True Grit - "With No Lodestar In Sight", Mattie/LaBoeuf, T
Title: With No Lodestar In Sight - 3/12
Author: lindentree
Rating: T
Character(s): Mattie Ross/LaBoeuf, Rooster Cogburn
Word Count: 6,895
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.
a fine morning for wayfaring
Mattie awoke before the sun rose the following morning. She sat up and stretched, blinking to focus her eyes in the dimness, for the grey light of dawn was just beginning to filter in through the window panes. Placing her bare feet on the floor, she shivered, and hoped that the cold weather would hold off for the duration of her adventure. She glanced at her pack and her bedroll, which were leaned against the foot of the bed. She was puzzled to see that a folded sheaf of paper had been placed on top of her bedroll.
Standing, Mattie grabbed it and found it was a letter addressed to her, written in an unfamiliar hand which was tidy and formal, and completely lacking in calligraphic flourish. Hastily, she read:
Dear Miss Ross,
By the time you read this letter, I will have gone to capture Cunningham, and as you have no doubt guessed, I shall do so without your company.
I am aware that you will be considerably vexed with me. However, I believe that with time you will see that I have made the decision which is best for you. The trail is no place for a young woman. Your mother, when she returns, will agree. Remember that although you are grown and very headstrong besides, it is your duty to obey your mother in all things until you marry.
Do not be frightened for yourself or for your family. I will capture Cunningham and bring him to justice. On this you have my word.
You have my gratitude for your generous hospitality during my brief stay in Yell County. When I gathered that Cunningham was headed through Arkansas, I was glad.
Here he had written something more, but had scratched it out so that it was illegible. He continued:
When you have done away with any spite you feel towards me and you see that I am in the right, I would be pleased to get a letter from you, which you can send courtesy of the Rangers, as follows.
Yours truly,
Sgt. LaBoeuf
At the bottom he had written where one could address a letter to the Ranger battalion in Ysleta, Texas. Nearly shaking with fury, Mattie folded the letter and placed it inside the cover of a book which sat on her bureau.
That he would write such a pompous, magnanimous letter when he planned to disappear like a thief in the night, Mattie could hardly believe. He had previously shown himself to be vain and arrogant, but never deceitful. Worse still, he must have entered her room while she was sleeping in order to leave his letter. Bitterly, Mattie wondered how much food the wretch had liberated from the cupboards and the cellar.
Mattie dressed in the clothes she had laid out the night before - an old pair of Little Frank’s trousers and one of his checked shirts, warm wool socks, her winter coat, and boots. She had packed extra socks, her nightgown and also a dress, should they find themselves in a civilized place. With her pack and bedroll over her shoulder, she went downstairs and collected Little Frank’s rifle and her father’s pistol, as well as the bundle of food which LaBoeuf had in fact left behind, and placed it all on the front porch.
She then went to the barn and milked the cow and fed all of the animals, and made certain that all was in order for her family’s return that afternoon. She left the letters to Mama and Lawyer Daggett on Papa’s desk.
Once she tacked Alma up and loaded her with all they would need for their journey, she led the horse to the fence by the barn and mounted up. The sun was cresting the jagged horizon of pine trees to the east when they rode across the yard, and Mattie took one last look around at the farm. She hoped that no catastrophe befell the place. If anything happened, it would be on her conscience.
Grimly, she turned Alma towards the southeast and urged her into a brisk walk. They would soon meet up with the Arkansas River and LaBoeuf, for if he thought that she could not find him, he was a lack-wit as well as being a dandy and a scoundrel.
It did not take long to join the southward course of the river, and Mattie found a narrow road running along it which allowed her to keep sight of it and not lose her way. The path was well worn, but Mattie guessed it was not frequently used, as it was covered thickly by fallen leaves, and she knew there was a busier, wider thoroughfare to the west. LaBoeuf might have taken the other road, but Mattie reckoned not, for he would prefer a stealthier route, and in any case, it was likely that Cunningham would have taken the more secluded path as well.
It was a fine morning for wayfaring. It was crisp and cloudless, and the sun still offered some warmth in its rays. Around midday, Mattie stopped to let Alma stretch her neck and tear at what greenery she could find among the carpet of leaves on the forest floor. She tipped her head back and looked up at the sun through the few dry leaves which remained on the trees around her. Assuming their train had run on schedule, Mama, Little Frank, and Victoria would be arriving at the little depot in Dardanelle. She was sorry that she would not be there to greet them, for she had promised to be, and she knew Mama would worry and not know what to do. She hoped that between her two siblings, they might help poor Mama and find their way home.
Mattie shook her head and urged Alma forward. There was nothing for it now.
For hours there was no discernable sign of another living thing on the trail except for the birds and squirrels and other creatures of the woods, which regularly stopped in their own business to chirp and squeak and scold Mattie and Alma for trespassing. Late in the afternoon, however, a promising sign presented itself. There was a fresh pile of “horse apples” in the road. They were not steaming , but they had been there only a couple hours at most, Mattie guessed. She took this as an indication that LaBoeuf was not far ahead of her at all.
Alma accumulated spirit as the afternoon wore on into evening, the exercise seeming to do her much good. Mattie let her pick up a gentle trot as the sun began to sink below the trees, but darkness fell abruptly, and Mattie soon slowed her down to a walk once again. She was pleased that Alma was well, but did not want to risk an injury to her feet or legs on the uneven forest path.
In the blue light of dusk, the sound of birdsong faded, replaced by the infrequent hoots of owls and croaking of frogs. As the darkness deepened and stars emerged, Mattie could hear the faint, leathery rustle of bat wings overhead. She thought of the stories Papa used to tell her when she was small, about lone travellers on night roads being tracked by panthers and lions, and all manner of beasts which emerged from their hidden dens only at night.
Mattie shivered, and shook herself. There was no use in worrying about what lurked in the forest until she had reason. She did wish that she could stop and make camp, however. She was becoming saddle sore, and Alma’s energy was waning. She hoped that, because he had started out earlier than she, LaBoeuf would already have stopped for the night somewhere ahead on the trail, and that by continuing on in the darkness, she might make up the distance between them.
Her hope was not in vain. As Mattie crested a small rise in the landscape, she saw a light glowing through the darkness two hundred yards ahead. She allowed herself a moment of anxiety that perhaps she had somehow bypassed LaBoeuf and stumbled upon Cunningham or some other traveller instead, but she dismissed it, and pressed on.
She soon discovered that the light was a campfire, and that a horse and a man were silhouetted against it. The man was seated and leaning against a log, staring into the fire. Mattie got close enough to see that it was LaBoeuf before Alma’s plodding made enough noise to rouse him. Mattie stopped her. LaBoeuf’s head turned in their direction, and his eyes searched the trees.
Mattie dismounted, and the sound of her feet thumping to the forest floor alerted LaBoeuf to her presence. He stood, pulling his pistol from his holster and peering out into the darkness.
“Who is there? I warn you, I am a Texas Ranger, and I am armed,” LaBoeuf called.
Mattie led Alma to the line LaBoeuf had strung between two trees for Sal. The latter was resting one of her hind feet, and her head was low and dozy. At their approach, she exhaled a tired greeting. Mattie tied Alma there, and walked into the circle of light thrown by the campfire.
“I was once told that it is very imprudent to make camp by your cook fire, and that it is Ranger policy to avoid such a blunder,” Mattie said, coming close and holding her stiff hands out to the fire to warm them. She met his fierce gaze without blinking. “You ought to know that I could see your fire from nearly two hundred yards away, even in these dense woods.”
“Sakes alive!” LaBoeuf cursed, returning his pistol to his holster. He shook his head in apparent disbelief. “You are harder to shake than a tick in June.”
“You thought you would take a page out of Marshall Cogburn’s book,” Mattie said. “You thought you hornswoggled me good, but I guess you did not figure that I would follow you. That was very foolish, for not only have I followed and found you with an ease which ought to be shameful to you, but now I know your word is worthless, too.”
“Mattie, if you do not turn that horse of yours around and head on back where you came from, I will make you sorry that you stayed,” he threatened, pointing a finger in her face and glowering at her. “And this time Cogburn is not here to stop me!”
