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The account I now relate is for my own personal perusal. I have said that I had no knowledge of what became of the man, LaBoeuf, and I will admit now that this is not entirely true. I had occasion to make his acquaintance once more, near the fifth anniversary of the events I have recounted, my adventures with the Marshal Cogburn, to catch my father’s killer, the villain Tom Chaney. I was in an unfamiliar town, and I had taken a companion, a farmhand, but he had occupied himself elsewhere, at a hanging which I had long since lost my taste for, and I was left to my own devices for the afternoon.
I came across LaBoeuf as I had met him: in the place of my lodging. We sat down to supper together, and I never did ask if he collected on his bounty. Things that can seem important for a time are so easily forgotten later, as we age. Instead, I observed that he still had that ridiculous cowlick, though it had lessened over the years, as had his attempts to tame it; I remarked that perhaps this was related.
I asked him if Texas was still large and filled with braggarts, and he laughed, telling me that, “Yes, ma’am, but it is larger still and has room for even more braggarts.” I nodded and in turn, he asked me if I had managed to find me a husband would tolerate my insolent personality. I answered, “No, sir, not as yet.” And he laughed again, which made me sit up straighter and continue, “As you can plainly see, I am not married. I am still Mattie Ross of Yell County, Arkansas.” I told him he brayed like an ass when he laughed, but I was smiling nevertheless. I did not inquire as to if he had taken a wife. Perhaps I did not want to know, for even then I sensed what must come next
He told me that his memory came and went, that it was from the blow on the head he had suffered, and that some days were better than others. He inquired as to if my arm still got to paining me, and I told him that, no, it did not. I asked him if he wanted to see it in full. I would have then and there taken down my sleeve and rolled it to show him the ruination, the stump where a full arm had once been; many people stared, but I felt nothing but concern and curiosity from him. Instead, he suggested that we retire to the privacy of my room, so I might not spoil the suppers of the other guests.
I remember I was disappointed not to hear that jangle of spurs on the stair behind me as he followed me up to my room, that absurd noise that I recalled so well. I wondered if he had given up wearing them or if he had only removed them for the evening. I had hated them once, and now I was filled with regret by their absence, as if they would somehow make him more LaBoeuf than he naturally was. My LaBoeuf, I suppose was my thinking.
“Why,” said he as I folded my up sleeve, “that ain’t nothing but a little scratch!” With pride, I told him that it was near enough to almost kill me, had Rooster not been so doggedly persistent, and he agreed with that. It was the only time we spoke of Rooster Cogburn. And then he took my cheek in his hand and moved my face to look into his. It was older, but I suppose mine must have been as well. He had lines he’d not had before, from, I suspect, the sun, for his skin was the color of leather, but also from age. Lines around his mouth and eyes from when he’d flash you that smile of his.
Why, I was a woman grown then! And he would not be the first man I bedded, though I had found the experience to be underwhelming, not at all as those dime store novels had described the throes of passion. I admit to thinking of LaBoeuf often as I took to sleep. If my brother and sister had spoken of Rooster Cogburn as “my boyfriend,” it was only because they did not know of the man named LaBoeuf or his Texas charm, that he was a man of both worth and true grit. In truth, I had not fully understood how I had missed him until that moment, looking into his eyes.
“Do you ever wear your hair in braids anymore?” he asked as he took my long, dark hair from its pinnings at the crown of my head, and I felt it tumble to my shoulders, down my back. I was prouder of my hair than a God fearing woman such as I ought to be—vanity they called that sin, though I never took to the idea of God judging a woman for taking some satisfaction in her appearance—and I wore it severely many a time, but now it was revealed in full, his fingers running through it as if wondering at its pleasing texture. A man had never before and has never since done this, and I found it distinctly exhilarating.
I said, “Is it such a surprise to feel something so soft on someone so abrasive?” And once more he laughed, those wrinkles of mirth deepening in the buckskin that was his face.
“Had a filly in the Rangers once,” said he, “hard to break, but had a mane soft as silk.” I slapped his hand away, scowling, but that only served to increase his amusement.
