True Grit - "With No Lodestar In Sight", Mattie/LaBoeuf, T
Title: With No Lodestar In Sight - 5/12
Author: lindentree
Rating: T
Character(s): Mattie Ross/LaBoeuf, Rooster Cogburn
Word Count: 6,308
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.
divine providence
Mattie stood in her little room at the Hickory boarding house, peering through the semi-darkness at the clothes laid out on her bed. She had brushed her hair and tied it back with a thin piece of string at the nape of her neck, and scrubbed herself with fresh cold water from the pitcher until her skin was pink. The result of her efforts with her hair was not as tidy as she would have liked, but there was nothing to be done about it. She quickly dressed in Little Frank’s shirt and trousers, rolled up her dress and nightgown in her pack, and gathered the rest of her things. She went downstairs, finding the house quiet but for some stirring in the kitchen. Leaving her pack in the foyer, Mattie went outside to see to the horses. When she stepped into the dim stable, she found Sal was already tacked and resting in her stall. Mattie quickly groomed Alma and checked her hooves before tacking her up and hurrying back to the house.
LaBoeuf sat on a chair on the front porch, smoking his pipe. He did not look at her as she ascended the steps and paused before the front door. She was about to speak when he cleared his throat.
“Mrs. Lovett tells me breakfast will be ready shortly,” he said, still not looking at her.
Mattie regarded him speculatively. “If I go in to eat, will you quit this place and attempt to rouse Cogburn and depart before I can catch you?”
LaBoeuf puffed once more on his pipe, and then stood and knocked the ashes out over the edge of the porch rail. He tucked the pipe into his coat, and stepped around her to open the door.
“That is not my aim,” he said, and went inside. The door closed behind him.
Mattie looked out over the street. Smoke was beginning to rise from the chimneys and stovepipes, drawing thin blue lines against the pale sky. A mule cart piled high with cord wood was driving slowly down the street. The town of Hot Springs was awakening.
Mattie turned and went inside, into the dining room. Several of the other boarders were awake now, seated around the table, serving themselves from crocks and platters and tureens. Mattie sat down in the empty seat across from LaBoeuf, and filled her plate with fried eggs, biscuits, and grits. She refused the coffee that was offered to her by Mrs. Lovett. There was no buttermilk to be had.
LaBoeuf did not speak to her during the meal, nor as they prepared to leave, nor as they made their way back to the Princess Hotel to retrieve Rooster. Mattie attempted twice to draw him out, but both times he behaved as though he had not heard her speak. She gave up her efforts and rode at his side in silence.
When they arrived at the Princess Hotel, Rooster was waiting out front, mounted on a bay quarter horse gelding who stood resting one of his hind feet and snoozing, even in the din of the busy street. Rooster was smoking a cigarette.
“Hm,” Rooster said when Mattie and LaBoeuf came to a stop before him. “I thought we agreed that she would be on a train by now.”
“What do you mean?” Mattie asked, although she suspected what the two men were up to.
“We talked it through last night, me and Mr. LaBoeuf,” Rooster replied. “We both have a mind to put you on the train back to Yell County, but we reckon you will not go, and will make trouble for us if we attempt to use force on you. What do you say, sis?”
“I say you can be certain I will make trouble for you,” Mattie said. “You are trying to cheat me out of my one third share of the bounty, to say nothing of my one hundred dollars in cash money which I intend to retrieve from Cunningham. If you think you can simply put me on the train to Dardanelle and hear nothing more about it, you are both fools. That is larceny and I will take it to law.”
“There you have it,” said LaBoeuf, in a smug tone. “I told you that I attempted to get shot of her to no avail.”
Mattie glared at him. “A blind simpleton could have tracked you along the Arkansas River. If that was your best attempt at ‘getting shot’ of me, you ought to give consideration to another line of work.”
LaBoeuf glowered back at her for a moment, but did not reply. Rooster seemed to be struggling to stifle a smile. He eyed Mattie. “I hope you will keep your lawyer at bay this time. I have no desire to be berated.”
“I left a letter for Lawyer Daggett at home. Although you were of course not mentioned, I was very clear in saying that I had chosen this course for myself and would not be deterred. You will not be bothered,” Mattie assured him.
“All right, then,” Rooster said. He stuck his cigarette between his lips and gathered his reins in his hands. “Looks like you are out of luck again, LaBoeuf.”
With that, Rooster chirruped to his horse and started down the street in the direction of their course.
Mattie gave LaBoeuf one final look to express her displeasure, which he returned in kind. Mattie supposed that their friendship, such as it was, had met its end. She urged Alma onwards, and fell into step behind Rooster. Whether LaBoeuf followed or not, she found she hardly cared.
***
There was little conversation between the three of them as they travelled south towards Arkadelphia. It was slow going through those parts, for there were few clear roadways. They found themselves picking their way slowly between the slender trunks of pine trees instead of riding easy on the wide highway. Mattie thought that the ride to Arkadelphia would only take a day, but as the sun crested in the sky and then began its descent towards the western horizon, she realised that they would have to stop and make camp in the woods that night.
Finally the silence grew tiresome to her, and she cleared her throat.
“It seems a strange coincidence for the three of us to find ourselves together once more,” Mattie said. “It has the air of divine providence about it.”
“Divine providence,” Rooster repeated, in a rather mocking tone. “If being saddled with the two of you is divine providence, I reckon God has a cruel sense of humour.”
“Marshal Cogburn, that is blasphemy,” Mattie scolded.
“I am sure that blasphemy is the least of his sins,” LaBoeuf muttered from behind her.
“It may be blasphemy,” Rooster said, not having heard LaBoeuf, “but it is true all the same. I ought to have stayed in Texas, but I got it into my head that it was time for the wind to change, and this reward money was the way to change it. Fool notion if there ever was one.”
Rooster’s tongue loosened then, and he began to talk of what he had been up to during the last several years. He spoke of his adventures as a range detective, of fence-cutters and cattle thieves. Mattie glanced over her shoulder more than once to see what LaBoeuf thought about Rooster’s tales, him being a lawman from cattle country himself, but he said nothing, and pretended he did not notice her.
The sun sank below the trees, and they stopped in a small holler in the hills to make their camp. LaBoeuf strung a line for the horses while Mattie gathered firewood and a pail of water from a nearby stream. Rooster sat leaning against a hollow tree rolling a cigarette and dropping tobacco all over himself. Although the waste perturbed her, Mattie did not stop to help him, for she did not approve of his laziness.
Mattie made a little stew of salt pork and beans, with the last of the cornbread to sop it up. They had eaten almost all of their food, and their breakfast in the morning would be meagre.
“We must stop for supplies in Arkadelphia if we do not apprehend Cunningham there,” Mattie said when they had finished their meal and were sitting around the campfire with the darkness deepening all about them. “Perhaps fortune will be on our side and we will catch up with him.”
“Fortune, or plum luck,” Rooster replied. He sat smoking a cigarette and nursing a bottle of whiskey. Mattie’s mood had darkened when he pulled out the bottle, for she was not keen to tolerate Rooster’s particular brand of drunkenness. Her only consolation was that he did not offer any to LaBoeuf, and that LaBoeuf seemed to have run dry of his own store of whiskey. He sat opposite her, across the fire, smoking his pipe.
“If we can force some good information from Cunningham’s folks, we may yet catch up to him,” LaBoeuf said.
“That is a lot to hinge on one ‘if,’” Rooster replied.
