True Grit - "With No Lodestar In Sight", Mattie/LaBoeuf, T
Title: With No Lodestar In Sight - 6/12
Author: lindentree
Rating: T
Character(s): Mattie Ross/LaBoeuf, Rooster Cogburn
Word Count: 6,949
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.
together until this business is finished
Cogburn was drunk. There was no mistaking it. He was drunk, and he had been for the two days since they left Arkadelphia. He showed no signs of slowing or stopping.
They were camped on the shore of a little crick not far from the town of Hope. It had rained steadily all day, but the trees provided some cover. Rooster had reclined against the wet trunk of a walnut tree the moment they erected a shelter and started up a campfire. Mattie and LaBoeuf did most of the work while Rooster sat drinking. Mattie made them a meal of bacon and beans and cornbread from the supplies they had obtained in Gum Springs, but by the time it was ready, Rooster had fallen dead asleep and would not be roused. Mattie and LaBoeuf ate together in silence, the rain beating a disheartening tattoo on the makeshift canvas roof over their heads.
After they ate, LaBoeuf smoked his pipe and Mattie sat to his left, silently staring into the fire, wondering if she ought to be at home with Mama and Little Frank and Victoria, tending the cool weather crops and putting up stores for the long winter ahead, rather than sitting on the cold ground in the wilderness with a drunkard and a Texas cuss who was little better than a snake in the grass.
For the first time Mattie truly thought that she may have been a fool to undertake this errand. One such adventure was likely enough for a single lifetime. Perhaps she ought to have let LaBoeuf leave Yell County without her.
“I do not like it,” LaBoeuf muttered.
The sound of his voice after such a long spell of silence startled Mattie, and she looked at him. “What is it that you do not like?” she asked.
“I do not like this strangeness that has come up between us and I would like to put it aside,” he replied, regarding her with great seriousness. He continued, his voice lowered, and Mattie guessed he had rehearsed his words. “We cannot trust that Cogburn will not do us a bad turn one of these days. Not out of spite or malice, but because he is a drunk and cannot be trusted. I take no pleasure in saying this, but it is the truth. We must make sure that the two of us are of a like mind on this errand, or else it is each man for himself. Or each woman.”
Mattie sighed. “I am loathe to admit it, but I agree. I reckon we are still on the right track but I do not think that can be credited to Rooster’s designs. I think we have been lucky, is all.” She trailed off, and then frowned as she recalled the earlier part of his speech. “What did you mean, ‘a strangeness’?”
“I mean this distance that has come between us since Hot Springs,” he said. “It had been a rough road before that, I think we can agree, but we had made our peace with each other. We were ‘pards’ on the trail. Since Hot Springs we have not had more than a few civil words between us, and I do not like it.”
Mattie was surprised and rather embarrassed that he was taking the bull by the horns in this way. Yes, they had fallen out, but Mattie did not think he much cared beyond his wounded pride. Before she could respond, he continued.
“Do you truly believe I would harm you, Mattie? That I would...” LaBoeuf paused here and frowned, seeming to struggle for his words in a way very unlike him. “That I would force myself on you, as Cunningham attempted to do?”
Mattie gaped at him, her face flaming at the impertinent subject. “Why do you ask me this?”
“In Hot Springs you said a woman is not safe leaving her door unlocked with me about,” he said. His expression was wary and troubled as he looked at her, and his eyes conveyed some wound she did not realise she had inflicted.
“Oh,” Mattie replied. She did not know he had taken her words so dearly to heart. “Aside from the occasional thrashing, I know you would never deliberately do me harm.”
LaBoeuf did not smile at this. He looked away from her, his expression very dour. “I do not like the impression you seem to have of my character.”
“What other impression am I to have but the one you have presented me with?”
“I thought we had made friends of each other. It seemed that way before we reached Hot Springs.”
“I thought the same. But you were rude and untoward, and then conspired with Rooster to get rid of me despite our prior agreement to go on as pardners. What was I to make of such behaviour?”
LaBoeuf frowned and looked down at the ground, seeming to contemplate her words. “You are right,” he said, after a pause. “I treated you wrongly. I should not have made any such plot with Rooster. I reckoned you would have had enough adventure and would be eager to return home. I was glad, for I thought it would be safer for you. I forgot how dogged you are in your determination.”
Mattie nodded, accepting his apology, demeaning as it was.
“As for the other, I have no excuse. Truly I came to your door to see that you were all right. I reckon the drink... Well, I did not intend to offend your honour, nor your good reputation.”
“If you did not drink so much whiskey or make a habit of entering ladies’ bedrooms uninvited, you would not find yourself in this low position of having to make amends for your behaviour,” Mattie said.
LaBoeuf grimaced. “I will own that is likely true. However, that you are the first and the only lady to give me such a hard time about entering your bedroom unasked.”
“There have been others?” Mattie asked, trying to keep her voice down so as not to wake Rooster. “You are incorrigible! What did they do, if they did not give you a hard time?”
“Typically they have cried, and always they have given me the information I sought,” he replied. “When I made your acquaintance in Fort Smith those five years ago, I thought you would give me the easiest time of all, given your young age, and that you were sick and recently bereaved besides. Then you opened your mouth.”
“You are a devil,” Mattie said. “I am shocked that the Texas Rangers encourage these kinds of investigative methods.”
“They do not, strictly speaking. That is my own method.”
“You ought to be strung up by your toenails, molesting innocent people in that way. What would your mother say about such behaviour?”
LaBoeuf looked surprised, and his face reddened. “Ah. She would not condone it.”
“Well, there you have it,” Mattie said.
They were both quiet then, staring into the hot embers of the fire. Mattie wondered at LaBoeuf and his changeableness. At times he was as well-mannered a man as Mattie had ever encountered, if somewhat pompous in his airs. Then he would turn and be bold as brass, without apology, as though he did not have to answer for his ways to any authority, earthly or otherwise. The man became more puzzling to her the more time she spent in his company.
“Your hair is all a mess again,” LaBoeuf said, after a pause. He was examining her in the firelight.
Mattie felt her face flush with embarrassment. “I do not know what sort of manners a boy learns in Louisiana, or in Texas for that matter, but in Arkansas a decent person does not seek to mortify others at every turn.”
LaBoeuf chuckled, and Mattie’s anger flamed. She was about to scold him when he spoke. “Whether you believe it or you do not, my aim has never been to mortify you. I only wished to know whether you would like me to assist you with your hair, for I know its untidiness vexes you.”
Mattie stared at him, taken aback. Its untidiness did vex her, and it vexed her worse still to know that he could so easily take stock of her. She felt strangely exposed under his eyes. Before she could think of something to say, LaBoeuf stood and went to Mattie’s pack, next to her saddle. He opened it and dug around until he found her hairbrush. He returned and sat next to her.
“Turn around,” he said softly.
Mattie turned her back to him. She felt him unfasten the bottom of her plait and begin to unravel it. They were both so silent that Mattie could hear only the low hissing of the fire, and LaBoeuf’s steady breathing behind her.
“It does not bother you that Rooster will know about your talent for braiding ladies’ hair?” Mattie asked as LaBoeuf brushed the tangles from the ends of her hair.
“Rooster would not know it if Hell itself cracked open beneath him. The whiskey has put him out,” LaBoeuf replied. He combed his fingers through her hair, brushing against the nape of her neck. Mattie shivered and pulled her legs to her chest, resting her chin on her knee. “Anyhow,” LaBoeuf continued, “I do not know if this can truly be counted as a talent, for I have only practiced on two subjects in my life.”
“I think it can be counted as a talent. You do it very well.”
“I thank you.”
“In any case it is preferable to your other talent, sneaking into ladies’ bedrooms.”
LaBoeuf gave a quiet guffaw. “I will quit that if it is such a burr under your saddle. I do not wish you to return to Yell County thinking ill of me.”
Mattie had no response to that, and so she gave none. An owl hooted in the woods, and she shivered.
“Your hair is a lovely thing,” LaBoeuf said, in a voice so soft it was almost as though he spoke only to himself and not to her.
