Boswell's Luck

by G. Clifton Wisler

  “Yeah,” Rat agreed. “I know just how they feel.”

  “You got work now, though,” Cathcart pointed out.

  “For how long?” Rat asked. “Stage line’s fine, but how long’ll it last with the railroad runnin’ twice as fast just south o’ here?”

  “You’ve done a fine job, Rat. Made yourself a reputation. Even if the Western went belly-up, you’d find work easy enough.”

  “Doin’ what? Sloppin’ hogs?”

  “No, I was thinkin’ more on the line o’ becomin’ a deputy sheriff.”

  “Where? Seems to me you got one already here in Thayerville.”

  “Henning Lewis’s half the time off visitin’ a particular friend over near Albany. She’s got herself a fine business there. Won’t be long ’fore he heads there permanent. Meantime, I need myself somebody now and then. Pay you half o’ Lewis’s salary for takin’ half his time.”

  “I got a job now, Sheriff.”

  “I spoke to Nate a week ago. He said they’d want you ridin’ with the stage when you get better, but elsewise, you could deputy. Draw your regular wage, too. Might be you’ll need the money by and by. For startin’ up a family, for instance.”

  “Yeah,” Rat said, grinning. “I’ll give it some thought. It’s a fine honor yer handin’ me.”

  “I figure you earned the chance, son. Not a bad life, the law.”

  “No, sir,” Rat said, pondering the matter. “Not bad at all.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Rat Hadley stood alongside Nate Parrott, greeting the westbound stage, when gunfire shattered the calm of a November afternoon.

  “Best have a look,” Parrott advised.

  Rat nodded, grabbed his Winchester, and made his way down Main Street. He met Lem Cathcart and Henning Lewis fifteen yards short of the Lucky Lady.

  “Got your rifle, I see,” the sheriff noted.

  “Yessir,” Rat replied.

  “Got a deputy’s instincts, don’t he, Lem?” Lewis asked. The deputy then led the way toward the Lucky Lady. Once in the doorway, he motioned the sheriff on. Rat followed Cathcart. Inside, powder smoke hung in the acrid air. There was also an odor of death. A solitary cowboy was slumped across a gaming table in the saloon’s back corner. Nearby Mitch Morris stood, pocket Colt pistol in hand.

  “Done it again, eh?” Cathcart called angrily.

  “Th’other fellow reached first,” Mitch explained. “Was him or me, Sheriff.”

  “That right?” Cathcart asked a huddle of onlookers.

  “Happened real fast,” one cowboy answered.

  The others seemed equally uncertain.

  “Eli, what happened here?” Cathcart asked angrily.

  Hull shrugged, but Billy Bedford stepped out from behind the bar and approached the sheriff glumly.

  “Was like before,” the boy declared. “Jeb there,” Billy added, pointing to the slain card player, “thought Mitch was cheatin’. They argued a bit. Then the shootin’ happened.”

  “He had a gun, too,” Mitch said, pointing to a pistol resting on the floor below the cowboy’s lifeless fingers.

  “Best we take him along to the jail house,” Lewis suggested. “Have a regular trial.”

  “Nothin’s clear,” Cathcart grumbled. “I’ll take your Colt, Mitch. And I want you clear o’ town this day.”

  “Sheriff …” Mitch began.

  “Gone!” Cathcart shouted. “I warned you last time. Ought to see you hung. But that’d be poor return to John and Mary for long years o’ good service to this town.”

  “I was only defendin’ myself,” Mitch argued.

  Cathcart stepped over and grasped Mitch by his shoulders. The sheriff shook the young killer angrily, then slung him against the wall of the saloon. Cathcart tossed the small Colt to Lewis, then pointed Mitch toward the door.

  “Go!” the sheriff shouted. This time Mitch staggered to the door and made his exit.

  “Sheriff, he only …” Rat started to argue. An angry stare hushed Rat. He, too, left the saloon.

  “Where do I go?” Mitch cried, turning toward Rat. “I never knew anywhere else as home.”

  “I don’t know,” Rat answered. “Somewhere, though, ’cause Sheriff Cathcart’s in a fine fever.”

  Mitch nodded and started toward the livery.

  “Wasn’t anything else I could do,” he called to Rat. “Not anything!”