LaBoeuf huffed out a short sigh to show his annoyance. “If you had pursued Cunningham with the expediency you ought to have, you might have him in hand, and Miss Ross and I would both be headed back to our respective homes. So you must pardon me if I am not interested in your criticisms of our present course.”
Rooster had nothing to say to this, and took a swig from his bottle instead. After tapping the ashes from his pipe, LaBoeuf lay down on his bedroll, put his hat over his face, and proceeded to ignore them both.
Mattie and Rooster were quiet for some time, the stillness of the night disturbed only by the crackling of the fire. Mattie looked over at Rooster, examining his face in the firelight. He had aged since last she saw him, and did not look well.
“I was sorry that you did not stay in Fort Smith long enough for me to pay you the reward which I promised you,” Mattie said. She looked down at her hand in her lap, and her voice softened. “Your departure also robbed me of the opportunity to properly thank you.”
Rooster said nothing.
“Did you receive any of my letters?” Mattie asked.
“Two or three,” he replied.
“I see. Has no one ever informed you that it is customary, when you receive a letter inquiring after your health, to send a reply in kind?”
“Hm,” he said. He glanced at her. “How is that arm of yours?”
“As well as can be expected,” Mattie replied.
“You get used to it,” he said.
“Yes, you do.”
There was a pause. Rooster did not seem eager to share news with Mattie, forcing her to ask questions of him. “How does the widow Potter?” she asked. “Or should I say, your wife?”
Rooster made a grumbling sort of noise in his throat. “We did marry some time ago in San Antonio. In the spring I took sick. She got it in her head that I had the ‘French pox.’ It weren’t. Just ague. Anyhow, she was set against me, and so I left. Been rambling the ranges since. Damn fool woman.”
“Perhaps you could go back to her now. She will see that you are not ill, and that she was in the wrong.”
“Too much trouble. Women are altogether too much trouble.”
“All fools are troublesome, regardless of their sex,” Mattie replied.
“I reckon you are right about that,” Rooster said. He threw the butt of his cigarette into the fire and took a pull from his bottle. “Tell me, sis. Your meeting with Cunningham, did it happen as LaBoeuf told it to me? He said the man tried to throttle you and you near cut his head clean off with a broken bottle.”
“That was the way of it,” Mattie confirmed.
“Hm,” Rooster replied. He was silent for a spell, staring into the fire. Finally he looked up and caught her eye. “Good girl. Too bad you did not quite manage it. To be short one like him in this world would be a fine thing, whether I go without that reward money or not.”
Mattie did not have a response to this, and so she said nothing, settling instead for staring once more into the fire. She thought about Cunningham, and the afternoon he fell upon her, and how she believed she had killed him, and how she had not felt one ounce of remorse for the bloody deed. Mattie frowned, and shifted her seat on the hard ground. She felt tired right down to her bones.
“I think I will sleep now,” she said, sitting up to reach for her blanket, which she had warming by the fire.
“I think I will sit for a while yet ,” Rooster replied, as Mattie arranged her bed. “Perhaps tomorrow you can tell me what you have been doing to keep yourself busy up there in Yell County.”
“Perhaps,” she replied, smiling.
Mattie lay down with her head resting against her saddle. Although she was very tired, she did not fall immediately to sleep. With her eyes closed, she listened to the sound of the fire slowly dying, and of LaBoeuf’s soft nearby snores, and of Rooster humming almost too low to be heard:
The cuckoo is a pretty bird, she warbles as she flies; she brings us glad tidings, and tells us no lies.
***
They arrived in Arkadelphia the following afternoon. It rained steadily all that day as they rode through the foothills of the Ouachita Mountains. The pine woods gave way to forests filled largely with bare trees, their wet bark black against the grey sky. Some trees still had their shrivelled brown leaves attached, but not many.
The weather put them all in a bad humour, and they did not talk much at all until they crossed into the outskirts of Arkadelphia.
“There is the post office,” Rooster said, pointing as they rode three abreast down what appeared to be the main street of the town. It was a wide avenue, with many businesses flanking each side. Many of the buildings were brick, and seemed quite fine. “Ought to be able to find out where we can find Cunningham’s people there, if the clerk is obliging.”
“We will question him and get our information, whether he is obliging or not,” said LaBoeuf.
“We will question him?” Rooster repeated. “She will question him.” He gestured with his reining hand at Mattie as they came to a stop in front of the squat clapboard building which advertised itself as the post office.
“You cannot think to send a woman in to do the work of the law,” LaBoeuf replied, a measure more scorn in his voice than Mattie thought was necessary.
“I can make inquiries and discern a lie as competently as either of you,” she said.
LaBoeuf spared her a withering glance, as though she were nothing more than a tiresome child.
“We are strangers here, and it is clear enough that you and I have a particular kind of business with the Cunninghams,” Rooster said. “If the clerk is a friend to those people, he may not talk. Mattie can play that she is a distant relation or some such, and the clerk will take more kindly to that, so long as she is not too peppery in her manner.”
“’Not too peppery’?” LaBoeuf repeated. “Haw!”
Mattie glowered at him, but did not favour him with a reply of any kind, “peppery” or not.
“Also that arm of hers will invite pity, which may grease the wheels,” Rooster said.
Mattie’s glare shifted from LaBoeuf to Rooster. That may have indeed been true, but he did not have to say it.
Silently she dismounted Alma and tied her to the hitching post outside the post office. Rooster and LaBoeuf followed suit. Mattie made to go inside, but LaBoeuf caught her by the elbow.
“You be careful, now,” he said.
Mattie pulled her arm out of his grasp. “I am sure I will scarcely be able to muddle my way through this task without you by my side, puffing up your chest and singing the praises of the Texas Rangers to anyone who cannot escape quickly enough.”
Her words contained more sarcasm than she typically liked to give, but LaBoeuf was intolerable. She turned and strode into the post office, the bell over the door tinkling to announce her.
The post office was a small room divided across the centre by a low counter topped with fine wooden latticework that stretched to the ceiling. Behind it, a clerk was sorting mail into the large honeycomb of mail slots which covered the rear wall. A narrow door led to a room behind.
“I’ll be with you in a moment,” said the clerk, without turning to look at her.
“Do not trouble; I am in no great hurry,” Mattie replied, attempting to soften her voice. She frowned. She did not think of herself as harsh, only forthright, but this playacting was a stretch for her.
The clerk turned around and came to the counter. He was a young man who she guessed to be about her age, still “wet behind the ears” and just old enough to use a razor. He was nice looking enough, with dark hair, combed and oiled, and brown eyes. Looking at her expectantly, his eyes dropped to her short arm. The slightest frown creased his brow, and when his eyes met hers again, they were equally full of curiosity and pity.
“How may I help you, miss?” he asked.
Mattie inhaled a deep breath and swallowed her irritation. “My name is Victoria Cunningham, and I am looking for relations I have here. I visited your town only once, many years ago, so I do not remember their exact address. I was hoping you might assist me. My cousin’s name is Albert Cunningham.”
“Oh,” the clerk said, his eyes dimming somewhat. “Miss, I regret to tell you that there has been some unpleasant business with your cousin which may interrupt your plans.”
“What kind of unpleasant business?”
“It is an unseemly thing to speak of, Miss.”
“Please,” Mattie said, stifling her impatience. “I would like for you to tell me what has happened.”
