True Grit

by Charles Portis

PEOPLE DO not give it credence that a fourteen-year-old girl could leave home and go off in the wintertime to avenge her father’s blood but it did not seem so strange then, although I will say it did not happen every day. I was just fourteen years of age when a coward going by the name of Tom Chaney shot my father down in Fort Smith, Arkansas, and robbed him of his life and his horse and $150 in cash money plus two California gold pieces that he carried in his trouser band. Here is what happened.

good bottom land on the south bank of the Arkansas River not far from Dardanelle in Yell County, Arkansas.

It had a good roof.

Tom Chaney said he was from Louisiana. He was a short man with cruel features. I will tell more about his face later. He carried a Henry rifle. He was a bachelor about twenty-five years of age.

As I recollect, shelled corn was something under fifteen cents a bushel then.

Frank Ross was the gentlest, most honorable man who ever lived.

He was a Cumberland Presbyterian and a Mason and he fought with determination at the battle of Elkhorn Tavern but was not wounded in that “scrap” as Lucille Biggers Langford states in her Yell County Yesterdays.

I think I am in a position to know the facts. He was hurt in the terrible fight at Chickamauga up in the state of Tennessee and came near to dying ...

Before Papa left for Fort Smith he arranged for a colored man named Yarnell Poindexter to feed the stock and look in on Mama and us every day. Yarnell and his family lived just below us on some land he rented from the bank. He was born of free parents in Illinois but a man named Bloodworth kidnapped him in Missouri and brought him down to Arkansas just before the war. Yarnell was a good man, thrifty and industrious, and he later became a prosperous house painter in Memphis, Tennessee. We exchanged letters every Christmas until he passed away in the flu epidemic of 1918. To this day I...

I remember once I rode a mean goat through a plum thicket on a dare.

He was a handsome sight and in my memory’s eye I can still see him mounted up there on Judy in his brown woolen coat and black Sunday hat and the both of them, man and beast, blowing little clouds of steam on that frosty morn.

He had no hand gun but he carried his rifle slung across his back on a piece of cotton plow line. There is trash for you.

He could have taken an old piece of harness and made a nice leather strap for it. That would have been too much trouble.

Like Martha I have always been agitated and troubled by the cares of the day but my mother had a serene and loving heart. She was like Mary and had chosen “that good part.”

He was his brother’s keeper. Does that answer your question?

He might have taken the time to saddle the horse or hitched up three spans of mules to a Concord stagecoach and smoked a pipe as it seems no one in that city was after him. He had mistaken the drummers for men. “The wicked flee when none pursueth.”

We rode in a colored coach and Yarnell got us a trunk to sit on. When the conductor came through he said, “Get that trunk out of the aisle, nigger!” I replied to him in this way: “We will move the trunk but there is no reason for you to be so hateful about it.” He did not say anything to that but went on taking tickets. He saw that I had brought to all the darkies’ attention how little he was. We stood up all the way but I was young and did not mind. On the way we had a good lunch of spare ribs that Yarnell had brought along in a sack.

If you are like me you probably think of Indians as heathens. But I will ask you to recall the thief on the cross. He was never baptized and never even heard of a catechism and yet Christ himself promised him a place in heaven.

The body was wrapped in a white shroud. I said, “That is my father.” I stood there looking at him. What a waste! Tom Chaney would pay for this! I would not rest easy until that Louisiana cur was roasting and screaming in hell!

“Who is the best marshal they have?” The sheriff thought on it for a minute. He said, “I would have to weigh that proposition. There is near about two hundred of them. I reckon William Waters is the best tracker. He is a half-breed Comanche and it is something to see, watching him cut for sign. The meanest one is Rooster Cogburn. He is a pitiless man, double-tough, and fear don’t enter into his thinking. He loves to pull a cork. Now L. T. Quinn, he brings his prisoners in alive. He may let one get by now and then but he believes even the worst of men is entitled to a fair shake. Also the court does not pay any fees for dead men. Quinn is a good peace officer and a lay preacher to boot. He will not plant evidence or abuse a prisoner. He is straight as a string. Yes, I will say Quinn is about the best they have.” I said, “Where can I find this Rooster?”

The dumplings were all right but I could not see twenty-five cents in a little flour and grease.

“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 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.

The demons begged Jesus to let them go into the pigs, and he gave them permission. 33 When the demons came out of the man, they went into the pigs, and the herd rushed down the steep bank into the lake(F) and was drowned.

My watchman had his teeth knocked out and can take only soup.”

“And I will take it up with mine. I will send him a message by telegraph and he will be here on the evening train. He will make money and I will make money and your lawyer will make money and you, Mr. Licensed Auctioneer, will foot the bill.”

I bought some crackers and a piece of hoop cheese and an apple at a grocery store and sat on a nail keg by the stove and had a cheap yet nourishing lunch. You know what they say, “Enough is as good as a feast.”

