True Grit - "With No Lodestar In Sight", Mattie/LaBoeuf, T
Title: With No Lodestar In Sight - 9/12
Author: lindentree
Rating: T
Character(s): Mattie Ross/LaBoeuf, Rooster Cogburn
Word Count: 6,321
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.
any different than you are
The people of Texarkana were still asleep when they rode into the outskirts of the town.
Mattie was glad, for it meant there were fewer folks around to gawk at them. She owned that they made for a strange sight - two haggard men and an injured young woman, plus the bloodied body of a fugitive slung over the back of a horse besides - but truly there was no excuse for losing your grip on your manners.
They found a boarding house with vacant rooms, and as Rooster was the only uninjured member of their party, he left Mattie and LaBoeuf there to secure lodging while he took Cunningham’s body to the Sheriff. The lady of the house, a married woman by the name of McNabb, received them with some wariness, but ultimately took the money LaBoeuf offered her, and led them up the stairs to their rooms.
Their rooms were all together on the second storey, and Mrs. McNabb left Mattie and LaBoeuf in the hallway, muttering something about tending the breakfast before hastily disappearing down the stairs.
“You are certain you do not need the doctor?” LaBoeuf asked as they stood in the dim corridor. He and Rooster had both suggested that they find a physician for her when they arrived in town, but she did not care for the idea, and had thus far resisted their entreaties.
“No, I do not need the doctor,” Mattie replied. “In any case, you are the one who has been shot. Look at the state of your arm! We ought to call the doctor for that.”
“I have had worse wounds,” LaBoeuf said.
“You are silly not to have a doctor examine you, but if you insist on being stubborn, will you at least let me tend to it? If it heals poorly and festers, I will feel responsible.”
“I do not think it is so bad as all that,” LaBoeuf replied.
“You cannot know that until we get a look at it. You allowed me to bandage that shoulder wound Cogburn dealt you in the Winding Stairs, all those years ago. This is not so different.”
“All right,” LaBoeuf acquiesced. His tiredness was visible, and he seemed unwilling to argue further. He unlocked the door to his room and entered. He went to the little table under the window, and gingerly began to remove his coat. Mattie was tempted to help him, but she thought better of it, for it might be too much for his pride, and she was determined to bandage his wound at the very least.
While LaBoeuf struggled out of his coat, Mattie took the chipped china pitcher from the washstand and went downstairs to the large kitchen at the back of the house, where she found the reservoir in the stove full of hot water. She filled the pitcher and carried it carefully against her chest up the narrow back staircase to LaBoeuf’s room. She set it down on the hallway floor to open the door, and stopped short at the sight of LaBoeuf standing in the morning sunlight, his shirt unbuttoned and half off, his injured arm and most of his upper body exposed.
Mattie cleared her throat, and LaBoeuf turned around to meet her eyes. She did not know what thoughts her expression reflected, but his face reddened, and he turned away, sitting down in one of the straight back wooden chairs. Mattie picked up the pitcher and closed the door behind her, walking across the room to pour fresh water into the tin basin on the table next to him.
She pulled the other chair close to his, and sat down. LaBoeuf had managed to peel his torn shirt away from the wound, but some threads remained stuck to the blood. The bullet had torn through his buckskin coat and his shirt, grazing the skin. A long, shallow cut crossed his upper arm, wide enough that Mattie did not suppose there was much purpose in stitching it together to knit the pulpy wound. Better to let it scab over. In any case, it would certainly scar.
Mattie dampened a cloth and squeezed the excess water from it. She pressed it gently to the wound to loosen the bits of thread which remained, caught as the cut began to scab over.
LaBoeuf let out a low hiss from between his teeth. Mattie continued to hold the cloth down, examining his frowning profile.
“It is not so bad,” she said. “It will heal fine. I think it will leave quite a scar, however.”
“As I said, I have had worse, and scars are no matter to me,” he replied.
Mattie’s eyes dropped to his bare chest. In the flesh of his shoulder was a round, brownish pink scar, which she guessed was from Rooster’s errant rifle shot five years previous. The skin of his chest and shoulders was scattered here and there with small pale freckles, and dusted with light auburn hair which caught the bright sunlight streaming in through the window. His skin was considerably darker on his neck and his forearms, from the days spent on horseback in what she imagined was the unforgiving Texas sun. Sitting so close to him, she was aware of how dirty her clothes and her face must be, not to mention the fresh bruises on her.
She felt a prickle of awareness and looked up to see LaBoeuf watching her, a queer expression on his face. Tiny motes of dust swayed in the shaft of morning sunlight beyond his head. Mattie felt her face flame, and she looked back down, removing the cloth from his wound and rinsing it in the water. As gently as she could, she began to pick out the stubborn little threads stuck in the cut.
“We ought to get you some iodine,” Mattie said. She cleared her throat; her voice sounded strangely dry.
“No iodine,” LaBoeuf grimaced. “I reckon you take real pleasure in tormenting me, woman.”
“I do no such thing,” she replied, finding herself somewhat offended at the thought. She did what was necessary; her intention was not to be cruel or malicious, and she certainly took no enjoyment in the notion of dabbing his wounds with that stinging stuff.
“I will have to take you at your word, for your actions say otherwise,” LaBoeuf said. Annoyed, Mattie glanced up to find that he was smiling at her. It was not his usual smug grin, but rather a real smile which spoke of fondness and good humour, tinged as it was with his current discomfort.
Mattie pulled the last of the threads from his cut before pressing the cloth once more to his wound as fresh blood seeped from it. LaBoeuf looked down at his hands, which rested in his lap.
“I ought to apologise to you for what happened between us last night. My behaviour towards you was brutish and wrong. I allowed my temper to get the better of me,” LaBoeuf said. He frowned. “I reckon you know better than most how guilty I am of that fault.”
Mattie looked at his profile, and thought of how angry she had been, and how upon slapping him, the burn across her palm had ached. “I am scarcely any better,” she replied softly. “I am quick to anger over most things. At times I have wished that I were more peaceable and docile, like my mother. I do not know where my temper came from, for my father was always good-humoured like her.”
LaBoeuf reached up and placed his hand over hers where it was still pressed against his upper arm. “Please do not wish yourself any different than you are,” he said.
Mattie looked way, embarrassed.
LaBoeuf cleared his throat. “An explanation for my behaviour is owed to you.”
Mattie opened her mouth to tell him it was not necessary, but he interrupted her.
“Please,” he entreated. “Let me speak. Truthfully I never doubted your abilities - you have proven your capability many times over, too many times for me to hesitate in trusting you for even a moment. That was not the trouble. The trouble was that I was acquainted with Cunningham’s history, and it caused me to fear for you. He is a drunkard and a thief and a murderer, yes, but he is also... That is, I knew what sort of victims he tended towards, and what unspeakable things he had done to them. I wanted your company, but the idea of exposing you to such danger - I felt I was being selfish in allowing you to come along in the first place. At times I would convince myself that my worry was for naught, only for us to stumble across the grisly remains of his violence again and again. When I thought of what he would do to you if I was not vigilant, if I could not... Mattie, he nearly killed you once. I could not stand the thought of it. Do you see?”
Their eyes met, and Mattie found that she could not say what she typically would have said, which was that she could look after herself and that his worries were foolish. She supposed they were not foolish. She was as capable as anyone, and Cunningham had nearly killed her. Had his errant bullets been luckier for him, he might have killed LaBoeuf, and Rooster as well.
“I do see,” she replied softly.