Mattie’s brow furrowed, and she pressed her cold nose against her wool-covered arm. Whether what he said was true or not, she did not understand why he would say such a thing. To compliment her cooking or to assist her with managing her hair, she deemed acceptable behaviour. But this comment bothered her, and she did not know how to reply. Finally, she concluded that graciousness without any invitation for further embellishment would be best.
“Thank you,” she said.
LaBoeuf ran a finger down from the crown of her head to the nape of her neck, parting her hair. Mattie shivered, and felt goose bumps break out on her arms despite her warm coat. As LaBoeuf began to wind her hair into plaits, he cleared his throat.
“I did not mean to embarrass you, there.”
“You did not,” she replied. “Only I am not used to such talk.”
“What kind of talk is that?” he asked.
To this, Mattie found she again had no reply. She shrugged her shoulders.
“Ah,” said LaBoeuf. “Well, if it bothers you, I will simply remain silent.”
Neither of them said anything for a moment. “I doubt your ability to remain silent for any negligible period of time,” Mattie said finally.
LaBoeuf guffawed. “I should take offense to your saucy words, except you are very likely right.”
Mattie hid her smile against her wool-covered arm, and said nothing more. To her surprise, they passed the rest of the evening in a silence that she could only describe as peaceful.
***
The following morning, Mattie awoke to find herself alone next to the newly revived embers of their fire. LaBoeuf and Rooster were both gone; Mattie guessed one of them had thrown new kindling and sticks on the fire, for it was catching on. She was grateful, for the rain had stopped but it had turned cold in the night, and everything around them was covered in a thin white gauze of frost. If frost had not been such a thorn in her side when it came to raising crops up, Mattie would have found it beautiful.
She sat up and squared away her bedroll after giving it a shake to remove the frost. She then grabbed the water bucket from by the fire and walked down through the trees to the bank of the little crick.
Mattie picked her way down the slope, the empty bucket banging against her leg as she walked. She emerged from the trees close to the bank, and found Rooster and LaBoeuf there by the water, some twenty yards away from her. They stood facing one another, very close, and Rooster was saying something which seemed harsh, for he stuck a finger in LaBoeuf’s face, and LaBoeuf was frowning fiercely at him. She thought for a moment they might come to blows, but LaBoeuf took a step back and looked down at the ground.
She thought Rooster had slept through their talk by the fire. But perhaps it was not so. Perhaps he had heard them discussing his drunkenness and was angry. Mattie was briefly shamed, but still she felt that LaBoeuf had been full in the right to broach such a parley with her.
Quickly she filled her bucket and carried it back up to the campfire. She made coffee and got some salt pork frying. By the time she was warming the previous night’s beans and browning pieces of cornbread in the frying pan, Rooster and LaBoeuf returned from the crick.
“Good morning,” she called from her seat on a stump. She looked anxiously at LaBoeuf, but his expression was blank and revealed nothing to her. He sat down on the opposite side of the fire and poured some coffee into his tin cup.
“Good morning to you, sis,” replied Rooster. He sat down against a log next to her, between her and LaBoeuf. Mattie glanced at LaBoeuf through the smoke, but he seemed unwilling to meet her eyes.
They ate their breakfast mostly in silence, although Rooster took to humming as they cleaned up and broke camp, scattering the ashes of the fire and tacking up the horses. Mattie noticed that Rooster did not pull out his usual bottle of whiskey, and her stomach turned. He seemed cheerful enough, but he must have heard them talking, and the thought of it made her feel guilty. She did not care for duplicity of any kind.
When Rooster went down to the crick to fetch himself a canteen of water, Mattie went to LaBoeuf’s side. He was tacking up Sal and securing his bedroll and saddlebags.
“What were you and Rooster discussing down by the crick bank?” she asked.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that I came down to the crick to fetch water, and saw you and Rooster having a discussion which seemed unfriendly. What were you discussing?”
“Ah,” LaBoeuf said, frowning. He paused, scratching his chin with the tip of one thumb. “We got caught up in swapping range tales and so forth. Very little that would be of interest to anyone not well acquainted with Texas.”
Mattie regarded him shrewdly, noting that he would not meet her eyes, continuing instead to fiddle with the leather straps on his saddle, as though they needed adjusting.
“I am not well acquainted with Texas, but I am certainly interested. What did you speak of?”
LaBoeuf stopped his hands and rested them on the saddle. He eyed her for a moment, a troubled crease between his brows. “It was nothing of importance. I know what you are thinking. You are thinking we mean to leave you. I assure you we will not. We will all three be together when we apprehend Cunningham, so do not fret.”
“You cannot blame me for thinking it,” Mattie replied, pursing her lips. “You have tried to leave me behind several times now.”
“It is not what you are thinking, Mattie, believe me,” LaBoeuf said, the frown on his face deepening. He was sincere in this, no sarcasm evident in his tone, but he seemed troubled. Mattie did not know what to make of it.
“Well, I suppose I believe you,” she said. “Surely a Texas Ranger would not plot to leave a young woman alone in these woods with few supplies and no method of finding her way home, would he? Would you?”
“No, Mattie, I would not do that. Cogburn talks a big game, but he would not either. As I said, we will be together until this business is finished. Then we will go our separate ways.”
Mattie regarded him, and thought of what would happen at the end of this adventure, when LaBoeuf would climb on Sal and bid farewell to her with a tip of his hat and an “adios,” as he was fond of saying. Perhaps she would not see him again after that. It was serendipity enough for one lifetime that she had met him again after their time pursuing Tom Chaney.
The thought made her sadder than she would ever have guessed.
LaBoeuf tilted his head, squinting at her in the bright morning sunlight. “That is a sombre expression, even for you. What troubles you?”
Mattie met his eyes for a brief moment, and then looked away, shrugging her shoulders. “I was thinking that it is not likely that I will ever see my one hundred dollars in cash money again.”
“Ah,” LaBoeuf nodded. “You were thinking of your money. No wonder you looked so sorrowful.”
“Indeed,” Mattie said. She turned away from him then, and set herself to tacking Alma up.
Rooster joined them moments later, and they mounted their horses and set off to the west. Rooster did not pull his bottle out all day.
***
Mattie searched in vain for an opportunity to speak in private once again with LaBoeuf, but no such moment presented itself that day. They rode for many more hours than was typical for them, which Mattie supposed was due to the fine weather, and to Rooster’s sobriety.
Rooster, meanwhile, talked endlessly about people he knew and places he’d been. At one point, he had been explaining how to distinguish counterfeit Confederate currency from the genuine article for nearly twenty minutes when Mattie caught sight of the look of distaste on LaBoeuf’s face and guessed that Rooster knew about counterfeit bills because he had a hand in making them.
When they finally stopped for the night in what remained of an abandoned homestead shanty, Mattie was so saddle sore and exhausted by attempting to make sense of Rooster’s rambling and barely coherent tales that she did little more than eat a cold piece of cornbread and collapse on her bedroll to sleep.
The next morning dawned clear and bright. Mattie left the little shanty to find Rooster and LaBoeuf smoking on its partly collapsed front porch. Rooster was looking up at the sky.
“By my money, we will have snow by nightfall,” he said.
They ate a hurried breakfast and departed once more on their southwest course. By late afternoon they had reached the easternmost bends of the Red River, where Rooster announced that he was “wore out” and found them a spot to camp in a clearing near the sandy bank of one of the river’s oxbows.
While Mattie settled the horses in and got a fire going, Rooster sat on a stump and rolled several cigarettes. LaBoeuf cut down a thin birch sapling, stripped it of its bark and branches, and cut a little notch at its tip. He produced a coil of fishing line from his saddle bags, and said that he was going down to the water and would not return until he had caught them all some supper.
Mattie watched him disappear into the trees, and then glanced at Rooster. He was caught up in his occupation and did not seem to have even heard LaBoeuf speak. Mattie noticed the top of a bottle poking out of his coat pocket. She threw a large, dry branch on the fire, and followed LaBoeuf.
She found him leaning against a rock in a shady spot, casting his short line out and drawing it slowly back to him through the water with his gloved hand. His hat rested on the rock behind him. It was still and lovely by the river, and if not for the bare trees, it might have been a spring day.
“How is the fishing?” Mattie asked in a low tone, coming to a stop beside him. She did not want her voice to frighten the fish away.