  Rat didn’t reply. He felt numb, empty, and not a little betrayed. Something was slipping away. And he was alone.

  “Leave him to go his way,” Sheriff Cathcart said from the door of the saloon. “Best be shed o’ him, son.”

  “How can you say that?” Rat asked. “He’s my best friend.”

  “He’s a no-account,” Cathcart declared. “And a killer. He’s sure to come to a bad end and drag others along with him.”

  A great chill took possession of Rat. The rifle in his hands seemed like ice. He turned and hurried back to the stage office.

  “Rat?” Nate Parrott called when the young guard slammed the Winchester down on the counter.

  “I got to ride a bit,” Rat told Parrott. “Be gone a day or two.”

  “You all right?”

  “I don’t know,” Rat confessed. “I just need some time to think over things.”

  “Your horse’s in the ready corral. I’ll get him saddled.”

  “I can tend it myself,” Rat barked. And with that said, Rat made his way to the corral.

  As always when Rat Hadley needed to think, he sought the open country alongside the Brazos. That river always seemed capable of washing away pain and confusion, of reviving hope and promise. He rode five miles along the winding river before stopping. He was frozen by the sight of the towering white oak on the far bank.

  Come a long ways, it seems, to wind up here, Rat thought. Ole Boswell must’ve felt the same way.

  Rat then splashed across the shallows and dismounted. After securing his horse to the white oak, he removed the saddle and threw a blanket on the rocky ground. There he passed the cold, heartless afternoon and the longer empty night.

  Morning found him watching the sun creep over the far hills. His stomach rumbled with hunger, and he drew a length of line from his saddlebags, fastened a hook, and snared a cricket for bait. In no time he managed to snag a plump bass. He built a small fire and cooked the fish trail style, on a green stick over glowing coals.

  Rat passed the balance of the morning drifting here and there across the low hills. So many memories lurked in that place. Shadows he thought to have escaped returned to torment him.

  Mitch arrived a little after midday.

  “Asked for you in town,” Mitch explained. “Parrott said you went ridin’. Somehow I knew you’d be up here.”

  “Where else?” Rat asked.

  “Brought a rifle. Thought maybe we could scare up a deer like in the old days.”

  “Not had yer fill o’ killin’ things?” Rat asked accusingly.

  “Maybe, but a man’s got to survive. He does things to get through one day to the next.”

  “Wonder if it’s altogether worth it,” Rat grumbled.

  “Wouldn’t you fight a bit for your dream, Rat? For that horse ranch you figure to have with Becky?”

  “I’m not sure I’d kill to get it,” Rat replied. “That sours everything.”

  “Maybe so,” Mitch admitted. “Right now, though, I got the urge to hunt these hills with my best friend. Like we used to when the two o’ us together couldn’t muster a chin whisker.”

  “For old times then,” Rat agreed.

  “Sure, for old times’ sake.”

  The hunt worked like a balm, salving Rat’s hurts. There was something about stalking deer across those empty, rocky ridges to draw a man back to his beginnings. Mitch had been right about that. Five years of hurt seemed to fade as warmer, better memories flooded Rat’s mind. And when they finally located a pair of bucks near a small pond, Mitch passed the rifle to Rat.

  “Yer shot,” Ra
t argued.

  “I never could hit anything with a rifle,” Mitch argued. “You found ’em. Drop us one so we don’t starve.”

  Rat nodded sadly, then cradled the rifle and fixed his sights on the larger of the bucks. It was a proud-looking creature with a fair set of antlers. Rat’s left arm ached some, and a flash of pain followed the rifle’s discharge. The buck fell instantly, though, and the hurt passed.

  “Same ole Rat!” Mitch yelled as the other deer scattered. “Crack shot!”

  “Let’s get about the butcherin’,” Rat muttered. “It’s not goin’ to stay light forever, you know.”

  “No, dark comes early this time o’ year,” Mitch agreed. “And with it winter’s chill.”

  The sun was nesting on the western horizon when the two old friends returned to their camp with the venison. The weight of the meat was almost too much for them, and Rat regretted not taking a horse along. His bad arm felt as if it would pop out of its socket, and the rest of him was just plain exhausted. Mitch knew it, and he started making the fire.