LaBoeuf opened his mouth, about to say something more, when there was a knock on the door. It opened before either of them could answer, and Rooster appeared in the doorway.
“Hm,” Rooster said, casting a shrewd eye over them both. “Do we know yet whether he will live, or must we begin making arrangements for a funeral?”
“He will live,” Mattie replied. “It is a minor wound and Mr. LaBoeuf has survived much more dire injuries in the past, as you well know.”
“What did the Sheriff have to say?” LaBoeuf asked.
Rooster came around and sat down on the end of the brass bed. He took out his pouch of tobacco and his papers, and began to roll himself a cigarette.
“Well,” he said, “the Sheriff reckons we got the man what killed that whore in town, and that he’s the same fella who’s wanted in every county from here to Tennessee, and all over Texas besides. He granted me this in spite of the mess Cunningham made of his face when he dispatched himself. He tells me he’ll vouch for all this to our jurisdictions. We’ll have to send some telegrams and the like to sort it all out, but it shouldn’t be much trouble to collect on our rewards.”
“That is some good news,” Mattie said, awkwardly trying to tie a bandage around LaBoeuf’s arm with her one hand. LaBoeuf lifted his other hand and held the bandage in place so she could fasten it.
“I see you managed to get us some rooms,” Rooster said.
“Your room is across the hall, next to Mattie’s,” LaBoeuf said. Mattie patted his arm to indicate that she was finished, and with a nod of thanks he slowly began pulling his shirt back on.
“Good,” Rooster replied, giving LaBoeuf an arch look.
“I propose that we get some rest, and send our telegrams this afternoon,” LaBoeuf said, ignoring him. “Perhaps you can send one to your mother, Mattie, letting her know that you are all right. Once we get the matter of the reward settled, we can all be on our respective ways.”
Of course they would be parting very soon. Mattie found she did not like to think of it.
She suddenly felt exhausted. She did not even care to take a meal; she wanted nothing more than to bathe and scrub off the dirty, itchy sensation which plagued her, and to climb into a clean, warm bed.
“I think I will go get that rest now,” Mattie announced, standing up. Without waiting for a reply, she left LaBoeuf’s room and went to her own, grabbing her saddlebag from where it had been abandoned in the hallway. After locking the door behind her, she stripped off her filthy clothes and filled the basin in her room with clean, cold water. It was no hot bath, but it would have to do for now. After washing the dirt and dried blood from herself as best she could, she changed into her nightgown and drew the curtains at the window.
Mattie climbed into the narrow brass bed, and fell immediately to sleep. When she slept, she did not dream.
***
Mattie slept very late that day, much later than she had planned. The moment she opened her eyes and saw her little room flooded with afternoon sunshine in spite of the drawn curtains, she knew she had slept too long. The only time she had ever slept so long was when she was laid up after having her arm cut off in Fort Smith. It surprised her, then, that she was not well-rested. She stood at the washstand and stared sluggishly into the chipped mirror, her head swimming. She rubbed at her eyes and splashed her face with the cold water, hoping it would enliven her.
She shook her head. Such were the profits of indolence!
Mattie wore her calico dress, as she would not need to ride that day, and because all of her other clothes, including her coat, were dirty and bloodied. When she went downstairs, she located Mrs. McNabb in the kitchen and inquired as to whether she might have her things cleaned. The woman asked about the circumstances that had brought Mattie to Texarkana in the company of two lawmen, and Mattie recounted the woman with the shortest and least sensational version of the tale she could manage. Mrs. McNabb seemed to soften towards her then.
“I was not sure what sort of folks you were at first, the state you were in,” the lady explained. “But now I see that you are good, upstanding people and we all ought to be thankful you caught that man and were not killed yourselves. You must miss your home and your mama terribly.”
“I do. I am sure I have worried her terribly and I look forward to returning home,” Mattie replied.
“Bless you. I have a grown daughter myself, and she lives far away. I miss her,” Mrs. McNabb said with a sigh. “I will wash and press your things for you, dear. There will be no charge for that.”
“That is not necessary,” Mattie said, shaking her head. “I can pay you what you usually charge for these services.”
“It is my pleasure, dear. I will collect your things from your room,” Mrs. McNabb replied, and Mattie could see the woman would not be moved, and so she thanked her. “You are most welcome. Now, breakfast is long since over and I have already served up luncheon, but I would be happy to make you something to eat if you like.”
“I find I am not hungry but I thank you all the same.”
“Certainly. I believe you will find your friends on the side porch, if you are looking for them.”
“Thank you.”
Mattie left her then, and departed the kitchen. Mattie did indeed find Rooster and LaBoeuf on the side porch, where they sat smoking in mutual silence. They did not seem tired at all. In fact they were both downright chipper, owing, Mattie supposed, to the anticipated increase in their incomes. They greeted her loudly and made a great, mortifying fuss over her blackened eye, with Rooster suggesting that she ought to consider a career as a “prize fighter.” They were in such good spirits that Mattie wondered if they had been drinking. It would not surprise her to find that they had.
Together they made a trip to the post office to send their telegrams off to San Antonio, El Paso, and Dardanelle, respectively. Mattie had little money left, and so she made hers very short, simply asking Mama to wire the money for a train ticket home.
Afterwards they wandered about the town a while, taking in what sights there were to see. Mattie tired of it quickly, and yearned to return to the boarding house where she might rest. When Rooster suggested stopping at a tavern to “wet his whistle” and LaBoeuf agreed, Mattie excused herself and walked back to the boarding house alone.
As she walked she wondered at the lack of satisfaction she felt, now that their aim had been met and Cunningham thwarted. She was glad the man would never harm another, but the sense of triumph she had anticipated was absent. She could not figure it.
When she arrived at the boarding house, Mrs. McNabb was kind enough to serve her an early supper in the kitchen. Mattie found herself uninterested in her food, although there was nothing deficient about Mrs. McNabb’s cooking. She cleaned her plate out of a hatred for wastefulness only, and then climbed the stairs to her room. It was still light out when she pulled the curtains to and climbed under the faded quilt on the bed.
Mattie was awoken some hours later by the sound of a heavy thump and low voices on the stairs. She rose from her bed and walked to the door, shivering at how cold the floorboards were beneath her bare feet. Winter was on its way, and no mistake.
She opened the door a crack to peer out. The hallway was dark but for the flickering of a lamp being held in someone’s hand as they ascended the staircase. Briefly Mattie wondered if it was Cunningham’s spirit come to perturb her. She squinted as the light moved along the whitewashed wall, and up the last stairs came LaBoeuf, the lamp in one hand and his other arm supporting a wobbling Rooster.
“Mr. LaBoeuf,” she whispered, not wanting to disturb the other sleeping guests. “Do you require assistance?”
LaBoeuf stopped short and looked up. He seemed surprised to see her standing there, and stared at her for a moment before looking carefully away. It was then that Mattie remembered that she was wearing only her nightgown. She might have been embarrassed except that he had seen her in it before, and she was much too tired to entertain such self-indulgent worries anyhow.
“Have you been drinking?” she asked as she took a step forward out of her room.
With a wince, LaBoeuf nodded and said that he himself was not drunk, but Rooster was “well over the bay.” Mattie raised an eyebrow at him. She did not begrudge anyone a little celebrating now and then, but the form that their celebration tended to take was not something she cared for.
“I do not see what is so pleasurable about drinking until you are insensible, but no matter,” she said, moving to support Rooster’s other side. “Let us get him into his bed at least.”
Awkwardly, they managed to open Rooster’s door and deposit him into his bed without dropping him or the lamp on the floor. The only thanks the man offered was a snore.
