True Grit - "With No Lodestar In Sight", Mattie/LaBoeuf, T
Title: With No Lodestar In Sight - 1/12
Author: lindentree
Rating: T
Character(s): Mattie Ross/LaBoeuf, Rooster Cogburn
Word Count: 6,398
Summary: Five years after her adventure in the Choctaw Nation, Mattie Ross runs afoul of a fugitive. She soon finds herself in familiar company, if not familiar territory.
like old friends again
“I see. And why did you not take a buggy or a wagon into town?”
Mattie suppressed an impatient sigh. She had explained the thing three times now in great detail for Sheriff Morris, who sat across his desk from her, stroking his oiled moustache. His deputy, Sutherland, a young man not much older than Mattie, stood by being very rude and blatant in his ogling of her. Mattie did not appreciate it, for his look was prurient. She knew she must look ghoulish, covered in dried blood as she was, but that was no reason for the fool to forget himself and gawk at her.
“I did not take the wagon because I had only just fed the horses,” Mattie said, in answer to his question, “and I feared the exercise would trouble their stomachs, which have been sensitive of late. They have been prone to colic, and I do not see the sense in creating more difficulties when I could just as easily walk to town. Also the business of tacking and hitching would have taken some time, as I am somewhat less able to be quick about such work than others.”
“I see,” replied the Sheriff. “Now, tell me again - how came this man, Cunningham, to be on your property in the first place?”
Mattie was not one to sneer at an officer of the law, but the hour was late and she was weary from the evening’s ordeal, and therefore had half a mind to pick up her father’s pistol from where it sat on the desk and throw it directly in the man’s face.
There was a creak and a bang from the front door in the other room. The Sheriff looked pointedly at his deputy, and when he received no acknowledgement, he cleared his throat. Sutherland gave a little jump of surprise as he stood up straight, and made his way hastily out of the room.
The Sheriff watched him go, an exasperated look on his face which reminded Mattie very distinctly of a tired bloodhound. There was a murmur of conversation from the other room, and Sheriff Morris turned his gaze back to Mattie.
“I believe you were about to explain how Cunningham came to arrive at your farm.”
Mattie did not manage to suppress her sigh this time. She embarked on her tale once again, and had got as far as Cunningham hitting her with the liquor bottle, when Sutherland reappeared in the office doorway.
“I am sorry to interrupt, Sheriff,” he said, not looking at Mattie, “but there is a... Well, there is a man and he has asked to see you. He will not speak with me.”
Sheriff Morris sighed. “It appears that I will get no rest tonight,” he said, standing up. “Wait here, Miss Ross.”
Mattie made no reply, although privately she wondered why, if Sheriff Morris was so eager to be at home in his bed, he had induced her to repeat herself for no reason she could discern.
The Sheriff left the door open behind him, but Mattie did not eavesdrop. Or she attempted not to, at least, until the raised voices in the other room made it impossible to avoid.
“I have been tracking Cunningham for several weeks, and yes, I would like to know why it is that I am to return to Texas empty-handed.” The voice of the newcomer conveyed annoyance and self-importance, and was extremely familiar.
Mattie stood and leaned out of the office to see the source of the commotion. Standing before Sutherland and Sheriff Morris, looking as foolish as ever in all his buckskin and fringe, was Mr. LaBoeuf.
He continued to rant on about cooperation between jurisdictions and regions, and about the importance of the public safety. Mattie looked at him. He was the same as when last she saw him, although now at least he did not appear to be suffering from a partially severed tongue, or a blow to the head, or an errant bullet to the shoulder.
When finally he paused in his speechifying (presumably to catch his runaway breath,) the deputy attempted meekly to explain what had transpired. The impatient look on LaBoeuf’s face made Mattie’s mouth quirk up in a smile, and she had to school her own face into a serious expression before she allowed herself to step out of the Sheriff’s office.
“Mr. LaBoeuf? Are you the only Ranger in Texas available to chase outlaws into Arkansas, or is your reappearance in these parts pure serendipity?”
LaBoeuf turned sharply and stared at her. “Miss Ross?”
“Yes, it is I,” she replied.
LaBoeuf was across the room in two long strides, his spurs ringing against the floor boards. He grabbed her firmly by the shoulders. “Are you injured? Whose blood is this?”
“You need not worry; it is not my blood. Or, not much of it is mine. Most of it belonged to your Mr. Cunningham. You see, I am the reason you will be returning to Texas empty-handed.”
He stared at her uncomprehendingly for several seconds, and then he blinked and unhanded her, taking a step back as he frowned. “I suppose it does not surprise me that you are to blame for that,” he said. His voice seemed rather faint to Mattie. He continued to stare at her, bemused.
After a moment, LaBoeuf reached out and clasped her chin, turning her face gently this way and that to see her bruised cheekbone and the cut on the top of her head. “That is some mark he left on you,” he said. His eyes examined her face, searching for other flaws and injuries, Mattie guessed. Finally his gaze rested on hers, and his hand dropped away. “Are you otherwise hurt?”
“I am only bruised, and there is a goose egg on my head where he broke his bottle over it. My throat is sore from the throttling he gave me, and I expect some bruises to appear there, as well,” she replied. She held his gaze steadily as she continued. “I was able to prevent him from harming me as he intended.”
LaBoeuf replied only by regarding her in silence. He shook his head. “I would not have brought Cunningham back to Texas alive after all, then. I would have killed him myself if you had not.”
“I appreciate the sentiment, but there is no need.”
“Indeed,” he said. He regarded her for another moment, the corner of his mouth drawing upwards in one half of a smile. “Truly, it is a great pleasure to -”
“Miss Ross,” interrupted the Sheriff, “why does it not surprise me to find that you are acquainted with the Texas Ranger out for the man you have just killed?”
“I would not know why it does not surprise you, for I am not privy to your thoughts,” Mattie replied tersely. “But I certainly do not appreciate the implication that I am deserving of a reputation as some kind of scalawag! If you look at the thing rationally I think you will see that the opposite is true.”
The Sheriff blew a breath out of his jowls and frowned at her in apparent bewilderment. “Well, I do not see what else can be done tonight. We will sort everything out once there is light enough to see by. I will come see you in the morning, Miss Ross, as will Mr. MacLeod, the undertaker.”
“And what of me and my reward?” LaBoeuf asked.
“Well, you did not catch the man, so I suppose there will be no reward. You will have to take that up with the appropriate parties in your jurisdiction,” the Sheriff replied.
“Now, see here -” LaBoeuf began. Mattie hastily interrupted.
“Gentlemen, it would seem that since I was the one who caught the man, it is up to me whether I collect on any offered reward moneys.”
“Yes, well, I guess we will see about all that tomorrow,” said the Sheriff.
“I guess we will,” Mattie replied. With that, she went into the office and recovered her father’s pistol from the Sheriff’s desk before striding purposefully past the Sheriff and out the door.
Mattie was out into the dark street and heading back in the direction of the farm before she realised that LaBoeuf had followed her. He fell into step beside her. “That Sheriff of yours does not offer much in the way of assistance.”
“He would not be ‘my Sheriff’ at all if I had my way. He is a lazy man who is transparently disinterested in his own calling. He is lucky that the people of this region are generally peaceful, law-abiding folk, or else he would not be at liberty to be quite so idle,” Mattie replied. “I presume that this Cunningham hailed from Texas or Louisiana or some such place, and not from Arkansas.”
“You presume correctly. He was from San Antonio.” LaBoeuf paused for a moment, and then continued, his tone light. “If Sheriff Morris is as incompetent as you say, you might find that after this episode, the ‘peaceful, law-abiding folk’ of Yell County may see fit to make you their Sheriff.”