The clerk looked troubled a moment, and then he sighed. “Some weeks ago, the body of a young woman was pulled from the Oauchita River. I will spare you the grisly details. The sheriff believes that Albert Cunningham is responsible, and there is a warrant out for him.”
“I see,” Mattie replied. “How terrible. I am sure my dear aunt must be heartsick. Will you please tell me where I might find her?”
“Of course,” the clerk said, “of course! I would only be too happy to assist you in that regard.” He took a pad of notepaper and a pencil, and began to write. When he was finished, he tore the sheet from the pad, and paused with it clasped between his fingers.
“Do you know your letters?” he asked, that pitiful look returning to his eyes again.
“I am literate,” Mattie replied, her temper growing short. The clerk nodded, and passed her the slip of paper. She read it. He had pencilled a vague location on it in tidy, gently looping script. It described a place out the end of Pine Street.
“Thank you,” Mattie said. She tucked the paper into her coat pocket. “You have been most helpful, and I am obliged to you.”
“It was my pleasure,” he replied, favouring her with a warm and genuine smile. “God bless you, miss.”
Mattie did not know how to reply, and so she smiled stiffly and walked out of the little office.
It had stopped raining, although the sky was still the colour of gunmetal, and the streets sodden. LaBoeuf and Rooster were leaning against the side of the side of the building, several feet apart, smoking in mutual silence.
“The Cunninghams can be found on Pine Street,” she announced, handing the slip of paper to Rooster. “The clerk also informed me that Cunningham is wanted in this place for yet another murder of an innocent person.”
“We will make a federal marshal of you yet, sister,” Rooster said, grinning.
“Did you obtain directions to this place?” LaBoeuf asked. “None of us are natives of this city.”
“No, I did not,” she replied.
“Never mind it,” Rooster said. “We can get directions easily enough.” He tipped his chin at the traffic of wagons and carriages and pedestrians that filled the street.
They mounted and did exactly that, asking the way from a man driving an empty coal wagon. He was in his middle years, and had so much coal dust ground into his skin and his clothing that it seemed impossible to Mattie that he could ever wash every bit of it away. The only clean part of him was his bright green eyes. He told them the way they had to go, which was not in town at all, as it happened, but on a country road to the west. He said the place they sought had once been a large farm which produced turnips and carrots and onions enough to feed a quarter of the town, but the family had fallen onto hard times and subsequent disrepute some years ago, and so they sold much of their land, and now there was very little to be said about the place or its people.
It did not surprise Mattie to learn that the Cunninghams were trash.
They bid the coal man farewell and began riding west. They followed his careful directions, and were soon travelling down a narrow dirt track with bare trees on either side. The landscape continued to flatten as they rode, and the trees to thin, so that soon they found themselves on the open prairie. Little farms were scattered here and there, their houses sheltered by stands of poplars and burr oaks.
The coal man had said that they would have to cross a rough “corduroy” bridge of logs which spanned a deep crick, and soon after they would see the Cunninghams’ place on the north side of the road. It was all exactly as he described, and Mattie was thankful that they had met a man who could boast such knowledge of the peculiarities of the local geography.
They soon came upon the place, a rough cabin constructed of logs, well back from the road in a stand of trees. They had passed a sawmill in town, but Mattie guessed that the cabin had been built before the sawmill, and never replaced with a proper house. A kitchen had been added to one side of the building, and it was little more than a lean-to of saplings and mud, with a stovepipe sticking out its slanted roof. Dark smoke rose from the pipe.
Mattie thought of the old cabin her father had built when he first married her mother and settled their land in Yell County, and how it stood there still, having been converted to an ice house when he built their current house. Even its little glass windowpanes had been removed and reused. The thought of the ice house, which stayed blessedly cool even in the depth of the muggiest, most unrelenting heat of August, gave Mattie pause. Suddenly she longed for her home. She wondered how Mama and Little Frank and Victoria were faring, and whether they were worried. Perhaps they had given her up for dead already.
“I reckon this is the place,” Rooster said. His bay quarter horse, Whiskey Jack - who was thus named for his colour, and because he had been won in a game of cards - came to a halt without being told and immediately began tearing weeds and grass up from the ditch.
“What do you say, Cogburn?” asked LaBoeuf, resting his elbow on the butt of his rifle. “Do you suppose Cunningham is hiding there? We have no cover here and have therefore lost the advantage of surprise. If he is there, he knows we are coming.”
“In earnest I doubt he is there. That would be too lucky for us,” Cogburn replied. “We ought to tread lightly, though. Never know what’s coming down the barrel at you.”
They rode up the path which led to the house. It was little more than a rainwater-filled rut in the surrounding fields, all of which had obviously “gone to seed.” Brown grass and weeds grew unkempt on land which, to Mattie’s eye, seemed ideal for sweet corn, or feed corn, or hay at the very least. It was a sin to let it lie fallow for as long as it had obviously been left.
Stopping in the yard, Rooster cleared his chest and spat on the ground. “Anyone at home?” he called.
From inside the cabin there came a shuffling, and a sound like a chair being dragged over floorboards. After a moment the front door was opened, but only a dark slender crack, and no face or limb could be seen.
“Who is that out there?” said a voice from inside. It was a woman’s voice, high and thin, and it did not sound particularly feisty.
Rooster and LaBoeuf looked at one another, and Mattie guessed they were both weighing whether to be truthful or not. Rooster looked away first.
“It is the law, and we are looking for Albert Cunningham,” he said.
There was a pause, and then the woman spoke again. “Tie your horses up at the fence over yonder and come inside.”
They did as the woman asked, and shortly found themselves standing inside the cabin. The one-room structure was warm enough, but oily black smoke gathered about the bare log roof from the cook stove, and the place was draughty. Bits of paper and rag had been used to shut up the many holes along the tops of the walls and around the small windows, which did not have glass panes, but instead used a kind of sturdy greased paper which was opaque, and let in very little light. The wood floor was bare and unfinished, and there were gaps between the uneven boards where you could see the dirt beneath. There was not even a simple rag rug to provide warmth or give the place some charm.
In Mattie’s view it was a sad excuse for a dwelling, especially for one so close to civilization. A rough cabin was one thing up in the mountains or in other wild places. It was quite another when it was only down the road from town. It could have been a cozy place, but little had been done to improve it.
The woman, who had introduced herself as Althea Cunningham, was seated by the cook stove, her hands in her lap. She clasped and unclasped them at random, her face lined with nervousness, and she did not seem eager to look at the congress standing in her doorway.
“Ma’am, when was the last time you saw your son?” LaBoeuf asked.
“Not for some months now. He has been down in Texas, working the range,” she replied, in a wispy, delicate voice. She did not look at them, but continued to stare worriedly at the wall beyond the stove.
Rooster and LaBoeuf shared a look. LaBoeuf cleared his throat and continued. “You do your son little good by lying for him, ma’am. Has he passed through here in the last several days?”
“I tell you, he is in Texas!” she whined, turning to LaBoeuf with an entreating expression on her face. “I have letters from him. I have not had one from him in some time, but I have no doubt that there in Texas is where he remains.”
“He was in Hot Springs only a few days ago,” Rooster said. “He spent time with some fine ladies there, and they were only too eager to tell us all about it. My pard here tracked him to Morrilton before that, and he was up in Yell County just last week. All his crimes have been noted by the local authorities, so let us dispense with your lies and proceed.”
Mrs. Cunningham seemed to deflate then, her shoulders slumping forward and her chin tipping down. She drew in a breath, and blew it out in a sigh.