They went out, closing the door behind them. Once they were in the hall, LaBoeuf stopped and held the lamp aloft. He tilted his head, peering at her. “Still healing, I see,” he said.
“Indeed,” Mattie replied. “I expect it will be some time before all my bumps and bruises are mended. How is your arm?”
“As good as can be expected,” he said. “I was fortunate to receive such attentive care.”
Mattie smiled. “I am glad. Gladder still that you did not injure your gun hand,” she said, nodding at the hand which held the lamp. “I would hate to see you out of work on account of an injury.”
“As would I,” he replied, smiling back at her. For a moment they stood there in the warm circle of lamplight, their eyes meeting. The moment passed, and Mattie looked away.
“Well,” LaBoeuf said. “Goodnight, Mattie.”
“Goodnight, Mr. LaBoeuf.”
They went into their rooms and closed their doors. Mattie slipped back into bed and curled up on her side, tucking her cold feet close to her.
She dreamed of a campfire in the woods, of a bitter wind, and of smoke rising against the sky. At times she had a companion with her, an indistinct figure whose identity seemed to shift, and at times she was utterly alone. When she awoke in the morning, her head was throbbing.
Mattie met LaBoeuf in the hallway on his way down for breakfast. Rooster was still asleep.
“Are you sure you are quite all right?” LaBoeuf asked as they descended the stair and entered the dining room. “That eye of yours does look painful.”
“It is only a bruise, and I am fine,” Mattie replied, taking a seat. “Our adventure has merely worn me out. It is nothing another night of sleep in a proper bed cannot cure.”
LaBoeuf nodded and let her be while they ate. Rooster appeared after they had finished, and the three of them set out to the post office to see whether there were any replies to their telegrams. Their trip was not in vain - each of them had received a response.
LaBoeuf’s contained a congratulations on his capture of Cunningham, and a guarantee that he could collect the entirety of the offered reward upon his return to El Paso.
Mattie’s was from Little Frank. He advised that Mama had taken to her bed the moment they returned home from Little Rock and found Mattie gone, and that she had scarcely been up since. He went on to say that money for a train ticket and fare for Alma was forthcoming, and that Mattie was to take the first train back to Dardanelle the following day. It contained no clue as to how the farm had fared in Mattie’s absence, much to her dismay and annoyance. Leave it to her feckless brother to neglect the important details.
Rooster’s telegram indicated a rejection of his claim on the reward money offered in San Antonio, and nothing more.
“Well,” LaBoeuf said, puffing out his chest as they stood on the board sidewalk outside the post office, “that just about makes the whole affair worthwhile.”
“Hm,” Rooster replied, crumpling up his telegram and shoving it into his pocket. He took out his tobacco and began rolling himself a cigarette.
“You would think Little Frank might have told me whether they had started laying out the winter garden, at the very least,” Mattie complained. She folded the telegram and the money order which had accompanied it, and tucked them into the bodice of her calico dress.
LaBoeuf looked out over the busy street, grinning that smug grin of his. “I suggest we find a way to celebrate,” he said.
“You are the only one with anything to celebrate,” Mattie replied. “And I thought you two did your celebrating last night. Or was that merely a preamble to your celebrations?”
“Here is what I think about the matter,” LaBoeuf began, ignoring her. “I think that I ought to split my reward with the two of you. It is a sizeable reward and I do not mind parting with two thirds of it.”
Mattie narrowed her eyes at him, and wondered whether he had injured his head without her knowledge.
“That is mighty generous of you, pard,” Rooster said, “but there ain’t no need. Your reward paid out, mine didn’t. Happens sometimes in this game.”
“Yes, but it was you who suggested we split up and surround Cunningham’s camp when we found him,” LaBoeuf reasoned. “Anyhow, the information you obtained in Hot Springs - that Cunningham was headed to Arkadelphia - why, if you had not shared that information, we might have headed toward Pine Bluff instead and never found the man!”
“I do not want a third of the reward,” Mattie added. “I only want my one hundred dollars back. You two may split the remainder down the middle, or however you choose.”
“Are you quite certain about that?” LaBoeuf asked, surprised. “As I said, it is a sizeable reward. Are you sure you do not at least want to recoup what you have spent getting here, and what you will spend getting home?”
“Whatever you may think of me, I am not greedy. I want my one hundred dollars and that is all,” she replied.
“All right, if that is how you will have it,” LaBoeuf said. “We will split all but one hundred dollars of it down the middle, Cogburn, and I will not hear another word about it. I will send it to you when I return to El Paso.”
“Hm,” Rooster grumbled. He turned and fixed his gaze on Mattie. “You ought to get down to the train station and buy that ticket. Do as your ma says for once.”
With that, Rooster turned and ambled down the sidewalk, either back to the boarding house or to find a place to drink, Mattie supposed.
“You have offended his pride,” Mattie said to LaBoeuf. He sighed.
“I suspect he needs cash money more than he needs pride just now,” LaBoeuf replied. “Once he got a few drinks in him last night, he happened to tell me that he has no place to return to in San Antonio.”
“I see,” Mattie said, frowning. “It is good of you to offer him a share of the reward money.”
“Yes, well,” LaBoeuf replied vaguely, his cheeks reddening. “Shall we go down to the station and get you your ticket? I am happy to accompany you, for I need to buy one for myself as well. No sense in tarrying here in town once our business is concluded.”
Mattie swallowed, looking at him. She could not worry her mother a moment longer than was necessary. Yes, it was time to return home. Yet the thought of returning home to her family and her farm held a curious emptiness it never had before. She wondered whether LaBoeuf truly meant what he had said about getting a letter from her now and then.
“Come, let us get this errand out of the way,” LaBoeuf said. “Once we have done this, we can indulge ourselves and be idle all afternoon. Or we can find some work to do, as I am sure that would please you more.”
“Yes,” Mattie replied, smiling, “perhaps Mrs. McNabb has some washing or mending or other odd jobs we could do. Idle hands are the devil’s plaything.”
“You are most surprising when you choose to enjoy a joke, Mattie Ross,” LaBoeuf said, smiling in kind. They walked to the depot, enjoying the crisp October day. Once they had obtained their tickets at the station and arranged for the transport of their horses, they returned to the boarding house and agreed to look in on the animals themselves.
The stable at the boarding house was small, but clean and warm. They found Sal and Alma happy indeed to be idle. LaBoeuf noted that both horses seemed downright apprehensive at the sight of them entering the stable.
“Do not worry,” LaBoeuf said to Sal, giving her neck a firm pat, “we are not here to ask anything of you, for once.”
They groomed the horses in a comfortable silence. When they were nearly done, LaBoeuf cleared his throat.
“There is a theatre here in town that I am told is very lively,” he said. “Have you ever been to the theatre?”
“The school will put on a pageant at Christmas and we will sometimes have a speaker or a poet come through town, but we do not have a theatre company,” Mattie replied, using a stiff brush to pull some stubborn knots out of Alma’s tail.
“Well, it would be a shame to miss an opportunity to see a proper theatre company when you have one close by. Would you do me the pleasure of allowing me to escort you to the theatre this evening?”
Mattie was glad that she was bent over, for LaBoeuf could not see what must have been her alarmed expression. She schooled her face as best she could and straightened up, looking at him over Alma’s back. He stood on the other side of the wall dividing the two stalls, his good arm resting upon its edge.
“The theatre here? But Mr. LaBoeuf, your arm -”
“My arm can stand the light work of applauding.”