“You do not own this road or this river, Mr. LaBoeuf. I am free to track Cunningham to Timbuktu if I choose. If you do not want to be reasonable, I will follow at a distance, and we can both proceed on this path as strangers. I do not see why it should be so, however.”
The look he gave her then was fierce, and Mattie could tell that he wanted very badly to reach for his belt and wallop her. She tipped her chin up and met his eyes, and did not blink. Finally, he turned away and cursed, and sat back down to glare into the fire.
Unaccountably, Mattie felt sorry. She would rather have kissed Cunningham than say so, however, and after a stretch of silence broken only by the crackle of the fire and the sounds of the horses eating, she sat down to his left, leaving enough space between them that she faced another side of the fire altogether. She wanted to be able to escape should he change his mind and decide to thrash her after all.
“Although I will grant that you held up as well as any man in our pursuit of Tom Chaney, I think you overestimate your understanding of the evil that dwells in men’s hearts,” LaBoeuf said finally, in a low and serious voice. He continued to stare into the fire, frowning. “If anything should happen to you, it would be my responsibility.”
Mattie’s first thought was to tell him that he was not a relation of hers and was therefore not responsible for her, but instead she paused and contemplated the thing a moment. “If Cunningham harms me, or you, or any other person for that matter, I believe that on the Day of Judgment when all souls will be weighed and found wanting, Cunningham is the one who will answer for every crime he committed with his own hands. Do you not agree?”
“I suppose I do,” replied LaBoeuf, glancing at her.
“In any case, you did what you could to dissuade me from this course,” Mattie said. “I know this, as do you, and I made it abundantly clear in my letters to Mama and to Lawyer Daggett. If some catastrophe befell me, you would not suffer.”
LaBoeuf stared at her for a moment before giving a shake of his head. He looked tired. “Well, then. I guess you will have your way once again, after all, Mattie Ross.”
The beleaguered tone of his voice detracted somewhat from her satisfaction at this victory. She was on the verge of scolding him for being a poor sport when her stomach growled audibly. He looked at her with his eyebrows raised, and she blushed.
“Have you eaten?” he asked.
“Not since this morning, and it was a cold, hurried breakfast, as I did not start my journey as I anticipated I would,” she replied.
With an exaggerated heavenward roll of his eyes, LaBoeuf stood and retrieved a small iron pot from where it sat next to the fire. In it was a portion of pork and beans, still warm. He offered it to her.
“I brought my own stores,” she said. “You do not need to share with me.”
“Our agreement yesterday afternoon was to head out as pardners, and since you have proved yourself an able tracker and caught me in my deception, I reckon we can return to our previous understanding,” he said grudgingly.
“All right,” Mattie agreed, accepting the beans. “We will share equally in this. I have salt pork and cornbread for our breakfast in the morning.”
LaBoeuf only made a sort of grumbling sound in response, and returned to his spot by the fire, where he began arranging his bed roll. He lay down and pulled a colourful blanket over himself. Mattie guessed it was a thing native to Texas, for she had not seen one like it before. He placed his hat over his face and did not say another word to her.
Mattie finished the beans. She rinsed out the pot by the bank of the river before placing it next to the fire to dry. She checked on the horses, and fed each one of them a piece of dried apple from her pack. She laid her bedroll out on her side of the fire, and pulled her blanket over herself.
Their little fire formed a cup of light in the wide black night. The last thing Mattie saw before she closed her eyes was the light reflecting off the tree branches above, and the smoke rising into the starry sky.
***
When Mattie awoke in the morning, she found that she had curled up into a ball and pulled her blankets up to cover much of her face. As she stiffly unfurled herself and sat up, she disturbed a thin layer of frost which had settled all over her blanket and her saddle, and even the top of her head. She was relieved to see that, an arm’s length away, LaBoeuf was up reviving the fire.
“You are awake,” he said.
“I am,” she replied, rubbing her eyes.
“I see your hair is bearing up to sleeping rough on the trail thus far.” He was eyeing her speculatively, and Mattie felt a foreign stab of self-consciousness. She ran her hand over the braids coiled against her head, smoothing the wisps which had come loose while she slept.
“I think I will go down to the river to wash,” Mattie said, standing and quickly shaking out and rolling up her bedroll.
“There is a crick up yonder whose water is clearer and faster than that river. It is better for washing,” LaBoeuf said, gesturing back into the woods. “We will have to cross it today.”
“All right. Have the horses been watered?”
“They have.”
Mattie nodded, and turned into the woods to find the crick. It was only a dozen yards away, and Mattie could see the spot where LaBoeuf had broken the glass-like crust of ice which had formed on its stony banks in the night. For a moment, Mattie watched the water bubble up underneath the thin ice, which was disappearing as the sun rose higher in the sky.
She washed her face and hands, and the cold sting of the water took her breath away. When she returned to their camp, LaBoeuf was frying salt pork in a small iron pan with legs like a spider’s. When he had finished, Mattie fried thick pieces of cornbread in the fat, and that was their breakfast. While they ate, LaBoeuf said not a word to her, his mouth set in a grim line.
That he was not his usual loquacious self perturbed Mattie. It was plain that he was sore at having been caught.
“You are still down in the mouth at my presence here,” she said. “That is fine; I guess I cannot expect you to be congenial to me under the present circumstances. However, I think that we were friends once, and this enterprise will be much pleasanter for us both if we are cordial to one another.”
“Cordial,” he repeated, weighing the word. He looked at her. “Yes, I reckon we are friends and that I can be cordial, in spite of your continued efforts to make me look a fool at every turn.”
Mattie considered telling him that he did a fine job of making himself look a fool without any assistance on her part, but she did not. To say so would be counter to her goal of placating him. After all, he was only a man, and one who guarded his pride with particular ferocity.
“I did not set out deliberately to make you look a fool,” she said. “You can be confident that my regard for you is sincere. I would not be here in these woods with you if that were not the case.”
LaBoeuf eyed her for a moment, and then cleared his throat. “What I wrote to you in my letter was a fact - I was glad to find myself in Arkansas. You see, I once made the acquaintance of a remarkable young woman from Yell County, and I hoped to see her again.”
Mattie glanced away, feeling her cheeks heat and a smile pull at the corner of her mouth. She bit her lip to stifle it. “While I am not happy in the slightest to have crossed paths with Cunningham, if he brought you here I cannot regret it altogether, either.”
LaBoeuf fixed her with an odd, measuring sort of look which lasted so long that Mattie began to feel uncomfortable.
“Well?” she asked. “Shall we shake on it, then, that we are friends, and pardners, and we will put our disagreements behind us?”
LaBoeuf nodded, and held out his bare hand, and Mattie shook it. It was warm, despite the cool morning, and rough and soft all at once. He gripped her hand firmly, his expression solemn.
“I reckon I will regret this at some future moment,” he said. “I am glad, though, that at least Reuben Cogburn is not here to suggest any of his wild schemes, or to put more holes in me.”
Mattie recalled Cogburn’s stubborn insistence that he was not responsible for LaBoeuf’s injured shoulder. “You may feel different if you get a hankering to shoot cornbread out of the air once we are clear of these woods.”
“You will not join me in such a game? It will keep your aim sharp,” LaBoeuf replied, a measure of good humour returning to his face. He tilted his head at her, and his eyes caught the morning sunlight.
Mattie shook her head. “It would be a waste of both food and ammunition. Wastefulness is capital among sins.”
“Your knowledge of sinful behaviour is broad for being guilty of so few yourself.”
“I am as sinful a creature as the next person,” Mattie replied, discomfited. She realised then that her hand was still grasped in his, and she pulled it free. “We ought to get on the trail. We are wasting time. Had you planned to get as far as Morrilton today?”
LaBoeuf regarded her in silence for a moment longer, and then smiled at something he apparently found amusing. “I had indeed. My hope is that Cunningham will stop for supplies or perhaps doctoring there, and if we do not catch the man himself, we will be able to glean a reckoning of his next step. I do not want to continue without some certainty that he is indeed headed downriver to Pine Bluff, or west to Arkadelphia.”
