Harold Permalee brought back a handful of feathers and Lucky Ned Pepper chose one and cut the tip off with his knife and reamed out the hole a little. He dipped the quill into the "ink" and printed NED on his wrist in childish characters. He said, "There. You see. That is my name. Is it not?"
I said, "Yes, that is Ned."
He handed me the feather. "Now go to it."
A flat rock with one of the contracts laid on it was made to serve for a desk. It is not in me to do poor work where writing is concerned and I toiled earnestly at making faithful copies of Mr. Whelper's signature. However, the makeshift pen and ink were not satisfactory. The writing jumped and spread wide and pinched thin. It looked as though it had been done with a stick. My thought was: Who will believe that Mr. Whelper signs his banknotes with a stick?
But the unlettered bandit chieftain knew little of the world of banking except for such glimpses as he got over a gun sight, and he was pleased with the work. I signed and signed, using his palm for an inkwell. It was very tiring. As soon as I had finished one note he would snatch it up and pass me another.
He said, "They are as good as gold, Bob. I will trade them at Colbert's."
Greaser Bob said, "Nothing on paper is as good as gold. That is my belief."
"Well, that is how much a damned Mexican knows."
"It is every man to his own principles. Tell her to hurry along."
When the criminal task was completed Lucky Ned Pepper put the notes and the check in the gray envelope and secured it in his saddle wallet. He said, "Tom, we will see you tonight. Make yourself agreeable to this child. Little Carroll will be here before you know it."
Then they departed the place, not riding their horses but leading them, as the hill was so steep and brushy.
I was alone with Tom Chaney!
He sat across the fire from me, my pistol in his waistband and the Henry rifle in his lap. His face was a "brown study." I stirred up the fire a little and arranged some glowing coals around one of the cans of hot water.
Chaney watched me. He said, "What are you doing?"
I said, "I am heating some water so that I may wash this black off my hands."
"A little smut will not harm you."
"Yes, that is true, or else you and your 'chums' would surely be dead. I know it will not harm me but I would rather have it off."
"Don't provoke me. You will find yourself in that pit"
"Lucky Ned Pepper has warned you that if you molest me in any way he will not pay you. He means business too."
"I fear he has no idea of paying me. I believe he has left me, knowing I am sure to be caught when I leave on foot."
"He promised he would meet you at 'The Old Place.'"
"Keep still. I must now think over my position and how I may improve it."
"What about my position? At least you have not been abandoned by a man who was paid and pledged to protect you."
"You little busybody! What does your kind know of hardship and affliction? Now keep still while I think."
"Are you thinking about "The Old Place?'"
"No, I am not thinking about 'The Old Place.' Carroll Permalee or nobody else is coming up here with any horse. They are not going to 'The Old Place.' I am not so easily fooled as some people might think."
I thought to ask him about the other gold piece, then checked myself, afraid that he might force me to give over the one I had recovered. I said, "What have you done with Papa's mare?"
He gave no answer.
I said, "If you will let me go now I will keep silent as to your whereabouts for two days."
"I tell you I can do better than that," said he.
"I can have your silence forever. I will not tell you again to hold your tongue."
The water was not boiling but it had begun to steam a little and I picked up the can with a rag and flung it at him, then took to my feet in frantic flight. Though caught by surprise, he managed to shield his face with his arms. He yelped and gave immediate pursuit. My desperate plan was to reach the trees. Once there, I thought to evade him and finally lose him by darting this way and that in the brush.
It was not to be! Just as I came to the edge of the rock shelf, Chaney grabbed my coat from behind and pulled me up short. My thought was: I am certainly done for! Chaney was cursing me and he struck me on the head with the pistol barrel. The blow made me see stars and I concluded I was shot, not knowing the sensation caused by a bullet striking your head. My thoughts turned to my peaceful home in Arkansas, and my poor mother who would be laid low by the news. First her husband and now her oldest child, both gone in the space of two weeks and dispatched by the same bloody hand! That was the direction of my thoughts.