“Well, all right,” Mattie replied, a strange nervous feeling settling in her stomach. “Only I do not have any fine clothes.”
“I do not have any fine clothes, either,” said LaBoeuf in a cheerful tone. “So you will not be alone in that.”
He turned away then, returning to grooming Sal’s long mane, and began to whistle a tune. Mattie stared at the back of his buckskin vest. It took every ounce of restraint she possessed not to ask him what rodeo clowns typically wore to the theatre.
***
Rooster did not appear that evening, and so they ate supper with the other boarders. Mrs. McNabb commented that their strange friend was losing the value of his “board” with every meal he missed. Mattie could not help but agree that Rooster was foolish with what little money he possessed, but out of loyalty she merely shrugged, and said nothing more about it. Nor did LaBoeuf.
After supper they cleaned up as best they could and walked to the theatre, which was only a few blocks away. Mattie was pleased to discover as they went that they were not the only plain folks attending that night; plenty of others wore their Sunday best, but nothing fancy.
LaBoeuf bought them each a penny ticket which allowed them a spot on the landing below the balcony. Their view of the stage was obstructed by the bottom of the balcony, but they could hear every word of the performance. They stood there amongst the other ordinary folks, right at the front. Mattie rested her hand on the polished brass railing and leaned over to see the tops of all the fine ladies’ and gentlemen’s heads.
Between the crush of bodies and the gas footlights, it was hot and close inside the theatre. Mattie’s supper did not seem to agree with her, turning about inside her throughout the show, which was amusing enough, if rather silly. LaBoeuf seemed to enjoy it tremendously, letting loose numerous hearty guffaws throughout the performance. He stood very close to her, his arm brushing against hers regularly.
At one point during the performance, the people next to them shifted, jostling one another as a man made to leave. Mattie jumped when she felt LaBoeuf’s arm loop around her waist, pulling her into his side, out of the way. He did not immediately remove his arm, nor did he apologise.
“Mr. LaBoeuf,” she muttered, poking her elbow into his ribs. He turned and looked at her in surprise, as though he had not expected to find her there. His face reddened and his arm dropped from her waist.
“Pardon me,” he said, his voice gruff.
When the show ended, they joined the stream of people leaving the theatre, and Mattie got a better look at some of the ladies in their fine clothes and furs. Some even wore jewelled rings and pendants, and strings of real pearls. Mattie felt very plain next to them in her brown calico and the simple knot Mrs. McNabb had helped her pull her hair into. But she did not feel ashamed. Looking at a finely dressed young woman about her age on the arm of a pomaded older gentleman, Mattie guessed that the she did not know anything about balancing a ledger or bartering for a good cotton price. If that girl ever lost all her pretty things, she would be in real trouble, and Mattie would not. That was good enough for her.
The hot lights and the numerous people seemed to amplify the smell of perfume and shoe polish and cigar smoke, and Mattie was glad when they finally made it outside into the fresh night air, although it did not much help the peculiar feeling in her stomach. They headed down the sidewalk, back in the direction of the boarding house.
“I would take your arm, but I am afraid mine is not up to the task just yet,” LaBoeuf said, sounding chagrined.
“Do not be foolish,” Mattie replied. “I do not need your arm to guide my steps; I am hardly feeble.”
“I have something I wish to speak to you about, but perhaps it would be best to wait until we are back at the boarding house and can have some privacy,” LaBoeuf said then, an odd sort of frown on his face.
“All right,” Mattie replied. She hoped he would not need much time, for she suddenly felt weary again. Supposing it was from the hot theatre and the late hour, Mattie’s thought was that she wanted nothing more than to be in her bed.
They walked back to the boarding house mostly in silence, which Mattie accounted to be rather strange. On her part, she was tired and could find nothing useful to speak about. LaBoeuf had never refrained from talking on account of fatigue or superfluity, yet something held his tongue now as they strolled down the board sidewalks, the cool evening around them lit only by the occasional lamp burning low in a parlour window.
As they turned the corner onto the street which housed their accommodations, LaBoeuf paused, reaching out and grasping Mattie’s sleeve to stop her as well. She turned and looked at him, puzzled.
“Is something wrong?” she asked.
“Perhaps we should speak here, before we encounter Rooster, or the other boarders,” he replied vaguely, looking down the sidewalk at the boarding house with an uncharacteristically uncertain expression on his face. He seemed to be speaking to himself, rather than to her.
“Mr. LaBoeuf, please. I am very tired,” Mattie said. Her throat felt dry and tight, and she swallowed.
LaBoeuf turned and looked at her, as though he had only just remembered her presence. He frowned. “Are you well? You are very pale.”
Mattie’s vision blurred and her temples throbbed. She pressed her fingers to her eyes as pain radiated down her neck, settling into what felt like every joint and muscle in her body. She shivered so hard that her teeth rattled.
“Something is wrong,” she murmured, and her voice sounded high and weak, almost childish to her ears. She swallowed as a stomach-turning wave of nausea swamped her. “I feel all-overish.”
LaBoeuf’s eyes examined her face. “Mattie? Are you all right?”
Mattie could not summon the breath to say a word, for another tide of sickness rolled through her, and her knees shook as she struggled to stay on her feet. LaBoeuf reached out to steady her, one arm sliding around her shoulders while he held the other hand to her forehead.
“Holy God, you are on fire,” he said, and abruptly stooped and slid his other arm under her knees, scooping her into his arms as though she weighed less than a bundle of sticks.
Mattie’s head lolled against LaBoeuf’s shoulder. She stared up at the dark, starry sky, and tried to speak, but her tongue felt thick and clumsy, and she could do little more than sigh as the perimeter of her sight shimmered and darkened, a noise like the engine of a train rushing in her ears.
There was a heavy thump, and the warmth of reflected gaslights on her face, and the sound of raised voices. She felt the softness of a bed beneath her, but it did nothing to alleviate the fiery pain which shot up and down her limbs. She moaned, and a hand brushed the side of her face.
“It is all right, Mattie. Be still. The doctor is coming.” It was LaBoeuf.
“You listen to him, little sister. For once he is in the right. You keep thrashing about like that and you are likely to put my other eye out.” It was Rooster’s voice. Mattie was confused; she did not think she was thrashing about at all, but the aching was so dreadful that she thought she might soon start.
LaBoeuf and Rooster spoke to one another in lowered voices, but Mattie could still hear them.
“What do you suppose it is? I have seen plenty of smallpox and yellow fever in my day, but this I do not recognize,” said LaBoeuf.
“Hm,” replied Rooster. “I have seen something like it, but not since the war. And I am not about to pull up her skirts to confirm it, neither.”
“Pull up her skirts!” exclaimed LaBoeuf, sounding extremely offended. “I will not hesitate to call you out if you take advantage of her in this condition!”
“You damn stuffed-shirt fool! I mean I expect the doctor will find she has a bite from a louse on her leg or her neck or someplace. Looks like typhus.”
“Stop,” Mattie whispered, struggling to sit up. Their silly discussion was too loud and foolish for her to tolerate in her current state.
“Whoa, sis,” said Rooster, pushing gently on her shoulders to lay her back down. “You just take it easy, there. Doc’s gonna be here soon.”
They both were quiet then, and Mattie closed her eyes, trying to soothe the ceaseless pounding in her head. Her stomach churned. She breathed slowly and steadily in an attempt to settle it, but nothing seemed to work, and suddenly she felt she was going to be sick. She rolled herself over and, sticking her head over the edge of the bed, threw up.