“It would be better if it would cloud over, but I think it may yet. We shall see,” he replied.
Mattie leaned back against the rock next to him, watching his line pull a V through the surface of the water. It looked like a flock of geese flying north in a chevron.
“Do you like to fish?” LaBoeuf asked.
“Papa used to take us fishing on the river in summer, when the cotton was high and there was little that needed doing. I have not been since he died,” she said.
“I reckon that farm of yours must be very handsome in summer,” LaBoeuf said.
“It is,” Mattie agreed. The silence that followed was only interrupted by the gentle lapping of the water before them. “Mr. LaBoeuf, do you have faith that the wicked will be punished in the hereafter?”
“That is an odd question to be asking,” LaBoeuf said, frowning as he looked down at the rod in his hands. “Yet I suppose it is a thing to ponder. Yes, I do indeed believe that the wicked will be punished in the hereafter. But I reckon we ought to be sure and punish wickedness in this life, all the same.”
Mattie felt a smile pull at the corner of her mouth as she regarded his profile. “I agree.”
“Would you like to fish a while?” LaBoeuf asked.
“Do not trouble yourself,” Mattie replied, shaking her head. “I do not know how I should do it with only one arm.”
LaBoeuf seemed to consider this a moment, and then stood up straight, shaking his head. “Come here,” he said.
Mattie took a step closer to him, and he moved behind her and placed the rod in her right hand. Unsure how to manage it, she braced it against her hip.
“Cast out, and hold on tight to it,” LaBoeuf said, still standing close to her. Awkwardly, Mattie hauled back and cast the short line out, the lure dropping into the water with a quiet plink. LaBoeuf reached out and grabbed the line, slowly bringing it towards them. “There you are,” he said.
They repeated this exercise several times. LaBoeuf’s assistance embarrassed her somewhat, but Mattie was so pleased to be fishing that she did not reject it.
Mattie suggested letting the lure drop to the bottom of the shallows, and soon enough there was a sharp tug on the line. Before she could draw breath to say a word, LaBoeuf wrapped his arms around her and grabbed the rod and the line, helping her drag a darkly speckled, slippery channel catfish of middling size flopping onto the bank.
“Will you look at that,” he said, crouching down. “This fellow will be good eating.” He pulled his knife from his boot and grabbed hold of the squirming fish, tapping it firmly at the base of its head with the wooden handle of the knife. The fish undulated twice more, and then went still.
“I did not think you would have any luck with only a birch switch and a bit of cornbread and grease.”
Mattie turned to see that Rooster had joined them on the bank, and was looking sceptically down at the fish in LaBoeuf’s hands.
“I was not the one who had the luck. Mattie here caught this one,” LaBoeuf replied. “I think I will attempt to catch myself one as well, and then we will have a fine meal.”
“Hm,” Rooster said gruffly. He sounded dubious still. He lit a cigarette and tossed his match down in the sand.
They watched as LaBoeuf pulled from his coat pocket another piece of cornbread and put it on the hook. He cast out once, twice, three times, and nothing happened. On the fourth try, he lost his bait and had to put another piece on. He cast out again, and as he was reeling in, his rod gave a sharp downward yank.
“Bully for you,” Rooster said as LaBoeuf hauled a second catfish of similar size onto the bank.
Mattie watched as Rooster and LaBoeuf took their knives and neatly gutted the fish, throwing the heads and innards down to the sandy crick bank, where all manner of creatures would feast on the unwanted parts. She felt useless watching them, for filleting was a task which required two hands. Finally, she turned away and started back up the bank.
“Bring me the fillets when they are ready,” she said over her shoulder as she went.
Mattie returned to the camp, where she stoked up the fire, and placed their last three potatoes in the embers to cook in their skins. She set out a pan of cornmeal to dredge the fish, and placed the spider skillet over the fire to heat. She watched as the dollop of lard she dropped in the pan slid across its black surface, leaving a greasy slick in its wake.
Rooster came out of the bush, a tin plate of fillets in his hands. He passed it to her and looked around their little camp.
“We need more wood,” he said. “LaBoeuf is down there yet, washing the knives. Never have I met a more fastidious man. I think it is good enough to wipe the scales off on your trouser leg, but I reckon that is a place where we differ.”
“There is nothing wrong with taking good care of your things,” Mattie replied.
“Hmph. I will go find us enough wood for the night.” With that, he departed.
Mattie dredged the fish in cornmeal and laid them in the hot fat, which spat and sizzled noisily. As she did so, she thought about LaBoeuf down by the river’s edge, painstakingly removing every scale from his knives in the growing darkness, careful not to dirty his boots or his buckskin. Mattie found herself hard pressed not to smile at the thought.
The fish was ready to be turned. Without thinking, Mattie reached out and grabbed the handle of the skillet to remove it from the fire, her hand wrapping around the hot metal.
Mattie yelped, immediately dropping the spider skillet. The fall jostled the pieces of fish, sending fat spitting into the hot embers, but none of it fell into the fire. Her heart pounded as the burn on her hand caught up with her initial shock, throbbing fiercely. She dug her teeth into her bottom lip to bite back the curse which threatened to give itself voice.
“What is it?” LaBoeuf called, emerging from the trees. “I heard you cry out.”
“It is nothing,” Mattie replied as he stopped before her, trying to keep the pained waver out of her voice. “I grabbed the handle of the skillet with my bare hand, and burnt myself. It is my own fault; I was careless.”
LaBoeuf took her hand in his and turned it over, examining the angry red stripe across her palm. Wincing, he gave her a sympathetic glance, and bade her to sit down on a log by the fire. He took the empty water bucket and disappeared back into the woods, reappearing a moment later with fresh, cold crick water.
“Stick your hand in here and it will stall the burn,” he said, setting the bucket down at her feet. He sat down beside her on the log, looking expectantly at her. Mattie did as he instructed, flinching at the sharp cold on the burn. After a moment, however, the stinging began to subside.
“I could have fetched the water myself,” she said. “You did not need to do that for me.”
“I know it,” LaBoeuf replied, pulling out his pipe and filling it with tobacco.
“Turn the fish over,” Mattie said, nodding at the pan. “I do not want all our catch to be burnt to a crisp on account of my carelessness.”
LaBoeuf took a fork and carefully turned the fish over, revealing a golden-brown crust of cornmeal. He sat back down beside her, and lit his pipe.
He smoked in silence as she soaked her hand. When he had finished, he tapped the ashes out into the fire and put the pipe aside. He stood and walked to his pack, rummaging for a moment before returning with a handful of rags. He sat down beside her.
“May I?” he asked, reaching for her hand.
Mattie nodded, allowing him to take her hand in his. He lifted her hand from the bucket of water and dried it carefully with one of the rags.
“Here,” he said, producing a small tin pot from his coat. He unscrewed the top, revealing a sticky greenish-brown salve. Mattie peered at it sceptically.
He dabbed the salve on her burn, gently rubbing it into her tender skin. It stung for an instant, and then a cool, soothing sensation spread across the palm of her hand.
LaBoeuf set aside the salve and reached for a clean rag, which he began to bind around her hand. Mattie examined the top of his head as he worked. His cowlick stuck up and waved in the breeze.
“I do not like that I cannot bandage my own hand,” she said, after a long silence.
LaBoeuf glanced up from his work and contemplated her. “Most people would require some assistance tending an injury such as this, myself and Rooster included,” he said. He looked back down and finished tying off the rag. “It is nearly impossible to do every single thing on one’s own. Why is it that you make such a point of never being needful?”
Mattie frowned. “I do not behave in a particular fashion because I believe it will be vexing to you, or to anyone. I am not myself out of a sense of pride. I simply behave in the manner closest to that which is right.”
“Grit,” LaBoeuf intoned, a hint of gentle teasing in his voice as he regarded her, his eyes twinkling. He still held her hand cupped in his own. Mattie grew uncomfortable under his gaze and made to pull her hand away. LaBoeuf held on, lifting the hand to his mouth and dropping a kiss on her knuckles, a quick press of dry lips on her skin.
“There,” he said. “Now it will heal all right.”