Mattie stopped her walking and turned to face him. “I see you are as garrulous as ever, Mr. LaBoeuf. Is there a reason you are following me? This has been a trying night and I would like to go home.”
“Is your mother waiting for you there?”
“My mother is in Little Rock with my brother and sister, visiting relations. They will not be back until the day after tomorrow.”
“In that case, I will go with you to your home and remain with you until your family returns. You should not be alone,” he said.
“Do not be ridiculous, Mr. LaBoeuf,” Mattie replied. “I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself. I do not need to be chaperoned in my own home.”
“Of your capability I have no doubt, having witnessed sufficient evidence of it myself. But shooting a man on a mountaintop is a different matter altogether from slitting a man’s throat in your own barnyard. You may find that you do not feel like yourself.”
“I am not a little girl anymore,” Mattie said drily. “I do not need protection from the booger-man.”
“Miss Ross, please,” he entreated. “Allow me to accompany you home, at the very least. It is dark and you have been through an ordeal. I will not feel right otherwise, if only as your friend.”
“All right,” Mattie relented. She suddenly felt weary beyond words, and longed to be tucked in her warm bed. The very thought of the journey home in the dark exhausted her. It galled her, but she did not have the energy to argue with him further.
They turned and walked back to the Sheriff’s, where LaBoeuf’s horse was tethered. It was a different animal from the woolly Appaloosa he rode at the time of their last meeting. This one was a handsome piebald mare who was compact and strong-looking, with sound legs. She seemed good-spirited also, for she turned her head and greeted LaBoeuf with a soft nicker.
“I guess you did not ride here, unless you have hitched your mount someplace else,” LaBoeuf said, glancing at Mattie as he untied the reins.
“You guess right. My horse has been colicky of late, and I did not want to bother her, as the roads are dry and clear, and it is just as simple to walk.”
He frowned at her for a moment, giving his head a shake. “I am certain that you are about the only person alive who, having nearly been throttled and bludgeoned to death, would elect to walk for assistance so as not to bother your horse.”
Mattie did not see the foolishness he seemed to imply. “Despite being rather chewed up, I could still stand a short journey. What I could not stand was the thought of any of our horses needlessly perishing from colic simply because I was feeling delicate.”
LaBoeuf seemed ready to argue, but some second thought seemed to stop him, and he did not reply. Instead he took his horse by her reins and turned her around so that Mattie was at her near side.
“This is Sal. Do you have some trick to mounting a horse one-armed and unassisted, or may I be so bold as to offer you a leg up?” he asked, his tone now verging on the ironical.
Mattie shot him what she hoped was a withering look. “If you would be so courteous as to bring her close to this fence,” she replied, gesturing at the rails behind her, “I will not have to trouble you for a leg up.” She turned then and scaled the fence, perching herself on the top rail while keeping her feet on the lower.
LaBoeuf brought a perplexed but obedient Sal close, and Mattie stuck her left foot in the stirrup, grabbed the horn, and swung herself on before he could say another word about it.
“Still riding astride, I see,” he said, almost under his breath. He gathered Sal’s reins and led her out into the street.
Mattie pursed her lips, ready to give him a tongue-lashing, when a thought occurred to her. “How do you plan on mounting, Mr. LaBoeuf?”
He glanced up from beneath the brim of his silly rodeo clown hat, and gave Mattie a curious look she did not recognize. After a moment, he looked down and cleared his throat. “I will walk. I have been on the road for several days, and Sal could use the rest. Thankfully I too could use a rest, but from the saddle, on my part.”
“Now who is putting his horse’s well-being before his own?” Mattie asked. She sensed her tone contained equal measures of mirth and scorn. Even as she prodded him, she hoped he did not truly take offense.
LaBoeuf looked up at her again, and smiled. He shrugged his shoulders before looking back out at the road. “I reckon I am guilty of that, yes.”
After that, they were like old friends again. They made their way slowly up the dark road, telling stories about the things they had seen since last they met. Mattie told LaBoeuf about their cotton crop, and horses she had bought, the second storey they added to the house last spring, and about the prize Little Frank had won at the county fair for the handsome red bull calf he had raised himself. LaBoeuf, in turn, told her many (probably tall, she surmised) tales of life as a lawman in west Texas, about train robbers and sleeping under the stars, and about card games and disputes about land and cattle. Mattie listened as he talked, watching fireflies flicker in the darkness before them. For the time it took Sal to walk them from town to the edge of the Rosses’ property, Mattie almost forgot about the earlier brutalities of the day.
LaBoeuf walked Sal up the oak-lined road which led to the house, and tethered her to one of the front porch rails. The yard was dark and utterly silent, for there was not even a breeze to stir the yellowing leaves on their dry stems. Mattie shivered, and hoped LaBoeuf did not see. Certainly he said nothing as Mattie allowed him to help her down from the horse.
He looked at her in the blue light of the moon for a moment, and then he cleared his throat and looked about the yard. “Do you have a lantern?” he asked.
“Yes,” Mattie replied, moving around him to scale the porch steps and retrieve a punched tin lantern from where it sat in the shelter of the parlour window sill. She brought it to him, and watched as he reached into his breast pocket and withdrew a match with which to light the lantern. The match head flared, illuminating his face for a brief moment. It reminded Mattie of the very first time she ever saw him, sitting outside the boarding house in Fort Smith, looking very proud and silly in all his cowboy folderol.
Swallowing a lump in her throat, Mattie looked down. She had not thought that approaching the dark, silent yard would stir up such trepidation in her. Privately, she was grateful that she was not alone, although she did not know how exactly to tell him so. Nor did she understand why it was that she did not want to.
“Where is the body?” LaBoeuf asked. “We must find a place to stow it until the sheriff decides whether I may take it back to Texas. The bounty did not stipulate that the man must be alive, which is a lucky turn for me.”
“I left him by the woodshed,” Mattie replied, pointing. “I do not want to put him in the barn; it will spook the horses. I suppose we could put him in the ice house, if he is securely wrapped. We have old sheets which could be used.”
“Yes, that will do,” LaBoeuf said. He started towards the woodshed, and Mattie followed him. He glanced at her. “You need not trouble yourself. I will take care of the man.”
Mattie ignored him, and LaBoeuf seemed about to make another protest when they turned the corner of the woodshed and stopped short.
Cunningham was gone.
The signs of their struggle remained - the dirt and woodchips were scattered about and stained with much blood, and broken glass littered the ground. But Cunningham himself was gone.
LaBoeuf lifted the lantern to widen the circle of light it threw. “This is the place?” he asked.
“Yes,” Mattie replied, her throat dry. “Yes, I left him right here. He was not moving or breathing, and I left him here, face down. He was dead, Mr. LaBoeuf! Where... That is, how...?” Mattie spun around and searched the yard, but it was too dark to even see if he had left a trail. The woods beyond were impenetrably dark as well, and silent, except for the croaking chorus of frogs, and the distant hoot of an owl. Mattie swallowed.
What if he had gone into the house and hidden himself there? What if he had fled into the woods? What if he was watching them right this instant, vulnerably illuminated as they were in the darkness by the light of their lantern?
LaBoeuf was staring down at the ground in puzzlement. His thoughts seemed to follow hers, for he glanced at her, his expression tense. He stood close to her and said under his breath, “Do you still have your father’s pistol?”
“I do.”