This time, the blackness which encroached on her vision was successful, and she felt consciousness slip away from her.
Chapter 10
Author: lindentree
Rating: T
Character(s): Mattie Ross/LaBoeuf, Rooster Cogburn
Word Count: 6,321
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.
any different than you are
The people of Texarkana were still asleep when they rode into the outskirts of the town.
Mattie was glad, for it meant there were fewer folks around to gawk at them. She owned that they made for a strange sight - two haggard men and an injured young woman, plus the bloodied body of a fugitive slung over the back of a horse besides - but truly there was no excuse for losing your grip on your manners.
They found a boarding house with vacant rooms, and as Rooster was the only uninjured member of their party, he left Mattie and LaBoeuf there to secure lodging while he took Cunningham’s body to the Sheriff. The lady of the house, a married woman by the name of McNabb, received them with some wariness, but ultimately took the money LaBoeuf offered her, and led them up the stairs to their rooms.
Their rooms were all together on the second storey, and Mrs. McNabb left Mattie and LaBoeuf in the hallway, muttering something about tending the breakfast before hastily disappearing down the stairs.
“You are certain you do not need the doctor?” LaBoeuf asked as they stood in the dim corridor. He and Rooster had both suggested that they find a physician for her when they arrived in town, but she did not care for the idea, and had thus far resisted their entreaties.
“No, I do not need the doctor,” Mattie replied. “In any case, you are the one who has been shot. Look at the state of your arm! We ought to call the doctor for that.”
“I have had worse wounds,” LaBoeuf said.
“You are silly not to have a doctor examine you, but if you insist on being stubborn, will you at least let me tend to it? If it heals poorly and festers, I will feel responsible.”
“I do not think it is so bad as all that,” LaBoeuf replied.
“You cannot know that until we get a look at it. You allowed me to bandage that shoulder wound Cogburn dealt you in the Winding Stairs, all those years ago. This is not so different.”
“All right,” LaBoeuf acquiesced. His tiredness was visible, and he seemed unwilling to argue further. He unlocked the door to his room and entered. He went to the little table under the window, and gingerly began to remove his coat. Mattie was tempted to help him, but she thought better of it, for it might be too much for his pride, and she was determined to bandage his wound at the very least.
While LaBoeuf struggled out of his coat, Mattie took the chipped china pitcher from the washstand and went downstairs to the large kitchen at the back of the house, where she found the reservoir in the stove full of hot water. She filled the pitcher and carried it carefully against her chest up the narrow back staircase to LaBoeuf’s room. She set it down on the hallway floor to open the door, and stopped short at the sight of LaBoeuf standing in the morning sunlight, his shirt unbuttoned and half off, his injured arm and most of his upper body exposed.
Mattie cleared her throat, and LaBoeuf turned around to meet her eyes. She did not know what thoughts her expression reflected, but his face reddened, and he turned away, sitting down in one of the straight back wooden chairs. Mattie picked up the pitcher and closed the door behind her, walking across the room to pour fresh water into the tin basin on the table next to him.
She pulled the other chair close to his, and sat down. LaBoeuf had managed to peel his torn shirt away from the wound, but some threads remained stuck to the blood. The bullet had torn through his buckskin coat and his shirt, grazing the skin. A long, shallow cut crossed his upper arm, wide enough that Mattie did not suppose there was much purpose in stitching it together to knit the pulpy wound. Better to let it scab over. In any case, it would certainly scar.
Mattie dampened a cloth and squeezed the excess water from it. She pressed it gently to the wound to loosen the bits of thread which remained, caught as the cut began to scab over.
LaBoeuf let out a low hiss from between his teeth. Mattie continued to hold the cloth down, examining his frowning profile.
“It is not so bad,” she said. “It will heal fine. I think it will leave quite a scar, however.”
“As I said, I have had worse, and scars are no matter to me,” he replied.
Mattie’s eyes dropped to his bare chest. In the flesh of his shoulder was a round, brownish pink scar, which she guessed was from Rooster’s errant rifle shot five years previous. The skin of his chest and shoulders was scattered here and there with small pale freckles, and dusted with light auburn hair which caught the bright sunlight streaming in through the window. His skin was considerably darker on his neck and his forearms, from the days spent on horseback in what she imagined was the unforgiving Texas sun. Sitting so close to him, she was aware of how dirty her clothes and her face must be, not to mention the fresh bruises on her.
She felt a prickle of awareness and looked up to see LaBoeuf watching her, a queer expression on his face. Tiny motes of dust swayed in the shaft of morning sunlight beyond his head. Mattie felt her face flame, and she looked back down, removing the cloth from his wound and rinsing it in the water. As gently as she could, she began to pick out the stubborn little threads stuck in the cut.
“We ought to get you some iodine,” Mattie said. She cleared her throat; her voice sounded strangely dry.
“No iodine,” LaBoeuf grimaced. “I reckon you take real pleasure in tormenting me, woman.”
“I do no such thing,” she replied, finding herself somewhat offended at the thought. She did what was necessary; her intention was not to be cruel or malicious, and she certainly took no enjoyment in the notion of dabbing his wounds with that stinging stuff.
“I will have to take you at your word, for your actions say otherwise,” LaBoeuf said. Annoyed, Mattie glanced up to find that he was smiling at her. It was not his usual smug grin, but rather a real smile which spoke of fondness and good humour, tinged as it was with his current discomfort.
Mattie pulled the last of the threads from his cut before pressing the cloth once more to his wound as fresh blood seeped from it. LaBoeuf looked down at his hands, which rested in his lap.
“I ought to apologise to you for what happened between us last night. My behaviour towards you was brutish and wrong. I allowed my temper to get the better of me,” LaBoeuf said. He frowned. “I reckon you know better than most how guilty I am of that fault.”
Mattie looked at his profile, and thought of how angry she had been, and how upon slapping him, the burn across her palm had ached. “I am scarcely any better,” she replied softly. “I am quick to anger over most things. At times I have wished that I were more peaceable and docile, like my mother. I do not know where my temper came from, for my father was always good-humoured like her.”
LaBoeuf reached up and placed his hand over hers where it was still pressed against his upper arm. “Please do not wish yourself any different than you are,” he said.
Mattie looked way, embarrassed.
LaBoeuf cleared his throat. “An explanation for my behaviour is owed to you.”
Mattie opened her mouth to tell him it was not necessary, but he interrupted her.
“Please,” he entreated. “Let me speak. Truthfully I never doubted your abilities - you have proven your capability many times over, too many times for me to hesitate in trusting you for even a moment. That was not the trouble. The trouble was that I was acquainted with Cunningham’s history, and it caused me to fear for you. He is a drunkard and a thief and a murderer, yes, but he is also... That is, I knew what sort of victims he tended towards, and what unspeakable things he had done to them. I wanted your company, but the idea of exposing you to such danger - I felt I was being selfish in allowing you to come along in the first place. At times I would convince myself that my worry was for naught, only for us to stumble across the grisly remains of his violence again and again. When I thought of what he would do to you if I was not vigilant, if I could not... Mattie, he nearly killed you once. I could not stand the thought of it. Do you see?”
Their eyes met, and Mattie found that she could not say what she typically would have said, which was that she could look after herself and that his worries were foolish. She supposed they were not foolish. She was as capable as anyone, and Cunningham had nearly killed her. Had his errant bullets been luckier for him, he might have killed LaBoeuf, and Rooster as well.
“I do see,” she replied softly.
LaBoeuf opened his mouth, about to say something more, when there was a knock on the door. It opened before either of them could answer, and Rooster appeared in the doorway.