“All right,” Mattie agreed. She turned away and they began to break camp and get the horses ready to depart. They made quick work of it, and an hour later they had already forded the bright little crick nearby. The only sign that they had been there at all was the smouldering remains of the fire, and some hoof prints in the dirt.
***
They rode for hours through the woods in the shadow of Petit Jean Mountain before crossing the river and finding themselves in clearer, more cultivated territory. The sun had begun to sink in the west and the sky was clouding over. Mattie hoped they would come to Morrilton soon, for she did not relish the thought of finding a place to camp on the bald prairie.
They reached Morrilton late in the afternoon, before suppertime. The town was small but handsome. Its main street boasted a block of low brick buildings with fine board sidewalks, fronted by railroad tracks and surrounded behind by several blocks of clapboard storefronts and houses. Thin blue threads of smoke rose from chimneys and stovepipes, and the streets were full of horses and people and vehicles of all kinds.
LaBoeuf located a livery stable and suggested that they allow the horses a rest and proceed about town on foot, unencumbered. Mattie agreed.
While LaBoeuf haggled rather ineffectually with the liveryman, Mattie sat on a barrel of nails and watched the activity of the town. She examined the faces of the people in the street carefully. For all they knew, Cunningham might be in Morrilton yet, walking the streets without a care, ignorant that he was being followed. Mattie noticed that many of the townspeople stared at her. She supposed that the sight of a one-armed woman in trousers sitting on a barrel of nails might be an oddity, but that was hardly an excuse to gape. Some people behaved as though they had no control over themselves whatsoever.
Eventually LaBoeuf emerged and stood before her. He smoothed a hand over his hair before replacing his hat on his head. “I agreed to a higher price than I would have liked, for the man was very liberal with information. Cunningham was in town yesterday. He suggested we try the doctor, a man called Quick, for he is certain that Cunningham sought doctoring.”
“You are a lawman. You could not extract this information while also paying a reasonable price to livery our horses?” Mattie asked, her dim view of LaBoeuf’s bargaining acumen confirmed.
“You have much to learn in the ways of diplomacy if you wish to continue your career as a ‘law-woman’ or what have you,” LaBoeuf replied, turning and walking purposefully down the sidewalk. Mattie hopped off of her barrel and fell into step beside him.
“I have no such vocation, and no desire to embark upon one, either,” Mattie said. “And you are one to talk about diplomacy. Here I thought your idea of the thing was to invite yourself into people’s private rooms and attempt to threaten and intimidate them.”
“Yes, well, you will have to pardon my mistake, for you give a good impression of a gun-for-hire,” LaBoeuf replied shortly. He sounded impatient and in no mood to cajole. Stopping a moment, he pointed across the wide street. A building of whitewashed clapboard stood there, with a sign above its door which read DOCTOR SAMUEL F. QUICK in tall black letters.
They crossed the street and let themselves into the place, a bell over the door announcing their arrival.
“Just a moment,” came a man’s voice from the office beyond the small reception room in front. They stood and waited until a young woman about Mattie’s age emerged from the back. She had pale yellow hair and was dressed in a blue lawn walking dress which was pretty and, as far as Mattie could tell, very fashionable. She wore a small hat on top of the curls gathered on her head, and she smiled brightly at them both as she passed and left the office. While she seemed pleasant enough, Mattie could not see the sense in a hat so small that it did not shade your face or neck, and did little else except make a nuisance of itself with hatpins and such.
“Well,” LaBoeuf said in a low voice, and Mattie glanced up to see him looking after the girl as she disappeared down the sidewalk.
“Well what?” Mattie asked, but she did not receive a reply, for at that moment a man emerged from the back office. Mattie guessed him to be about fifty years old, or perhaps fifty-five. He was short and round, with steel grey hair and “Burnsides” on his face. His complexion was ruddy, and he wore a pair of thin, wire-rimmed spectacles on his nose.
“You do not look like any kind of person I have seen in these parts before,” the doctor stated, examining LaBoeuf with blatant curiosity. He turned his dark eyes on Mattie. “You are mighty peculiar yourself.”
“If we are newcomers to your town, that is an impudent way to welcome us,” Mattie replied.
LaBoeuf sighed impatiently. “I am not from these parts; I am a Texas Ranger. I am on the trail of a man named Cunningham who I understand was in Morrilton as recently as yesterday. The man is considerably injured. I would like to know whether he came to you for assistance.”
“I do not mind telling you that this Cunningham passed through here yesterday afternoon,” Dr. Quick began, giving a rueful shake of his head. “I cleaned and stitched up a rather nasty cut on his neck which had started to fester. It was a grisly wound, and I am surprised he did not die from the loss of blood when it was first dealt to him.”
LaBoeuf turned and glanced at Mattie with his eyebrows raised, as if to say that she had done a good job. She ignored him and looked at the doctor.
“What happened then?” she asked.
“He absconded without paying me. The man is a thief. I ought to have learned by now never to trust his type, and to demand payment upfront.”
“His type?” LaBoeuf asked.
“Yes - dissolute, violent sorts. His degeneracy was discernible to me immediately upon making his acquaintance, but I am a Christian man and would not turn him away. Did you not notice this? His kind is the reason I gave up doctoring in the western territories and returned east, to more civilised country,” Dr. Quick replied.
“Did he leave you with any impression of where he might be headed?” LaBoeuf asked.
“Not as such. He talked ceaseless nonsense as I tended his wound. He did make mention of his mother, who he said resides in Arkadelphia. But when I turned away to wash my instruments, he was off my table and out the door without so much as a by-your-leave,” Dr. Quick said. “I notified the Sheriff and they are looking for him, but to no avail.”
“I see,” LaBoeuf said. “I reckon he likely left town not long after, then. Do you know if he had any connections in Morrilton, anyone with whom he might have stayed?”
“None that he spoke of.”
“Well, you have been helpful. We thank you,” LaBoeuf said, tipping his hat to the doctor and turning to leave. Mattie had little choice but to follow.
“Are we going to speak to the Sheriff?” Mattie asked as they left Dr. Quick’s office.
“I suspect the law here will be about as helpful as your Sheriff Morris.” LaBoeuf stopped short on the board sidewalk and looked out over the street, frowning in contemplation. “Yes, I think he is headed to Arkadelphia. I have an inkling he will tarry there to recuperate, and then head west.”
“You have an inkling?” Mattie repeated. “What do you mean, an inkling?”
“I mean that judging by my knowledge of his movements and his associates, I expect that Cunningham has ‘gone to ground’ at his mother’s in Arkadelphia. He will have to pass through Hot Springs on his way, and there he can find entertainment of the sort he likes. Gambling and drinking, I mean.”
“I see,” Mattie said. She nodded. “In that case, let us make tracks for Hot Springs.”
LaBoeuf shaded his eyes and looked up at the sky. The sun was sinking quickly towards the western horizon. He glanced at Mattie. “Did you have your heart set on sleeping in a boarding house tonight, or would you mind another night in the wilderness?”
“It seems foolish to waste both time and money staying in town,” Mattie replied. “Also I do not wish to stay in a boarding house more often than is necessary, for I do not relish the gossip and impertinent questions.”
“Gossip?”
“Indeed, gossip. Do you not think that some folks will find it scandalous, a young unmarried woman travelling the country unaccompanied but for an unmarried man?”
“Yes, I do think some folks will find it scandalous. Well they should. You ought to,” LaBoeuf replied.
“Why should I? We are hardly a pair of eloping ‘lovebirds.’ I am out for business the same as you. I know I am in the right, only I have no desire to be stared at or talked about.”
“Lovebirds, indeed,” LaBoeuf muttered. He shook his head. “Let us fetch the horses. We will cross the river, at least, and see how far west we can get before it is dark.”
“All right,” Mattie said, excited at the progress they were making. LaBoeuf tilted his head and gave her a curious look.
“A smile! That is a rare thing from you. I reckon you are enjoying yourself on this adventure,” he said, his voice taking on a teasing tone.