LaBoeuf nodded, and abruptly took her hand in his. Mattie did not have time to protest, for he turned and pulled her back to the front of the house. Sal was still tied to the porch rail, happily ripping up what grass she could reach with her long neck.
Not pausing or letting go of her hand, LaBoeuf untied Sal and lifted Mattie onto her with one smooth movement. He led the horse out into the middle of the yard before stopping and pressing the reins into her hand.
“Are there any other guns in the house?” he asked.
“Yes. There are two rifles in the front room, Papa’s and Little Frank’s. It is the room immediately on the right, and the rifles are in the rack on the far wall.”
“I remember the lay of the place,” he replied. He glanced up at her, and Mattie did not like the worried look he gave her. “Tie the reins around the horn, and have your pistol at the ready. I must leave you without a light, and search the house. If you hear any noise or commotion, ride straight into town and fetch the sheriff. Do not come into the house, and do not look back.”
“Mr. LaBoeuf, really -” Mattie began, but LaBoeuf cut her off.
“Miss Ross, you must promise me that you will take Sal and get out of harm’s way. Cunningham could be in the house, armed, and if anything should happen to you...” He looked at her, and he seemed troubled. “Well, it is much simpler if you go at the first sign of trouble.”
He did not give her a moment to promise or refuse. LaBoeuf turned and walked back to the house, grabbing his Sharps-Carbine from where he had leant it against the porch.
Mattie watched as LaBoeuf climbed the porch steps and entered the house, the lantern in one hand and the gun in the crook of his elbow. She held her breath as she watched the light bob from room to room.
Sal shook her head, the metal and leather of her large bit slapping as she blew out an impatient breath. Mattie wanted to say something, or pat her neck in reassurance, but she could not. Fear had stunned her.
The light reappeared on the porch, and then moved towards her as LaBoeuf walked across the yard. Soon he was at her side once more, taking the reins. He did not speak as he led her back to the house, where he helped her down once again from the saddle.
“He is not in the house. I have barricaded the back door and lit the fires. Is there any other way to gain entry to the house?” he asked, securing Sal once more to the porch rail.
“No, there is not,” Mattie replied. “You checked the cellar?”
He nodded. “There is nothing down there but some fastidiously organized stores.”
Mattie could not tell whether he was complimenting her or poking fun, but either seemed untimely, and she frowned. When LaBoeuf reached down to grab her hand again, she pulled her fingers free.
“I do not need your assistance to walk. I am not an invalid,” she said.
“Very well,” LaBoeuf replied. He went back up the porch steps, leading her into the parlour. He had built up a fire in the little woodstove, and lit the kerosene lamp on the polished cherry wood table her father had made for her mother one Christmas. The two rifles from the office were leaning against the settee.
“I am going to search the barn and get Sal squared away. I will return shortly.” With that, he turned and departed, lantern and gun in hand. Mattie followed him, watching as he closed the door behind him. She was alone in the creeping silence of a house which had never seemed anything but welcoming to her before.
Perhaps Mr. LaBoeuf had not been wrong about not feeling like her usual self, Mattie thought.
Sighing and blinking back the ache which crouched behind her eyes, Mattie became intimately aware of the crust of dried blood still sticking her dress and her shimmy to her skin, as well as the dirt and bits of sawdust still stuck in her hair. She walked down the hallway into the kitchen, where she found another fire burning in the cook stove. Mattie checked the reservoir and was relieved to see that there was plenty of hot water left in it. She was relieved she would not be forced to go outside to the pump.
Mattie filled a tin basin with hot water and carried it carefully out of the kitchen, intending to go upstairs to her bedroom to clean herself and change her clothes. She stopped short at the bottom of the stairs. It was dark at the top; LaBoeuf had not left any lights burning up there.
She pursed her lips in brief contemplation, and then walked down the hallway to her mother’s bedroom, and shut the door behind her. In the daylight, all of this would seem very silly, she knew. But for now, she would simply have to make do.
After unpinning her hair from its knot and letting it tumble down around her shoulders, Mattie unbuttoned her bodice and peeled the stiff material away from her skin. She frowned at the state of her shimmy and corset, stained ugly brown with blood. Her skin too was covered with little flecks of the stuff where it had dried. She shuddered, and reached for the soap on her mother’s washstand.
Once she had washed and dried herself, and combed and picked the dirt and sawdust from her hair, and rinsed it with more fresh water, she went to the small cupboard where her mother kept her clothing. There she found a clean nightgown, and her mother’s woollen heart-warmer which she kept for cold winter nights. It was not winter, nor was it particularly cold, but after Mattie held it to her face and inhaled the familiar scent of her mother which clung to it, she threw it around her shoulders and knotted it in place.
Mattie stopped and looked at the rusty-coloured water pooled in the bottom of the basin. She hesitated a moment, then shook her head. She would dispose of it in the morning, in the daylight.
She returned to the parlour and sat on the settee, curling her legs up underneath her. It felt good to be out of her dirty clothes, and the heat radiating from the stove began to settle into her skin, dispelling the shivers which had been threatening her. In silence she examined one damp lock of her hair, passing it between her fingers as it dried into a long curl in the warmth of the fire. She thought about how she had brushed and combed it that morning, and struggled to pull it into a halfway tidy knot before accepting that it would only ever look imperfect without her sister’s assistance. She had not expected to see another living soul that day, so she had not thought it much mattered.
LaBoeuf returned then, closing and locking the front door behind him.
“Miss -” he began, but his words dropped off as he paused in the doorway, staring at her.
Mattie stared back at him, frowning. He was looking at her most queerly, his brows drawn together and his mouth ajar as if he had been interrupted.
“Mr. LaBoeuf?” Mattie asked. “Are you all right?”
LaBoeuf seemed to return to himself then, and he cleared his throat and came into the room.
“He is gone, that is certain,” he said, removing his hat and sitting down in the chair across from her. He looked exhausted. “I searched every part of that barn, and every other building on the property, and there is no sign of him except at the woodpile. I expect he must have come to his senses after you fought him off and fled into the woods.”
“’Come to his senses’?” Mattie exclaimed. “Mr. LaBoeuf, he bled all over me like a shoat! You saw the state of the place. I do not understand how I did not kill him. I thought I surely had.”
“I will find him. In the meantime, I will stay here. It is a mere precaution, so do not be alarmed. A coward such as Cunningham is not likely to return here to harass you. Not after the walloping you gave him.”
Mattie regarded him, mulling over the contradiction with which he had just presented her. Did he believe she was in need of his protection, or not? “I suppose that is comforting, after a fashion,” she replied finally, frowning.
LaBoeuf sat back in the chair and commenced to filling his pipe.
“Have you eaten recently, Mr. LaBoeuf?” she asked, watching as he meticulously tapped tobacco down into the deep bowl of the pipe.
“I ate on the road, before I got to town. I reckoned I would not find a boarding house in time for supper,” he replied.
“Would you like some coffee, then?”
He looked up at her. “Although I appreciate your efforts, you need not trouble yourself to play hostess on my behalf.”
“It is no great trouble, if you would like some.”
“Truly, I am fine. All I require at this time is a place to sit, and my pipe, if you do not mind it.”
Mattie shrugged, and settled back against the settee as she watched him light his pipe. She tried to imagine what her mother would have to say about sitting with Mr. LaBoeuf in this way, practically in her inexpressibles. She hoped that, given the circumstances, her mother would forgive her.