“Hm,” Rooster said, casting a shrewd eye over them both. “Do we know yet whether he will live, or must we begin making arrangements for a funeral?”
“He will live,” Mattie replied. “It is a minor wound and Mr. LaBoeuf has survived much more dire injuries in the past, as you well know.”
“What did the Sheriff have to say?” LaBoeuf asked.
Rooster came around and sat down on the end of the brass bed. He took out his pouch of tobacco and his papers, and began to roll himself a cigarette.
“Well,” he said, “the Sheriff reckons we got the man what killed that whore in town, and that he’s the same fella who’s wanted in every county from here to Tennessee, and all over Texas besides. He granted me this in spite of the mess Cunningham made of his face when he dispatched himself. He tells me he’ll vouch for all this to our jurisdictions. We’ll have to send some telegrams and the like to sort it all out, but it shouldn’t be much trouble to collect on our rewards.”
“That is some good news,” Mattie said, awkwardly trying to tie a bandage around LaBoeuf’s arm with her one hand. LaBoeuf lifted his other hand and held the bandage in place so she could fasten it.
“I see you managed to get us some rooms,” Rooster said.
“Your room is across the hall, next to Mattie’s,” LaBoeuf said. Mattie patted his arm to indicate that she was finished, and with a nod of thanks he slowly began pulling his shirt back on.
“Good,” Rooster replied, giving LaBoeuf an arch look.
“I propose that we get some rest, and send our telegrams this afternoon,” LaBoeuf said, ignoring him. “Perhaps you can send one to your mother, Mattie, letting her know that you are all right. Once we get the matter of the reward settled, we can all be on our respective ways.”
Of course they would be parting very soon. Mattie found she did not like to think of it.
She suddenly felt exhausted. She did not even care to take a meal; she wanted nothing more than to bathe and scrub off the dirty, itchy sensation which plagued her, and to climb into a clean, warm bed.
“I think I will go get that rest now,” Mattie announced, standing up. Without waiting for a reply, she left LaBoeuf’s room and went to her own, grabbing her saddlebag from where it had been abandoned in the hallway. After locking the door behind her, she stripped off her filthy clothes and filled the basin in her room with clean, cold water. It was no hot bath, but it would have to do for now. After washing the dirt and dried blood from herself as best she could, she changed into her nightgown and drew the curtains at the window.
Mattie climbed into the narrow brass bed, and fell immediately to sleep. When she slept, she did not dream.
***
Mattie slept very late that day, much later than she had planned. The moment she opened her eyes and saw her little room flooded with afternoon sunshine in spite of the drawn curtains, she knew she had slept too long. The only time she had ever slept so long was when she was laid up after having her arm cut off in Fort Smith. It surprised her, then, that she was not well-rested. She stood at the washstand and stared sluggishly into the chipped mirror, her head swimming. She rubbed at her eyes and splashed her face with the cold water, hoping it would enliven her.
She shook her head. Such were the profits of indolence!
Mattie wore her calico dress, as she would not need to ride that day, and because all of her other clothes, including her coat, were dirty and bloodied. When she went downstairs, she located Mrs. McNabb in the kitchen and inquired as to whether she might have her things cleaned. The woman asked about the circumstances that had brought Mattie to Texarkana in the company of two lawmen, and Mattie recounted the woman with the shortest and least sensational version of the tale she could manage. Mrs. McNabb seemed to soften towards her then.
“I was not sure what sort of folks you were at first, the state you were in,” the lady explained. “But now I see that you are good, upstanding people and we all ought to be thankful you caught that man and were not killed yourselves. You must miss your home and your mama terribly.”
“I do. I am sure I have worried her terribly and I look forward to returning home,” Mattie replied.
“Bless you. I have a grown daughter myself, and she lives far away. I miss her,” Mrs. McNabb said with a sigh. “I will wash and press your things for you, dear. There will be no charge for that.”
“That is not necessary,” Mattie said, shaking her head. “I can pay you what you usually charge for these services.”
“It is my pleasure, dear. I will collect your things from your room,” Mrs. McNabb replied, and Mattie could see the woman would not be moved, and so she thanked her. “You are most welcome. Now, breakfast is long since over and I have already served up luncheon, but I would be happy to make you something to eat if you like.”
“I find I am not hungry but I thank you all the same.”
“Certainly. I believe you will find your friends on the side porch, if you are looking for them.”
“Thank you.”
Mattie left her then, and departed the kitchen. Mattie did indeed find Rooster and LaBoeuf on the side porch, where they sat smoking in mutual silence. They did not seem tired at all. In fact they were both downright chipper, owing, Mattie supposed, to the anticipated increase in their incomes. They greeted her loudly and made a great, mortifying fuss over her blackened eye, with Rooster suggesting that she ought to consider a career as a “prize fighter.” They were in such good spirits that Mattie wondered if they had been drinking. It would not surprise her to find that they had.
Together they made a trip to the post office to send their telegrams off to San Antonio, El Paso, and Dardanelle, respectively. Mattie had little money left, and so she made hers very short, simply asking Mama to wire the money for a train ticket home.
Afterwards they wandered about the town a while, taking in what sights there were to see. Mattie tired of it quickly, and yearned to return to the boarding house where she might rest. When Rooster suggested stopping at a tavern to “wet his whistle” and LaBoeuf agreed, Mattie excused herself and walked back to the boarding house alone.
As she walked she wondered at the lack of satisfaction she felt, now that their aim had been met and Cunningham thwarted. She was glad the man would never harm another, but the sense of triumph she had anticipated was absent. She could not figure it.
When she arrived at the boarding house, Mrs. McNabb was kind enough to serve her an early supper in the kitchen. Mattie found herself uninterested in her food, although there was nothing deficient about Mrs. McNabb’s cooking. She cleaned her plate out of a hatred for wastefulness only, and then climbed the stairs to her room. It was still light out when she pulled the curtains to and climbed under the faded quilt on the bed.
Mattie was awoken some hours later by the sound of a heavy thump and low voices on the stairs. She rose from her bed and walked to the door, shivering at how cold the floorboards were beneath her bare feet. Winter was on its way, and no mistake.
She opened the door a crack to peer out. The hallway was dark but for the flickering of a lamp being held in someone’s hand as they ascended the staircase. Briefly Mattie wondered if it was Cunningham’s spirit come to perturb her. She squinted as the light moved along the whitewashed wall, and up the last stairs came LaBoeuf, the lamp in one hand and his other arm supporting a wobbling Rooster.
“Mr. LaBoeuf,” she whispered, not wanting to disturb the other sleeping guests. “Do you require assistance?”
LaBoeuf stopped short and looked up. He seemed surprised to see her standing there, and stared at her for a moment before looking carefully away. It was then that Mattie remembered that she was wearing only her nightgown. She might have been embarrassed except that he had seen her in it before, and she was much too tired to entertain such self-indulgent worries anyhow.
“Have you been drinking?” she asked as she took a step forward out of her room.
With a wince, LaBoeuf nodded and said that he himself was not drunk, but Rooster was “well over the bay.” Mattie raised an eyebrow at him. She did not begrudge anyone a little celebrating now and then, but the form that their celebration tended to take was not something she cared for.
“I do not see what is so pleasurable about drinking until you are insensible, but no matter,” she said, moving to support Rooster’s other side. “Let us get him into his bed at least.”
Awkwardly, they managed to open Rooster’s door and deposit him into his bed without dropping him or the lamp on the floor. The only thanks the man offered was a snore.
