True Grit - Charles Portis [63]
“Very well then. It suits me. I want you to feel easy.”
He reached inside one of the saddle wallets and pulled out four packets of greenbacks and pitched them to Greaser Bob. “How is that?”
Greaser Bob said, “You will not count it?”
“We won’t quarrel over a dollar or two.” Then he gave one packet to Harold Permalee and a single $50 note to Farrell Permalee. The brothers said, “Whooooo-haaaaa! Whooooo-haaaaa!” I wondered that they did not press for more, in light of the total amount realized in the robbery, but I supposed they had agreed to a fixed wage for their services. I judged too that they were somewhat ignorant of the value of money.
Lucky Ned Pepper went to buckle up the wallet again. He said, “I will keep your winnings with mine, Tom. You will be paid tonight at ‘The Old Place.’”
Chaney said, “Nothing is going right for me.”
Greaser Bob said, “What about the registered pouch?”
“Well, and what about it?” said Lucky Ned Pepper. “Are you expecting a letter, Bob?”
“If there is any money in it we may as well have it now. It makes no sense to carry the pouch about for evidence.”
“You still don’t feel easy?”
“You are making too much of my words, Ned.”
Lucky Ned Pepper thought about it. He said, “Well, maybe so.” Once more he unbuckled the straps. He took out a locked canvas bag and cut it open with a Barlow knife and dumped the contents on the ground. He grinned and said, “Christmas gift!” Of course that is what children shout to one another early on Christmas morning, the game being to shout it first. I had not thought before of this disfigured robber having had a childhood. I expect he was mean to cats and made rude noises in church when he was not asleep. When he needed a firm restraining hand, it was not there. An old story!
There were only six or seven pieces of mail in the bag. There were some personal letters, one with twenty dollars in it, and some documents that appeared to be of a legal description, such as contracts. Lucky Ned Pepper glanced at them and flung them away. A bulky gray envelope tied with ribbon held a packet of one-hundred twenty-dollar notes on the Whelper Commercial Bank of Denison, Texas. Another envelope held a check.
Lucky Ned Pepper studied it, then said to me, “Do you read well?”
“I read very well,” said I.
He passed over the check. “Is this any good to me?”
It was a cashier’s check for $2,750 drawn on the Grangers Trust Co. of Topeka, Kansas, to a man named Marshall Purvis. I said, “This is a cashier’s check for $2,750 drawn on the Grangers Trust Co. of Topeka, Kansas, to a man named Marshall Purvis.”
“I can see what it is worth,” said the bandit. “Is it any good?”
“It is good if the bank is good,” said I. “But it must be endorsed by this Purvis. The bank guarantees the check account is good.”
“What about these notes?”
I looked over the banknotes. They were brand-new. I said, “They are not signed. They are no good unless they are signed.”
“Can you not sign them?”
“They must be signed by Mr. Whelper, the president of the bank.”
“Is it such a hard name to spell?”
“It is an unusual name but it is not hard to spell. The name is printed right here. That is his signature, the printed signature of Monroe G. B. Whelper, the president of the Whelper Commercial Bank of Denison, Texas. That signature must be matched over here.”
“I want you to sign them. And this check too.”
Naturally I did not wish to use my education in this robber’s service and I hesitated.
He said, “I will box your ears until your head rings.”
I said, “I have nothing to write with.”
He drew a cartridge from his belt and opened his Barlow knife again. “This will answer. I will shave the lead down.”
“They must be signed in ink.”
Greaser Bob said, “We can attend to it later, Ned. This matter will keep.”
“We will attend to it now,” replied the bandit chieftain. “You are the one who wanted to look at the mail. This paper is worth over four thousand dollars with a little writing. The girl can write. Harold, go to the trash pile and fetch me a good stout turkey feather, a dry one, a