Mattie sobered instantly. “Do not be silly, Mr. LaBoeuf. I am on this errand for practical reasons alone.”
“Haw!” he responded, but he said no more. They walked to the livery, and soon they were on the trail once more.
***
“A plum thicket? Truly?” LaBoeuf asked, craning about in his saddle to cast his sceptical gaze on her.
“Truly. On a goat,” Mattie replied.
They had crossed the Arkansas River for the second time, and they were now headed on a southwest course in the direction of Hot Springs. Sunset was upon them as they passed through flat country whose vista was broken only by a handful of small farms. The wind had grown colder, and Mattie hoped they would find trees or some other shelter soon.
“And this was a dare that was put to you?”
“It was,” Mattie said. “I do not take up notions such as riding goats through plum thickets for their own sake.”
LaBoeuf considered this for a moment. “I did not know that girls were fond of dealing strange and unladylike dares to one another.”
“I do not know whether or not they are. This particular dare was doled out by a boy with whom I attended school.”
“How long did your parents allow you to be at school?”
“I left school when I was 10 to help my father manage the farm,” Mattie replied. She urged Alma forward and brought her up alongside LaBoeuf, for the roadway was now wide enough to allow them to travel two abreast. Sal and Alma seemed pleased enough about it, bending their heads together as they walked.
“And did you have many boys as your friends?”
“Not especially,” Mattie replied, and gave him a sidelong glance, uncertain whether he was “pulling her leg.” The truth was that she had not had many friends in school at all, girls or boys. Papa used to like to say that Mattie was born as serious as doomsday. That was true, and other children had always seemed to find her peculiar. There was a girl named Ida Brewer whose farm was near theirs, and they often walked to and from the schoolhouse together. Ida was sensible and not as silly as the other children, but she was meek, and Mattie always felt as though Ida was like her hostage, and the other girl would have been as contented to walk alone.
It had not much mattered, and it did not make Mattie sad or regretful to think of it now. Her younger siblings had been fine playmates, and she had always liked Papa’s company best, in any case.
“The only girl I knew growing up was my sister, Claudine,” LaBoeuf mused. “She has always had a very sweet and gentle temperament, and would not be found riding goats through plum thickets. Not like... Well.” His words trailed off, and he frowned.
“Not like me,” Mattie said, finishing for him. She felt somewhat stung, although she did not know why she should, and she turned away as her cheeks reddened.
“I do not know why I should be shocked,” LaBoeuf continued. “From all I know of you, you were born without a fearful bone in your body.”
Mattie found herself without much of a response, and so she said simply, “I have a reasonable fear of fools, and that is all,” and they fell silent for some time, the road passing easily beneath their horses’ hooves. “Sal seems a responsive and steady mount,” Mattie observed, after a spell. “Do you ever use those spurs on her?”
LaBoeuf seemed perplexed for a moment, glancing down at his feet, dug deep in his stirrups. “Ah,” he said, looking back up, but not at Mattie. “No, I do not find that I have need of them with her.”
“Then why do you wear them? Surely even you are not so vain that you would wear spurs that you do not use.”
There was a long pause, so long in fact that Mattie thought LaBoeuf intended to ignore her question altogether. She was about to badger him when he spoke.
“I am partial to the sound they make when I walk,” he said, his voice low and uncharacteristically cowed.
Thinking his pride had been battered enough, Mattie said nothing in reply, but she could not help the smile which spread across her face. LaBoeuf shot her a look of annoyance, and did not say anything more. They rode in silence for some time, their horses’ heads drooping with their plodding pace. They were growing tired.
“Your sister, Claudine - where is she?” Mattie asked eventually, attempting to settle on some topic about which they could speak without much risk of contention. “You mentioned also that you have three brothers. Do they live in Texas?”
“No, they do not,” LaBoeuf replied. “My sister lives in Pineville, Louisiana, with her husband and children, and our mother. My father was a lawyer in Pineville, and that is where we grew up. My brothers have settled in the Dakota Territory, Colorado, and California, respectively. They have families there.”
“My mother’s people are from Monterey,” Mattie said. “I have met my Grandfather Spurling only once, when he came to visit us with his second wife, but I was very small. Where my Grandfather lives, you can see the ocean from the house. I would like someday to see California, but I doubt I ever shall. Have you been to California?”
“I have not. In fact I have never been west of Tucson.”
Mattie would not have minded hearing more about LaBoeuf’s family, but they crested a small hill then and found themselves on the rim of a shallow valley filled with dense forest. They stopped, and LaBoeuf surveyed the land before them for a moment.
“I propose we camp in these woods tonight, for it is hard to guess what shelter will be found beyond,” he said, in a decisive tone which suggested that his was not a proposal at all. It rankled Mattie, but she was too tired to harangue him, and in any case, she happened to agree.
“That is fine. I believe the horses are played out,” she replied.
They made their camp nearby in the shelter of some large pine trees, close to the banks of a muddy crick which Mattie figured must drain into the Arkansas. Once the horses were fed and watered and tied to a line so they could stretch their tired backs and graze, LaBoeuf made a small fire and Mattie set about making their supper from what was left of the turkey, some corn mush, and dried apples.
Twilight gathered as they ate, and soon their fire was the only light to be seen. When they had finished, LaBoeuf leaned against the fallen trunk of an oak tree and smoked his pipe. Mattie sat nearby, looking into the fire. She was exhausted, and her injuries were plaguing her. The lump on her head throbbed with particular fierceness now, and she longed for sleep.
“I ought to cut one of these saplings and make a fishing pole,” LaBoeuf said, apropos of nothing. “That crick looks likely for catfish. It is the sort of place they like, for they can laze about in the bottoms gathering up all manner of trash as it is swept down to the river.”
“The thought of catching fish bait in the dark does not appeal to me even for the sake of some catfish, but you may do as you please,” Mattie replied.
LaBoeuf tipped his hat back on his head and reached over, retrieving a brown bottle of whiskey from some hidden place. He uncorked it and regarded it for a moment before holding it out to her. “Care for a smile?” he asked.
Mattie frowned at him. “I am no adventuress. You may keep the drink for yourself.”
LaBoeuf made a sort of choking sound and shot her a scandalized look. “Adventuress! A simple refusal would have sufficed, Miss Mattie Temperance.”
Mattie did not respond. Silence fell, but for the shuffling of the horses, the crackling of the fire, and the periodic glassy clink of LaBoeuf’s liquor bottle. Some time passed, and Mattie became aware that LaBoeuf was scrutinizing her rather fixedly in the firelight. She looked at him.
“Nineteen,” he said, nodding. “I guess you must be round about nineteen by now.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I was considering how old you were when first we met, and how old you must be now. Am I correct when I say you are nineteen?”
“You have spent too much time in the wilderness chasing criminals if you believe that this sort of impertinent talk is tolerated by people of good society,” she replied.
“Hm,” LaBoeuf said. He paused there and drank from his bottle. “My sister was married when she was your age.”
Mattie’s thought was that the same was true of Mama, but she did not say so. “That is very interesting. I wonder if your sister knows that her brother takes pleasure in bothering folks with rude and tiresome questions.”
“My sister certainly does know that, and I believe she would say that is why I became a lawman,” LaBoeuf replied. “Do you have a beau, or do the young men of Yell County cower at the prospect of contending with your razor tongue?”
They had been getting along all right that day, and Mattie did not understand why LaBoeuf had begun harassing her. “You ought not to sneer so readily at the notion of temperance. That liquor has put the devil in you.”
“Haw haw!” said LaBoeuf, his expression smug. “I see you will not be drawn out.”
Mattie stared at him a moment longer, confused by his behaviour. “I am tired. I believe I will sleep now. Goodnight.”
She stood and collected her bedroll, which she laid out in the spot where she had been sitting, close to the fire. She rested her head against her saddle, and turned her back on LaBoeuf, and the fire.
In spite of her fatigue, Mattie did not fall asleep right away, for LaBoeuf stayed up drinking and throwing fresh logs on the fire for some time. She could not escape the sensation that his eyes lingered on her back, nor did she wish to turn over and have her suspicion confirmed.
