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 was 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.
SIX
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.