“He passed through here yesterday. You have just missed him.”
LaBoeuf turned and gave Rooster a reproachful look.
“Did he give any indication of where he was headed?” LaBoeuf asked.
“No, he did not, and I do not see why it should matter!” replied Mrs. Cunningham. Her chin quivered, and Mattie could see tears shining in her eyes. “He is innocent of the crimes for which you hunt him! It is all a grave misunderstanding.”
“We wish to find him so that he can do no further harm,” LaBoeuf said. “Can you not see that after what he has done, that would be best?”
“He is but a wayward boy, easily swayed by the low company he keeps! Do you not possess a shred of mercy for him between the three of you?”
There was a beat of silence, and then Mattie, LaBoeuf, and Rooster all spoke at once.
“No,” they said.
“You seem a decent woman, if somewhat soft-hearted,” Mattie continued, “and it is not your fault that your son does as he pleases without a thought for another soul. God gave us all free will and how your son uses his own is not your responsibility. I will reserve my pity for you, and for those he harms, not for him.”
Mrs. Cunningham turned her gaze on Mattie. Her guise of pitiful pleading disappeared, and her mouth twisted into a scowl. “You are a rude and unnatural girl. I can see that the blow God dealt you in that ugly injury of yours has made you bitter. But that is no reason for you to inflict suffering on others. If a man rejects your clumsy advances, you ought to be humbled. You should not then turn about and play at being some kind of victim.”
Mattie was about to make a retort, but LaBoeuf took a step forward. “Now, see here. I have no desire to speak harshly to a woman, but you mind what you say to her. Your son is a drunkard and a violent coward, and he was fortunate to escape Yell County with his life. He did not deserve to, and had I been present, I would have shot him dead myself. That is a fact.”
The woman sneered at LaBoeuf and said nothing more.
“You have shown your hand,” Rooster said. “I see your son has told you all about what fun he has been having, after all.”
“It is all a grave misunderstanding,” Mrs. Cunningham repeated, nodding her head resolutely, almost as though she spoke only to her own self.
“Maybe so, but your son is wanted in several jurisdictions, and he has been reckless. The sooner we find him, the less likely it is that he will harm another and find himself in deeper water,” Rooster said. “And if you help us, we will not have you prosecuted for giving shelter to a wanted man.”
“Help you? I would sooner die,” Mrs. Cunningham said, turning her cold gaze on Rooster. “Anyhow, he is bound for Texas, a state so large you have little hope of finding him!” Her haughty smile died on her lips as she realised that she had given her son away.
“Ma’am, I am a Texas Ranger. We will most certainly find him, with or without your assistance,” LaBoeuf said.
Mrs. Cunningham glowered at each of them, and then turned her face away and would not be drawn out. She refused to say another word.
They quit the place shortly thereafter, all three of them agreeing that it was unlikely that Cunningham was hiding there, for there was hardly any place to hide. LaBoeuf checked the shed and the smokehouse in the back to be certain, but he found only a meagre supply of split wood and a thin, ailing milk cow. They left, and meandered vaguely in a westward direction as the sun began to set on the horizon.
“Do you think she was telling the truth, Rooster?” Mattie asked, riding by his side. LaBoeuf rode a few strides behind them.
“I think she surprised herself in doing so, but yes, she was telling the truth,” Rooster replied. “Now the trouble is determining where he plans to go in the great state of Texas.”
LaBoeuf pulled up alongside Mattie. “My guess is he will head to Texarkana first. Thus far he has largely kept to moving straight from town to town, I reckon because he is poorly supplied. We do not know if he even has a horse; he did not have one in Yell County, at least. If he is heading into Texas, he will not bypass Texarkana.”
Rooster seemed to mull this over a minute before nodding. “I think you are right, pard. It is a long way between here and Texarkana. We may catch up to him yet.”
“I am confident that we can catch up to him so long as we make prudent use of our time and do not tarry,” LaBoeuf replied. It was obvious that he remained annoyed about Rooster’s delay in Hot Springs. Frankly Mattie did not blame him, but she saw little advantage in clinging to the thing, either.
“We will make good time, all right,” she said. “Why, we have already quit Arkadelphia and are headed for Texarkana! We will find somewhere to camp tonight and get a good start in the morning. I am confident we will have Cunningham in hand in no time. Do you not agree, Rooster?”
“Hm,” Rooster grumbled. “Any one of us would likely make better time alone, but that is not to be.”
With that, he urged Whiskey Jack on and pulled ahead of Mattie and LaBoeuf by several strides. He produced a bottle of brown liquor from his saddlebag and commenced to drinking from it.
“If that is Cogburn’s idea of making good time, I reckon we are in trouble once again,” LaBoeuf said.
“You are scarcely any better,” Mattie replied, although Cogburn’s drinking concerned her as well. What if he decided once again in some wild place that he was finished with this business? She would simply have to hope that the prospect of the reward money would be enough to keep him in check. Appealing to his higher nature was not sufficient, it seemed.
“You rise to his defence very readily,” LaBoeuf observed. His tone was sardonic. “You and Cogburn have become bosom friends once more, have you?”
“I do not know what you mean,” Mattie replied.
“I mean nothing. I am merely observing that the two of you seem to find much to talk of together. You are ‘two peas in a pod.’ Do you not agree?”
Mattie turned, trying to discern his intent. He had an expression on his face that Mattie had difficulty identifying, excepting that it was obvious he was annoyed. He did not meet her eyes although he must have known she was looking at him. Eventually, she turned away, looking ahead at Rooster’s back.
“I do not know to what I am agreeing, because you are not talking sense,” she said.
“It is strange that you should make a hero of a man who spent the war bushwhacking and keeping company with men so bloodthirsty they make our quarry seem downright gentle in comparison.”
Mattie wondered whether LaBoeuf would stop talking if she stopped responding.
“Ah, I see. You have nothing to say to that, do you? Well, what do you have to say about Cogburn riding alongside the James-Younger boys in those days? You are always eager to share your opinions. Pray, Mattie, tell me what you think about Rooster’s long and colourful career.”
Truthfully, Mattie did not think much of many of Rooster’s exploits. His morals were changeable at best. But LaBoeuf carrying on in his sarcastic, prideful way was doing nothing to aid his cause, whatever it was. They both knew what kind of man Cogburn was. What purpose was there now in discussing the uglier sides of him?
“You did not need to defend me against that woman,” Mattie said, by and by. “I could easily have done so for myself.”
LaBoeuf did not respond immediately. Mattie could feel him looking at her then, scrutinizing her. Eventually he spoke. “Why do you insist on undermining me at every opportunity?”
“Undermining you? I do not undermine you at every opportunity,” Mattie replied. “If I undermined you at every opportunity with which you present me, I would never require another occupation. Rather, the opposite is true: I have bitten my tongue so many times on this sojourn that I wonder if it will ever recover.”
“If your tongue is at all diminished during this trip, we should all count ourselves lucky indeed,” LaBoeuf grumbled.
“Your hubris is very tiresome,” Mattie said. “It is no wonder that you spend all your time away from home, chasing criminals in the wilderness. I doubt your colleagues can tolerate you except in very small doses.”
Mattie pressed her calves into Alma’s sides, and pulled ahead of LaBoeuf so that the three of them rode in a string. The distance between each of them stretched out until they were only barely connected at all. A passerby might have thought them complete strangers to each other.