“You still enjoy teasing me, so I see,” I said, sniffing a bit. And that was when he kissed me, and that wasn’t any teasing. I recall how warm and soft his lips were, which had surprised me at the time. I had stolen a kiss or two, but I have never experienced, nor do I think I shall ever, the passion with which he seized my mouth then. And I was happy then that I had not asked about him taking a lady to wife, for I would be committing the most grievous sin of adultery. I still believe he had not, and that that is not just “wishful thinking.”
I was still young and my clothing was simple, and it was summertime so I was dressed light, but to this day, I cannot recall how he stripped me of all, including my roughspun smallclothes. I was, of course, self-conscious as any young girl would have been, not because he was near a stranger, for I would never consider him such, but because I yearned so for beauty in his eyes. It is a girlish fancy, and one I am not immune to. He was so very handsome, and so I wanted to appear to be for him as well.
I was pleasing enough to see the look in his eye, though I do believe my charms have now somewhat faded since I was nineteen and eager. His skin was leather all over, beneath the hair on his chest, down his muscular legs. The mattress was lumpy and was held in the style of ropes which were in sore need of tightening, but I hardly noticed this as he pressed against me from above.
I will say now that I do not believe there is any such sensation as a man’s skin upon a woman’s. None that I have experienced certainly. He was hard in all the places I was soft, and we were both fervent in our desire, I could feel that plain enough in the throbbing bit of flesh pushing against my thighs and my stomach. I was shocked to say the least when he began to do things with his tongue, most assuredly wicked things, and my prayer that this would not be so woefully disappointing as that first time had been were dispelled quite powerfully. His head between my legs brought me pleasure in ways I never knew were possible, and surely this was sinful, and it gave sin a better reputation. His tongue danced on and in me until I began to tremble. Why, I hardly kept my head as I shuddered, a wave crashing over me of purest blissful intent and I was undone before he’d even put what made him a man in me.
My surprised countenance gave him pause and then made him grin quite broadly, pleased with himself. And for this once, I would say that he had earned it. His kisses were wetter this time as he moved back up my willing body, and the source of that wetness was easy enough to discern as he had just drank deeply of my private wellspring. It made my flesh tingle and prickle, especially as he focused on those very sensitive places, the tight, puckered peaks of my bosom.
His lips entangled with mine and he entered me in one very assured thrust, though he was cautious after, making certain I was used to the feel of a man down there, and to him specifically. Well, I’ll be damned if he wasn’t just as big as his character suggested. And it was uncomfortable, but only at first. He positioned me in such a way, with one arm about my waist, that I began to feel nothing but delight. I did not know what to call him, for surely yelling the name, “LaBoeuf, LaBoeuf!” over and over would be unseemly and just plain silly. As if he sensed this reticence in me, he leaned over and, in my ear, he whispered his Christian name, and I repeated it many times as he thrust and ground himself into me.
Soon, I clutched the headboard as if clinging to the reins of a particularly enthusiastic stallion. I would never tell him that I made this comparison. My legs came up about him, my thighs gripping his hips tightly, and I was moving as well, astonishing myself with my own wicked ardor. That wondrous sensation was upon me once more, and I was twisting beneath him, my body convulsing with much and more ecstasy. And this time, he followed. I had known enough of animal husbandry to think of this in simply natural terms, but such things fled my head, which was spinning nicely. He pulled out, so I would not be with his child, and somehow the wet, sticky feel of him on my legs was even better.
We lay together for some time, until I thought my man might be returning. In that time, he stroked my hair and whispered sweet things to me. He asked me to recite to him the tale of the Midnight Caller, but would not play the caller, so I pinched his nose. His body was a map of many scars, which I admired silently with my fingers. He had quite earned my respect those years ago, and here was only proof of it, that he had true grit. At the gloaming when I knew I should be lighting the bedside lantern, he finally stood and dressed. I stayed naked, so he may watch me one last time exposed for him.
“Tell me,” said I as I lounged there, feeling most iniquitous indeed, “is everything bigger in Texas?” He laughed. And that was the last time I heard him laugh.