“How long have you been on the trail of Mr. Cunningham? And for what crime, for that matter?” Mattie asked, idly combing her fingertips through the ends of her hair. She felt a pang of longing for Victoria. Although Mattie did her best to be self-reliant, and could manage a brush and a comb reasonably well, braiding and pinning up her hair with but one hand had proved nearly impossible. Their tempers were very disparate, hers and Victoria’s, yet braiding and twisting Mattie’s hair up together had become something of a morning ritual between them. Mattie had missed her little sister while she’d been gone. Her hair was a half-pinned catastrophe without her, and Mattie did not like it, for she valued a tidy appearance.
“I have been in pursuit of Cunningham for two months now,” LaBoeuf replied, pulling methodically on his freshly lit pipe. “He turned up in the El Paso area in the spring and made a nuisance of himself in generally the same way I gather he was attempting to do here. He was on the hunt for work, that is certain, but he seemed to find more liquor bottles and crooked card games than obliging employers. In any event, he was caught raiding a corn crib and came to blows over the matter with the owner of said corn, a man named Cartwright. He shot Cartwright and lit out. In earnest, we did not give much thought to pursuing him until we gathered through various channels that he was wanted in San Antonio for another charge of murder, as well as numerous crimes related to stock thievery, which is, I reckon, the vocation he has chosen for himself.”
That Cunningham was a stock thief hailing from San Antonio caused some string to be plucked in her memory, but Mattie did not have a moment to pursue it, for LaBoeuf continued.
“When I learned that there was a price on the man’s head, and that he had connections in Arkadelphia and Pine Bluff, I elected to pursue him. I do not believe I am boasting when I say that I have earned myself something of a reputation for always getting my man, one way or another.”
“Hm,” Mattie replied. “And is money so dear a thing to you?”
“What, do you find no practical use for money? I would someday like to retire from the business of chasing outlaws from pillar to post, and have myself a wife and a home. Both of these enterprises require some degree of financial security, I think you will agree.”
LaBoeuf began to talk about rewards he had pursued, as well as some tales of his regular work with the Rangers. Mattie listened in silence for some time, but soon felt her eyelids growing heavy, the exertions of the day weighing on her. She knew she ought to retire to Mama’s bedroom, but it was warm here, and the way LaBoeuf’s flat Texas drawl rolled over his stories with great leisure was rather soothing. The thought of getting up and walking down the hallway to sleep in that dark room did not appeal to her.
Before she could make a deliberation in the matter, her eyes slid closed and she fell into a strange half-sleep. She was still aware of her surroundings, of the fire in the stove and of LaBoeuf’s low voice, yet she began to dream all the same.
In her mind’s eye she saw before her the tin basin she had left on her mother’s washstand, filled with dingy, blood-tainted water. There was a rag on the rim of the basin whose end dipped down into the water. As Mattie watched, tiny grey mushrooms began to sprout from the damp rag, coiling together in a forest of furry, finger-like trees. They grew taller and fatter, eventually sprouting little shoots which resembled arms more than branches. Their growth accelerated, and soon they were the size of summer squash, their bulk knocking the basin from the washstand, the remnants of the water splashing over Mattie’s feet. They were enormous now, too big for the room, filling it and pressing against the creaking beadboard ceiling. Mattie turned towards the door to flee, but the fungus had already claimed it, sealing the exit with its foul-smelling, yellowish grey flesh.
With a jolt, Mattie awoke herself from the weird vision. She swallowed the lump in her throat and clenched her jaw, breathing heavily through her nose to slow her racing heart and prevent herself from gasping aloud. She blinked up at the ceiling as her eyes adjusted to the dim light. It was still night, and the lamp was lit, casting the room in swatches of warm golden light and long shadows. She had no reckoning of how much time had passed. A spider scuttled along the ceiling directly above her head before reaching the wall and disappearing into a space between the boards.
Not wanting to let on that she was awake, Mattie turned her head slightly and observed through slitted eyes that LaBoeuf was sitting in the chair across from her, the lamp on the table beside him. His rifle leaned against the chair. His pose was relaxed, and there was an open book resting on his chest, which he was reading. He was frowning. Mattie tried to make out the shining gilt title on the leather spine, but she could not.
“I see you peering at me there, Miss Ross,” LaBoeuf said, without looking up from his book. When Mattie did not reply, he glanced at her. “You are troubled by unpleasant dreams.”
Needled, Mattie sat up, gathering the wool heart-warmer close around her shoulders. A quilt - one of Victoria’s cozy but aesthetically imperfect creations - had been thrown over her. She pulled her knees up to her chest and glowered at him.
“You ought to have woken me,” she said, somewhat indignantly.
“I have seen you asleep before,” he replied. Mattie looked at him sharply, a curt retort forming on her lips. His expression was tiresomely reasonable, however, and Mattie could see he meant nothing by it, bold as he was. “In any case,” he continued, “after all that has happened, rest is what you require. You became quite noisy in your sleep. You were having a nightmare.”
Mattie felt her face flush in embarrassment. Although one’s dreams could not be helped and were therefore nothing to be bashful about, the thought of LaBoeuf watching her thrash involuntarily in her sleep discomfited her.
“It is nothing,” she replied flatly, after a moment.
“You need not always be stoic, Miss Ross. You are not made of metal.” LaBoeuf looked down at the book in his hands, contemplating its open pages for a moment before closing it and setting it aside. “You are human, made of skin and bones like any other. It is not weak to be afraid after what has happened to you today.”
Mattie rested her chin on her knees, hugging them to her chest as she regarded him. “It is not weak to be afraid because I am a woman, you mean.”
“Precisely.”
“Hm. And would it be a sign of weakness for you to be afraid, Mr. LaBoeuf?”
“I suppose it would be, but that is another matter altogether.”
“How is it another matter altogether? You know better than most what I am capable of. I do not see how it is any more acceptable for me to tremble in the face of danger than it is for you.”
LaBoeuf fixed her with a look which was, at once, both troubled and exasperated. “Miss Ross, do not be obstinate. I only mean to express that, if you are upset by what you have been through today, there is no shame in it. Furthermore, it would hardly factor into my estimation of your character, which is, incidentally, quite high. So you need not punish me with that sour look you are giving me any longer.”
“All right,” Mattie said, after a pause. She felt she had been talked into a corner, and did not much care for it, but it was the middle of the night and it seemed silly to argue. She continued to observe him, holding her knees to her chest. “Although it has been a long time since last we saw one another, we have still been acquaintances for some time. Formalities seem unnecessary, under the present circumstances. You may call me Mattie, if you like, rather than Miss Ross.”
“All right, Mattie,” he said, nodding. His eyes did not leave her face, and Mattie cleared her throat and stood up, looking away.
“I will say goodnight.” Mattie retrieved a candlestick from the sideboard and returned to the table to light it, using the flame already lit on the lamp. As she did so, she caught a glimpse of the book in LaBoeuf’s hands, which he was occupied with reading once again. It was Little Men, one of the many novels she and Victoria shared and in which Little Frank had scarce interest.
“That is a favourite of mine, and my sister’s,” she said. LaBoeuf looked up from its pages and raised his eyebrows at her.
“I thought you said goodnight,” he replied in a teasing tone.
“Oh, indeed,” she said, glowering at him as she straightened and made her way out of the room. “Goodnight, Mr. LaBoeuf.”
“Goodnight, Mattie,” came his reply. She could hear the amusement in his voice as she strode down the hallway with her light held in front of her. It seemed that Mr. LaBoeuf had gone from simply looking ridiculous to acting it as well.
Entering Mama’s bedroom, she saw the basin on the washstand, and hesitated. After a beat, she shook herself and put down the candle. LaBoeuf was not the only one acting ridiculously. She put the basin out in the hallway, and then closed and latched the door.