Eventually sleep won her, and she remembered nothing more.
Chapter 4
Author: lindentree
Rating: T
Character(s): Mattie Ross/LaBoeuf, Rooster Cogburn
Word Count: 6,895
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.
a fine morning for wayfaring
Mattie awoke before the sun rose the following morning. She sat up and stretched, blinking to focus her eyes in the dimness, for the grey light of dawn was just beginning to filter in through the window panes. Placing her bare feet on the floor, she shivered, and hoped that the cold weather would hold off for the duration of her adventure. She glanced at her pack and her bedroll, which were leaned against the foot of the bed. She was puzzled to see that a folded sheaf of paper had been placed on top of her bedroll.
Standing, Mattie grabbed it and found it was a letter addressed to her, written in an unfamiliar hand which was tidy and formal, and completely lacking in calligraphic flourish. Hastily, she read:
Dear Miss Ross,
By the time you read this letter, I will have gone to capture Cunningham, and as you have no doubt guessed, I shall do so without your company.
I am aware that you will be considerably vexed with me. However, I believe that with time you will see that I have made the decision which is best for you. The trail is no place for a young woman. Your mother, when she returns, will agree. Remember that although you are grown and very headstrong besides, it is your duty to obey your mother in all things until you marry.
Do not be frightened for yourself or for your family. I will capture Cunningham and bring him to justice. On this you have my word.
You have my gratitude for your generous hospitality during my brief stay in Yell County. When I gathered that Cunningham was headed through Arkansas, I was glad.
Here he had written something more, but had scratched it out so that it was illegible. He continued:
When you have done away with any spite you feel towards me and you see that I am in the right, I would be pleased to get a letter from you, which you can send courtesy of the Rangers, as follows.
Yours truly,
Sgt. LaBoeuf
At the bottom he had written where one could address a letter to the Ranger battalion in Ysleta, Texas. Nearly shaking with fury, Mattie folded the letter and placed it inside the cover of a book which sat on her bureau.
That he would write such a pompous, magnanimous letter when he planned to disappear like a thief in the night, Mattie could hardly believe. He had previously shown himself to be vain and arrogant, but never deceitful. Worse still, he must have entered her room while she was sleeping in order to leave his letter. Bitterly, Mattie wondered how much food the wretch had liberated from the cupboards and the cellar.
Mattie dressed in the clothes she had laid out the night before - an old pair of Little Frank’s trousers and one of his checked shirts, warm wool socks, her winter coat, and boots. She had packed extra socks, her nightgown and also a dress, should they find themselves in a civilized place. With her pack and bedroll over her shoulder, she went downstairs and collected Little Frank’s rifle and her father’s pistol, as well as the bundle of food which LaBoeuf had in fact left behind, and placed it all on the front porch.
She then went to the barn and milked the cow and fed all of the animals, and made certain that all was in order for her family’s return that afternoon. She left the letters to Mama and Lawyer Daggett on Papa’s desk.
Once she tacked Alma up and loaded her with all they would need for their journey, she led the horse to the fence by the barn and mounted up. The sun was cresting the jagged horizon of pine trees to the east when they rode across the yard, and Mattie took one last look around at the farm. She hoped that no catastrophe befell the place. If anything happened, it would be on her conscience.
Grimly, she turned Alma towards the southeast and urged her into a brisk walk. They would soon meet up with the Arkansas River and LaBoeuf, for if he thought that she could not find him, he was a lack-wit as well as being a dandy and a scoundrel.
It did not take long to join the southward course of the river, and Mattie found a narrow road running along it which allowed her to keep sight of it and not lose her way. The path was well worn, but Mattie guessed it was not frequently used, as it was covered thickly by fallen leaves, and she knew there was a busier, wider thoroughfare to the west. LaBoeuf might have taken the other road, but Mattie reckoned not, for he would prefer a stealthier route, and in any case, it was likely that Cunningham would have taken the more secluded path as well.
It was a fine morning for wayfaring. It was crisp and cloudless, and the sun still offered some warmth in its rays. Around midday, Mattie stopped to let Alma stretch her neck and tear at what greenery she could find among the carpet of leaves on the forest floor. She tipped her head back and looked up at the sun through the few dry leaves which remained on the trees around her. Assuming their train had run on schedule, Mama, Little Frank, and Victoria would be arriving at the little depot in Dardanelle. She was sorry that she would not be there to greet them, for she had promised to be, and she knew Mama would worry and not know what to do. She hoped that between her two siblings, they might help poor Mama and find their way home.
Mattie shook her head and urged Alma forward. There was nothing for it now.
For hours there was no discernable sign of another living thing on the trail except for the birds and squirrels and other creatures of the woods, which regularly stopped in their own business to chirp and squeak and scold Mattie and Alma for trespassing. Late in the afternoon, however, a promising sign presented itself. There was a fresh pile of “horse apples” in the road. They were not steaming , but they had been there only a couple hours at most, Mattie guessed. She took this as an indication that LaBoeuf was not far ahead of her at all.
Alma accumulated spirit as the afternoon wore on into evening, the exercise seeming to do her much good. Mattie let her pick up a gentle trot as the sun began to sink below the trees, but darkness fell abruptly, and Mattie soon slowed her down to a walk once again. She was pleased that Alma was well, but did not want to risk an injury to her feet or legs on the uneven forest path.
In the blue light of dusk, the sound of birdsong faded, replaced by the infrequent hoots of owls and croaking of frogs. As the darkness deepened and stars emerged, Mattie could hear the faint, leathery rustle of bat wings overhead. She thought of the stories Papa used to tell her when she was small, about lone travellers on night roads being tracked by panthers and lions, and all manner of beasts which emerged from their hidden dens only at night.
Mattie shivered, and shook herself. There was no use in worrying about what lurked in the forest until she had reason. She did wish that she could stop and make camp, however. She was becoming saddle sore, and Alma’s energy was waning. She hoped that, because he had started out earlier than she, LaBoeuf would already have stopped for the night somewhere ahead on the trail, and that by continuing on in the darkness, she might make up the distance between them.
Her hope was not in vain. As Mattie crested a small rise in the landscape, she saw a light glowing through the darkness two hundred yards ahead. She allowed herself a moment of anxiety that perhaps she had somehow bypassed LaBoeuf and stumbled upon Cunningham or some other traveller instead, but she dismissed it, and pressed on.
She soon discovered that the light was a campfire, and that a horse and a man were silhouetted against it. The man was seated and leaning against a log, staring into the fire. Mattie got close enough to see that it was LaBoeuf before Alma’s plodding made enough noise to rouse him. Mattie stopped her. LaBoeuf’s head turned in their direction, and his eyes searched the trees.
Mattie dismounted, and the sound of her feet thumping to the forest floor alerted LaBoeuf to her presence. He stood, pulling his pistol from his holster and peering out into the darkness.
“Who is there? I warn you, I am a Texas Ranger, and I am armed,” LaBoeuf called.
Mattie led Alma to the line LaBoeuf had strung between two trees for Sal. The latter was resting one of her hind feet, and her head was low and dozy. At their approach, she exhaled a tired greeting. Mattie tied Alma there, and walked into the circle of light thrown by the campfire.
“I was once told that it is very imprudent to make camp by your cook fire, and that it is Ranger policy to avoid such a blunder,” Mattie said, coming close and holding her stiff hands out to the fire to warm them. She met his fierce gaze without blinking. “You ought to know that I could see your fire from nearly two hundred yards away, even in these dense woods.”
“Sakes alive!” LaBoeuf cursed, returning his pistol to his holster. He shook his head in apparent disbelief. “You are harder to shake than a tick in June.”
“You thought you would take a page out of Marshall Cogburn’s book,” Mattie said. “You thought you hornswoggled me good, but I guess you did not figure that I would follow you. That was very foolish, for not only have I followed and found you with an ease which ought to be shameful to you, but now I know your word is worthless, too.”
“Mattie, if you do not turn that horse of yours around and head on back where you came from, I will make you sorry that you stayed,” he threatened, pointing a finger in her face and glowering at her. “And this time Cogburn is not here to stop me!”