Mattie stared at him in surprise, but did not have a chance to remonstrate him for his boldness, for Rooster emerged from the woods then, a bundle of wood for the fire in his arms.
“How’s that fish coming along, there?” Rooster asked. He dropped the wood by the fire and straightened up, looking at them both. His canny gaze landed on their still joined hands, and then came to rest on LaBoeuf’s face. As Mattie looked on, some silent exchange passed between the two men, and LaBoeuf’s jaw tightened, and he looked away. Mattie extracted her hand from LaBoeuf’s grasp and stood.
“I burnt my hand on the skillet, and Mr. LaBoeuf was kind enough to bandage it,” Mattie said, holding out the injured appendage for his examination. “I will put the fish back on. Our supper will not be much longer.”
LaBoeuf stood as well. “You should not trouble your injury. I will do it.”
“That is not necessary. I can manage it.” Mattie grabbed the coarse piece of sacking she had been using to move hot things and scour pots. She wrapped it around the handle of the skillet and moved it back over the flames, ignoring the answering throb of her burn as she made use of her hand.
“Mattie, you are not our housekeeper,” LaBoeuf said quietly, almost as though he did not want Rooster to hear. “I can cook the fish well enough if you cannot. Your hand is injured and you ought to rest it. Do not be obstinate.”
He was right, Mattie knew. They had equal parts in this venture, and she was not there simply to cook their meals. Her hand ached, and she decided that in this instance, to contradict him would serve only her pride and not the greater good.
“All right,” she said, backing away from the fire. She sat down on a flat boulder nearby and rested her hand in her lap.
Rooster, meanwhile, had sat down on the opposite side of the fire, and had his bottle of liquor out. In silence they watched LaBoeuf finish frying the fish.
Mattie guessed that the fresh fish and the liquor put Rooster in a fine mood, for while they ate, he talked animatedly of the war and some of his adventures before and after.
“I rode with a fella named Avery Boyle, an Irishman from up north someplace,” he said after they had finished their supper and the moon had risen. “This was during the war, if I recall, as we were in Missouri at the time. We was camped near the Kansas border. Anyhow, we was stuck there for some days, and we all got to drinking. This fella, Boyle, he had a bellyful and fell into one of the fires. Drunk as we were, it took us some effort to heave him out. His face was all burnt and the whole camp stank of it, the hair and all, but he was alive. He weren’t able to say much, and we sat debating what to do with him for some time. Few fellas thought it kinder to shoot him, as he was in considerable pain and we had nothing to relieve it. We had few supplies generally at that time. What was it, the winter of ’63? I do not precisely recall now. Anyhow, before we could determine whether it would be best to kill him, one fella said he knew of a remedy for burns. His name was Mose Pearl, and he was from the Great Smoky Mountains or thereabouts, and it was some old Cherokee remedy. He cooked it up from roots and things, and put it all over Boyle’s face, and then we had him sleep out in the woods with a bottle of corn liquor because his moaning was bothersome.”
Rooster paused here and took a deep swig of his whiskey, staring into the fire. Mattie could not tell if that was meant to be the end of his story or not, for it held no conclusion in it. Finally, she spoke. “What happened to the Irishman with the burnt face?”
“Well, next morning we got up and he was gone, nowhere to be found in the woods. It was a strange thing. We decided he had probably expired and a big cat or some other creature had come and got him, and we all ought to be grateful it didn’t come for us or our horses.”
“That is a terrible thing,” Mattie said, wondering as she always did with Rooster what the purpose in the telling of this story was.
“Terrible thing, and a strange thing at that,” Rooster continued. “We were in a skirmish that day and lost some men and moved south. Couple nights later, Boyle comes strolling out of the woods, whistling a tune with his bedroll hung over his shoulder. Stranger yet, his face was as good as new, if a bit pale, and taught and shiny like a new apple.”
Mattie stared at him. “You are pulling my leg,” she said, glancing over at LaBoeuf. The other man was smoking his pipe and regarding Rooster with a sceptical expression on his face.
“I ain’t pulling your leg, sis,” Rooster replied. “Boyle did not know where he had been or for how long, or even how he came to be with us again. We asked Pearl about it and he just scratched his beard and said he only did what his great granny used to do, and was not certain whether or not any of this had gone as it ought to have. Anyhow, didn’t matter none. Boyle departed our company not long after, and I believe he died up in Virginia the next spring. Pearl stayed on until we got word that Richmond fell. When we heard, he stood and said, ‘Well, boys, I reckon I better go home and see my wife,’ and he walked off into the woods. Never heard nothing about him again.”
Silence fell between them. The fire popped and hissed, and an owl hooted somewhere in the woods.
LaBoeuf shook his head, as though he did not think he would ever make sense of Rooster. “I am going to turn in,” he said, standing up to arrange his bedroll. “Goodnight.”
“Goodnight,” Mattie replied. Rooster said nothing.
They were quiet for several minutes after LaBoeuf got settled, turning his back on the fire. Mattie glanced over at Rooster, whose chin was drooping close to his chest.
“I am going down to the river to clean the dishes, and then I think I will also turn in,” she said.
Rooster’s only response was a grunt. Mattie stood and gathered the supper dishes, and carried them down to the river in the crook of her arm. The moon was low and bright, casting enough light for her to find her way down to the water. There she kneeled in the sand and scrubbed the plates and pans while thinking about Rooster’s strange story. She wondered whether LaBoeuf had wanted to needle Rooster about the unsavoury nature of his time on the Kansas border during the war. Knowing LaBoeuf, he almost certainly had. She stacked the clean plates up and smiled to herself.
“What is making you look so giddy?”
Mattie jumped up and stood at the sound of a voice right next to her. Rooster was leaning against a tree trunk with one hand, peering down at her. She had not even heard him approach.
“Do I look giddy?” she asked.
“You do. It is a strange and unsettling thing to see such a girlish expression on that face of yours,” he replied. Stiffly, he leaned back against the tree trunk and placed an unlit cigarette in his mouth.
Mattie scowled at him. “Whether my expressions are pleasing to your eye is no concern of mine.”
“You got a fella back home?” Rooster asked, rummaging about in his coat pockets, presumably on the hunt for a match.
“In spite of your tendency towards drunken stupor, I had thought you wiser than that. It should be obvious that I do not have a beau, and why.”
Rooster found a match and struck it, holding it to the end of the cigarette and observing her in the brief flame. He tossed the match aside and coughed wetly. “I once made the acquaintance of a woman who had been born with hands which resembled crawfish claws more than they did hands. She was a fine show-woman, and had been married three or four times, if I recall.”
“Yes, but to what sort of men, I wonder?”
“Hmph,” Rooster grumbled. “I do not remember, but if you are going to be particular about it, then you have no one to blame but yourself, baby sis.”
Prickled, Mattie frowned. “I would rather be particular than accept any old fool.”
Rooster regarded her, puffing on his cigarette. “I did not think we were talking about any old fool.”
“I do not know what you mean,” Mattie replied. She looked away.
“You are a bad liar. Not enough practice,” Rooster said, a crooked smile splitting his face. “Anyhow, as far as old fools go, LaBoeuf is not so bad. He likes too well the sound of his own voice, and it is unnatural for a fella to be vainer than his woman, but he is braver and loyaler than most, and he is a good shot. Perhaps you ought to encourage him before his head is turned by another.”
Mattie gaped at him, astounded and mortified. She would not give him the satisfaction of acknowledging his preposterous comments. “I see you have a ‘brick in your hat’ and will not talk sense until you are sober. If you are ever sober. Goodnight.”
“It is when I am on a spree that I talk the most sense, but you tell yourself whatever you like, girl.”
Mattie picked up the stack of clean dishes and awkwardly tucked them in her arm. She turned and walked back up the riverbank to their campfire, silently cursing Rooster the whole time. He had most widows beat as far as the enterprise of busybodying went.
She approached the welcoming circle of light thrown by their fire. She set the dishes down, and looked at LaBoeuf’s shadowed form on the far side of the fire. He was dead asleep and snoring.
If Rooster thought that she was silly enough to make a fool of herself by giving LaBoeuf any kind of “encouragement” whatsoever, his brain was more softened by whiskey than she had previously feared.