There was no more riding abreast or passing the time by talking that day, or the next.
Chapter 6
Author: lindentree
Rating: T
Character(s): Mattie Ross/LaBoeuf, Rooster Cogburn
Word Count: 6,308
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.
divine providence
Mattie stood in her little room at the Hickory boarding house, peering through the semi-darkness at the clothes laid out on her bed. She had brushed her hair and tied it back with a thin piece of string at the nape of her neck, and scrubbed herself with fresh cold water from the pitcher until her skin was pink. The result of her efforts with her hair was not as tidy as she would have liked, but there was nothing to be done about it. She quickly dressed in Little Frank’s shirt and trousers, rolled up her dress and nightgown in her pack, and gathered the rest of her things. She went downstairs, finding the house quiet but for some stirring in the kitchen. Leaving her pack in the foyer, Mattie went outside to see to the horses. When she stepped into the dim stable, she found Sal was already tacked and resting in her stall. Mattie quickly groomed Alma and checked her hooves before tacking her up and hurrying back to the house.
LaBoeuf sat on a chair on the front porch, smoking his pipe. He did not look at her as she ascended the steps and paused before the front door. She was about to speak when he cleared his throat.
“Mrs. Lovett tells me breakfast will be ready shortly,” he said, still not looking at her.
Mattie regarded him speculatively. “If I go in to eat, will you quit this place and attempt to rouse Cogburn and depart before I can catch you?”
LaBoeuf puffed once more on his pipe, and then stood and knocked the ashes out over the edge of the porch rail. He tucked the pipe into his coat, and stepped around her to open the door.
“That is not my aim,” he said, and went inside. The door closed behind him.
Mattie looked out over the street. Smoke was beginning to rise from the chimneys and stovepipes, drawing thin blue lines against the pale sky. A mule cart piled high with cord wood was driving slowly down the street. The town of Hot Springs was awakening.
Mattie turned and went inside, into the dining room. Several of the other boarders were awake now, seated around the table, serving themselves from crocks and platters and tureens. Mattie sat down in the empty seat across from LaBoeuf, and filled her plate with fried eggs, biscuits, and grits. She refused the coffee that was offered to her by Mrs. Lovett. There was no buttermilk to be had.
LaBoeuf did not speak to her during the meal, nor as they prepared to leave, nor as they made their way back to the Princess Hotel to retrieve Rooster. Mattie attempted twice to draw him out, but both times he behaved as though he had not heard her speak. She gave up her efforts and rode at his side in silence.
When they arrived at the Princess Hotel, Rooster was waiting out front, mounted on a bay quarter horse gelding who stood resting one of his hind feet and snoozing, even in the din of the busy street. Rooster was smoking a cigarette.
“Hm,” Rooster said when Mattie and LaBoeuf came to a stop before him. “I thought we agreed that she would be on a train by now.”
“What do you mean?” Mattie asked, although she suspected what the two men were up to.
“We talked it through last night, me and Mr. LaBoeuf,” Rooster replied. “We both have a mind to put you on the train back to Yell County, but we reckon you will not go, and will make trouble for us if we attempt to use force on you. What do you say, sis?”
“I say you can be certain I will make trouble for you,” Mattie said. “You are trying to cheat me out of my one third share of the bounty, to say nothing of my one hundred dollars in cash money which I intend to retrieve from Cunningham. If you think you can simply put me on the train to Dardanelle and hear nothing more about it, you are both fools. That is larceny and I will take it to law.”
“There you have it,” said LaBoeuf, in a smug tone. “I told you that I attempted to get shot of her to no avail.”
Mattie glared at him. “A blind simpleton could have tracked you along the Arkansas River. If that was your best attempt at ‘getting shot’ of me, you ought to give consideration to another line of work.”
LaBoeuf glowered back at her for a moment, but did not reply. Rooster seemed to be struggling to stifle a smile. He eyed Mattie. “I hope you will keep your lawyer at bay this time. I have no desire to be berated.”
“I left a letter for Lawyer Daggett at home. Although you were of course not mentioned, I was very clear in saying that I had chosen this course for myself and would not be deterred. You will not be bothered,” Mattie assured him.
“All right, then,” Rooster said. He stuck his cigarette between his lips and gathered his reins in his hands. “Looks like you are out of luck again, LaBoeuf.”
With that, Rooster chirruped to his horse and started down the street in the direction of their course.
Mattie gave LaBoeuf one final look to express her displeasure, which he returned in kind. Mattie supposed that their friendship, such as it was, had met its end. She urged Alma onwards, and fell into step behind Rooster. Whether LaBoeuf followed or not, she found she hardly cared.
***
There was little conversation between the three of them as they travelled south towards Arkadelphia. It was slow going through those parts, for there were few clear roadways. They found themselves picking their way slowly between the slender trunks of pine trees instead of riding easy on the wide highway. Mattie thought that the ride to Arkadelphia would only take a day, but as the sun crested in the sky and then began its descent towards the western horizon, she realised that they would have to stop and make camp in the woods that night.
Finally the silence grew tiresome to her, and she cleared her throat.
“It seems a strange coincidence for the three of us to find ourselves together once more,” Mattie said. “It has the air of divine providence about it.”
“Divine providence,” Rooster repeated, in a rather mocking tone. “If being saddled with the two of you is divine providence, I reckon God has a cruel sense of humour.”
“Marshal Cogburn, that is blasphemy,” Mattie scolded.
“I am sure that blasphemy is the least of his sins,” LaBoeuf muttered from behind her.
“It may be blasphemy,” Rooster said, not having heard LaBoeuf, “but it is true all the same. I ought to have stayed in Texas, but I got it into my head that it was time for the wind to change, and this reward money was the way to change it. Fool notion if there ever was one.”
Rooster’s tongue loosened then, and he began to talk of what he had been up to during the last several years. He spoke of his adventures as a range detective, of fence-cutters and cattle thieves. Mattie glanced over her shoulder more than once to see what LaBoeuf thought about Rooster’s tales, him being a lawman from cattle country himself, but he said nothing, and pretended he did not notice her.
The sun sank below the trees, and they stopped in a small holler in the hills to make their camp. LaBoeuf strung a line for the horses while Mattie gathered firewood and a pail of water from a nearby stream. Rooster sat leaning against a hollow tree rolling a cigarette and dropping tobacco all over himself. Although the waste perturbed her, Mattie did not stop to help him, for she did not approve of his laziness.
Mattie made a little stew of salt pork and beans, with the last of the cornbread to sop it up. They had eaten almost all of their food, and their breakfast in the morning would be meagre.
“We must stop for supplies in Arkadelphia if we do not apprehend Cunningham there,” Mattie said when they had finished their meal and were sitting around the campfire with the darkness deepening all about them. “Perhaps fortune will be on our side and we will catch up with him.”
“Fortune, or plum luck,” Rooster replied. He sat smoking a cigarette and nursing a bottle of whiskey. Mattie’s mood had darkened when he pulled out the bottle, for she was not keen to tolerate Rooster’s particular brand of drunkenness. Her only consolation was that he did not offer any to LaBoeuf, and that LaBoeuf seemed to have run dry of his own store of whiskey. He sat opposite her, across the fire, smoking his pipe.
“If we can force some good information from Cunningham’s folks, we may yet catch up to him,” LaBoeuf said.
“That is a lot to hinge on one ‘if,’” Rooster replied.