  “Turnin’ cold,” Mitch observed as he scraped the handle of his knife across a length of flint to spark a pile of dry brush. “November’s here, and winter’s certain to follow.”

  “Yeah,” Rat agreed. “Hard times comin’.”

  It was later, while thick venison steaks crackled over the fire, that Mitch began recounting half-forgotten adventures they’d shared as boys. There were days spent swimming in the river or chasing mustangs, bedeviling farmers or raiding neighbors.

  “Strange how things’ve turned,” Mitch said sadly. “I’d give most anything to be fourteen again, to start it all over.”

  “Not me,” Rat grumbled. “I been through my hard times.”

  “And mine’s just beginnin’,” Mitch said, sighing.

  “It’ll all die down in a bit,” Rat argued. “Sheriff Cathcart won’t hold a grudge, Mitch. In a month or so he won’t mind you comin’ home, even playin’ cards at the Lucky Lady. It’s the killin’ he hates. And the notion his town’s gone sour.”

  “A month?” Mitch said, laughing to himself as he drew a charred steak off the fire. “Might not be alive in a month.”

  “What?”

  “I been the worst kind o’ fool, Rat,” Mitch confessed as he passed the steak to his friend. “Went down to Weatherford. They got hard men there. I played cards with a pair o’ them. I figured I could hold my own, but they had all the luck. I tried everything, even shaved a card or two. I had to bring the chips back my way. It was like before, at the Double L, only I couldn’t shoot my way out o’ trouble.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Rat, those fellows weren’t lyin’. I wasn’t playing’ ’em square. Both times they had me caught and knew it. Pure luck saved me. They tried to settle things with pistols, and I was ready.”

  “And at Weatherford?”

  “Didn’t work that way. Two men called my game. Another had a shotgun on my back. I lost everything. My money, and maybe my hide, too, if I don’t come up with what I owe ’em.”

  “You owe them money?”

  “I used a marker in the game, Rat. I had to get my losin’s back. Only I went on losin’.”

  “How much do you owe?”

  “Two-hundred dollars.”

  “Lord, Mitch!” Rat exclaimed. “That’s a fortune.”

  “For some,” Mitch confessed. “Me, I won that much before, and I will again once luck turns my way. All I need’s time.”

  “Two-hundred dollars, though! Where’ll you get it? Do yer folks have that kind o’ cash?”

  “No, nor would they lend it to me,” Mitch said, frowning. “Ma says cards’s the devil’s tools. You recall that, don’t you? Scolded us plenty when she caught us havin’ a game o’ poker.”

  “They’d understand if you went to ’em,” Rat declared. “Yer their boy, after all. They’d help you. They think yer the best man ever set foot on the earth.”

  “We know better, of course. And if I told them, what pain would that cause?”

  “But what else’ll you … “

  “Why do you figure I come up here, Rat?”

  “What?”

  “The reward money. Five-hundred dollars.”

  “That’s for my ranch, Mitch.”

  “I wouldn’t need it all,” Mitch said, frowning. “Look, Rat, I’d have to have two hundred to get even and another fifty for a stake. I could start fresh.”

  “That’s my future, Mitch. It’s for Becky. It’s a house, land, a good stud. I need it.”

  “Rat, it’s only blind luck brought you that money. You said yourself you didn’t know it was Curly Bob Clark set out after you, and you didn’t mean to kill him. Luck run your way for once. And it sure as hell’s turned its eyes from me.”

  “It’s a lot to ask, Mitch,” Rat muttered. “More’n a man ought to, I’m thinkin’.”

  “More’n riskin’ your life ridin’ out to see a friend when a shotgun-totin’ varmint threatened to kill you? More’n riskin’ your neck to save somebody in pain? More’n takin’ in a boy, sharin’ your home, family, everything? We been brothers, Rat. I give you everything a man can give. I ain’t asked much in return. Not in my whole life.”

  “Nor’ve I,” Rat replied.

  “It’s my life, Rat. Now it’s me needs help, and I come to you. There’s nobody else.”

  Rat stared hard into the eyes of his old friend. Desperation lurked in those tormented eyes. Rat recognized the expression. It drew them both back to another time and place. The scars on Rat’s back seemed to eat into his soul, and the specter of ole man Plank’s vicious face seemed to dance in the flames of the campfire.