Nature tells us to rest after meals and people who are too busy to heed that inner voice are often dead at the age of fifty years.

They had ridden the “hoot-owl trail” and tasted the fruits of evil and now justice had caught up with them to demand payment. You must pay for everything in this world one way and another. There is nothing free except the Grace of God. You cannot earn that or deserve it.

You will think it strange but I had scarcely heard of Judge Isaac Parker at that time, famous man that he was.

Isaac Charles Parker, also known as “Hanging Judge” Parker, was an American politician and jurist. Wikipedia Born: October 15, 1838, Barnesville, OH Died: November 17, 1896, Fort Smith, AR Nickname: Hanging Judge

On his deathbed he asked for a priest and became a Catholic. That was his wife’s religion. It was his own business and none of mine. If you had sentenced one hundred and sixty men to death and seen around eighty of them swing, then maybe at the last minute you would feel the need of some stronger medicine than the Methodists could make.

But the magazines of today do not know a good story when they see one. They would rather print trash. They say my article is too long and “discursive.” Nothing is too long or too short either if you have a true and interesting tale and what I call a “graphic” writing style combined with educational aims.

I do not fool around with newspapers. They are always after me for historical write-ups but when the talk gets around to money the paper editors are most of them “cheap skates.” They think because I have a little money I will be happy to fill up their Sunday columns just to see my name in print like Lucille Biggers Langford and Florence Mabry Whiteside. As the little colored boy says, “Not none of me!” Lucille and Florence can do as they please. The paper editors are great ones for reaping where they have not sown.

Another game they have is to send reporters out to talk to you and get your stories free. I know the young reporters are not paid well and I would not mind helping those boys out with their...

I was surprised when an old one-eyed jasper that was built along the lines of Grover Cleveland went up and was sworn. I say “old.” He was about forty years of age.

“My name is Mattie Ross,” I replied. “We are located in Yell County near Dardanelle. My mother is at home looking after my sister Victoria and my brother Little Frank.”

“This is the real article. It is double-rectified busthead from Madison County, aged in the keg. A little spoonful would do you a power of good.” “I would not put a thief in my mouth to steal my brains.”

She kept everybody in a stir wondering what she was driving at. That was what held your interest.

I had to read the humorous parts twice.

“What is your name?” said he. “Pudding and tame,” said I.

obsolete A childish rhyme used as a response when asked one's name. Part of a larger call and response: A: "What's your name?" B: "Pudding and tame. Ask me again and I'll tell you the same."

“I suppose that is you. Well, if in four months I could not find Tom Chaney with a mark on his face like banished Cain I would not undertake to advise others how to do it.” “A saucy manner does not go down with me.” “I will not be bullied.”

“Earlier tonight I gave some thought to stealing a kiss from you, though you are very young, and sick and unattractive to boot, but now I am of a mind to give you five or six good licks with my belt.” “One would be as unpleasant as the other,” I replied. “Put a hand on me and you will answer for it. You are from Texas and ignorant of our ways but the good people of Arkansas do not go easy on men who abuse women and children.” “The youth of Texas are brought up to be polite and to show respect for their elders.” “I notice people of that state also gouge their horses with great brutal spurs.” “You will push that saucy line too far.” “I have no regard for you.” He was angered and thus he left me, clanking away in all his Texas trappings.

Your mother will make no decision without you, nor will she sign anything, not even common receipts; hence nothing can move forward until you are here. You are her strong right arm now, Mattie, and you are a pearl of great price to me, but there are times when you are an almighty trial to those who love you. Hurry home! I am Thine Truly, Jno. Daggett

If you want anything done right you will have to see to it yourself every time. I do not know to this day why they let a wool-hatted crank like Owen Hardy preach the service.

Knowing the Gospel and preaching it are two different things. A Baptist or even a Campbellite would have been better than him.

in a sad, baffled state like that of some elderly lunatics I have known. Let me say quickly that the man was not crazy. My comparison is not a kind one and I would not use it except to emphasize his changed manner.

I returned to the Monarch to get the breakfast I had paid for.

LaBoeuf the Texan was at the table, shaved and clean. I supposed he could do nothing with the “cowlick.” It is likely that he cultivated it.

I said, “Well, you have kept your end of the agreement and I have kept mine.” “That is so,” said he. “I have paid you for a horse I do not possess and I have bought back a string of useless ponies I cannot sell again.” “You are forgetting the gray horse.” “Crow bait.” “You are looking at the thing in the wrong light.” “I am looking at it in the light of God’s eternal truth.”

“I have a tentative offer of ten dollars per head from the Pfitzer Soap Works of Little Rock.” “It would be a shame to destroy such spirited horseflesh and render it into soap.” “So it would. I am confident the deal will fall through.”