As she put the dishes away and lay down in her own bed roll, a light snow began to fall from the dark night sky.
Chapter 7
Author: lindentree
Rating: T
Character(s): Mattie Ross/LaBoeuf, Rooster Cogburn
Word Count: 6,949
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.
together until this business is finished
Cogburn was drunk. There was no mistaking it. He was drunk, and he had been for the two days since they left Arkadelphia. He showed no signs of slowing or stopping.
They were camped on the shore of a little crick not far from the town of Hope. It had rained steadily all day, but the trees provided some cover. Rooster had reclined against the wet trunk of a walnut tree the moment they erected a shelter and started up a campfire. Mattie and LaBoeuf did most of the work while Rooster sat drinking. Mattie made them a meal of bacon and beans and cornbread from the supplies they had obtained in Gum Springs, but by the time it was ready, Rooster had fallen dead asleep and would not be roused. Mattie and LaBoeuf ate together in silence, the rain beating a disheartening tattoo on the makeshift canvas roof over their heads.
After they ate, LaBoeuf smoked his pipe and Mattie sat to his left, silently staring into the fire, wondering if she ought to be at home with Mama and Little Frank and Victoria, tending the cool weather crops and putting up stores for the long winter ahead, rather than sitting on the cold ground in the wilderness with a drunkard and a Texas cuss who was little better than a snake in the grass.
For the first time Mattie truly thought that she may have been a fool to undertake this errand. One such adventure was likely enough for a single lifetime. Perhaps she ought to have let LaBoeuf leave Yell County without her.
“I do not like it,” LaBoeuf muttered.
The sound of his voice after such a long spell of silence startled Mattie, and she looked at him. “What is it that you do not like?” she asked.
“I do not like this strangeness that has come up between us and I would like to put it aside,” he replied, regarding her with great seriousness. He continued, his voice lowered, and Mattie guessed he had rehearsed his words. “We cannot trust that Cogburn will not do us a bad turn one of these days. Not out of spite or malice, but because he is a drunk and cannot be trusted. I take no pleasure in saying this, but it is the truth. We must make sure that the two of us are of a like mind on this errand, or else it is each man for himself. Or each woman.”
Mattie sighed. “I am loathe to admit it, but I agree. I reckon we are still on the right track but I do not think that can be credited to Rooster’s designs. I think we have been lucky, is all.” She trailed off, and then frowned as she recalled the earlier part of his speech. “What did you mean, ‘a strangeness’?”
“I mean this distance that has come between us since Hot Springs,” he said. “It had been a rough road before that, I think we can agree, but we had made our peace with each other. We were ‘pards’ on the trail. Since Hot Springs we have not had more than a few civil words between us, and I do not like it.”
Mattie was surprised and rather embarrassed that he was taking the bull by the horns in this way. Yes, they had fallen out, but Mattie did not think he much cared beyond his wounded pride. Before she could respond, he continued.
“Do you truly believe I would harm you, Mattie? That I would...” LaBoeuf paused here and frowned, seeming to struggle for his words in a way very unlike him. “That I would force myself on you, as Cunningham attempted to do?”
Mattie gaped at him, her face flaming at the impertinent subject. “Why do you ask me this?”
“In Hot Springs you said a woman is not safe leaving her door unlocked with me about,” he said. His expression was wary and troubled as he looked at her, and his eyes conveyed some wound she did not realise she had inflicted.
“Oh,” Mattie replied. She did not know he had taken her words so dearly to heart. “Aside from the occasional thrashing, I know you would never deliberately do me harm.”
LaBoeuf did not smile at this. He looked away from her, his expression very dour. “I do not like the impression you seem to have of my character.”
“What other impression am I to have but the one you have presented me with?”
“I thought we had made friends of each other. It seemed that way before we reached Hot Springs.”
“I thought the same. But you were rude and untoward, and then conspired with Rooster to get rid of me despite our prior agreement to go on as pardners. What was I to make of such behaviour?”
LaBoeuf frowned and looked down at the ground, seeming to contemplate her words. “You are right,” he said, after a pause. “I treated you wrongly. I should not have made any such plot with Rooster. I reckoned you would have had enough adventure and would be eager to return home. I was glad, for I thought it would be safer for you. I forgot how dogged you are in your determination.”
Mattie nodded, accepting his apology, demeaning as it was.
“As for the other, I have no excuse. Truly I came to your door to see that you were all right. I reckon the drink... Well, I did not intend to offend your honour, nor your good reputation.”
“If you did not drink so much whiskey or make a habit of entering ladies’ bedrooms uninvited, you would not find yourself in this low position of having to make amends for your behaviour,” Mattie said.
LaBoeuf grimaced. “I will own that is likely true. However, that you are the first and the only lady to give me such a hard time about entering your bedroom unasked.”
“There have been others?” Mattie asked, trying to keep her voice down so as not to wake Rooster. “You are incorrigible! What did they do, if they did not give you a hard time?”
“Typically they have cried, and always they have given me the information I sought,” he replied. “When I made your acquaintance in Fort Smith those five years ago, I thought you would give me the easiest time of all, given your young age, and that you were sick and recently bereaved besides. Then you opened your mouth.”
“You are a devil,” Mattie said. “I am shocked that the Texas Rangers encourage these kinds of investigative methods.”
“They do not, strictly speaking. That is my own method.”
“You ought to be strung up by your toenails, molesting innocent people in that way. What would your mother say about such behaviour?”
LaBoeuf looked surprised, and his face reddened. “Ah. She would not condone it.”
“Well, there you have it,” Mattie said.
They were both quiet then, staring into the hot embers of the fire. Mattie wondered at LaBoeuf and his changeableness. At times he was as well-mannered a man as Mattie had ever encountered, if somewhat pompous in his airs. Then he would turn and be bold as brass, without apology, as though he did not have to answer for his ways to any authority, earthly or otherwise. The man became more puzzling to her the more time she spent in his company.
“Your hair is all a mess again,” LaBoeuf said, after a pause. He was examining her in the firelight.
Mattie felt her face flush with embarrassment. “I do not know what sort of manners a boy learns in Louisiana, or in Texas for that matter, but in Arkansas a decent person does not seek to mortify others at every turn.”
LaBoeuf chuckled, and Mattie’s anger flamed. She was about to scold him when he spoke. “Whether you believe it or you do not, my aim has never been to mortify you. I only wished to know whether you would like me to assist you with your hair, for I know its untidiness vexes you.”
Mattie stared at him, taken aback. Its untidiness did vex her, and it vexed her worse still to know that he could so easily take stock of her. She felt strangely exposed under his eyes. Before she could think of something to say, LaBoeuf stood and went to Mattie’s pack, next to her saddle. He opened it and dug around until he found her hairbrush. He returned and sat next to her.
“Turn around,” he said softly.
Mattie turned her back to him. She felt him unfasten the bottom of her plait and begin to unravel it. They were both so silent that Mattie could hear only the low hissing of the fire, and LaBoeuf’s steady breathing behind her.
“It does not bother you that Rooster will know about your talent for braiding ladies’ hair?” Mattie asked as LaBoeuf brushed the tangles from the ends of her hair.
“Rooster would not know it if Hell itself cracked open beneath him. The whiskey has put him out,” LaBoeuf replied. He combed his fingers through her hair, brushing against the nape of her neck. Mattie shivered and pulled her legs to her chest, resting her chin on her knee. “Anyhow,” LaBoeuf continued, “I do not know if this can truly be counted as a talent, for I have only practiced on two subjects in my life.”
“I think it can be counted as a talent. You do it very well.”
“I thank you.”
“In any case it is preferable to your other talent, sneaking into ladies’ bedrooms.”
LaBoeuf gave a quiet guffaw. “I will quit that if it is such a burr under your saddle. I do not wish you to return to Yell County thinking ill of me.”
Mattie had no response to that, and so she gave none. An owl hooted in the woods, and she shivered.
“Your hair is a lovely thing,” LaBoeuf said, in a voice so soft it was almost as though he spoke only to himself and not to her.
Mattie’s brow furrowed, and she pressed her cold nose against her wool-covered arm. Whether what he said was true or not, she did not understand why he would say such a thing. To compliment her cooking or to assist her with managing her hair, she deemed acceptable behaviour. But this comment bothered her, and she did not know how to reply. Finally, she concluded that graciousness without any invitation for further embellishment would be best.
