Some of the men stopped eating.
“They will hurt your eyes,” he said.
A dirty man across the table in a smelly deerskin coat said, “How is that?”
With a mischievous twinkle the drummer replied, “They will hurt your eyes looking for the chicken.” I thought it a clever joke but the dirty man said angrily, “You squirrelheaded son of a bitch,” and went back to eating. The drummer kept quiet after that. The dumplings were all right but I could not see twenty-five cents in a little flour and grease.
After supper some of the men left to go to town, probably to drink whiskey in the barrooms and listen to the hurdy-gurdy. The rest of us went to the parlor. The boarders dozed and read newspapers and talked about the hanging and the drummer told yellow fever jokes. Mrs. Floyd brought out Papa’s things that were bundled in the slicker and I went through them and made an inventory.
Everything seemed to be there, even his knife and watch. The watch was of brass and not very expensive but I was surprised to find it because people who will not steal big things will often steal little things like that. I stayed in the parlor and listened to the talk for a while and then asked Mrs. Floyd if she would show me to my bed.
She said, “Go straight down that hall to the last bedroom on the left. There is a bucket of water and a washpan on the back porch. The toilet is out back directly behind the chinaberry tree. You will be sleeping with Grandma Turner.”
She must have seen the dismay on my face for she added, “It will be all right. Grandma Turner will not mind. She is used to doubling up. She will not even know you are there, sweet.”
Since I was the paying customer I believed my wishes should have been considered before Grandma Turner’s, though it seemed neither of us was to have any say.
Mrs. Floyd went on, saying, “Grandma Turner is a sound sleeper. It is certainly a blessing at her age. Do not worry about waking Grandma Turner, a little mite like you.”
I did not mind sleeping with Grandma Turner but I thought Mrs. Floyd had taken advantage of me. Still, I saw nothing to be gained from making a fuss at that hour. She already had my money and I was tired and it was too late to look for lodging elsewhere.
The bedroom was cold and dark and smelled like medicine. A wintry blast came up through the cracks in the floor. Grandma Turner turned out to be more active in her slumber than I had been led to expect. When I got into bed I found she had all the quilts on her side. I pulled them over. I said my prayers and was soon asleep. I awoke to find that Grandma Turner had done the trick again. I was bunched up in a knot and trembling with cold from the exposure. I pulled the covers over again. This happened once more later in the night and I got up, my feet freezing, and arranged Papa’s blankets and slicker over me as makeshift covers. Then I slept all right.
THREE
Mrs. Floyd served me no meat for breakfast, only grits and a fried egg. After eating I put the watch and knife in my pocket and took the gun along in the sugar sack.
At the Federal Courthouse I learned that the head marshal had gone to Detroit, Michigan, to deliver prisoners to the “house of correction,” as they called it. A deputy who worked in the office said they would get around to Tom Chaney in good time, but that he would have to wait his turn. He showed me a list of indicted outlaws that were then on the loose in the Indian Territory and it looked like the delinquent tax list that they run in the Arkansas Gazette every year in little type. I did not like the looks of that, nor did I care much for the “smarty” manner of the deputy. He was puffed up by his office. You can expect that out of Federal people and to make it worse this was a Republican gang that cared nothing for the opinion of the good people of Arkansas who are Democrats.
In the courtroom itself they were empaneling a jury. The bailiff at the door told me that the man Rooster Cogburn would be around later in the day when the trial began as he was the main witness for the prosecution.
I went to Stonehill’s stock barn. He had a nice barn and behind it a big corral and a good many small feeder pens. The bargain cow ponies, around thirty head, all colors, were in the corral. I thought they would be broken-down scrubs but they were frisky things with clear eyes and their coats looked healthy enough, though dusty and matted. They had probably never known a brush. They had burrs in their tails.
I had hated these ponies for the part they played in my father’s death but now I realized the notion was fanciful, that it was wrong to charge blame to these pretty beasts who knew neither good nor evil but only innocence. I say that of these ponies. I have known some horses and a good many more pigs who I believe harbored evil intent in their hearts. I will go further and say all cats are wicked, though often useful. Who has not seen Satan in their sly faces? Some preachers will say, well, that is superstitious “claptrap.” My answer is this: Preacher, go to your Bible and read Luke 8: 26-33.
Stonehill had an office in one corner of the barn. On the door glass it said, “Col. G. Stonehill. Licensed Auctioneer. Cotton Factor.” He was in there behind his desk and he had a red-hot stove going. He was a prissy baldheaded man with eyeglasses.
I said, “How much are you paying for cotton?”
He looked up at me and said, “Nine and a half for low middling and ten for ordinary.”
I said, “We got most of ours out early and sold it to Woodson Brothers in Little Rock for eleven cents.”
He said, “Then I suggest you take the balance of it to the Woodson Brothers.”
“We have sold it all,” said I. “We only got ten and a half on the last sale.”
“Why did you come here to tell me this?”
“I thought we might shop around up here next year, but I guess we are doing all right in Little Rock.” I showed him the note from the sheriff. After he had read it he was not disposed to be so short with me.
He took off his eyeglasses and said, “It was a tragic thing. May I say your father impressed me with his manly qualities. He was a close trader but he acted the gentleman. My watchman had his teeth knocked out and can take only soup.”
I said, “I am sorry to hear it.”
He said, “The killer has flown to the Territory and is now on the scout there.”
“This is what I heard.”
“He will find plenty of his own stamp there,” said he. “Birds of a feather. It is a sink of crime. Not a day goes by but there comes some new report of a farmer bludgeoned, a wife outraged, or a blameless traveler set upon and cut down in a sanguinary ambuscade. The civilizing arts of commerce do not flourish there.”
I said, “I have hopes that the marshals will get him soon. His name is Tom Chaney. He worked for us. I am trying to get action. I aim to see him shot or hanged.”
“Yes, yes, well might you labor to that end,” said Stonehill. “At the same time I will counsel patience. The brave marshals do their best but they are few in number. The lawbreakers are legion and they range over a vast country that offers many natural hiding places. The marshal travels about friendless and alone in that criminal nation. Every man’s hand is against him there save in large part for that of the Indian who has been cruelly imposed upon by felonious intruders from the States.”
I said, “I would like to sell those ponies back to you that my father bought.”
He said, “I fear that is out of the question. I will see that they are shipped to you at my earliest convenience.”
I said, “We don’t want the ponies now. We don’t need them.”
“That hardly concerns me,” said he. “Your father bought these ponies and paid for them and there is an end of it. I have the bill of sale. If I had any earthly use for them I might consider an offer but I have already lost money on them and, be assured, I do not intend to lose more. I will be happy to accommodate you in shipping them. The popular steamer Alice Waddell leaves tomorrow for Little Rock. I will do what I can to find space on it for you and the stock.”