True Grit - Charles Portis [33]
“They are in this story together,” said I. “I have business across the river and if you interfere with me, Slim, you may find yourself in court where you don’t want to be. I have a good lawyer.”
But the tall river rat would pay no heed to my protests. He led my pony back on to the slip and the boat pulled away without me. I said, “I am not going to walk up the hill.” I mounted Little Blackie and the river rat led us up the hill. When we reached the top I said, “Wait, stop a minute.” He said, “What is it?” I said, “There is something wrong with my hat.” He stopped and turned around. “Your hat?” said he. I took it off and slapped him in the face with it two or three times and made him drop the reins. I recovered them and wheeled Little Blackie about and rode him down the bank for all he was worth. I had no spurs or switch but I used my hat on his flank to good effect.
About fifty yards below the ferry slip the river narrowed and I aimed for the place, going like blazes across a sandbar. I popped Blackie all the way with my hat as I was afraid he might shy at the water and I did not want to give him a chance to think about it. We hit the river running and Blackie snorted and arched his back against the icy water, but once he was in he swam as though he was raised to it. I drew up my legs behind me and held to the saddle horn and gave Blackie his head with loose reins. I was considerably splashed.
The crossing was badly chosen because the narrow place of a river is the deepest and it is there that the current is swiftest and the banks steepest, but these things did not occur to me at the time; shortest looked best. We came out some little ways down the river and, as I say, the bank was steep and Blackie had some trouble climbing it.
When we were up and free I reined in and Little Blackie gave himself a good shaking. Rooster and LaBoeuf and the ferryman were looking at us from the boat. We had beaten them across. I stayed where I was. When they got off the boat LaBoeuf hailed me, saying, “Go back, I say!” I made no reply. He and Rooster had a parley.
Their game soon became clear. They mounted quickly and rode off at a gallop with the idea of leaving me. What a foolish plan, pitting horses so heavily loaded with men and hardware against a pony so lightly burdened as Blackie!
Our course was northwesterly on the Fort Gibson Road, if you could call it a road. This was the Cherokee Nation. Little Blackie had a hard gait, a painful trot, and I made him speed up and slow down until he had achieved a pace, a kind of lope, that was not so jarring. He was a fine, spirited pony. He enjoyed this outing, you could tell.
We rode that way for two miles or more, Blackie and I hanging back from the officers at about a hundred yards. Rooster and LaBoeuf at last saw that they were making no gain and they slowed their horses to a walk. I did the same. After a mile or so of this they stopped and dismounted. I stopped too, keeping my distance, and remained in the saddle.
LaBoeuf shouted, “Come here! We will have a conversation with you!”
“You can talk from there!” I replied. “What is it you have to say?”
The two officers had another parley.
Then LaBoeuf shouted to me again, saying, “If you do not go back now I am going to whip you!”
I made no reply.
LaBoeuf picked up a rock and threw it in my direction. It fell short by about fifty yards.
I said, “That is the most foolish thing that ever I saw!”
LaBoeuf said, “Is that what you will have, a whipping?”
I said, “You are not going to whip anybody!”
They talked some more between themselves but could not seem to settle on anything and after a time they rode off again, this time at a comfortable lope.
Few travelers were on the road, only an Indian now and then on a horse or a mule, or a family in a spring wagon. I will own I was somewhat afraid of them although they were not, as you may imagine, wild Comanches with painted faces and outlandish garb but rather civilized Creeks and Cherokees and Choctaws from Mississippi and Alabama who had owned slaves and fought for