LaBoeuf huffed out a short sigh to show his annoyance. “If you had pursued Cunningham with the expediency you ought to have, you might have him in hand, and Miss Ross and I would both be headed back to our respective homes. So you must pardon me if I am not interested in your criticisms of our present course.”
Rooster had nothing to say to this, and took a swig from his bottle instead. After tapping the ashes from his pipe, LaBoeuf lay down on his bedroll, put his hat over his face, and proceeded to ignore them both.
Mattie and Rooster were quiet for some time, the stillness of the night disturbed only by the crackling of the fire. Mattie looked over at Rooster, examining his face in the firelight. He had aged since last she saw him, and did not look well.
“I was sorry that you did not stay in Fort Smith long enough for me to pay you the reward which I promised you,” Mattie said. She looked down at her hand in her lap, and her voice softened. “Your departure also robbed me of the opportunity to properly thank you.”
Rooster said nothing.
“Did you receive any of my letters?” Mattie asked.
“Two or three,” he replied.
“I see. Has no one ever informed you that it is customary, when you receive a letter inquiring after your health, to send a reply in kind?”
“Hm,” he said. He glanced at her. “How is that arm of yours?”
“As well as can be expected,” Mattie replied.
“You get used to it,” he said.
“Yes, you do.”
There was a pause. Rooster did not seem eager to share news with Mattie, forcing her to ask questions of him. “How does the widow Potter?” she asked. “Or should I say, your wife?”
Rooster made a grumbling sort of noise in his throat. “We did marry some time ago in San Antonio. In the spring I took sick. She got it in her head that I had the ‘French pox.’ It weren’t. Just ague. Anyhow, she was set against me, and so I left. Been rambling the ranges since. Damn fool woman.”
“Perhaps you could go back to her now. She will see that you are not ill, and that she was in the wrong.”
“Too much trouble. Women are altogether too much trouble.”
“All fools are troublesome, regardless of their sex,” Mattie replied.
“I reckon you are right about that,” Rooster said. He threw the butt of his cigarette into the fire and took a pull from his bottle. “Tell me, sis. Your meeting with Cunningham, did it happen as LaBoeuf told it to me? He said the man tried to throttle you and you near cut his head clean off with a broken bottle.”
“That was the way of it,” Mattie confirmed.
“Hm,” Rooster replied. He was silent for a spell, staring into the fire. Finally he looked up and caught her eye. “Good girl. Too bad you did not quite manage it. To be short one like him in this world would be a fine thing, whether I go without that reward money or not.”
Mattie did not have a response to this, and so she said nothing, settling instead for staring once more into the fire. She thought about Cunningham, and the afternoon he fell upon her, and how she believed she had killed him, and how she had not felt one ounce of remorse for the bloody deed. Mattie frowned, and shifted her seat on the hard ground. She felt tired right down to her bones.
“I think I will sleep now,” she said, sitting up to reach for her blanket, which she had warming by the fire.
“I think I will sit for a while yet ,” Rooster replied, as Mattie arranged her bed. “Perhaps tomorrow you can tell me what you have been doing to keep yourself busy up there in Yell County.”
“Perhaps,” she replied, smiling.
Mattie lay down with her head resting against her saddle. Although she was very tired, she did not fall immediately to sleep. With her eyes closed, she listened to the sound of the fire slowly dying, and of LaBoeuf’s soft nearby snores, and of Rooster humming almost too low to be heard:
The cuckoo is a pretty bird, she warbles as she flies; she brings us glad tidings, and tells us no lies.
***
They arrived in Arkadelphia the following afternoon. It rained steadily all that day as they rode through the foothills of the Ouachita Mountains. The pine woods gave way to forests filled largely with bare trees, their wet bark black against the grey sky. Some trees still had their shrivelled brown leaves attached, but not many.
The weather put them all in a bad humour, and they did not talk much at all until they crossed into the outskirts of Arkadelphia.
“There is the post office,” Rooster said, pointing as they rode three abreast down what appeared to be the main street of the town. It was a wide avenue, with many businesses flanking each side. Many of the buildings were brick, and seemed quite fine. “Ought to be able to find out where we can find Cunningham’s people there, if the clerk is obliging.”
“We will question him and get our information, whether he is obliging or not,” said LaBoeuf.
“We will question him?” Rooster repeated. “She will question him.” He gestured with his reining hand at Mattie as they came to a stop in front of the squat clapboard building which advertised itself as the post office.
“You cannot think to send a woman in to do the work of the law,” LaBoeuf replied, a measure more scorn in his voice than Mattie thought was necessary.
“I can make inquiries and discern a lie as competently as either of you,” she said.
LaBoeuf spared her a withering glance, as though she were nothing more than a tiresome child.
“We are strangers here, and it is clear enough that you and I have a particular kind of business with the Cunninghams,” Rooster said. “If the clerk is a friend to those people, he may not talk. Mattie can play that she is a distant relation or some such, and the clerk will take more kindly to that, so long as she is not too peppery in her manner.”
“’Not too peppery’?” LaBoeuf repeated. “Haw!”
Mattie glowered at him, but did not favour him with a reply of any kind, “peppery” or not.
“Also that arm of hers will invite pity, which may grease the wheels,” Rooster said.
Mattie’s glare shifted from LaBoeuf to Rooster. That may have indeed been true, but he did not have to say it.
Silently she dismounted Alma and tied her to the hitching post outside the post office. Rooster and LaBoeuf followed suit. Mattie made to go inside, but LaBoeuf caught her by the elbow.
“You be careful, now,” he said.
Mattie pulled her arm out of his grasp. “I am sure I will scarcely be able to muddle my way through this task without you by my side, puffing up your chest and singing the praises of the Texas Rangers to anyone who cannot escape quickly enough.”
Her words contained more sarcasm than she typically liked to give, but LaBoeuf was intolerable. She turned and strode into the post office, the bell over the door tinkling to announce her.
The post office was a small room divided across the centre by a low counter topped with fine wooden latticework that stretched to the ceiling. Behind it, a clerk was sorting mail into the large honeycomb of mail slots which covered the rear wall. A narrow door led to a room behind.
“I’ll be with you in a moment,” said the clerk, without turning to look at her.
“Do not trouble; I am in no great hurry,” Mattie replied, attempting to soften her voice. She frowned. She did not think of herself as harsh, only forthright, but this playacting was a stretch for her.
The clerk turned around and came to the counter. He was a young man who she guessed to be about her age, still “wet behind the ears” and just old enough to use a razor. He was nice looking enough, with dark hair, combed and oiled, and brown eyes. Looking at her expectantly, his eyes dropped to her short arm. The slightest frown creased his brow, and when his eyes met hers again, they were equally full of curiosity and pity.
“How may I help you, miss?” he asked.
Mattie inhaled a deep breath and swallowed her irritation. “My name is Victoria Cunningham, and I am looking for relations I have here. I visited your town only once, many years ago, so I do not remember their exact address. I was hoping you might assist me. My cousin’s name is Albert Cunningham.”
“Oh,” the clerk said, his eyes dimming somewhat. “Miss, I regret to tell you that there has been some unpleasant business with your cousin which may interrupt your plans.”
“What kind of unpleasant business?”
“It is an unseemly thing to speak of, Miss.”
“Please,” Mattie said, stifling her impatience. “I would like for you to tell me what has happened.”
The clerk looked troubled a moment, and then he sighed. “Some weeks ago, the body of a young woman was pulled from the Oauchita River. I will spare you the grisly details. The sheriff believes that Albert Cunningham is responsible, and there is a warrant out for him.”