“Thank you,” she said.
LaBoeuf ran a finger down from the crown of her head to the nape of her neck, parting her hair. Mattie shivered, and felt goose bumps break out on her arms despite her warm coat. As LaBoeuf began to wind her hair into plaits, he cleared his throat.
“I did not mean to embarrass you, there.”
“You did not,” she replied. “Only I am not used to such talk.”
“What kind of talk is that?” he asked.
To this, Mattie found she again had no reply. She shrugged her shoulders.
“Ah,” said LaBoeuf. “Well, if it bothers you, I will simply remain silent.”
Neither of them said anything for a moment. “I doubt your ability to remain silent for any negligible period of time,” Mattie said finally.
LaBoeuf guffawed. “I should take offense to your saucy words, except you are very likely right.”
Mattie hid her smile against her wool-covered arm, and said nothing more. To her surprise, they passed the rest of the evening in a silence that she could only describe as peaceful.
***
The following morning, Mattie awoke to find herself alone next to the newly revived embers of their fire. LaBoeuf and Rooster were both gone; Mattie guessed one of them had thrown new kindling and sticks on the fire, for it was catching on. She was grateful, for the rain had stopped but it had turned cold in the night, and everything around them was covered in a thin white gauze of frost. If frost had not been such a thorn in her side when it came to raising crops up, Mattie would have found it beautiful.
She sat up and squared away her bedroll after giving it a shake to remove the frost. She then grabbed the water bucket from by the fire and walked down through the trees to the bank of the little crick.
Mattie picked her way down the slope, the empty bucket banging against her leg as she walked. She emerged from the trees close to the bank, and found Rooster and LaBoeuf there by the water, some twenty yards away from her. They stood facing one another, very close, and Rooster was saying something which seemed harsh, for he stuck a finger in LaBoeuf’s face, and LaBoeuf was frowning fiercely at him. She thought for a moment they might come to blows, but LaBoeuf took a step back and looked down at the ground.
She thought Rooster had slept through their talk by the fire. But perhaps it was not so. Perhaps he had heard them discussing his drunkenness and was angry. Mattie was briefly shamed, but still she felt that LaBoeuf had been full in the right to broach such a parley with her.
Quickly she filled her bucket and carried it back up to the campfire. She made coffee and got some salt pork frying. By the time she was warming the previous night’s beans and browning pieces of cornbread in the frying pan, Rooster and LaBoeuf returned from the crick.
“Good morning,” she called from her seat on a stump. She looked anxiously at LaBoeuf, but his expression was blank and revealed nothing to her. He sat down on the opposite side of the fire and poured some coffee into his tin cup.
“Good morning to you, sis,” replied Rooster. He sat down against a log next to her, between her and LaBoeuf. Mattie glanced at LaBoeuf through the smoke, but he seemed unwilling to meet her eyes.
They ate their breakfast mostly in silence, although Rooster took to humming as they cleaned up and broke camp, scattering the ashes of the fire and tacking up the horses. Mattie noticed that Rooster did not pull out his usual bottle of whiskey, and her stomach turned. He seemed cheerful enough, but he must have heard them talking, and the thought of it made her feel guilty. She did not care for duplicity of any kind.
When Rooster went down to the crick to fetch himself a canteen of water, Mattie went to LaBoeuf’s side. He was tacking up Sal and securing his bedroll and saddlebags.
“What were you and Rooster discussing down by the crick bank?” she asked.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that I came down to the crick to fetch water, and saw you and Rooster having a discussion which seemed unfriendly. What were you discussing?”
“Ah,” LaBoeuf said, frowning. He paused, scratching his chin with the tip of one thumb. “We got caught up in swapping range tales and so forth. Very little that would be of interest to anyone not well acquainted with Texas.”
Mattie regarded him shrewdly, noting that he would not meet her eyes, continuing instead to fiddle with the leather straps on his saddle, as though they needed adjusting.
“I am not well acquainted with Texas, but I am certainly interested. What did you speak of?”
LaBoeuf stopped his hands and rested them on the saddle. He eyed her for a moment, a troubled crease between his brows. “It was nothing of importance. I know what you are thinking. You are thinking we mean to leave you. I assure you we will not. We will all three be together when we apprehend Cunningham, so do not fret.”
“You cannot blame me for thinking it,” Mattie replied, pursing her lips. “You have tried to leave me behind several times now.”
“It is not what you are thinking, Mattie, believe me,” LaBoeuf said, the frown on his face deepening. He was sincere in this, no sarcasm evident in his tone, but he seemed troubled. Mattie did not know what to make of it.
“Well, I suppose I believe you,” she said. “Surely a Texas Ranger would not plot to leave a young woman alone in these woods with few supplies and no method of finding her way home, would he? Would you?”
“No, Mattie, I would not do that. Cogburn talks a big game, but he would not either. As I said, we will be together until this business is finished. Then we will go our separate ways.”
Mattie regarded him, and thought of what would happen at the end of this adventure, when LaBoeuf would climb on Sal and bid farewell to her with a tip of his hat and an “adios,” as he was fond of saying. Perhaps she would not see him again after that. It was serendipity enough for one lifetime that she had met him again after their time pursuing Tom Chaney.
The thought made her sadder than she would ever have guessed.
LaBoeuf tilted his head, squinting at her in the bright morning sunlight. “That is a sombre expression, even for you. What troubles you?”
Mattie met his eyes for a brief moment, and then looked away, shrugging her shoulders. “I was thinking that it is not likely that I will ever see my one hundred dollars in cash money again.”
“Ah,” LaBoeuf nodded. “You were thinking of your money. No wonder you looked so sorrowful.”
“Indeed,” Mattie said. She turned away from him then, and set herself to tacking Alma up.
Rooster joined them moments later, and they mounted their horses and set off to the west. Rooster did not pull his bottle out all day.
***
Mattie searched in vain for an opportunity to speak in private once again with LaBoeuf, but no such moment presented itself that day. They rode for many more hours than was typical for them, which Mattie supposed was due to the fine weather, and to Rooster’s sobriety.
Rooster, meanwhile, talked endlessly about people he knew and places he’d been. At one point, he had been explaining how to distinguish counterfeit Confederate currency from the genuine article for nearly twenty minutes when Mattie caught sight of the look of distaste on LaBoeuf’s face and guessed that Rooster knew about counterfeit bills because he had a hand in making them.
When they finally stopped for the night in what remained of an abandoned homestead shanty, Mattie was so saddle sore and exhausted by attempting to make sense of Rooster’s rambling and barely coherent tales that she did little more than eat a cold piece of cornbread and collapse on her bedroll to sleep.
The next morning dawned clear and bright. Mattie left the little shanty to find Rooster and LaBoeuf smoking on its partly collapsed front porch. Rooster was looking up at the sky.
“By my money, we will have snow by nightfall,” he said.
They ate a hurried breakfast and departed once more on their southwest course. By late afternoon they had reached the easternmost bends of the Red River, where Rooster announced that he was “wore out” and found them a spot to camp in a clearing near the sandy bank of one of the river’s oxbows.
While Mattie settled the horses in and got a fire going, Rooster sat on a stump and rolled several cigarettes. LaBoeuf cut down a thin birch sapling, stripped it of its bark and branches, and cut a little notch at its tip. He produced a coil of fishing line from his saddle bags, and said that he was going down to the water and would not return until he had caught them all some supper.
Mattie watched him disappear into the trees, and then glanced at Rooster. He was caught up in his occupation and did not seem to have even heard LaBoeuf speak. Mattie noticed the top of a bottle poking out of his coat pocket. She threw a large, dry branch on the fire, and followed LaBoeuf.
She found him leaning against a rock in a shady spot, casting his short line out and drawing it slowly back to him through the water with his gloved hand. His hat rested on the rock behind him. It was still and lovely by the river, and if not for the bare trees, it might have been a spring day.
“How is the fishing?” Mattie asked in a low tone, coming to a stop beside him. She did not want her voice to frighten the fish away.
“It would be better if it would cloud over, but I think it may yet. We shall see,” he replied.
