True Grit

by Charles Portis

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.

He stood up and said, “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.”

I took the folded currency from my pocket and held it up, showing it to him. Rooster said, “By God! Look at it! How much have you got there? If I had your hand I would throw mine in.” “You did not believe I would come back, did you?” “Well, I didn’t know. You are a hard one to figure.” “Are you still game?” “Game? I was born game, sis, and hope to die in that condition.”

He sat up in the bed. “Wait,” he said. “Hold up. You are not going.” “That is part of it,” said I. “It cannot be done.” “And why not? You have misjudged me if you think I am silly enough to give you a hundred dollars and watch you ride away. No, I will see the thing done myself.” “I am a bonded U.S. marshal.” “That weighs but little with me. R. B. Hayes is the U.S. President and they say he stole Tilden out.”

Captain Finch said, “I thought you had better know about this.” Rooster said, “I appreciate it, Boots. I appreciate you riding out here.” “Wharton will be looking for you.” “If he is not careful he will find me.”

Captain Finch looked LaBoeuf over, then said to Rooster, “Is this the man who shot Ned’s horse from under him?” Rooster said, “Yes, this is the famous horse killer from El Paso, Texas. His idea is to put everybody on foot. He says it will limit their mischief.” LaBoeuf’s fair-complected face became congested with angry blood. He said, “There was very little light and I was firing off-hand. I did not have the time to find a rest.” Captain Finch said, “There is no need to apologize for that shot. A good many more people have missed Ned than have hit him.” “I was not apologizing,” said LaBoeuf. “I was only explaining the circumstances.” “Rooster here has missed Ned a few times himself, horse and all,” said the captain. “I reckon he is on his way now to missing him again.” Rooster was holding a bottle with a little whiskey in it. He said, “You keep on thinking that.”

But I had not the strength nor the inclination to bandy words with a drunkard. What have you done when you have bested a fool?