She did not dream of the mushrooms again.
Chapter Two
Author: lindentree
Rating: T
Character(s): Mattie Ross/LaBoeuf, Rooster Cogburn
Word Count: 6,398
Summary: Five years after her adventure in the Choctaw Nation, Mattie Ross runs afoul of a fugitive. She soon finds herself in familiar company, if not familiar territory.
like old friends again
“I see. And why did you not take a buggy or a wagon into town?”
Mattie suppressed an impatient sigh. She had explained the thing three times now in great detail for Sheriff Morris, who sat across his desk from her, stroking his oiled moustache. His deputy, Sutherland, a young man not much older than Mattie, stood by being very rude and blatant in his ogling of her. Mattie did not appreciate it, for his look was prurient. She knew she must look ghoulish, covered in dried blood as she was, but that was no reason for the fool to forget himself and gawk at her.
“I did not take the wagon because I had only just fed the horses,” Mattie said, in answer to his question, “and I feared the exercise would trouble their stomachs, which have been sensitive of late. They have been prone to colic, and I do not see the sense in creating more difficulties when I could just as easily walk to town. Also the business of tacking and hitching would have taken some time, as I am somewhat less able to be quick about such work than others.”
“I see,” replied the Sheriff. “Now, tell me again - how came this man, Cunningham, to be on your property in the first place?”
Mattie was not one to sneer at an officer of the law, but the hour was late and she was weary from the evening’s ordeal, and therefore had half a mind to pick up her father’s pistol from where it sat on the desk and throw it directly in the man’s face.
There was a creak and a bang from the front door in the other room. The Sheriff looked pointedly at his deputy, and when he received no acknowledgement, he cleared his throat. Sutherland gave a little jump of surprise as he stood up straight, and made his way hastily out of the room.
The Sheriff watched him go, an exasperated look on his face which reminded Mattie very distinctly of a tired bloodhound. There was a murmur of conversation from the other room, and Sheriff Morris turned his gaze back to Mattie.
“I believe you were about to explain how Cunningham came to arrive at your farm.”
Mattie did not manage to suppress her sigh this time. She embarked on her tale once again, and had got as far as Cunningham hitting her with the liquor bottle, when Sutherland reappeared in the office doorway.
“I am sorry to interrupt, Sheriff,” he said, not looking at Mattie, “but there is a... Well, there is a man and he has asked to see you. He will not speak with me.”
Sheriff Morris sighed. “It appears that I will get no rest tonight,” he said, standing up. “Wait here, Miss Ross.”
Mattie made no reply, although privately she wondered why, if Sheriff Morris was so eager to be at home in his bed, he had induced her to repeat herself for no reason she could discern.
The Sheriff left the door open behind him, but Mattie did not eavesdrop. Or she attempted not to, at least, until the raised voices in the other room made it impossible to avoid.
“I have been tracking Cunningham for several weeks, and yes, I would like to know why it is that I am to return to Texas empty-handed.” The voice of the newcomer conveyed annoyance and self-importance, and was extremely familiar.
Mattie stood and leaned out of the office to see the source of the commotion. Standing before Sutherland and Sheriff Morris, looking as foolish as ever in all his buckskin and fringe, was Mr. LaBoeuf.
He continued to rant on about cooperation between jurisdictions and regions, and about the importance of the public safety. Mattie looked at him. He was the same as when last she saw him, although now at least he did not appear to be suffering from a partially severed tongue, or a blow to the head, or an errant bullet to the shoulder.
When finally he paused in his speechifying (presumably to catch his runaway breath,) the deputy attempted meekly to explain what had transpired. The impatient look on LaBoeuf’s face made Mattie’s mouth quirk up in a smile, and she had to school her own face into a serious expression before she allowed herself to step out of the Sheriff’s office.
“Mr. LaBoeuf? Are you the only Ranger in Texas available to chase outlaws into Arkansas, or is your reappearance in these parts pure serendipity?”
LaBoeuf turned sharply and stared at her. “Miss Ross?”
“Yes, it is I,” she replied.
LaBoeuf was across the room in two long strides, his spurs ringing against the floor boards. He grabbed her firmly by the shoulders. “Are you injured? Whose blood is this?”
“You need not worry; it is not my blood. Or, not much of it is mine. Most of it belonged to your Mr. Cunningham. You see, I am the reason you will be returning to Texas empty-handed.”
He stared at her uncomprehendingly for several seconds, and then he blinked and unhanded her, taking a step back as he frowned. “I suppose it does not surprise me that you are to blame for that,” he said. His voice seemed rather faint to Mattie. He continued to stare at her, bemused.
After a moment, LaBoeuf reached out and clasped her chin, turning her face gently this way and that to see her bruised cheekbone and the cut on the top of her head. “That is some mark he left on you,” he said. His eyes examined her face, searching for other flaws and injuries, Mattie guessed. Finally his gaze rested on hers, and his hand dropped away. “Are you otherwise hurt?”
“I am only bruised, and there is a goose egg on my head where he broke his bottle over it. My throat is sore from the throttling he gave me, and I expect some bruises to appear there, as well,” she replied. She held his gaze steadily as she continued. “I was able to prevent him from harming me as he intended.”
LaBoeuf replied only by regarding her in silence. He shook his head. “I would not have brought Cunningham back to Texas alive after all, then. I would have killed him myself if you had not.”
“I appreciate the sentiment, but there is no need.”
“Indeed,” he said. He regarded her for another moment, the corner of his mouth drawing upwards in one half of a smile. “Truly, it is a great pleasure to -”
“Miss Ross,” interrupted the Sheriff, “why does it not surprise me to find that you are acquainted with the Texas Ranger out for the man you have just killed?”
“I would not know why it does not surprise you, for I am not privy to your thoughts,” Mattie replied tersely. “But I certainly do not appreciate the implication that I am deserving of a reputation as some kind of scalawag! If you look at the thing rationally I think you will see that the opposite is true.”
The Sheriff blew a breath out of his jowls and frowned at her in apparent bewilderment. “Well, I do not see what else can be done tonight. We will sort everything out once there is light enough to see by. I will come see you in the morning, Miss Ross, as will Mr. MacLeod, the undertaker.”
“And what of me and my reward?” LaBoeuf asked.
“Well, you did not catch the man, so I suppose there will be no reward. You will have to take that up with the appropriate parties in your jurisdiction,” the Sheriff replied.
“Now, see here -” LaBoeuf began. Mattie hastily interrupted.
“Gentlemen, it would seem that since I was the one who caught the man, it is up to me whether I collect on any offered reward moneys.”
“Yes, well, I guess we will see about all that tomorrow,” said the Sheriff.
“I guess we will,” Mattie replied. With that, she went into the office and recovered her father’s pistol from the Sheriff’s desk before striding purposefully past the Sheriff and out the door.
Mattie was out into the dark street and heading back in the direction of the farm before she realised that LaBoeuf had followed her. He fell into step beside her. “That Sheriff of yours does not offer much in the way of assistance.”
“He would not be ‘my Sheriff’ at all if I had my way. He is a lazy man who is transparently disinterested in his own calling. He is lucky that the people of this region are generally peaceful, law-abiding folk, or else he would not be at liberty to be quite so idle,” Mattie replied. “I presume that this Cunningham hailed from Texas or Louisiana or some such place, and not from Arkansas.”
“You presume correctly. He was from San Antonio.” LaBoeuf paused for a moment, and then continued, his tone light. “If Sheriff Morris is as incompetent as you say, you might find that after this episode, the ‘peaceful, law-abiding folk’ of Yell County may see fit to make you their Sheriff.”