“You do not own this road or this river, Mr. LaBoeuf. I am free to track Cunningham to Timbuktu if I choose. If you do not want to be reasonable, I will follow at a distance, and we can both proceed on this path as strangers. I do not see why it should be so, however.”
The look he gave her then was fierce, and Mattie could tell that he wanted very badly to reach for his belt and wallop her. She tipped her chin up and met his eyes, and did not blink. Finally, he turned away and cursed, and sat back down to glare into the fire.
Unaccountably, Mattie felt sorry. She would rather have kissed Cunningham than say so, however, and after a stretch of silence broken only by the crackle of the fire and the sounds of the horses eating, she sat down to his left, leaving enough space between them that she faced another side of the fire altogether. She wanted to be able to escape should he change his mind and decide to thrash her after all.
“Although I will grant that you held up as well as any man in our pursuit of Tom Chaney, I think you overestimate your understanding of the evil that dwells in men’s hearts,” LaBoeuf said finally, in a low and serious voice. He continued to stare into the fire, frowning. “If anything should happen to you, it would be my responsibility.”
Mattie’s first thought was to tell him that he was not a relation of hers and was therefore not responsible for her, but instead she paused and contemplated the thing a moment. “If Cunningham harms me, or you, or any other person for that matter, I believe that on the Day of Judgment when all souls will be weighed and found wanting, Cunningham is the one who will answer for every crime he committed with his own hands. Do you not agree?”
“I suppose I do,” replied LaBoeuf, glancing at her.
“In any case, you did what you could to dissuade me from this course,” Mattie said. “I know this, as do you, and I made it abundantly clear in my letters to Mama and to Lawyer Daggett. If some catastrophe befell me, you would not suffer.”
LaBoeuf stared at her for a moment before giving a shake of his head. He looked tired. “Well, then. I guess you will have your way once again, after all, Mattie Ross.”
The beleaguered tone of his voice detracted somewhat from her satisfaction at this victory. She was on the verge of scolding him for being a poor sport when her stomach growled audibly. He looked at her with his eyebrows raised, and she blushed.
“Have you eaten?” he asked.
“Not since this morning, and it was a cold, hurried breakfast, as I did not start my journey as I anticipated I would,” she replied.
With an exaggerated heavenward roll of his eyes, LaBoeuf stood and retrieved a small iron pot from where it sat next to the fire. In it was a portion of pork and beans, still warm. He offered it to her.
“I brought my own stores,” she said. “You do not need to share with me.”
“Our agreement yesterday afternoon was to head out as pardners, and since you have proved yourself an able tracker and caught me in my deception, I reckon we can return to our previous understanding,” he said grudgingly.
“All right,” Mattie agreed, accepting the beans. “We will share equally in this. I have salt pork and cornbread for our breakfast in the morning.”
LaBoeuf only made a sort of grumbling sound in response, and returned to his spot by the fire, where he began arranging his bed roll. He lay down and pulled a colourful blanket over himself. Mattie guessed it was a thing native to Texas, for she had not seen one like it before. He placed his hat over his face and did not say another word to her.
Mattie finished the beans. She rinsed out the pot by the bank of the river before placing it next to the fire to dry. She checked on the horses, and fed each one of them a piece of dried apple from her pack. She laid her bedroll out on her side of the fire, and pulled her blanket over herself.
Their little fire formed a cup of light in the wide black night. The last thing Mattie saw before she closed her eyes was the light reflecting off the tree branches above, and the smoke rising into the starry sky.
***
When Mattie awoke in the morning, she found that she had curled up into a ball and pulled her blankets up to cover much of her face. As she stiffly unfurled herself and sat up, she disturbed a thin layer of frost which had settled all over her blanket and her saddle, and even the top of her head. She was relieved to see that, an arm’s length away, LaBoeuf was up reviving the fire.
“You are awake,” he said.
“I am,” she replied, rubbing her eyes.
“I see your hair is bearing up to sleeping rough on the trail thus far.” He was eyeing her speculatively, and Mattie felt a foreign stab of self-consciousness. She ran her hand over the braids coiled against her head, smoothing the wisps which had come loose while she slept.
“I think I will go down to the river to wash,” Mattie said, standing and quickly shaking out and rolling up her bedroll.
“There is a crick up yonder whose water is clearer and faster than that river. It is better for washing,” LaBoeuf said, gesturing back into the woods. “We will have to cross it today.”
“All right. Have the horses been watered?”
“They have.”
Mattie nodded, and turned into the woods to find the crick. It was only a dozen yards away, and Mattie could see the spot where LaBoeuf had broken the glass-like crust of ice which had formed on its stony banks in the night. For a moment, Mattie watched the water bubble up underneath the thin ice, which was disappearing as the sun rose higher in the sky.
She washed her face and hands, and the cold sting of the water took her breath away. When she returned to their camp, LaBoeuf was frying salt pork in a small iron pan with legs like a spider’s. When he had finished, Mattie fried thick pieces of cornbread in the fat, and that was their breakfast. While they ate, LaBoeuf said not a word to her, his mouth set in a grim line.
That he was not his usual loquacious self perturbed Mattie. It was plain that he was sore at having been caught.
“You are still down in the mouth at my presence here,” she said. “That is fine; I guess I cannot expect you to be congenial to me under the present circumstances. However, I think that we were friends once, and this enterprise will be much pleasanter for us both if we are cordial to one another.”
“Cordial,” he repeated, weighing the word. He looked at her. “Yes, I reckon we are friends and that I can be cordial, in spite of your continued efforts to make me look a fool at every turn.”
Mattie considered telling him that he did a fine job of making himself look a fool without any assistance on her part, but she did not. To say so would be counter to her goal of placating him. After all, he was only a man, and one who guarded his pride with particular ferocity.
“I did not set out deliberately to make you look a fool,” she said. “You can be confident that my regard for you is sincere. I would not be here in these woods with you if that were not the case.”
LaBoeuf eyed her for a moment, and then cleared his throat. “What I wrote to you in my letter was a fact - I was glad to find myself in Arkansas. You see, I once made the acquaintance of a remarkable young woman from Yell County, and I hoped to see her again.”
Mattie glanced away, feeling her cheeks heat and a smile pull at the corner of her mouth. She bit her lip to stifle it. “While I am not happy in the slightest to have crossed paths with Cunningham, if he brought you here I cannot regret it altogether, either.”
LaBoeuf fixed her with an odd, measuring sort of look which lasted so long that Mattie began to feel uncomfortable.
“Well?” she asked. “Shall we shake on it, then, that we are friends, and pardners, and we will put our disagreements behind us?”
LaBoeuf nodded, and held out his bare hand, and Mattie shook it. It was warm, despite the cool morning, and rough and soft all at once. He gripped her hand firmly, his expression solemn.
“I reckon I will regret this at some future moment,” he said. “I am glad, though, that at least Reuben Cogburn is not here to suggest any of his wild schemes, or to put more holes in me.”
Mattie recalled Cogburn’s stubborn insistence that he was not responsible for LaBoeuf’s injured shoulder. “You may feel different if you get a hankering to shoot cornbread out of the air once we are clear of these woods.”
“You will not join me in such a game? It will keep your aim sharp,” LaBoeuf replied, a measure of good humour returning to his face. He tilted his head at her, and his eyes caught the morning sunlight.
Mattie shook her head. “It would be a waste of both food and ammunition. Wastefulness is capital among sins.”
“Your knowledge of sinful behaviour is broad for being guilty of so few yourself.”
“I am as sinful a creature as the next person,” Mattie replied, discomfited. She realised then that her hand was still grasped in his, and she pulled it free. “We ought to get on the trail. We are wasting time. Had you planned to get as far as Morrilton today?”
LaBoeuf regarded her in silence for a moment longer, and then smiled at something he apparently found amusing. “I had indeed. My hope is that Cunningham will stop for supplies or perhaps doctoring there, and if we do not catch the man himself, we will be able to glean a reckoning of his next step. I do not want to continue without some certainty that he is indeed headed downriver to Pine Bluff, or west to Arkadelphia.”