Suddenly I heard a familiar voice, and the words were hard with authority. "Hands up, Chelmsford! Move quickly! It is all up with you! Have a care with that pistol!"
It was LaBoeuf the Texan! He had come up the back way, on foot I supposed, as he was panting for breath. He was standing not thirty feet away with his wired-together rifle trained on Chaney.
Chaney let go of my coat and dropped the pistol.
"Everything is against me," he said. I recovered the pistol.
LaBoeuf said, "Are you hurt, Mattie?"
"I have a painful knot on my head," said I.
He said to Chaney, "I see you are bleeding."
"It was this girl done it," said he. "I am shot in the ribs and bleeding again. It hurts when I cough."
I said, "Where is Rooster?"
LaBoeuf said, "He is down below watching the front door. Let us find a place where we can see. Move with care, Chelmsford!"
We proceeded to the northwest corner of the rock shelf, skirting around the pit which had figured in Chaney's ugly threats. "Watch your step there," I cautioned the Texan. "Tom Chaney says there are deadly snakes at the bottom having their winter sleep."
From the far corner of the ledge we had a clear prospect. The timbered slope dropped off sharply below us and led to a meadow. This meadow, level and open, was quite high itself and at the other end there was a further descent leading down out of the Winding Stair Mountains.
No sooner had we taken up our vigil than we were rewarded with the sight of Lucky Ned Pepper and the other three bandits emerging from the trees into the meadow. There they mounted their horses and headed them west, away from us. They had hardly started their ride when a lone horseman came out of the brush at the western end of the field. The horse was walking and the rider took him out to the middle of the open space and stopped, so as to block the passage of the four desperadoes.
Yes, it was Rooster Cogburn! The bandits checked up and faced him from some seventy or eighty yards' distance. Rooster had one of the navy revolvers in his left hand and he held the reins in his right hand. He said, "Where is the girl, Ned?"
Lucky Ned Pepper said, "She was in wonderful health when last I saw her! I cannot answer for her now!"
"You will answer for her now!" said Rooster. "Where is she?"
LaBoeuf stood up and cupped his hands and shouted down, "She is all right, Cogburn! I have Chelmsford as well! Make a run for it!" I confirmed the news by shouting, "I am fine, Rooster! We have Chaney! You must get away!"
The bandits turned to look up at us and no doubt they were surprised and not a little disconcerted by the interesting development. Rooster made no reply to us and gave no sign of leaving the place.
Lucky Ned Pepper said, "Well, Rooster, will you give us the road? We have business elsewhere!"
Rooster said, "Harold, I want you and your brother to stand clear! I have no interest in you today! Stand clear now and you will not be hurt!"
Harold Permalee's answer was to crow like a rooster, and the "Cock-a-doodle-doo!" brought a hearty laugh from his brother Farrell.
Lucky Ned Pepper said, "What is your intention? Do you think one on four is a dogfall?"
Rooster said, "I mean to kill you in one minute, Ned, or see you hanged in Fort Smith at Judge Parker's convenience! Which will y
ou have?"
Lucky Ned Pepper laughed. He said, "I call that bold talk for a one-eyed fat man!"
Rooster said, "Fill your hand, you son of a bitch!" and he took the reins in his teeth and pulled the other saddle revolver and drove his spurs into the flanks of his strong horse Bo and charged directly at the bandits. It was a sight to see. He held the revolvers wide on either side of the head of his plunging steed. The four bandits accepted the challenge and they likewise pulled their arms and charged their ponies ahead.
It was some daring move on the part of the deputy marshal whose manliness and grit I had doubted. No grit? Rooster Cogburn? Not much!
LaBoeuf instinctively brought his rifle up, but then he relaxed it and did not fire. I pulled at his coat, saying, "Shoot them!" The Texan said, "They are too far and they are moving too fast."
I believe the bandits began firing their weapons first, although the din and smoke was of such a sudden, general nature that I cannot be sure. I do know that the marshal rode for them in so determined and unwavering a course that the bandits broke their "line" ere he reached them and raced through them, his revolvers blazing, and he not aiming with the sights but only pointing the barrels and snapping his head from side to side to bring his good eye into play.