Mattie stopped her walking and turned to face him. “I see you are as garrulous as ever, Mr. LaBoeuf. Is there a reason you are following me? This has been a trying night and I would like to go home.”
“Is your mother waiting for you there?”
“My mother is in Little Rock with my brother and sister, visiting relations. They will not be back until the day after tomorrow.”
“In that case, I will go with you to your home and remain with you until your family returns. You should not be alone,” he said.
“Do not be ridiculous, Mr. LaBoeuf,” Mattie replied. “I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself. I do not need to be chaperoned in my own home.”
“Of your capability I have no doubt, having witnessed sufficient evidence of it myself. But shooting a man on a mountaintop is a different matter altogether from slitting a man’s throat in your own barnyard. You may find that you do not feel like yourself.”
“I am not a little girl anymore,” Mattie said drily. “I do not need protection from the booger-man.”
“Miss Ross, please,” he entreated. “Allow me to accompany you home, at the very least. It is dark and you have been through an ordeal. I will not feel right otherwise, if only as your friend.”
“All right,” Mattie relented. She suddenly felt weary beyond words, and longed to be tucked in her warm bed. The very thought of the journey home in the dark exhausted her. It galled her, but she did not have the energy to argue with him further.
They turned and walked back to the Sheriff’s, where LaBoeuf’s horse was tethered. It was a different animal from the woolly Appaloosa he rode at the time of their last meeting. This one was a handsome piebald mare who was compact and strong-looking, with sound legs. She seemed good-spirited also, for she turned her head and greeted LaBoeuf with a soft nicker.
“I guess you did not ride here, unless you have hitched your mount someplace else,” LaBoeuf said, glancing at Mattie as he untied the reins.
“You guess right. My horse has been colicky of late, and I did not want to bother her, as the roads are dry and clear, and it is just as simple to walk.”
He frowned at her for a moment, giving his head a shake. “I am certain that you are about the only person alive who, having nearly been throttled and bludgeoned to death, would elect to walk for assistance so as not to bother your horse.”
Mattie did not see the foolishness he seemed to imply. “Despite being rather chewed up, I could still stand a short journey. What I could not stand was the thought of any of our horses needlessly perishing from colic simply because I was feeling delicate.”
LaBoeuf seemed ready to argue, but some second thought seemed to stop him, and he did not reply. Instead he took his horse by her reins and turned her around so that Mattie was at her near side.
“This is Sal. Do you have some trick to mounting a horse one-armed and unassisted, or may I be so bold as to offer you a leg up?” he asked, his tone now verging on the ironical.
Mattie shot him what she hoped was a withering look. “If you would be so courteous as to bring her close to this fence,” she replied, gesturing at the rails behind her, “I will not have to trouble you for a leg up.” She turned then and scaled the fence, perching herself on the top rail while keeping her feet on the lower.
LaBoeuf brought a perplexed but obedient Sal close, and Mattie stuck her left foot in the stirrup, grabbed the horn, and swung herself on before he could say another word about it.
“Still riding astride, I see,” he said, almost under his breath. He gathered Sal’s reins and led her out into the street.
Mattie pursed her lips, ready to give him a tongue-lashing, when a thought occurred to her. “How do you plan on mounting, Mr. LaBoeuf?”
He glanced up from beneath the brim of his silly rodeo clown hat, and gave Mattie a curious look she did not recognize. After a moment, he looked down and cleared his throat. “I will walk. I have been on the road for several days, and Sal could use the rest. Thankfully I too could use a rest, but from the saddle, on my part.”
“Now who is putting his horse’s well-being before his own?” Mattie asked. She sensed her tone contained equal measures of mirth and scorn. Even as she prodded him, she hoped he did not truly take offense.
LaBoeuf looked up at her again, and smiled. He shrugged his shoulders before looking back out at the road. “I reckon I am guilty of that, yes.”
After that, they were like old friends again. They made their way slowly up the dark road, telling stories about the things they had seen since last they met. Mattie told LaBoeuf about their cotton crop, and horses she had bought, the second storey they added to the house last spring, and about the prize Little Frank had won at the county fair for the handsome red bull calf he had raised himself. LaBoeuf, in turn, told her many (probably tall, she surmised) tales of life as a lawman in west Texas, about train robbers and sleeping under the stars, and about card games and disputes about land and cattle. Mattie listened as he talked, watching fireflies flicker in the darkness before them. For the time it took Sal to walk them from town to the edge of the Rosses’ property, Mattie almost forgot about the earlier brutalities of the day.
LaBoeuf walked Sal up the oak-lined road which led to the house, and tethered her to one of the front porch rails. The yard was dark and utterly silent, for there was not even a breeze to stir the yellowing leaves on their dry stems. Mattie shivered, and hoped LaBoeuf did not see. Certainly he said nothing as Mattie allowed him to help her down from the horse.
He looked at her in the blue light of the moon for a moment, and then he cleared his throat and looked about the yard. “Do you have a lantern?” he asked.
“Yes,” Mattie replied, moving around him to scale the porch steps and retrieve a punched tin lantern from where it sat in the shelter of the parlour window sill. She brought it to him, and watched as he reached into his breast pocket and withdrew a match with which to light the lantern. The match head flared, illuminating his face for a brief moment. It reminded Mattie of the very first time she ever saw him, sitting outside the boarding house in Fort Smith, looking very proud and silly in all his cowboy folderol.
Swallowing a lump in her throat, Mattie looked down. She had not thought that approaching the dark, silent yard would stir up such trepidation in her. Privately, she was grateful that she was not alone, although she did not know how exactly to tell him so. Nor did she understand why it was that she did not want to.
“Where is the body?” LaBoeuf asked. “We must find a place to stow it until the sheriff decides whether I may take it back to Texas. The bounty did not stipulate that the man must be alive, which is a lucky turn for me.”
“I left him by the woodshed,” Mattie replied, pointing. “I do not want to put him in the barn; it will spook the horses. I suppose we could put him in the ice house, if he is securely wrapped. We have old sheets which could be used.”
“Yes, that will do,” LaBoeuf said. He started towards the woodshed, and Mattie followed him. He glanced at her. “You need not trouble yourself. I will take care of the man.”
Mattie ignored him, and LaBoeuf seemed about to make another protest when they turned the corner of the woodshed and stopped short.
Cunningham was gone.
The signs of their struggle remained - the dirt and woodchips were scattered about and stained with much blood, and broken glass littered the ground. But Cunningham himself was gone.
LaBoeuf lifted the lantern to widen the circle of light it threw. “This is the place?” he asked.
“Yes,” Mattie replied, her throat dry. “Yes, I left him right here. He was not moving or breathing, and I left him here, face down. He was dead, Mr. LaBoeuf! Where... That is, how...?” Mattie spun around and searched the yard, but it was too dark to even see if he had left a trail. The woods beyond were impenetrably dark as well, and silent, except for the croaking chorus of frogs, and the distant hoot of an owl. Mattie swallowed.
What if he had gone into the house and hidden himself there? What if he had fled into the woods? What if he was watching them right this instant, vulnerably illuminated as they were in the darkness by the light of their lantern?
LaBoeuf was staring down at the ground in puzzlement. His thoughts seemed to follow hers, for he glanced at her, his expression tense. He stood close to her and said under his breath, “Do you still have your father’s pistol?”
“I do.”
LaBoeuf nodded, and abruptly took her hand in his. Mattie did not have time to protest, for he turned and pulled her back to the front of the house. Sal was still tied to the porch rail, happily ripping up what grass she could reach with her long neck.
