Charles Portis - True Grit

“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 big tail feather.” Then he pulled the bullet out of the cartridge case with his snag teeth and poured the black powder in the palm of his hand. He spit on it through the gap and stirred the glutinous mess about with a finger.

Harold Permalee brought back a handful of feathers and Lucky Ned Pepper chose one and cut the tip off with his knife and reamed out the hole a little. He dipped the quill into the “ink” and printed NED on his wrist in childish characters. He said, “There. You see. That is my name. Is it not?”

I said, “Yes, that is Ned.”

He handed me the feather. “Now go to it.”

A flat rock with one of the contracts laid on it was made to serve for a desk. It is not in me to do poor work where writing is concerned and I toiled earnestly at making faithful copies of Mr. Whelper’s signature. However, the makeshift pen and ink were not satisfactory. The writing jumped and spread wide and pinched thin. It looked as though it had been done with a stick. My thought was: Who will believe that Mr. Whelper signs his banknotes with a stick?

But the unlettered bandit chieftain knew little of the world of banking except for such glimpses as he got over a gun sight, and he was pleased with the work. I signed and signed, using his palm for an inkwell. It was very tiring. As soon as I had finished one note he would snatch it up and pass me another.

He said, “They are as good as gold, Bob. I will trade them at Colbert’s.”

Greaser Bob said, “Nothing on paper is as good as gold. That is my belief.”

“Well, that is how much a damned Mexican knows.”

“It is every man to his own principles. Tell her to hurry along.”

When the criminal task was completed Lucky Ned Pepper put the notes and the check in the gray envelope and secured it in his saddle wallet. He said, “Tom, we will see you tonight. Make yourself agreeable to this child. Little Carroll will be here before you know it.”

Then they departed the place, not riding their horses but leading them, as the hill was so steep and brushy.

I was alone with Tom Chaney!

He sat across the fire from me, my pistol in his waistband and the Henry rifle in his lap. His face was a “brown study.” I stirred up the fire a little and arranged some glowing coals around one of the cans of hot water.

Chaney watched me. He said, “What are you doing?”

I said, “I am heating some water so that I may wash this black off my hands.”

“A little smut will not harm you.”

“Yes, that is true, or else you and your ‘chums’ would surely be dead. I know it will not harm me but I would rather have it off.”

“Don’t provoke me. You will find yourself in that pit.”

“Lucky Ned Pepper has warned you that if you molest me in any way he will not pay you. He means business too.”

“I fear he has no idea of paying me. I believe he has left me, knowing I am sure to be caught when I leave on foot.”

“He promised he would meet you at ‘The Old Place.’”

“Keep still. I must now think over my position and how I may improve it.”

“What about my position? At least you have not been abandoned by a man who was paid and pledged to protect you.”

“You little busybody! What does your kind know of hardship and affliction? Now keep still while I think.”

“Are you thinking about “The Old Place?’”

“No, I am not thinking about ‘The Old Place.’ Carroll Permalee or nobody else is coming up here with any horse. They are not going to ‘The Old Place.’ I am not so easily fooled as some people might think.”

I thought to ask him about the other gold piece, then checked myself, afraid that he might force me to give over the one I had recovered. I said, “What have you done with Papa’s mare?”

He gave no answer.

I said, “If you will let me go now I will keep silent as to your whereabouts for two days.”

“I tell you I can do better than that,” said he. “I can have your silence forever. I will not tell you again to hold your tongue.”

The water was not boiling but it had begun to steam a little and I picked up the can with a rag and flung it at him, then took to my feet in frantic flight. Though caught by surprise, he managed to shield his face with his arms. He yelped and gave immediate pursuit. My desperate plan was to reach the trees. Once there, I thought to evade him and finally lose him by darting this way and that in the brush.

It was not to be! Just as I came to the edge of the rock shelf, Chaney grabbed my coat from behind and pulled me up short. My thought was: I am certainly done for! Chaney was cursing me and he struck me on the head with the pistol barrel. The blow made me see stars and I concluded I was shot, not knowing the sensation caused by a bullet striking your head. My thoughts turned to my peaceful home in Arkansas, and my poor mother who would be laid low by the news. First her husband and now her oldest child, both gone in the space of two weeks and dispatched by the same bloody hand! That was the direction of my thoughts.