Mattie leaned back against the rock next to him, watching his line pull a V through the surface of the water. It looked like a flock of geese flying north in a chevron.
“Do you like to fish?” LaBoeuf asked.
“Papa used to take us fishing on the river in summer, when the cotton was high and there was little that needed doing. I have not been since he died,” she said.
“I reckon that farm of yours must be very handsome in summer,” LaBoeuf said.
“It is,” Mattie agreed. The silence that followed was only interrupted by the gentle lapping of the water before them. “Mr. LaBoeuf, do you have faith that the wicked will be punished in the hereafter?”
“That is an odd question to be asking,” LaBoeuf said, frowning as he looked down at the rod in his hands. “Yet I suppose it is a thing to ponder. Yes, I do indeed believe that the wicked will be punished in the hereafter. But I reckon we ought to be sure and punish wickedness in this life, all the same.”
Mattie felt a smile pull at the corner of her mouth as she regarded his profile. “I agree.”
“Would you like to fish a while?” LaBoeuf asked.
“Do not trouble yourself,” Mattie replied, shaking her head. “I do not know how I should do it with only one arm.”
LaBoeuf seemed to consider this a moment, and then stood up straight, shaking his head. “Come here,” he said.
Mattie took a step closer to him, and he moved behind her and placed the rod in her right hand. Unsure how to manage it, she braced it against her hip.
“Cast out, and hold on tight to it,” LaBoeuf said, still standing close to her. Awkwardly, Mattie hauled back and cast the short line out, the lure dropping into the water with a quiet plink. LaBoeuf reached out and grabbed the line, slowly bringing it towards them. “There you are,” he said.
They repeated this exercise several times. LaBoeuf’s assistance embarrassed her somewhat, but Mattie was so pleased to be fishing that she did not reject it.
Mattie suggested letting the lure drop to the bottom of the shallows, and soon enough there was a sharp tug on the line. Before she could draw breath to say a word, LaBoeuf wrapped his arms around her and grabbed the rod and the line, helping her drag a darkly speckled, slippery channel catfish of middling size flopping onto the bank.
“Will you look at that,” he said, crouching down. “This fellow will be good eating.” He pulled his knife from his boot and grabbed hold of the squirming fish, tapping it firmly at the base of its head with the wooden handle of the knife. The fish undulated twice more, and then went still.
“I did not think you would have any luck with only a birch switch and a bit of cornbread and grease.”
Mattie turned to see that Rooster had joined them on the bank, and was looking sceptically down at the fish in LaBoeuf’s hands.
“I was not the one who had the luck. Mattie here caught this one,” LaBoeuf replied. “I think I will attempt to catch myself one as well, and then we will have a fine meal.”
“Hm,” Rooster said gruffly. He sounded dubious still. He lit a cigarette and tossed his match down in the sand.
They watched as LaBoeuf pulled from his coat pocket another piece of cornbread and put it on the hook. He cast out once, twice, three times, and nothing happened. On the fourth try, he lost his bait and had to put another piece on. He cast out again, and as he was reeling in, his rod gave a sharp downward yank.
“Bully for you,” Rooster said as LaBoeuf hauled a second catfish of similar size onto the bank.
Mattie watched as Rooster and LaBoeuf took their knives and neatly gutted the fish, throwing the heads and innards down to the sandy crick bank, where all manner of creatures would feast on the unwanted parts. She felt useless watching them, for filleting was a task which required two hands. Finally, she turned away and started back up the bank.
“Bring me the fillets when they are ready,” she said over her shoulder as she went.
Mattie returned to the camp, where she stoked up the fire, and placed their last three potatoes in the embers to cook in their skins. She set out a pan of cornmeal to dredge the fish, and placed the spider skillet over the fire to heat. She watched as the dollop of lard she dropped in the pan slid across its black surface, leaving a greasy slick in its wake.
Rooster came out of the bush, a tin plate of fillets in his hands. He passed it to her and looked around their little camp.
“We need more wood,” he said. “LaBoeuf is down there yet, washing the knives. Never have I met a more fastidious man. I think it is good enough to wipe the scales off on your trouser leg, but I reckon that is a place where we differ.”
“There is nothing wrong with taking good care of your things,” Mattie replied.
“Hmph. I will go find us enough wood for the night.” With that, he departed.
Mattie dredged the fish in cornmeal and laid them in the hot fat, which spat and sizzled noisily. As she did so, she thought about LaBoeuf down by the river’s edge, painstakingly removing every scale from his knives in the growing darkness, careful not to dirty his boots or his buckskin. Mattie found herself hard pressed not to smile at the thought.
The fish was ready to be turned. Without thinking, Mattie reached out and grabbed the handle of the skillet to remove it from the fire, her hand wrapping around the hot metal.
Mattie yelped, immediately dropping the spider skillet. The fall jostled the pieces of fish, sending fat spitting into the hot embers, but none of it fell into the fire. Her heart pounded as the burn on her hand caught up with her initial shock, throbbing fiercely. She dug her teeth into her bottom lip to bite back the curse which threatened to give itself voice.
“What is it?” LaBoeuf called, emerging from the trees. “I heard you cry out.”
“It is nothing,” Mattie replied as he stopped before her, trying to keep the pained waver out of her voice. “I grabbed the handle of the skillet with my bare hand, and burnt myself. It is my own fault; I was careless.”
LaBoeuf took her hand in his and turned it over, examining the angry red stripe across her palm. Wincing, he gave her a sympathetic glance, and bade her to sit down on a log by the fire. He took the empty water bucket and disappeared back into the woods, reappearing a moment later with fresh, cold crick water.
“Stick your hand in here and it will stall the burn,” he said, setting the bucket down at her feet. He sat down beside her on the log, looking expectantly at her. Mattie did as he instructed, flinching at the sharp cold on the burn. After a moment, however, the stinging began to subside.
“I could have fetched the water myself,” she said. “You did not need to do that for me.”
“I know it,” LaBoeuf replied, pulling out his pipe and filling it with tobacco.
“Turn the fish over,” Mattie said, nodding at the pan. “I do not want all our catch to be burnt to a crisp on account of my carelessness.”
LaBoeuf took a fork and carefully turned the fish over, revealing a golden-brown crust of cornmeal. He sat back down beside her, and lit his pipe.
He smoked in silence as she soaked her hand. When he had finished, he tapped the ashes out into the fire and put the pipe aside. He stood and walked to his pack, rummaging for a moment before returning with a handful of rags. He sat down beside her.
“May I?” he asked, reaching for her hand.
Mattie nodded, allowing him to take her hand in his. He lifted her hand from the bucket of water and dried it carefully with one of the rags.
“Here,” he said, producing a small tin pot from his coat. He unscrewed the top, revealing a sticky greenish-brown salve. Mattie peered at it sceptically.
He dabbed the salve on her burn, gently rubbing it into her tender skin. It stung for an instant, and then a cool, soothing sensation spread across the palm of her hand.
LaBoeuf set aside the salve and reached for a clean rag, which he began to bind around her hand. Mattie examined the top of his head as he worked. His cowlick stuck up and waved in the breeze.
“I do not like that I cannot bandage my own hand,” she said, after a long silence.
LaBoeuf glanced up from his work and contemplated her. “Most people would require some assistance tending an injury such as this, myself and Rooster included,” he said. He looked back down and finished tying off the rag. “It is nearly impossible to do every single thing on one’s own. Why is it that you make such a point of never being needful?”
Mattie frowned. “I do not behave in a particular fashion because I believe it will be vexing to you, or to anyone. I am not myself out of a sense of pride. I simply behave in the manner closest to that which is right.”
“Grit,” LaBoeuf intoned, a hint of gentle teasing in his voice as he regarded her, his eyes twinkling. He still held her hand cupped in his own. Mattie grew uncomfortable under his gaze and made to pull her hand away. LaBoeuf held on, lifting the hand to his mouth and dropping a kiss on her knuckles, a quick press of dry lips on her skin.
“There,” he said. “Now it will heal all right.”
Mattie stared at him in surprise, but did not have a chance to remonstrate him for his boldness, for Rooster emerged from the woods then, a bundle of wood for the fire in his arms.