Harold Permalee was the first to go down. He flung his shotgun in the air and clutched at his neck and was thrown backward over the rump of his horse. The Original Greaser Bob rode wider than the others and he lay flat on his horse and escaped clear with his winnings. Farrell Permalee was hit and a moment later his horse went down with a broken leg and Farrell was dashed violently forward to his death.
We thought that Rooster had come through the ordeal with no injury, but in fact he had caught several shotgun pellets in his face and shoulders, and his horse Bo was mortally struck. When Rooster attempted to rein up with his teeth and turn to resume the attack, the big horse fell to the side and Rooster under him.
The field now remained to one rider and that was Lucky Ned Pepper. He wheeled his horse about. His left arm hung limp and useless, but he yet held a revolver in his right hand. He said, "Well, Rooster, I am shot to pieces!" Rooster had lost his big revolvers in the fall and he was struggling to pull his belt gun which was trapped to the ground under the weight of horse and rider.
Lucky Ned Pepper nudged his pony forward in a trot and he bore down on the helpless officer.
LaBoeuf quickly stirred beside me and assumed a sitting position with the Sharps rifle, his elbows locked against his knees. He took only a second to draw a bead and fire the powerful gun. The ball flew to its mark like a martin to his gourd and Lucky Ned Pepper fell dead in the saddle. The horse reared and the body of the bandit was thrown clear and the horse fled in panic. The distance covered by LaBoeuf's wonderful shot at the moving rider was over six hundred yards. I am prepared to swear an affidavit to it.
"Hurrah!" I joyfully exclaimed. "Hurrah for the man from Texas! Some bully shot!" LaBoeuf was pleased with himself and he reloaded his rifle.
Now the prisoner has an advantage over his keeper in this respect, that he is always thinking of escape and watching for opportunities, while the keeper does not constantly think of keeping him. Once his man is subdued, so the guard believes, little else is needed but the presence and threat of superior force. He thinks of happy things and allows his mind to wander. It is only natural. Were it otherwise, the keeper would be a prisoner of the prisoner.
So it was that LaBoeuf (and I too) was distracted for a dangerous moment in appreciation of the timely rifle shot that saved Rooster Cogburn's life. Tom Chaney, seizing the occasion, picked up a rock about the size of a new cooking pumpkin and broke LaBoeuf's head with it.
The Texan fell over with a groan of agony. I screamed and hastened to my feet and backed away, bringing my pistol to bear once again on Tom Chaney, who was scrambling after the Sharps rifle. Would the old dragoon revolver fail me this time? I hoped it would not.
I hurriedly cocked the hammer and pulled the trigger. The charge exploded and sent a lead ball of justice, too long delayed, into the criminal head of Tom Chaney.
Yet I was not to taste the victory. The kick of the big pistol sent me reeling backward. I had forgotten about the pit behind me! Over the edge I went, then tumbling and bouncing against the irregular sides, and all the while I was grabbing wildly for something and finding nothing. I struck the bottom with a thump that fairly dazed me. The wind was knocked from my lungs and I lay still for a moment until I had regained my breath. I was addled and I had the fanciful notion that my spirit was floating out of my body, escaping through my mouth and nostrils.
I had thought myself to be lying down, but when I made to get up I found I was stuck upright in a small hole, the lower part of my body wedged in tight between mossy rocks. I was caught like a cork in a bottle!
My right arm was pinned against my side and I could not pull it free. When I tried to use my left hand to push myself out of the hole I saw with a shock that the forearm was bent in an unnatural attitude. The arm was broken! There was little pain in the arm, only a kind of "pins and needles" numbness. The movement in my fingers was weak and I had but little grasping power. I was reluctant to use the arm for leverage, fearing the pressure would worsen the fracture and bring on pain.
It was cold and dark down there, though not totally dark. A slender column of sunshine came down from above and ended in a small pool of light some three or four feet away on the stone floor of the cavern. I looked up at the column and could see floating particles of dust stirred up by my fall.