“I see,” Mattie replied. “How terrible. I am sure my dear aunt must be heartsick. Will you please tell me where I might find her?”
“Of course,” the clerk said, “of course! I would only be too happy to assist you in that regard.” He took a pad of notepaper and a pencil, and began to write. When he was finished, he tore the sheet from the pad, and paused with it clasped between his fingers.
“Do you know your letters?” he asked, that pitiful look returning to his eyes again.
“I am literate,” Mattie replied, her temper growing short. The clerk nodded, and passed her the slip of paper. She read it. He had pencilled a vague location on it in tidy, gently looping script. It described a place out the end of Pine Street.
“Thank you,” Mattie said. She tucked the paper into her coat pocket. “You have been most helpful, and I am obliged to you.”
“It was my pleasure,” he replied, favouring her with a warm and genuine smile. “God bless you, miss.”
Mattie did not know how to reply, and so she smiled stiffly and walked out of the little office.
It had stopped raining, although the sky was still the colour of gunmetal, and the streets sodden. LaBoeuf and Rooster were leaning against the side of the side of the building, several feet apart, smoking in mutual silence.
“The Cunninghams can be found on Pine Street,” she announced, handing the slip of paper to Rooster. “The clerk also informed me that Cunningham is wanted in this place for yet another murder of an innocent person.”
“We will make a federal marshal of you yet, sister,” Rooster said, grinning.
“Did you obtain directions to this place?” LaBoeuf asked. “None of us are natives of this city.”
“No, I did not,” she replied.
“Never mind it,” Rooster said. “We can get directions easily enough.” He tipped his chin at the traffic of wagons and carriages and pedestrians that filled the street.
They mounted and did exactly that, asking the way from a man driving an empty coal wagon. He was in his middle years, and had so much coal dust ground into his skin and his clothing that it seemed impossible to Mattie that he could ever wash every bit of it away. The only clean part of him was his bright green eyes. He told them the way they had to go, which was not in town at all, as it happened, but on a country road to the west. He said the place they sought had once been a large farm which produced turnips and carrots and onions enough to feed a quarter of the town, but the family had fallen onto hard times and subsequent disrepute some years ago, and so they sold much of their land, and now there was very little to be said about the place or its people.
It did not surprise Mattie to learn that the Cunninghams were trash.
They bid the coal man farewell and began riding west. They followed his careful directions, and were soon travelling down a narrow dirt track with bare trees on either side. The landscape continued to flatten as they rode, and the trees to thin, so that soon they found themselves on the open prairie. Little farms were scattered here and there, their houses sheltered by stands of poplars and burr oaks.
The coal man had said that they would have to cross a rough “corduroy” bridge of logs which spanned a deep crick, and soon after they would see the Cunninghams’ place on the north side of the road. It was all exactly as he described, and Mattie was thankful that they had met a man who could boast such knowledge of the peculiarities of the local geography.
They soon came upon the place, a rough cabin constructed of logs, well back from the road in a stand of trees. They had passed a sawmill in town, but Mattie guessed that the cabin had been built before the sawmill, and never replaced with a proper house. A kitchen had been added to one side of the building, and it was little more than a lean-to of saplings and mud, with a stovepipe sticking out its slanted roof. Dark smoke rose from the pipe.
Mattie thought of the old cabin her father had built when he first married her mother and settled their land in Yell County, and how it stood there still, having been converted to an ice house when he built their current house. Even its little glass windowpanes had been removed and reused. The thought of the ice house, which stayed blessedly cool even in the depth of the muggiest, most unrelenting heat of August, gave Mattie pause. Suddenly she longed for her home. She wondered how Mama and Little Frank and Victoria were faring, and whether they were worried. Perhaps they had given her up for dead already.
“I reckon this is the place,” Rooster said. His bay quarter horse, Whiskey Jack - who was thus named for his colour, and because he had been won in a game of cards - came to a halt without being told and immediately began tearing weeds and grass up from the ditch.
“What do you say, Cogburn?” asked LaBoeuf, resting his elbow on the butt of his rifle. “Do you suppose Cunningham is hiding there? We have no cover here and have therefore lost the advantage of surprise. If he is there, he knows we are coming.”
“In earnest I doubt he is there. That would be too lucky for us,” Cogburn replied. “We ought to tread lightly, though. Never know what’s coming down the barrel at you.”
They rode up the path which led to the house. It was little more than a rainwater-filled rut in the surrounding fields, all of which had obviously “gone to seed.” Brown grass and weeds grew unkempt on land which, to Mattie’s eye, seemed ideal for sweet corn, or feed corn, or hay at the very least. It was a sin to let it lie fallow for as long as it had obviously been left.
Stopping in the yard, Rooster cleared his chest and spat on the ground. “Anyone at home?” he called.
From inside the cabin there came a shuffling, and a sound like a chair being dragged over floorboards. After a moment the front door was opened, but only a dark slender crack, and no face or limb could be seen.
“Who is that out there?” said a voice from inside. It was a woman’s voice, high and thin, and it did not sound particularly feisty.
Rooster and LaBoeuf looked at one another, and Mattie guessed they were both weighing whether to be truthful or not. Rooster looked away first.
“It is the law, and we are looking for Albert Cunningham,” he said.
There was a pause, and then the woman spoke again. “Tie your horses up at the fence over yonder and come inside.”
They did as the woman asked, and shortly found themselves standing inside the cabin. The one-room structure was warm enough, but oily black smoke gathered about the bare log roof from the cook stove, and the place was draughty. Bits of paper and rag had been used to shut up the many holes along the tops of the walls and around the small windows, which did not have glass panes, but instead used a kind of sturdy greased paper which was opaque, and let in very little light. The wood floor was bare and unfinished, and there were gaps between the uneven boards where you could see the dirt beneath. There was not even a simple rag rug to provide warmth or give the place some charm.
In Mattie’s view it was a sad excuse for a dwelling, especially for one so close to civilization. A rough cabin was one thing up in the mountains or in other wild places. It was quite another when it was only down the road from town. It could have been a cozy place, but little had been done to improve it.
The woman, who had introduced herself as Althea Cunningham, was seated by the cook stove, her hands in her lap. She clasped and unclasped them at random, her face lined with nervousness, and she did not seem eager to look at the congress standing in her doorway.
“Ma’am, when was the last time you saw your son?” LaBoeuf asked.
“Not for some months now. He has been down in Texas, working the range,” she replied, in a wispy, delicate voice. She did not look at them, but continued to stare worriedly at the wall beyond the stove.
Rooster and LaBoeuf shared a look. LaBoeuf cleared his throat and continued. “You do your son little good by lying for him, ma’am. Has he passed through here in the last several days?”
“I tell you, he is in Texas!” she whined, turning to LaBoeuf with an entreating expression on her face. “I have letters from him. I have not had one from him in some time, but I have no doubt that there in Texas is where he remains.”
“He was in Hot Springs only a few days ago,” Rooster said. “He spent time with some fine ladies there, and they were only too eager to tell us all about it. My pard here tracked him to Morrilton before that, and he was up in Yell County just last week. All his crimes have been noted by the local authorities, so let us dispense with your lies and proceed.”
Mrs. Cunningham seemed to deflate then, her shoulders slumping forward and her chin tipping down. She drew in a breath, and blew it out in a sigh.