Not pausing or letting go of her hand, LaBoeuf untied Sal and lifted Mattie onto her with one smooth movement. He led the horse out into the middle of the yard before stopping and pressing the reins into her hand.
“Are there any other guns in the house?” he asked.
“Yes. There are two rifles in the front room, Papa’s and Little Frank’s. It is the room immediately on the right, and the rifles are in the rack on the far wall.”
“I remember the lay of the place,” he replied. He glanced up at her, and Mattie did not like the worried look he gave her. “Tie the reins around the horn, and have your pistol at the ready. I must leave you without a light, and search the house. If you hear any noise or commotion, ride straight into town and fetch the sheriff. Do not come into the house, and do not look back.”
“Mr. LaBoeuf, really -” Mattie began, but LaBoeuf cut her off.
“Miss Ross, you must promise me that you will take Sal and get out of harm’s way. Cunningham could be in the house, armed, and if anything should happen to you...” He looked at her, and he seemed troubled. “Well, it is much simpler if you go at the first sign of trouble.”
He did not give her a moment to promise or refuse. LaBoeuf turned and walked back to the house, grabbing his Sharps-Carbine from where he had leant it against the porch.
Mattie watched as LaBoeuf climbed the porch steps and entered the house, the lantern in one hand and the gun in the crook of his elbow. She held her breath as she watched the light bob from room to room.
Sal shook her head, the metal and leather of her large bit slapping as she blew out an impatient breath. Mattie wanted to say something, or pat her neck in reassurance, but she could not. Fear had stunned her.
The light reappeared on the porch, and then moved towards her as LaBoeuf walked across the yard. Soon he was at her side once more, taking the reins. He did not speak as he led her back to the house, where he helped her down once again from the saddle.
“He is not in the house. I have barricaded the back door and lit the fires. Is there any other way to gain entry to the house?” he asked, securing Sal once more to the porch rail.
“No, there is not,” Mattie replied. “You checked the cellar?”
He nodded. “There is nothing down there but some fastidiously organized stores.”
Mattie could not tell whether he was complimenting her or poking fun, but either seemed untimely, and she frowned. When LaBoeuf reached down to grab her hand again, she pulled her fingers free.
“I do not need your assistance to walk. I am not an invalid,” she said.
“Very well,” LaBoeuf replied. He went back up the porch steps, leading her into the parlour. He had built up a fire in the little woodstove, and lit the kerosene lamp on the polished cherry wood table her father had made for her mother one Christmas. The two rifles from the office were leaning against the settee.
“I am going to search the barn and get Sal squared away. I will return shortly.” With that, he turned and departed, lantern and gun in hand. Mattie followed him, watching as he closed the door behind him. She was alone in the creeping silence of a house which had never seemed anything but welcoming to her before.
Perhaps Mr. LaBoeuf had not been wrong about not feeling like her usual self, Mattie thought.
Sighing and blinking back the ache which crouched behind her eyes, Mattie became intimately aware of the crust of dried blood still sticking her dress and her shimmy to her skin, as well as the dirt and bits of sawdust still stuck in her hair. She walked down the hallway into the kitchen, where she found another fire burning in the cook stove. Mattie checked the reservoir and was relieved to see that there was plenty of hot water left in it. She was relieved she would not be forced to go outside to the pump.
Mattie filled a tin basin with hot water and carried it carefully out of the kitchen, intending to go upstairs to her bedroom to clean herself and change her clothes. She stopped short at the bottom of the stairs. It was dark at the top; LaBoeuf had not left any lights burning up there.
She pursed her lips in brief contemplation, and then walked down the hallway to her mother’s bedroom, and shut the door behind her. In the daylight, all of this would seem very silly, she knew. But for now, she would simply have to make do.
After unpinning her hair from its knot and letting it tumble down around her shoulders, Mattie unbuttoned her bodice and peeled the stiff material away from her skin. She frowned at the state of her shimmy and corset, stained ugly brown with blood. Her skin too was covered with little flecks of the stuff where it had dried. She shuddered, and reached for the soap on her mother’s washstand.
Once she had washed and dried herself, and combed and picked the dirt and sawdust from her hair, and rinsed it with more fresh water, she went to the small cupboard where her mother kept her clothing. There she found a clean nightgown, and her mother’s woollen heart-warmer which she kept for cold winter nights. It was not winter, nor was it particularly cold, but after Mattie held it to her face and inhaled the familiar scent of her mother which clung to it, she threw it around her shoulders and knotted it in place.
Mattie stopped and looked at the rusty-coloured water pooled in the bottom of the basin. She hesitated a moment, then shook her head. She would dispose of it in the morning, in the daylight.
She returned to the parlour and sat on the settee, curling her legs up underneath her. It felt good to be out of her dirty clothes, and the heat radiating from the stove began to settle into her skin, dispelling the shivers which had been threatening her. In silence she examined one damp lock of her hair, passing it between her fingers as it dried into a long curl in the warmth of the fire. She thought about how she had brushed and combed it that morning, and struggled to pull it into a halfway tidy knot before accepting that it would only ever look imperfect without her sister’s assistance. She had not expected to see another living soul that day, so she had not thought it much mattered.
LaBoeuf returned then, closing and locking the front door behind him.
“Miss -” he began, but his words dropped off as he paused in the doorway, staring at her.
Mattie stared back at him, frowning. He was looking at her most queerly, his brows drawn together and his mouth ajar as if he had been interrupted.
“Mr. LaBoeuf?” Mattie asked. “Are you all right?”
LaBoeuf seemed to return to himself then, and he cleared his throat and came into the room.
“He is gone, that is certain,” he said, removing his hat and sitting down in the chair across from her. He looked exhausted. “I searched every part of that barn, and every other building on the property, and there is no sign of him except at the woodpile. I expect he must have come to his senses after you fought him off and fled into the woods.”
“’Come to his senses’?” Mattie exclaimed. “Mr. LaBoeuf, he bled all over me like a shoat! You saw the state of the place. I do not understand how I did not kill him. I thought I surely had.”
“I will find him. In the meantime, I will stay here. It is a mere precaution, so do not be alarmed. A coward such as Cunningham is not likely to return here to harass you. Not after the walloping you gave him.”
Mattie regarded him, mulling over the contradiction with which he had just presented her. Did he believe she was in need of his protection, or not? “I suppose that is comforting, after a fashion,” she replied finally, frowning.
LaBoeuf sat back in the chair and commenced to filling his pipe.
“Have you eaten recently, Mr. LaBoeuf?” she asked, watching as he meticulously tapped tobacco down into the deep bowl of the pipe.
“I ate on the road, before I got to town. I reckoned I would not find a boarding house in time for supper,” he replied.
“Would you like some coffee, then?”
He looked up at her. “Although I appreciate your efforts, you need not trouble yourself to play hostess on my behalf.”
“It is no great trouble, if you would like some.”
“Truly, I am fine. All I require at this time is a place to sit, and my pipe, if you do not mind it.”
Mattie shrugged, and settled back against the settee as she watched him light his pipe. She tried to imagine what her mother would have to say about sitting with Mr. LaBoeuf in this way, practically in her inexpressibles. She hoped that, given the circumstances, her mother would forgive her.