“All right,” Mattie agreed. She turned away and they began to break camp and get the horses ready to depart. They made quick work of it, and an hour later they had already forded the bright little crick nearby. The only sign that they had been there at all was the smouldering remains of the fire, and some hoof prints in the dirt.
***
They rode for hours through the woods in the shadow of Petit Jean Mountain before crossing the river and finding themselves in clearer, more cultivated territory. The sun had begun to sink in the west and the sky was clouding over. Mattie hoped they would come to Morrilton soon, for she did not relish the thought of finding a place to camp on the bald prairie.
They reached Morrilton late in the afternoon, before suppertime. The town was small but handsome. Its main street boasted a block of low brick buildings with fine board sidewalks, fronted by railroad tracks and surrounded behind by several blocks of clapboard storefronts and houses. Thin blue threads of smoke rose from chimneys and stovepipes, and the streets were full of horses and people and vehicles of all kinds.
LaBoeuf located a livery stable and suggested that they allow the horses a rest and proceed about town on foot, unencumbered. Mattie agreed.
While LaBoeuf haggled rather ineffectually with the liveryman, Mattie sat on a barrel of nails and watched the activity of the town. She examined the faces of the people in the street carefully. For all they knew, Cunningham might be in Morrilton yet, walking the streets without a care, ignorant that he was being followed. Mattie noticed that many of the townspeople stared at her. She supposed that the sight of a one-armed woman in trousers sitting on a barrel of nails might be an oddity, but that was hardly an excuse to gape. Some people behaved as though they had no control over themselves whatsoever.
Eventually LaBoeuf emerged and stood before her. He smoothed a hand over his hair before replacing his hat on his head. “I agreed to a higher price than I would have liked, for the man was very liberal with information. Cunningham was in town yesterday. He suggested we try the doctor, a man called Quick, for he is certain that Cunningham sought doctoring.”
“You are a lawman. You could not extract this information while also paying a reasonable price to livery our horses?” Mattie asked, her dim view of LaBoeuf’s bargaining acumen confirmed.
“You have much to learn in the ways of diplomacy if you wish to continue your career as a ‘law-woman’ or what have you,” LaBoeuf replied, turning and walking purposefully down the sidewalk. Mattie hopped off of her barrel and fell into step beside him.
“I have no such vocation, and no desire to embark upon one, either,” Mattie said. “And you are one to talk about diplomacy. Here I thought your idea of the thing was to invite yourself into people’s private rooms and attempt to threaten and intimidate them.”
“Yes, well, you will have to pardon my mistake, for you give a good impression of a gun-for-hire,” LaBoeuf replied shortly. He sounded impatient and in no mood to cajole. Stopping a moment, he pointed across the wide street. A building of whitewashed clapboard stood there, with a sign above its door which read DOCTOR SAMUEL F. QUICK in tall black letters.
They crossed the street and let themselves into the place, a bell over the door announcing their arrival.
“Just a moment,” came a man’s voice from the office beyond the small reception room in front. They stood and waited until a young woman about Mattie’s age emerged from the back. She had pale yellow hair and was dressed in a blue lawn walking dress which was pretty and, as far as Mattie could tell, very fashionable. She wore a small hat on top of the curls gathered on her head, and she smiled brightly at them both as she passed and left the office. While she seemed pleasant enough, Mattie could not see the sense in a hat so small that it did not shade your face or neck, and did little else except make a nuisance of itself with hatpins and such.
“Well,” LaBoeuf said in a low voice, and Mattie glanced up to see him looking after the girl as she disappeared down the sidewalk.
“Well what?” Mattie asked, but she did not receive a reply, for at that moment a man emerged from the back office. Mattie guessed him to be about fifty years old, or perhaps fifty-five. He was short and round, with steel grey hair and “Burnsides” on his face. His complexion was ruddy, and he wore a pair of thin, wire-rimmed spectacles on his nose.
“You do not look like any kind of person I have seen in these parts before,” the doctor stated, examining LaBoeuf with blatant curiosity. He turned his dark eyes on Mattie. “You are mighty peculiar yourself.”
“If we are newcomers to your town, that is an impudent way to welcome us,” Mattie replied.
LaBoeuf sighed impatiently. “I am not from these parts; I am a Texas Ranger. I am on the trail of a man named Cunningham who I understand was in Morrilton as recently as yesterday. The man is considerably injured. I would like to know whether he came to you for assistance.”
“I do not mind telling you that this Cunningham passed through here yesterday afternoon,” Dr. Quick began, giving a rueful shake of his head. “I cleaned and stitched up a rather nasty cut on his neck which had started to fester. It was a grisly wound, and I am surprised he did not die from the loss of blood when it was first dealt to him.”
LaBoeuf turned and glanced at Mattie with his eyebrows raised, as if to say that she had done a good job. She ignored him and looked at the doctor.
“What happened then?” she asked.
“He absconded without paying me. The man is a thief. I ought to have learned by now never to trust his type, and to demand payment upfront.”
“His type?” LaBoeuf asked.
“Yes - dissolute, violent sorts. His degeneracy was discernible to me immediately upon making his acquaintance, but I am a Christian man and would not turn him away. Did you not notice this? His kind is the reason I gave up doctoring in the western territories and returned east, to more civilised country,” Dr. Quick replied.
“Did he leave you with any impression of where he might be headed?” LaBoeuf asked.
“Not as such. He talked ceaseless nonsense as I tended his wound. He did make mention of his mother, who he said resides in Arkadelphia. But when I turned away to wash my instruments, he was off my table and out the door without so much as a by-your-leave,” Dr. Quick said. “I notified the Sheriff and they are looking for him, but to no avail.”
“I see,” LaBoeuf said. “I reckon he likely left town not long after, then. Do you know if he had any connections in Morrilton, anyone with whom he might have stayed?”
“None that he spoke of.”
“Well, you have been helpful. We thank you,” LaBoeuf said, tipping his hat to the doctor and turning to leave. Mattie had little choice but to follow.
“Are we going to speak to the Sheriff?” Mattie asked as they left Dr. Quick’s office.
“I suspect the law here will be about as helpful as your Sheriff Morris.” LaBoeuf stopped short on the board sidewalk and looked out over the street, frowning in contemplation. “Yes, I think he is headed to Arkadelphia. I have an inkling he will tarry there to recuperate, and then head west.”
“You have an inkling?” Mattie repeated. “What do you mean, an inkling?”
“I mean that judging by my knowledge of his movements and his associates, I expect that Cunningham has ‘gone to ground’ at his mother’s in Arkadelphia. He will have to pass through Hot Springs on his way, and there he can find entertainment of the sort he likes. Gambling and drinking, I mean.”
“I see,” Mattie said. She nodded. “In that case, let us make tracks for Hot Springs.”
LaBoeuf shaded his eyes and looked up at the sky. The sun was sinking quickly towards the western horizon. He glanced at Mattie. “Did you have your heart set on sleeping in a boarding house tonight, or would you mind another night in the wilderness?”
“It seems foolish to waste both time and money staying in town,” Mattie replied. “Also I do not wish to stay in a boarding house more often than is necessary, for I do not relish the gossip and impertinent questions.”
“Gossip?”
“Indeed, gossip. Do you not think that some folks will find it scandalous, a young unmarried woman travelling the country unaccompanied but for an unmarried man?”
“Yes, I do think some folks will find it scandalous. Well they should. You ought to,” LaBoeuf replied.
“Why should I? We are hardly a pair of eloping ‘lovebirds.’ I am out for business the same as you. I know I am in the right, only I have no desire to be stared at or talked about.”
“Lovebirds, indeed,” LaBoeuf muttered. He shook his head. “Let us fetch the horses. We will cross the river, at least, and see how far west we can get before it is dark.”
“All right,” Mattie said, excited at the progress they were making. LaBoeuf tilted his head and gave her a curious look.
“A smile! That is a rare thing from you. I reckon you are enjoying yourself on this adventure,” he said, his voice taking on a teasing tone.
Mattie sobered instantly. “Do not be silly, Mr. LaBoeuf. I am on this errand for practical reasons alone.”