“How’s that fish coming along, there?” Rooster asked. He dropped the wood by the fire and straightened up, looking at them both. His canny gaze landed on their still joined hands, and then came to rest on LaBoeuf’s face. As Mattie looked on, some silent exchange passed between the two men, and LaBoeuf’s jaw tightened, and he looked away. Mattie extracted her hand from LaBoeuf’s grasp and stood.
“I burnt my hand on the skillet, and Mr. LaBoeuf was kind enough to bandage it,” Mattie said, holding out the injured appendage for his examination. “I will put the fish back on. Our supper will not be much longer.”
LaBoeuf stood as well. “You should not trouble your injury. I will do it.”
“That is not necessary. I can manage it.” Mattie grabbed the coarse piece of sacking she had been using to move hot things and scour pots. She wrapped it around the handle of the skillet and moved it back over the flames, ignoring the answering throb of her burn as she made use of her hand.
“Mattie, you are not our housekeeper,” LaBoeuf said quietly, almost as though he did not want Rooster to hear. “I can cook the fish well enough if you cannot. Your hand is injured and you ought to rest it. Do not be obstinate.”
He was right, Mattie knew. They had equal parts in this venture, and she was not there simply to cook their meals. Her hand ached, and she decided that in this instance, to contradict him would serve only her pride and not the greater good.
“All right,” she said, backing away from the fire. She sat down on a flat boulder nearby and rested her hand in her lap.
Rooster, meanwhile, had sat down on the opposite side of the fire, and had his bottle of liquor out. In silence they watched LaBoeuf finish frying the fish.
Mattie guessed that the fresh fish and the liquor put Rooster in a fine mood, for while they ate, he talked animatedly of the war and some of his adventures before and after.
“I rode with a fella named Avery Boyle, an Irishman from up north someplace,” he said after they had finished their supper and the moon had risen. “This was during the war, if I recall, as we were in Missouri at the time. We was camped near the Kansas border. Anyhow, we was stuck there for some days, and we all got to drinking. This fella, Boyle, he had a bellyful and fell into one of the fires. Drunk as we were, it took us some effort to heave him out. His face was all burnt and the whole camp stank of it, the hair and all, but he was alive. He weren’t able to say much, and we sat debating what to do with him for some time. Few fellas thought it kinder to shoot him, as he was in considerable pain and we had nothing to relieve it. We had few supplies generally at that time. What was it, the winter of ’63? I do not precisely recall now. Anyhow, before we could determine whether it would be best to kill him, one fella said he knew of a remedy for burns. His name was Mose Pearl, and he was from the Great Smoky Mountains or thereabouts, and it was some old Cherokee remedy. He cooked it up from roots and things, and put it all over Boyle’s face, and then we had him sleep out in the woods with a bottle of corn liquor because his moaning was bothersome.”
Rooster paused here and took a deep swig of his whiskey, staring into the fire. Mattie could not tell if that was meant to be the end of his story or not, for it held no conclusion in it. Finally, she spoke. “What happened to the Irishman with the burnt face?”
“Well, next morning we got up and he was gone, nowhere to be found in the woods. It was a strange thing. We decided he had probably expired and a big cat or some other creature had come and got him, and we all ought to be grateful it didn’t come for us or our horses.”
“That is a terrible thing,” Mattie said, wondering as she always did with Rooster what the purpose in the telling of this story was.
“Terrible thing, and a strange thing at that,” Rooster continued. “We were in a skirmish that day and lost some men and moved south. Couple nights later, Boyle comes strolling out of the woods, whistling a tune with his bedroll hung over his shoulder. Stranger yet, his face was as good as new, if a bit pale, and taught and shiny like a new apple.”
Mattie stared at him. “You are pulling my leg,” she said, glancing over at LaBoeuf. The other man was smoking his pipe and regarding Rooster with a sceptical expression on his face.
“I ain’t pulling your leg, sis,” Rooster replied. “Boyle did not know where he had been or for how long, or even how he came to be with us again. We asked Pearl about it and he just scratched his beard and said he only did what his great granny used to do, and was not certain whether or not any of this had gone as it ought to have. Anyhow, didn’t matter none. Boyle departed our company not long after, and I believe he died up in Virginia the next spring. Pearl stayed on until we got word that Richmond fell. When we heard, he stood and said, ‘Well, boys, I reckon I better go home and see my wife,’ and he walked off into the woods. Never heard nothing about him again.”
Silence fell between them. The fire popped and hissed, and an owl hooted somewhere in the woods.
LaBoeuf shook his head, as though he did not think he would ever make sense of Rooster. “I am going to turn in,” he said, standing up to arrange his bedroll. “Goodnight.”
“Goodnight,” Mattie replied. Rooster said nothing.
They were quiet for several minutes after LaBoeuf got settled, turning his back on the fire. Mattie glanced over at Rooster, whose chin was drooping close to his chest.
“I am going down to the river to clean the dishes, and then I think I will also turn in,” she said.
Rooster’s only response was a grunt. Mattie stood and gathered the supper dishes, and carried them down to the river in the crook of her arm. The moon was low and bright, casting enough light for her to find her way down to the water. There she kneeled in the sand and scrubbed the plates and pans while thinking about Rooster’s strange story. She wondered whether LaBoeuf had wanted to needle Rooster about the unsavoury nature of his time on the Kansas border during the war. Knowing LaBoeuf, he almost certainly had. She stacked the clean plates up and smiled to herself.
“What is making you look so giddy?”
Mattie jumped up and stood at the sound of a voice right next to her. Rooster was leaning against a tree trunk with one hand, peering down at her. She had not even heard him approach.
“Do I look giddy?” she asked.
“You do. It is a strange and unsettling thing to see such a girlish expression on that face of yours,” he replied. Stiffly, he leaned back against the tree trunk and placed an unlit cigarette in his mouth.
Mattie scowled at him. “Whether my expressions are pleasing to your eye is no concern of mine.”
“You got a fella back home?” Rooster asked, rummaging about in his coat pockets, presumably on the hunt for a match.
“In spite of your tendency towards drunken stupor, I had thought you wiser than that. It should be obvious that I do not have a beau, and why.”
Rooster found a match and struck it, holding it to the end of the cigarette and observing her in the brief flame. He tossed the match aside and coughed wetly. “I once made the acquaintance of a woman who had been born with hands which resembled crawfish claws more than they did hands. She was a fine show-woman, and had been married three or four times, if I recall.”
“Yes, but to what sort of men, I wonder?”
“Hmph,” Rooster grumbled. “I do not remember, but if you are going to be particular about it, then you have no one to blame but yourself, baby sis.”
Prickled, Mattie frowned. “I would rather be particular than accept any old fool.”
Rooster regarded her, puffing on his cigarette. “I did not think we were talking about any old fool.”
“I do not know what you mean,” Mattie replied. She looked away.
“You are a bad liar. Not enough practice,” Rooster said, a crooked smile splitting his face. “Anyhow, as far as old fools go, LaBoeuf is not so bad. He likes too well the sound of his own voice, and it is unnatural for a fella to be vainer than his woman, but he is braver and loyaler than most, and he is a good shot. Perhaps you ought to encourage him before his head is turned by another.”
Mattie gaped at him, astounded and mortified. She would not give him the satisfaction of acknowledging his preposterous comments. “I see you have a ‘brick in your hat’ and will not talk sense until you are sober. If you are ever sober. Goodnight.”
“It is when I am on a spree that I talk the most sense, but you tell yourself whatever you like, girl.”
Mattie picked up the stack of clean dishes and awkwardly tucked them in her arm. She turned and walked back up the riverbank to their campfire, silently cursing Rooster the whole time. He had most widows beat as far as the enterprise of busybodying went.
She approached the welcoming circle of light thrown by their fire. She set the dishes down, and looked at LaBoeuf’s shadowed form on the far side of the fire. He was dead asleep and snoring.
If Rooster thought that she was silly enough to make a fool of herself by giving LaBoeuf any kind of “encouragement” whatsoever, his brain was more softened by whiskey than she had previously feared.
As she put the dishes away and lay down in her own bed roll, a light snow began to fall from the dark night sky.
Chapter 7