“He passed through here yesterday. You have just missed him.”
LaBoeuf turned and gave Rooster a reproachful look.
“Did he give any indication of where he was headed?” LaBoeuf asked.
“No, he did not, and I do not see why it should matter!” replied Mrs. Cunningham. Her chin quivered, and Mattie could see tears shining in her eyes. “He is innocent of the crimes for which you hunt him! It is all a grave misunderstanding.”
“We wish to find him so that he can do no further harm,” LaBoeuf said. “Can you not see that after what he has done, that would be best?”
“He is but a wayward boy, easily swayed by the low company he keeps! Do you not possess a shred of mercy for him between the three of you?”
There was a beat of silence, and then Mattie, LaBoeuf, and Rooster all spoke at once.
“No,” they said.
“You seem a decent woman, if somewhat soft-hearted,” Mattie continued, “and it is not your fault that your son does as he pleases without a thought for another soul. God gave us all free will and how your son uses his own is not your responsibility. I will reserve my pity for you, and for those he harms, not for him.”
Mrs. Cunningham turned her gaze on Mattie. Her guise of pitiful pleading disappeared, and her mouth twisted into a scowl. “You are a rude and unnatural girl. I can see that the blow God dealt you in that ugly injury of yours has made you bitter. But that is no reason for you to inflict suffering on others. If a man rejects your clumsy advances, you ought to be humbled. You should not then turn about and play at being some kind of victim.”
Mattie was about to make a retort, but LaBoeuf took a step forward. “Now, see here. I have no desire to speak harshly to a woman, but you mind what you say to her. Your son is a drunkard and a violent coward, and he was fortunate to escape Yell County with his life. He did not deserve to, and had I been present, I would have shot him dead myself. That is a fact.”
The woman sneered at LaBoeuf and said nothing more.
“You have shown your hand,” Rooster said. “I see your son has told you all about what fun he has been having, after all.”
“It is all a grave misunderstanding,” Mrs. Cunningham repeated, nodding her head resolutely, almost as though she spoke only to her own self.
“Maybe so, but your son is wanted in several jurisdictions, and he has been reckless. The sooner we find him, the less likely it is that he will harm another and find himself in deeper water,” Rooster said. “And if you help us, we will not have you prosecuted for giving shelter to a wanted man.”
“Help you? I would sooner die,” Mrs. Cunningham said, turning her cold gaze on Rooster. “Anyhow, he is bound for Texas, a state so large you have little hope of finding him!” Her haughty smile died on her lips as she realised that she had given her son away.
“Ma’am, I am a Texas Ranger. We will most certainly find him, with or without your assistance,” LaBoeuf said.
Mrs. Cunningham glowered at each of them, and then turned her face away and would not be drawn out. She refused to say another word.
They quit the place shortly thereafter, all three of them agreeing that it was unlikely that Cunningham was hiding there, for there was hardly any place to hide. LaBoeuf checked the shed and the smokehouse in the back to be certain, but he found only a meagre supply of split wood and a thin, ailing milk cow. They left, and meandered vaguely in a westward direction as the sun began to set on the horizon.
“Do you think she was telling the truth, Rooster?” Mattie asked, riding by his side. LaBoeuf rode a few strides behind them.
“I think she surprised herself in doing so, but yes, she was telling the truth,” Rooster replied. “Now the trouble is determining where he plans to go in the great state of Texas.”
LaBoeuf pulled up alongside Mattie. “My guess is he will head to Texarkana first. Thus far he has largely kept to moving straight from town to town, I reckon because he is poorly supplied. We do not know if he even has a horse; he did not have one in Yell County, at least. If he is heading into Texas, he will not bypass Texarkana.”
Rooster seemed to mull this over a minute before nodding. “I think you are right, pard. It is a long way between here and Texarkana. We may catch up to him yet.”
“I am confident that we can catch up to him so long as we make prudent use of our time and do not tarry,” LaBoeuf replied. It was obvious that he remained annoyed about Rooster’s delay in Hot Springs. Frankly Mattie did not blame him, but she saw little advantage in clinging to the thing, either.
“We will make good time, all right,” she said. “Why, we have already quit Arkadelphia and are headed for Texarkana! We will find somewhere to camp tonight and get a good start in the morning. I am confident we will have Cunningham in hand in no time. Do you not agree, Rooster?”
“Hm,” Rooster grumbled. “Any one of us would likely make better time alone, but that is not to be.”
With that, he urged Whiskey Jack on and pulled ahead of Mattie and LaBoeuf by several strides. He produced a bottle of brown liquor from his saddlebag and commenced to drinking from it.
“If that is Cogburn’s idea of making good time, I reckon we are in trouble once again,” LaBoeuf said.
“You are scarcely any better,” Mattie replied, although Cogburn’s drinking concerned her as well. What if he decided once again in some wild place that he was finished with this business? She would simply have to hope that the prospect of the reward money would be enough to keep him in check. Appealing to his higher nature was not sufficient, it seemed.
“You rise to his defence very readily,” LaBoeuf observed. His tone was sardonic. “You and Cogburn have become bosom friends once more, have you?”
“I do not know what you mean,” Mattie replied.
“I mean nothing. I am merely observing that the two of you seem to find much to talk of together. You are ‘two peas in a pod.’ Do you not agree?”
Mattie turned, trying to discern his intent. He had an expression on his face that Mattie had difficulty identifying, excepting that it was obvious he was annoyed. He did not meet her eyes although he must have known she was looking at him. Eventually, she turned away, looking ahead at Rooster’s back.
“I do not know to what I am agreeing, because you are not talking sense,” she said.
“It is strange that you should make a hero of a man who spent the war bushwhacking and keeping company with men so bloodthirsty they make our quarry seem downright gentle in comparison.”
Mattie wondered whether LaBoeuf would stop talking if she stopped responding.
“Ah, I see. You have nothing to say to that, do you? Well, what do you have to say about Cogburn riding alongside the James-Younger boys in those days? You are always eager to share your opinions. Pray, Mattie, tell me what you think about Rooster’s long and colourful career.”
Truthfully, Mattie did not think much of many of Rooster’s exploits. His morals were changeable at best. But LaBoeuf carrying on in his sarcastic, prideful way was doing nothing to aid his cause, whatever it was. They both knew what kind of man Cogburn was. What purpose was there now in discussing the uglier sides of him?
“You did not need to defend me against that woman,” Mattie said, by and by. “I could easily have done so for myself.”
LaBoeuf did not respond immediately. Mattie could feel him looking at her then, scrutinizing her. Eventually he spoke. “Why do you insist on undermining me at every opportunity?”
“Undermining you? I do not undermine you at every opportunity,” Mattie replied. “If I undermined you at every opportunity with which you present me, I would never require another occupation. Rather, the opposite is true: I have bitten my tongue so many times on this sojourn that I wonder if it will ever recover.”
“If your tongue is at all diminished during this trip, we should all count ourselves lucky indeed,” LaBoeuf grumbled.
“Your hubris is very tiresome,” Mattie said. “It is no wonder that you spend all your time away from home, chasing criminals in the wilderness. I doubt your colleagues can tolerate you except in very small doses.”
Mattie pressed her calves into Alma’s sides, and pulled ahead of LaBoeuf so that the three of them rode in a string. The distance between each of them stretched out until they were only barely connected at all. A passerby might have thought them complete strangers to each other.
There was no more riding abreast or passing the time by talking that day, or the next.
Chapter 6