True Grit - Charles Portis [32]
He said, “Have you got everything?”
“Yes, I believe I am ready. Open the door, Toby, and wish me luck. I am off for the Choctaw Nation.”
It was still dark outside and bitter cold although mercifully there was little wind. Why is it calm in the early morning? You will notice that lakes are usually still and smooth before daybreak. The frozen, rutted mud of the streets made uncertain going for Little Blackie in his new shoes. He snorted and snapped his head from time to time as though to look at me. I talked to him, saying silly things.
Only four or five people were to be seen as I rode down Garrison Avenue, and they scurrying from one warm place to another. I could see lamps coming on through windows as the good people of Fort Smith began to stir for the new day.
When I reached the ferry slip on the river I dismounted and waited. I had to move and dance about to keep from getting stiff. I removed the paper wadding from inside the hatband and pulled the hat down over my ears. I had no gloves and I rolled Papa’s coat sleeves down so that my hands might be covered.
There were two men running the ferry. When it reached my side and discharged a horseman, one of the ferrymen hailed me.
“Air you going acrost?” said he.
“I am waiting for someone,” said I. “What is the fare?”
“Ten cents for a horse and rider.”
“Have you seen Marshal Cogburn this morning?”
“Is that Rooster Cogburn?”
“That is the man.”
“We have not seen him.”
There were few passengers at that hour but as soon as one or two turned up the ferry would depart. It seemed to have no schedule except as business demanded, but then the crossing was not a long one. As gray dawn came I could make out chunks of ice bobbing along out in the current of the river.
The boat made at least two circuits before Rooster and LaBoeuf appeared and came riding down the incline to the slip. I had begun to worry that I might have missed them. Rooster was mounted on a big bay stallion that stood at about sixteen hands, and LaBoeuf on a shaggy cow pony not much bigger than mine.
Well, they were a sight to see with all their arms.
They were both wearing their belt guns around their outside coats and LaBoeuf cut a splendid figure with his white-handled pistols and Mexican spurs. Rooster was wearing a deerskin jacket over his black suit coat. He carried only one revolver on his belt, an ordinary-looking piece with grips of cedar or some reddish wood. On the other side, the right side, he wore a dirk knife. His gun belt was not fancy like LaBoeuf’s but only a plain and narrow belt with no cartridge loops. He carried his cartridges in a sack in his pocket. But he also had two more revolvers in saddle scabbards at his thighs. They were big pistols like mine. The two officers also packed saddle guns, Rooster a Winchester repeating rifle and LaBoeuf a gun called a Sharps rifle, a kind I had never seen. My thought was this: Chaney, look out!
They dismounted and led their horses aboard the ferry in a clatter and I followed at a short distance. I said nothing. I was not trying to hide but neither did I do anything to call attention to myself. It was a minute or so before Rooster recognized me.
“Sure enough, we have got company,” said he.
LaBoeuf was very angry. “Can you not get anything through your head?” he said to me. “Get off this boat. Did you suppose you were going with us?”
I replied, “This ferry is open to the public. I have paid my fare.”
LaBoeuf reached in his pocket and brought out a gold dollar. He handed it to one of the ferrymen and said, “Slim, take this girl to town and present her to the sheriff. She is a runaway. Her people are worried nearly to death about her. There is a fifty-dollar reward for her return.”
“That is a story,” said I.
“Let us ask the marshal,” said LaBoeuf. “What about it, marshal?”
Rooster said, “Yes, you had best take her away. She is a runaway all right. Her name is Ross and she came up from Yell County. The sheriff