“Haw!” he responded, but he said no more. They walked to the livery, and soon they were on the trail once more.
***
“A plum thicket? Truly?” LaBoeuf asked, craning about in his saddle to cast his sceptical gaze on her.
“Truly. On a goat,” Mattie replied.
They had crossed the Arkansas River for the second time, and they were now headed on a southwest course in the direction of Hot Springs. Sunset was upon them as they passed through flat country whose vista was broken only by a handful of small farms. The wind had grown colder, and Mattie hoped they would find trees or some other shelter soon.
“And this was a dare that was put to you?”
“It was,” Mattie said. “I do not take up notions such as riding goats through plum thickets for their own sake.”
LaBoeuf considered this for a moment. “I did not know that girls were fond of dealing strange and unladylike dares to one another.”
“I do not know whether or not they are. This particular dare was doled out by a boy with whom I attended school.”
“How long did your parents allow you to be at school?”
“I left school when I was 10 to help my father manage the farm,” Mattie replied. She urged Alma forward and brought her up alongside LaBoeuf, for the roadway was now wide enough to allow them to travel two abreast. Sal and Alma seemed pleased enough about it, bending their heads together as they walked.
“And did you have many boys as your friends?”
“Not especially,” Mattie replied, and gave him a sidelong glance, uncertain whether he was “pulling her leg.” The truth was that she had not had many friends in school at all, girls or boys. Papa used to like to say that Mattie was born as serious as doomsday. That was true, and other children had always seemed to find her peculiar. There was a girl named Ida Brewer whose farm was near theirs, and they often walked to and from the schoolhouse together. Ida was sensible and not as silly as the other children, but she was meek, and Mattie always felt as though Ida was like her hostage, and the other girl would have been as contented to walk alone.
It had not much mattered, and it did not make Mattie sad or regretful to think of it now. Her younger siblings had been fine playmates, and she had always liked Papa’s company best, in any case.
“The only girl I knew growing up was my sister, Claudine,” LaBoeuf mused. “She has always had a very sweet and gentle temperament, and would not be found riding goats through plum thickets. Not like... Well.” His words trailed off, and he frowned.
“Not like me,” Mattie said, finishing for him. She felt somewhat stung, although she did not know why she should, and she turned away as her cheeks reddened.
“I do not know why I should be shocked,” LaBoeuf continued. “From all I know of you, you were born without a fearful bone in your body.”
Mattie found herself without much of a response, and so she said simply, “I have a reasonable fear of fools, and that is all,” and they fell silent for some time, the road passing easily beneath their horses’ hooves. “Sal seems a responsive and steady mount,” Mattie observed, after a spell. “Do you ever use those spurs on her?”
LaBoeuf seemed perplexed for a moment, glancing down at his feet, dug deep in his stirrups. “Ah,” he said, looking back up, but not at Mattie. “No, I do not find that I have need of them with her.”
“Then why do you wear them? Surely even you are not so vain that you would wear spurs that you do not use.”
There was a long pause, so long in fact that Mattie thought LaBoeuf intended to ignore her question altogether. She was about to badger him when he spoke.
“I am partial to the sound they make when I walk,” he said, his voice low and uncharacteristically cowed.
Thinking his pride had been battered enough, Mattie said nothing in reply, but she could not help the smile which spread across her face. LaBoeuf shot her a look of annoyance, and did not say anything more. They rode in silence for some time, their horses’ heads drooping with their plodding pace. They were growing tired.
“Your sister, Claudine - where is she?” Mattie asked eventually, attempting to settle on some topic about which they could speak without much risk of contention. “You mentioned also that you have three brothers. Do they live in Texas?”
“No, they do not,” LaBoeuf replied. “My sister lives in Pineville, Louisiana, with her husband and children, and our mother. My father was a lawyer in Pineville, and that is where we grew up. My brothers have settled in the Dakota Territory, Colorado, and California, respectively. They have families there.”
“My mother’s people are from Monterey,” Mattie said. “I have met my Grandfather Spurling only once, when he came to visit us with his second wife, but I was very small. Where my Grandfather lives, you can see the ocean from the house. I would like someday to see California, but I doubt I ever shall. Have you been to California?”
“I have not. In fact I have never been west of Tucson.”
Mattie would not have minded hearing more about LaBoeuf’s family, but they crested a small hill then and found themselves on the rim of a shallow valley filled with dense forest. They stopped, and LaBoeuf surveyed the land before them for a moment.
“I propose we camp in these woods tonight, for it is hard to guess what shelter will be found beyond,” he said, in a decisive tone which suggested that his was not a proposal at all. It rankled Mattie, but she was too tired to harangue him, and in any case, she happened to agree.
“That is fine. I believe the horses are played out,” she replied.
They made their camp nearby in the shelter of some large pine trees, close to the banks of a muddy crick which Mattie figured must drain into the Arkansas. Once the horses were fed and watered and tied to a line so they could stretch their tired backs and graze, LaBoeuf made a small fire and Mattie set about making their supper from what was left of the turkey, some corn mush, and dried apples.
Twilight gathered as they ate, and soon their fire was the only light to be seen. When they had finished, LaBoeuf leaned against the fallen trunk of an oak tree and smoked his pipe. Mattie sat nearby, looking into the fire. She was exhausted, and her injuries were plaguing her. The lump on her head throbbed with particular fierceness now, and she longed for sleep.
“I ought to cut one of these saplings and make a fishing pole,” LaBoeuf said, apropos of nothing. “That crick looks likely for catfish. It is the sort of place they like, for they can laze about in the bottoms gathering up all manner of trash as it is swept down to the river.”
“The thought of catching fish bait in the dark does not appeal to me even for the sake of some catfish, but you may do as you please,” Mattie replied.
LaBoeuf tipped his hat back on his head and reached over, retrieving a brown bottle of whiskey from some hidden place. He uncorked it and regarded it for a moment before holding it out to her. “Care for a smile?” he asked.
Mattie frowned at him. “I am no adventuress. You may keep the drink for yourself.”
LaBoeuf made a sort of choking sound and shot her a scandalized look. “Adventuress! A simple refusal would have sufficed, Miss Mattie Temperance.”
Mattie did not respond. Silence fell, but for the shuffling of the horses, the crackling of the fire, and the periodic glassy clink of LaBoeuf’s liquor bottle. Some time passed, and Mattie became aware that LaBoeuf was scrutinizing her rather fixedly in the firelight. She looked at him.
“Nineteen,” he said, nodding. “I guess you must be round about nineteen by now.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I was considering how old you were when first we met, and how old you must be now. Am I correct when I say you are nineteen?”
“You have spent too much time in the wilderness chasing criminals if you believe that this sort of impertinent talk is tolerated by people of good society,” she replied.
“Hm,” LaBoeuf said. He paused there and drank from his bottle. “My sister was married when she was your age.”
Mattie’s thought was that the same was true of Mama, but she did not say so. “That is very interesting. I wonder if your sister knows that her brother takes pleasure in bothering folks with rude and tiresome questions.”
“My sister certainly does know that, and I believe she would say that is why I became a lawman,” LaBoeuf replied. “Do you have a beau, or do the young men of Yell County cower at the prospect of contending with your razor tongue?”
They had been getting along all right that day, and Mattie did not understand why LaBoeuf had begun harassing her. “You ought not to sneer so readily at the notion of temperance. That liquor has put the devil in you.”
“Haw haw!” said LaBoeuf, his expression smug. “I see you will not be drawn out.”
Mattie stared at him a moment longer, confused by his behaviour. “I am tired. I believe I will sleep now. Goodnight.”
She stood and collected her bedroll, which she laid out in the spot where she had been sitting, close to the fire. She rested her head against her saddle, and turned her back on LaBoeuf, and the fire.
In spite of her fatigue, Mattie did not fall asleep right away, for LaBoeuf stayed up drinking and throwing fresh logs on the fire for some time. She could not escape the sensation that his eyes lingered on her back, nor did she wish to turn over and have her suspicion confirmed.
Eventually sleep won her, and she remembered nothing more.
Chapter 4