  “I got the money locked up in the company safe,” Rat explained. “We’ll go into town tomorrow and fetch it.”

  “You’ve saved my life,” Mitch said, clasping Rat’s hand.

  “Returnin’ a favor,” Rat answered. “Payin’ a debt.”

  “Wasn’t ever a debt,” Mitch argued. “We been bonded, the two o’ us, for a long time. It’s just another trial shared.”

  Rat nodded. Ifs the last one shared, he told himself. For things had changed between them.

  They passed the chill night in an uneasy silence. Once venison steaks would have brought warming contentment. Now there was only a cold void, together with a sense that something valuable had been lost.

  Next morning Rat led the way into Thayerville. He paused but a few minutes at the Cathcart place to deliver the deerhide full of fresh venison. Then he galloped along to the Western Stage Line office.

  “Well, what do you know?” Nate Parrott cried when Rat entered the office. “Figured you for a week’s ridin’ easy.”

  “I need to draw some money from the safe,” Rat explained.

  “Set your mind on that ranch, have you? Well, we’ll miss you, son. But a man’s bound to make himself a fresh beginnin’ now and then.”

  “I only need half,” Rat added. “And I won’t be goin’ anyplace. Truth is, I’ll be ready to ride guard again tomorrow.”

  “You sure?” Parrott asked.

  “I’m sure,” Rat answered.

  “Well, you go ahead and draw what you need from the safe. You know how. That packet’s still got your name on her. Be easy enough to find.”

  Rat nodded and went about it. He gazed nervously at Mitch’s face in the side window. And twice he misdialed the combination. In truth Rat didn’t want to part with the money, forestall his own dream. In the end, though, he counted off the bank notes and took them to Mitch Morris.

  “They got a lot o’ trust in you, Rat,” Mitch observed when they met outside. “Must be plenty o’ money passes through this office.”

  “Enough,” Rat replied, passing over the money. “It’s a fine thing for somebody to hold you in esteem, you know. Might be you ought to consider such work yerself.”

  “Part o’ me wants to,” Mitch confessed. “But I got the itch to deal cards. It’d be a hard fork to take in the
road after knowin’ what it’s like to sleep in silk sheets and wear fancy clothes, have soft shoulders to hold come nightfall, and spend what I like for what I want.”

  “It’s a mirage, that life,” Rat argued. “Nothin’ easy lasts more’n a moment. Life’s dark and hard and bitter cold.”

  “Sure it is,” Mitch said, folding the bills and stuffing them in his pocket. “Less luck’s with you. Be a time ’fore we see each other again, Rat. You watch out for yourself.”

  “You, too, Mitch,” Rat said, clasping his old friend’s hand. And yet as they parted, there was none of the old warmth left behind.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Rat tended his horse before returning to the Cathcart house. Earlier, when he’d dropped off the venison, he’d hardly spoken a word. Now he found himself greeted by anxious eyes.

  “Pa won’t favor you ridin’ with Mitch Morris,” Busby muttered as he held the door open. “He don’t like Mitch much.”

  “I know,” Rat replied.

  “We worried about you,” Becky broke in. “You might let people know when you ride off into the hills.”

  “Didn’t figure I was a boy like Buzz, needin’ permission to do a little huntin’,” Rat barked. “I been a long time growed up, Becky. A long time.”

  “And you’ve been a considerable time part o’ this family,” she argued. “I think we’re owed some consideration in return for our attentions.”

  “Brought you a deer,” Rat countered. “If it’s not enough, maybe I’d better pack up my gear and move back over to Pop’s place. Might be best. ’ll be ridin’ to Albany on the stage tomorrow mornin’ anyhow.”

  “I thought Pa …”

  “Thought what?” Rat asked. “That I give up my job? Man’s got to earn his way, you know.”

  “What about the ranch?” she cried. “You’ve got the reward money now. I was hopin’ maybe the two o’ us might ride out and look around some.”

  “Spoke to a preacher, too, I’ll wager,” Rat grumbled. “Don’t you think I got some say in my life?”

  “Of course,” she said sourly. “It’s only … “