before I got far and had to retrace my steps and get another. LaBoeuf unsaddled the horses and fed them from nosebags. On the second trip I had to stop and rest about three times coming up the hill. I was stiff and tired and sore. I had the gun in one hand but it was not enough to balance the weight of the heavy bucket which pulled me sideways as I walked.
Rooster was squatting down building a fire and he watched me. He said, "You look like a hog on ice."
I said, "I am not going down there again. If you want any more water you will have to fetch it yourself."
"Everyone in my party must do his job."
"Anyhow, it tastes like iron."
LaBoeuf was rubbing down his shaggy pony. He said, "You are lucky to be traveling in a place where a spring is so handy. In my country you can ride for days and see no ground water. I have lapped filthy water from a hoofprint and was glad to have it. You don't know what discomfort is until you have nearly perished for water."
Rooster said, "If I ever meet one of you Texas waddies that says he never drank from a horse track I think I will shake his hand and give him a Daniel Webster cigar."
True Grit Page 8
