Charles Portis

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

a cotton house made over into a little cabin. It had a good roof.

“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.

I showed him the note from the sheriff. After he had read it he was not disposed to be so short with me.

The killer has flown to the Territory and is now on the scout there.

I cannot make an agreement with a child. You are not accountable. You cannot be bound to a contract

The marshals were unloading the prisoners and poking them sharply along with their Winchester repeating rifles.

chained beasts were murderers and robbers

Rooster took my cup and put it on the floor and a fat brindle cat appeared out of the darkness where the bunks were and came over to lap up the milk.

I took the half-made cigarette and shaped it up and licked it and sealed it and twisted the ends and gave it back to him.