I saw on the rocks about me a few sticks and bits of paper and an old tobacco sack and splotches of grease where skillets had been emptied. I also saw the corner of a man's blue cotton shirt, the rest of it being obscured by shadow. There were no snakes about. Thank goodness for that!
I summoned my strength and cried out, "Help! LaBoeuf! Can you hear me!" No word of reply came. I did not know if the Texan were alive or dead. All I heard was a low roaring of the wind above and dripping noises behind me and some faint "cheeps" and "squeaks." I could not identify the nature of the squeaks or locate their origin.
I renewed my effort to break free but the vigorous movement made me slip a bit farther down in the mossy hole. My thought was: This will not do. I stopped maneuvering lest I drop right through the hole to what depths of blackness I could only imagine. My legs swung free below and my jeans were bunched up so that portions of bare leg were exposed. I felt something brush against one of my legs and I thought, Spider! I kicked and flailed my feet and then I stopped when my body settled downward another inch or so.
Now more squeaks, and it came to me that there were bats in the cavern below. Bats were making the noise and it had been a bat that attached himself to my leg. Yes, I had disturbed them. Their roosting place was below. This hole I now so effectively plugged was their opening to the outside.
I had no unreasonable fear of bats, knowing them for timid little creatures, yet I knew them too for carriers of the dread "Hydrophobia," for which there was no specific. What would the bats do, come night and their time to fly, and they found their opening to the outer world closed off? Would they bite? If I struggled and kicked against them I would surely shake myself through the hole. But I knew I had not the will to remain motionless and let them bite.
Night! Was I to be here then till night? I must keep my head and guard against such thoughts. What of LaBoeuf? And what had become of Rooster Cogburn? He had not appeared to be badly hurt in the fall of his horse. But how would he know I was down here? I did not like my situation.
I thought to set fire to bits of cloth for a signal of smoke but the idea was useless because I had no matches. Surely someone would come. Perhaps Captain Finch. The news of the gun fight must get out and bring a party to investigate. Yes, the posse of marshals. The thing was to hold tight. Help was sure to come. At least there were no snakes. I settled on this course: I would give cries for help every five minutes or as near on that interval as I co
uld guess it to be.
I called out at once and was again mocked by the echo of my own voice and by the wind and the dripping of the cave water and the squeaking of the bats. I told numbers to measure the time. It occupied my mind and gave me a sense of purpose and method.
I had not counted far when my body slipped down appreciably and with panic in my breast I realized that the moss which gripped me in a tight seal was tearing loose. I looked about for something to hold to, broken arm or not, but my hand found only slick and featureless planes of rock. I was going through. It was a matter now of time.
Another lurch down, to the level of my right elbow. That bony knob served as a momentary check but I could feel the moss giving way against it. A wedge! That was what I needed. Something to stuff in the hole with me to make the cork fit more snugly. Or a long stick to pass under my arm.
I cast my eyes about for something suitable. The few sticks lying about were none of them long enough or stout enough for my purpose. If only I could reach the blue shirt! It would be just the thing for packing. I broke one stick scratching and pulling at the shirttail. With the second one I managed to bring it within reach of my fingertips. Weakened as my hand was, I got a purchase on the cloth with thumb and finger and pulled it out of the dark. It was unexpectedly heavy. Something was attached to it.
Suddenly I jerked my hand away as though from a hot stove. The something was the corpse of a man! Or more properly, a skeleton. He was wearing the shirt. I did nothing for a minute, so frightful and astonishing was the discovery. I could see a good part of the remains, the head with patches of bright orange hair showing under a piece of rotted black hat, one shirtsleeved arm and that portion of the trunk from about the waist upwards. The shirt was buttoned in two or three places near the neck.
I soon recovered my wits. I am falling. I need that shirt. These thoughts bore upon me with urgency. I had no stomach for the task ahead but there was nothing else to be done in my desperate circumstances. My plan was to give the shirt a smart jerk in hopes of tearing it free from the skeleton. I will have that shirt!
True Grit Page 15
