LaBoeuf said, “I told you that in Fort Smith.”
I do not know if the Texan intended the remark to tell against me, but if he did, it was “water off a duck’s back.” You cannot give any weight to the words of a drunkard, and even so, I knew Rooster could not be talking about me in his drunken criticism of women, the kind of money I was paying him. I could have confounded him and his silliness right there by saying, “What about me? What about that twenty-five dollars I have given you?” But I had not the strength nor the inclination to bandy words with a drunkard. What have you done when you have bested a fool?
I thought we would never stop, and must be nearing Montgomery, Alabama. From time to time LaBoeuf and I would interrupt Rooster and ask him how much much farther and he would reply, “It is not far now,” and then he would pick up again on a chapter in the long and adventurous account of his life. He had seen a good deal of strife in his travels.
When at last we did stop, Rooster said only, “I reckon this will do.” It was well after midnight. We were on a more or less level place in a pine forest up in the hills and that was all I could determine. I was so tired and stiff I could not think straight.
Rooster said he calculated we had come about fifty miles—fifty miles!—from McAlester’s store and were now positioned some four miles from Lucky Ned Pepper’s bandit stronghold. Then he wrapped himself up in his buffalo robe and retired without ceremony, leaving LaBoeuf to see to the horses.
The Texan watered them from the canteens and fed them and tied them out. He left the saddles on them for warmth, but with the girths loosened. Those poor horses were worn out.
We made no fire. I took a hasty supper of bacon and biscuit sandwiches. The biscuits were pretty hard. There was a layer of pine straw under the patchy snow and I raked up a thick pile with my hands for a woodland mattress. The straw was dirty and brittle and somewhat damp but at that it made for a better bed than any I had seen on this journey. I rolled up in my blankets and slicker and burrowed down into the straw. It was a clear winter night and I made out the Big Dipper and the North Star through the pine branches. The moon was already down. My back hurt and my feet were swollen and I was so exhausted that my hands quivered. The quivering passed and I was soon in the “land of Nod.”
SEVEN
Rooster was stirring about the next morning before the sun had cleared the higher mountains to the east. He seemed little worse for the wear despite the hard riding and the drinking excesses and the short sleep. He did insist on having coffee and he made a little fire of oak sticks to boil his water. The fire gave off hardly any smoke, white wisps that were quickly gone, but LaBoeuf called it a foolish indulgence, seeing we were so close to our quarry.
I felt as though I had only just closed my eyes. The water in the canteens was low and they would not let me have any for washing. I got the canvas bucket and put my revolver in it and set off down the hill looking for a spring or a runoff stream.
The slope was gentle at first and then it fell off rather sharply. The brush grew thicker and I checked my descent by grabbing bushes. Down and down I went. As I neared the bottom, dreading the return climb, I heard splashing and blowing noises. My thought was: What on earth! Then I came into the open on a creek bank. On the other side there was a man watering some horses.
The man was none other than Tom Chaney!
You may readily imagine that I registered shock at the sight of that squat assassin. He had not yet seen me, nor heard me either because of the noise made by the horses. His rifle was slung across his back on the cotton plow line. I thought to turn and run but I could not move. I stood there fixed.
Then he saw me. He gave a start and brought the rifle quickly into play. He held the rifle on me and peered across the little stream and studied me.
He said, “Well, now, I know you. Your name is Mattie. You are little Mattie the bookkeeper. Isn’t this something.” He grinned and took the rifle from play and slung it carelessly over a shoulder.
I said, “Yes, and I know you, Tom Chaney.”
He said, “What are you doing here?”
I said, “I came to fetch water.”
“What are you doing here in these mountains?”
I reached into the bucket and brought out my dragoon revolver. I dropped the bucket and held the revolver in both hands. I said, “I am here to take you back to Fort Smith.”
Chaney laughed and said, “Well, I will not go. How do you like that?”
I said, “There is a posse of officers up on the hill who will force you to go.”
“That is interesting news,” said he. “How many is up there?”
“Right around fifty. They are all well armed and they mean business. What I want you to do now is leave those horses and come across the creek and walk in front of me up the hill.”
He said, “I think I will oblige the officers to come after me.” He began to gather the horses together. There were five of them but Papa’s horse Judy was not among them.
I said, “If you refuse to go I will have to shoot you.”
He went on with his work and said, “Oh? Then you had better cock your piece.”
I had forgotten about that. I pulled the hammer back with both thumbs.
“All the way back till it locks,” said Chaney.
“I know how to do it,” said I. When it was ready I said, “You will not go with me?”
“I think not,” said he. “It is just the other way around. You are going with me.”
I pointed the revolver at his belly and shot him down. The explosion kicked me backwards and caused me to lose my footing and the pistol jumped from my hand. I lost no time in recovering it and getting to my feet. The ball had struck Chaney’s side and knocked him into a sitting position against a tree. I heard Rooster or LaBoeuf call out for me. “I am down here!” I replied. There was another shout from the hill above Chaney.
He was holding both hands down on his side. He said, “I did not think you would do it.”
I said, “What do you think now?”
He said, “One of my short ribs is broken. It hurts every breath I take.”
I said, “You killed my father when he was trying to help you. I have one of the gold pieces you took from him. Now give me the other.”
“I regret that shooting,” said he. “Mr. Ross was decent to me but he ought not to have meddled in my business. I was drinking and I was mad through and through. Nothing has gone right for me.”