“How long have you been on the trail of Mr. Cunningham? And for what crime, for that matter?” Mattie asked, idly combing her fingertips through the ends of her hair. She felt a pang of longing for Victoria. Although Mattie did her best to be self-reliant, and could manage a brush and a comb reasonably well, braiding and pinning up her hair with but one hand had proved nearly impossible. Their tempers were very disparate, hers and Victoria’s, yet braiding and twisting Mattie’s hair up together had become something of a morning ritual between them. Mattie had missed her little sister while she’d been gone. Her hair was a half-pinned catastrophe without her, and Mattie did not like it, for she valued a tidy appearance.
“I have been in pursuit of Cunningham for two months now,” LaBoeuf replied, pulling methodically on his freshly lit pipe. “He turned up in the El Paso area in the spring and made a nuisance of himself in generally the same way I gather he was attempting to do here. He was on the hunt for work, that is certain, but he seemed to find more liquor bottles and crooked card games than obliging employers. In any event, he was caught raiding a corn crib and came to blows over the matter with the owner of said corn, a man named Cartwright. He shot Cartwright and lit out. In earnest, we did not give much thought to pursuing him until we gathered through various channels that he was wanted in San Antonio for another charge of murder, as well as numerous crimes related to stock thievery, which is, I reckon, the vocation he has chosen for himself.”
That Cunningham was a stock thief hailing from San Antonio caused some string to be plucked in her memory, but Mattie did not have a moment to pursue it, for LaBoeuf continued.
“When I learned that there was a price on the man’s head, and that he had connections in Arkadelphia and Pine Bluff, I elected to pursue him. I do not believe I am boasting when I say that I have earned myself something of a reputation for always getting my man, one way or another.”
“Hm,” Mattie replied. “And is money so dear a thing to you?”
“What, do you find no practical use for money? I would someday like to retire from the business of chasing outlaws from pillar to post, and have myself a wife and a home. Both of these enterprises require some degree of financial security, I think you will agree.”
LaBoeuf began to talk about rewards he had pursued, as well as some tales of his regular work with the Rangers. Mattie listened in silence for some time, but soon felt her eyelids growing heavy, the exertions of the day weighing on her. She knew she ought to retire to Mama’s bedroom, but it was warm here, and the way LaBoeuf’s flat Texas drawl rolled over his stories with great leisure was rather soothing. The thought of getting up and walking down the hallway to sleep in that dark room did not appeal to her.
Before she could make a deliberation in the matter, her eyes slid closed and she fell into a strange half-sleep. She was still aware of her surroundings, of the fire in the stove and of LaBoeuf’s low voice, yet she began to dream all the same.
In her mind’s eye she saw before her the tin basin she had left on her mother’s washstand, filled with dingy, blood-tainted water. There was a rag on the rim of the basin whose end dipped down into the water. As Mattie watched, tiny grey mushrooms began to sprout from the damp rag, coiling together in a forest of furry, finger-like trees. They grew taller and fatter, eventually sprouting little shoots which resembled arms more than branches. Their growth accelerated, and soon they were the size of summer squash, their bulk knocking the basin from the washstand, the remnants of the water splashing over Mattie’s feet. They were enormous now, too big for the room, filling it and pressing against the creaking beadboard ceiling. Mattie turned towards the door to flee, but the fungus had already claimed it, sealing the exit with its foul-smelling, yellowish grey flesh.
With a jolt, Mattie awoke herself from the weird vision. She swallowed the lump in her throat and clenched her jaw, breathing heavily through her nose to slow her racing heart and prevent herself from gasping aloud. She blinked up at the ceiling as her eyes adjusted to the dim light. It was still night, and the lamp was lit, casting the room in swatches of warm golden light and long shadows. She had no reckoning of how much time had passed. A spider scuttled along the ceiling directly above her head before reaching the wall and disappearing into a space between the boards.
Not wanting to let on that she was awake, Mattie turned her head slightly and observed through slitted eyes that LaBoeuf was sitting in the chair across from her, the lamp on the table beside him. His rifle leaned against the chair. His pose was relaxed, and there was an open book resting on his chest, which he was reading. He was frowning. Mattie tried to make out the shining gilt title on the leather spine, but she could not.
“I see you peering at me there, Miss Ross,” LaBoeuf said, without looking up from his book. When Mattie did not reply, he glanced at her. “You are troubled by unpleasant dreams.”
Needled, Mattie sat up, gathering the wool heart-warmer close around her shoulders. A quilt - one of Victoria’s cozy but aesthetically imperfect creations - had been thrown over her. She pulled her knees up to her chest and glowered at him.
“You ought to have woken me,” she said, somewhat indignantly.
“I have seen you asleep before,” he replied. Mattie looked at him sharply, a curt retort forming on her lips. His expression was tiresomely reasonable, however, and Mattie could see he meant nothing by it, bold as he was. “In any case,” he continued, “after all that has happened, rest is what you require. You became quite noisy in your sleep. You were having a nightmare.”
Mattie felt her face flush in embarrassment. Although one’s dreams could not be helped and were therefore nothing to be bashful about, the thought of LaBoeuf watching her thrash involuntarily in her sleep discomfited her.
“It is nothing,” she replied flatly, after a moment.
“You need not always be stoic, Miss Ross. You are not made of metal.” LaBoeuf looked down at the book in his hands, contemplating its open pages for a moment before closing it and setting it aside. “You are human, made of skin and bones like any other. It is not weak to be afraid after what has happened to you today.”
Mattie rested her chin on her knees, hugging them to her chest as she regarded him. “It is not weak to be afraid because I am a woman, you mean.”
“Precisely.”
“Hm. And would it be a sign of weakness for you to be afraid, Mr. LaBoeuf?”
“I suppose it would be, but that is another matter altogether.”
“How is it another matter altogether? You know better than most what I am capable of. I do not see how it is any more acceptable for me to tremble in the face of danger than it is for you.”
LaBoeuf fixed her with a look which was, at once, both troubled and exasperated. “Miss Ross, do not be obstinate. I only mean to express that, if you are upset by what you have been through today, there is no shame in it. Furthermore, it would hardly factor into my estimation of your character, which is, incidentally, quite high. So you need not punish me with that sour look you are giving me any longer.”
“All right,” Mattie said, after a pause. She felt she had been talked into a corner, and did not much care for it, but it was the middle of the night and it seemed silly to argue. She continued to observe him, holding her knees to her chest. “Although it has been a long time since last we saw one another, we have still been acquaintances for some time. Formalities seem unnecessary, under the present circumstances. You may call me Mattie, if you like, rather than Miss Ross.”
“All right, Mattie,” he said, nodding. His eyes did not leave her face, and Mattie cleared her throat and stood up, looking away.
“I will say goodnight.” Mattie retrieved a candlestick from the sideboard and returned to the table to light it, using the flame already lit on the lamp. As she did so, she caught a glimpse of the book in LaBoeuf’s hands, which he was occupied with reading once again. It was Little Men, one of the many novels she and Victoria shared and in which Little Frank had scarce interest.
“That is a favourite of mine, and my sister’s,” she said. LaBoeuf looked up from its pages and raised his eyebrows at her.
“I thought you said goodnight,” he replied in a teasing tone.
“Oh, indeed,” she said, glowering at him as she straightened and made her way out of the room. “Goodnight, Mr. LaBoeuf.”
“Goodnight, Mattie,” came his reply. She could hear the amusement in his voice as she strode down the hallway with her light held in front of her. It seemed that Mr. LaBoeuf had gone from simply looking ridiculous to acting it as well.
Entering Mama’s bedroom, she saw the basin on the washstand, and hesitated. After a beat, she shook herself and put down the candle. LaBoeuf was not the only one acting ridiculously. She put the basin out in the hallway, and then closed and latched the door.
She did not dream of the mushrooms again.
Chapter Two