True Grit - Charles Portis [41]
Moon said, “We can’t go to Texas.”
Quincy said, “Now don’t go to flapping your mouth, Moon. It is best to let me do the talking.”
“I can’t set still. My leg is giving me fits.”
Rooster got his bottle of whiskey and poured some in a cup for the young stock thief. “If you listen to Quincy, son, you will die or lose your leg,” said he. “Quincy ain’t hurting.”
Quincy said, “Don’t let him spook you, Moon. You must be a soldier. We will get clear of this.”
LaBoeuf came in lugging our bedrolls and other traps. He said, “There are six horses out there in that cave, Cogburn.”
“What kind of horses?” said Rooster.
“They look like right good mounts to me. I think they are all shod.”
Rooster questioned the thieves about the horses and Quincy claimed they had bought them at Fort Gibson and were taking them down to sell to the Indian police called the Choctaw Light Horse. But he could show no bill of sale or otherwise prove the property and Rooster did not believe the story. Quincy grew sullen and would answer no further questions.
I was sent out to gather firewood and I took the lamp, or rather the bull’s-eye lantern, for that was what it was, and kicked about in the snow and turned up some sticks and fallen saplings. I had no ax or hatchet and I dragged the pieces in whole, making several trips.
Rooster made another pot of coffee. He put me to slicing up the salt meat and corn dodgers, now frozen hard, and he directed Quincy to pick the feathers from the turkey and cut it up for frying. LaBoeuf wanted to roast the bird over the open fire but Rooster said it was not fat enough for that and would come out tough and dry.
I sat on a bench on one side of the table and the thieves sat on the other side, their manacled hands resting between them up on the table. The thieves had made pallets on the dirt floor by the fireplace and now Rooster and LaBoeuf sat on these blankets with their rifles in their laps, taking their ease. There were holes in the walls where the sod had fallen away and the wind came whistling through these places, making the lantern flicker a little, but the room was small and the fire gave off more than enough heat. Take it all around, we were rather cozily fixed.
I poured a can of scalding water over the stiff turkey but it was not enough to loosen all the feathers. Quincy picked them with his free hand and held the bird steady with the other. He grumbled over the awkwardness of the task. When the picking was done he cut the bird up into frying pieces with his big bowie knife and he showed his spite by doing a poor job of it. He made rough and careless chops instead of clean cuts.
Moon drank whiskey and whimpered from the pain in his leg. I felt sorry for him. Once he caught me stealing glances at him and he said, “What are you looking at?” It was a foolish question and I made no reply. He said, “Who are you? What are you doing here? What is this girl doing here?”
I said, “I am Mattie Ross of near Dardanelle, Arkansas. Now I will ask you a question. What made you become a stock thief?”
He said again, “What is this girl doing here?”
Rooster said, “She is with me.”
“She is with both of us,” said LaBoeuf.
Moon said, “It don’t look right to me. I don’t understand it.”
I said, “The man Chaney, the man with the marked face, killed my father. He was a whiskey drinker like you. It led to killing in the end. If you will answer the marshal’s questions he will help you. I have a good lawyer at home and he will help you too.”
“I am puzzled by this.”
Quincy said, “Don’t get to jawing with these people, Moon.”
I said, “I don’t like the way you look.”
Quincy stopped his work. He said, “Are you talking to me, runt?”
I said, “Yes, and I will say it again. I don’t like the way you look and I don’t like the way you are cutting up that turkey. I hope you go to jail. My lawyer will not help you.”
Quincy grinned and made a gesture with the knife as though to cut me. He said, “You are a fine one to talk about looks. You look like somebody