They went out, closing the door behind them. Once they were in the hall, LaBoeuf stopped and held the lamp aloft. He tilted his head, peering at her. “Still healing, I see,” he said.
“Indeed,” Mattie replied. “I expect it will be some time before all my bumps and bruises are mended. How is your arm?”
“As good as can be expected,” he said. “I was fortunate to receive such attentive care.”
Mattie smiled. “I am glad. Gladder still that you did not injure your gun hand,” she said, nodding at the hand which held the lamp. “I would hate to see you out of work on account of an injury.”
“As would I,” he replied, smiling back at her. For a moment they stood there in the warm circle of lamplight, their eyes meeting. The moment passed, and Mattie looked away.
“Well,” LaBoeuf said. “Goodnight, Mattie.”
“Goodnight, Mr. LaBoeuf.”
They went into their rooms and closed their doors. Mattie slipped back into bed and curled up on her side, tucking her cold feet close to her.
She dreamed of a campfire in the woods, of a bitter wind, and of smoke rising against the sky. At times she had a companion with her, an indistinct figure whose identity seemed to shift, and at times she was utterly alone. When she awoke in the morning, her head was throbbing.
Mattie met LaBoeuf in the hallway on his way down for breakfast. Rooster was still asleep.
“Are you sure you are quite all right?” LaBoeuf asked as they descended the stair and entered the dining room. “That eye of yours does look painful.”
“It is only a bruise, and I am fine,” Mattie replied, taking a seat. “Our adventure has merely worn me out. It is nothing another night of sleep in a proper bed cannot cure.”
LaBoeuf nodded and let her be while they ate. Rooster appeared after they had finished, and the three of them set out to the post office to see whether there were any replies to their telegrams. Their trip was not in vain - each of them had received a response.
LaBoeuf’s contained a congratulations on his capture of Cunningham, and a guarantee that he could collect the entirety of the offered reward upon his return to El Paso.
Mattie’s was from Little Frank. He advised that Mama had taken to her bed the moment they returned home from Little Rock and found Mattie gone, and that she had scarcely been up since. He went on to say that money for a train ticket and fare for Alma was forthcoming, and that Mattie was to take the first train back to Dardanelle the following day. It contained no clue as to how the farm had fared in Mattie’s absence, much to her dismay and annoyance. Leave it to her feckless brother to neglect the important details.
Rooster’s telegram indicated a rejection of his claim on the reward money offered in San Antonio, and nothing more.
“Well,” LaBoeuf said, puffing out his chest as they stood on the board sidewalk outside the post office, “that just about makes the whole affair worthwhile.”
“Hm,” Rooster replied, crumpling up his telegram and shoving it into his pocket. He took out his tobacco and began rolling himself a cigarette.
“You would think Little Frank might have told me whether they had started laying out the winter garden, at the very least,” Mattie complained. She folded the telegram and the money order which had accompanied it, and tucked them into the bodice of her calico dress.
LaBoeuf looked out over the busy street, grinning that smug grin of his. “I suggest we find a way to celebrate,” he said.
“You are the only one with anything to celebrate,” Mattie replied. “And I thought you two did your celebrating last night. Or was that merely a preamble to your celebrations?”
“Here is what I think about the matter,” LaBoeuf began, ignoring her. “I think that I ought to split my reward with the two of you. It is a sizeable reward and I do not mind parting with two thirds of it.”
Mattie narrowed her eyes at him, and wondered whether he had injured his head without her knowledge.
“That is mighty generous of you, pard,” Rooster said, “but there ain’t no need. Your reward paid out, mine didn’t. Happens sometimes in this game.”
“Yes, but it was you who suggested we split up and surround Cunningham’s camp when we found him,” LaBoeuf reasoned. “Anyhow, the information you obtained in Hot Springs - that Cunningham was headed to Arkadelphia - why, if you had not shared that information, we might have headed toward Pine Bluff instead and never found the man!”
“I do not want a third of the reward,” Mattie added. “I only want my one hundred dollars back. You two may split the remainder down the middle, or however you choose.”
“Are you quite certain about that?” LaBoeuf asked, surprised. “As I said, it is a sizeable reward. Are you sure you do not at least want to recoup what you have spent getting here, and what you will spend getting home?”
“Whatever you may think of me, I am not greedy. I want my one hundred dollars and that is all,” she replied.
“All right, if that is how you will have it,” LaBoeuf said. “We will split all but one hundred dollars of it down the middle, Cogburn, and I will not hear another word about it. I will send it to you when I return to El Paso.”
“Hm,” Rooster grumbled. He turned and fixed his gaze on Mattie. “You ought to get down to the train station and buy that ticket. Do as your ma says for once.”
With that, Rooster turned and ambled down the sidewalk, either back to the boarding house or to find a place to drink, Mattie supposed.
“You have offended his pride,” Mattie said to LaBoeuf. He sighed.
“I suspect he needs cash money more than he needs pride just now,” LaBoeuf replied. “Once he got a few drinks in him last night, he happened to tell me that he has no place to return to in San Antonio.”
“I see,” Mattie said, frowning. “It is good of you to offer him a share of the reward money.”
“Yes, well,” LaBoeuf replied vaguely, his cheeks reddening. “Shall we go down to the station and get you your ticket? I am happy to accompany you, for I need to buy one for myself as well. No sense in tarrying here in town once our business is concluded.”
Mattie swallowed, looking at him. She could not worry her mother a moment longer than was necessary. Yes, it was time to return home. Yet the thought of returning home to her family and her farm held a curious emptiness it never had before. She wondered whether LaBoeuf truly meant what he had said about getting a letter from her now and then.
“Come, let us get this errand out of the way,” LaBoeuf said. “Once we have done this, we can indulge ourselves and be idle all afternoon. Or we can find some work to do, as I am sure that would please you more.”
“Yes,” Mattie replied, smiling, “perhaps Mrs. McNabb has some washing or mending or other odd jobs we could do. Idle hands are the devil’s plaything.”
“You are most surprising when you choose to enjoy a joke, Mattie Ross,” LaBoeuf said, smiling in kind. They walked to the depot, enjoying the crisp October day. Once they had obtained their tickets at the station and arranged for the transport of their horses, they returned to the boarding house and agreed to look in on the animals themselves.
The stable at the boarding house was small, but clean and warm. They found Sal and Alma happy indeed to be idle. LaBoeuf noted that both horses seemed downright apprehensive at the sight of them entering the stable.
“Do not worry,” LaBoeuf said to Sal, giving her neck a firm pat, “we are not here to ask anything of you, for once.”
They groomed the horses in a comfortable silence. When they were nearly done, LaBoeuf cleared his throat.
“There is a theatre here in town that I am told is very lively,” he said. “Have you ever been to the theatre?”
“The school will put on a pageant at Christmas and we will sometimes have a speaker or a poet come through town, but we do not have a theatre company,” Mattie replied, using a stiff brush to pull some stubborn knots out of Alma’s tail.
“Well, it would be a shame to miss an opportunity to see a proper theatre company when you have one close by. Would you do me the pleasure of allowing me to escort you to the theatre this evening?”
Mattie was glad that she was bent over, for LaBoeuf could not see what must have been her alarmed expression. She schooled her face as best she could and straightened up, looking at him over Alma’s back. He stood on the other side of the wall dividing the two stalls, his good arm resting upon its edge.
“The theatre here? But Mr. LaBoeuf, your arm -”
“My arm can stand the light work of applauding.”
“Well, all right,” Mattie replied, a strange nervous feeling settling in her stomach. “Only I do not have any fine clothes.”
“I do not have any fine clothes, either,” said LaBoeuf in a cheerful tone. “So you will not be alone in that.”
He turned away then, returning to grooming Sal’s long mane, and began to whistle a tune. Mattie stared at the back of his buckskin vest. It took every ounce of restraint she possessed not to ask him what rodeo clowns typically wore to the theatre.
***
Rooster did not appear that evening, and so they ate supper with the other boarders. Mrs. McNabb commented that their strange friend was losing the value of his “board” with every meal he missed. Mattie could not help but agree that Rooster was foolish with what little money he possessed, but out of loyalty she merely shrugged, and said nothing more about it. Nor did LaBoeuf.
After supper they cleaned up as best they could and walked to the theatre, which was only a few blocks away. Mattie was pleased to discover as they went that they were not the only plain folks attending that night; plenty of others wore their Sunday best, but nothing fancy.
LaBoeuf bought them each a penny ticket which allowed them a spot on the landing below the balcony. Their view of the stage was obstructed by the bottom of the balcony, but they could hear every word of the performance. They stood there amongst the other ordinary folks, right at the front. Mattie rested her hand on the polished brass railing and leaned over to see the tops of all the fine ladies’ and gentlemen’s heads.
Between the crush of bodies and the gas footlights, it was hot and close inside the theatre. Mattie’s supper did not seem to agree with her, turning about inside her throughout the show, which was amusing enough, if rather silly. LaBoeuf seemed to enjoy it tremendously, letting loose numerous hearty guffaws throughout the performance. He stood very close to her, his arm brushing against hers regularly.
At one point during the performance, the people next to them shifted, jostling one another as a man made to leave. Mattie jumped when she felt LaBoeuf’s arm loop around her waist, pulling her into his side, out of the way. He did not immediately remove his arm, nor did he apologise.
“Mr. LaBoeuf,” she muttered, poking her elbow into his ribs. He turned and looked at her in surprise, as though he had not expected to find her there. His face reddened and his arm dropped from her waist.
“Pardon me,” he said, his voice gruff.
When the show ended, they joined the stream of people leaving the theatre, and Mattie got a better look at some of the ladies in their fine clothes and furs. Some even wore jewelled rings and pendants, and strings of real pearls. Mattie felt very plain next to them in her brown calico and the simple knot Mrs. McNabb had helped her pull her hair into. But she did not feel ashamed. Looking at a finely dressed young woman about her age on the arm of a pomaded older gentleman, Mattie guessed that the she did not know anything about balancing a ledger or bartering for a good cotton price. If that girl ever lost all her pretty things, she would be in real trouble, and Mattie would not. That was good enough for her.
The hot lights and the numerous people seemed to amplify the smell of perfume and shoe polish and cigar smoke, and Mattie was glad when they finally made it outside into the fresh night air, although it did not much help the peculiar feeling in her stomach. They headed down the sidewalk, back in the direction of the boarding house.
“I would take your arm, but I am afraid mine is not up to the task just yet,” LaBoeuf said, sounding chagrined.
“Do not be foolish,” Mattie replied. “I do not need your arm to guide my steps; I am hardly feeble.”
“I have something I wish to speak to you about, but perhaps it would be best to wait until we are back at the boarding house and can have some privacy,” LaBoeuf said then, an odd sort of frown on his face.
“All right,” Mattie replied. She hoped he would not need much time, for she suddenly felt weary again. Supposing it was from the hot theatre and the late hour, Mattie’s thought was that she wanted nothing more than to be in her bed.
They walked back to the boarding house mostly in silence, which Mattie accounted to be rather strange. On her part, she was tired and could find nothing useful to speak about. LaBoeuf had never refrained from talking on account of fatigue or superfluity, yet something held his tongue now as they strolled down the board sidewalks, the cool evening around them lit only by the occasional lamp burning low in a parlour window.
As they turned the corner onto the street which housed their accommodations, LaBoeuf paused, reaching out and grasping Mattie’s sleeve to stop her as well. She turned and looked at him, puzzled.
“Is something wrong?” she asked.
“Perhaps we should speak here, before we encounter Rooster, or the other boarders,” he replied vaguely, looking down the sidewalk at the boarding house with an uncharacteristically uncertain expression on his face. He seemed to be speaking to himself, rather than to her.
“Mr. LaBoeuf, please. I am very tired,” Mattie said. Her throat felt dry and tight, and she swallowed.
LaBoeuf turned and looked at her, as though he had only just remembered her presence. He frowned. “Are you well? You are very pale.”
Mattie’s vision blurred and her temples throbbed. She pressed her fingers to her eyes as pain radiated down her neck, settling into what felt like every joint and muscle in her body. She shivered so hard that her teeth rattled.
“Something is wrong,” she murmured, and her voice sounded high and weak, almost childish to her ears. She swallowed as a stomach-turning wave of nausea swamped her. “I feel all-overish.”
LaBoeuf’s eyes examined her face. “Mattie? Are you all right?”
Mattie could not summon the breath to say a word, for another tide of sickness rolled through her, and her knees shook as she struggled to stay on her feet. LaBoeuf reached out to steady her, one arm sliding around her shoulders while he held the other hand to her forehead.
“Holy God, you are on fire,” he said, and abruptly stooped and slid his other arm under her knees, scooping her into his arms as though she weighed less than a bundle of sticks.
Mattie’s head lolled against LaBoeuf’s shoulder. She stared up at the dark, starry sky, and tried to speak, but her tongue felt thick and clumsy, and she could do little more than sigh as the perimeter of her sight shimmered and darkened, a noise like the engine of a train rushing in her ears.
There was a heavy thump, and the warmth of reflected gaslights on her face, and the sound of raised voices. She felt the softness of a bed beneath her, but it did nothing to alleviate the fiery pain which shot up and down her limbs. She moaned, and a hand brushed the side of her face.
“It is all right, Mattie. Be still. The doctor is coming.” It was LaBoeuf.
“You listen to him, little sister. For once he is in the right. You keep thrashing about like that and you are likely to put my other eye out.” It was Rooster’s voice. Mattie was confused; she did not think she was thrashing about at all, but the aching was so dreadful that she thought she might soon start.
LaBoeuf and Rooster spoke to one another in lowered voices, but Mattie could still hear them.
“What do you suppose it is? I have seen plenty of smallpox and yellow fever in my day, but this I do not recognize,” said LaBoeuf.
“Hm,” replied Rooster. “I have seen something like it, but not since the war. And I am not about to pull up her skirts to confirm it, neither.”
“Pull up her skirts!” exclaimed LaBoeuf, sounding extremely offended. “I will not hesitate to call you out if you take advantage of her in this condition!”
“You damn stuffed-shirt fool! I mean I expect the doctor will find she has a bite from a louse on her leg or her neck or someplace. Looks like typhus.”
“Stop,” Mattie whispered, struggling to sit up. Their silly discussion was too loud and foolish for her to tolerate in her current state.
“Whoa, sis,” said Rooster, pushing gently on her shoulders to lay her back down. “You just take it easy, there. Doc’s gonna be here soon.”
They both were quiet then, and Mattie closed her eyes, trying to soothe the ceaseless pounding in her head. Her stomach churned. She breathed slowly and steadily in an attempt to settle it, but nothing seemed to work, and suddenly she felt she was going to be sick. She rolled herself over and, sticking her head over the edge of the bed, threw up.
This time, the blackness which encroached on her vision was successful, and she felt consciousness slip away from her.
Chapter 10