Boswell's Luck

by G. Clifton Wisler

  Tripp waved them along down the hill. Four wounded raiders lay moaning under the barrels of Winchesters. Five corpses lay elbow to elbow nearby, their grizzled faces drained of life. The sole remaining body lay as it had fallen on the hillside. Rat stared down at a pair of huge, empty blue eyes frozen on a fuzz-faced youth.

  “Was the one you took,” Mitch said, nervously slapping Rat on the back. “Look at it, Bob. One bullet through the cheek.”

  “Cain’t be older’n me,” Rat said, shivering with a sudden chill.

  “Old as he’ll get,” Tripp noted. “Give me a hand. We’ll drag him down with the others.”

  Rat grabbed a still-warm hand while Mitch took the other. Tripp lifted the feet. It was a light load for three men, no effort at all. And as they laid it beside the others, Rat silently prayed for forgiveness.

  “Can’t blame yourself, Rat,” Mitch said, reading his friend’s thoughts. “Shoot, if Tripp hadn’t come ’long when he did, could be us over there.”

  “Don’t make it easier, Mitch. Did you see him? Could’ve been Alex.”

  “Wasn’t. Don’t you see, Rat? It’s just like ole Boswell. No luck, that boy. Fell upon bad company, and got a bullet for his mistake. Now come along. I got a need to wash all this powder and dust off me ’fore the cows muddy up the river.”

  Rat readily agreed. It wasn’t just powder and dust he was freeing himself from, though. There was a need to shed the shadowy grip of cold death. By the time he finally climbed out of the river and returned to the outfit, all traces of the raiders had been erased. A single mound of earth topped by rocks marked their grave. There wasn’t a sign of the wounded, and Rat didn’t ask after them. Payne Oakley, one arm in a sling, sipped whiskey from a hitherto hidden flask, and the other veterans seemed more than usually grim. Rat took their dead eyes for an answer.

  After crossing the Cimarron, it was relatively easy to hurry the cattle along to Dodge City on the Arkansas. The town was little more than sprawling cattle pens, railroad tracks, and a hodgepodge of plan gambling houses and saloons. Rat accepted his wages and thanked Orville Hanks for the chance to prove himself. Then he followed Mitch down the street in search of a bathhouse.

  Trail’s end was as wild an event as any tale had hinted, and Rat soon found himself caught up in the celebration. Three other Texas outfits were in Dodge City, and sixty cowboys could raise a roof or two. After bathing in perfumed suds and making a stop at the barber for a clipping and shave, the boys headed for Front Street, decked out in fresh clothes and looking fit for a parson’s visit. In no time they exchanged a few silver coins for a bottle, and the fiery swirl of whiskey surged through them.

  “Well, here’s some fresh blood!” a tall, willowy girl declared as she draped a boa over Mitch’s arm. “Care to dance, Texas?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Mitch replied, abandoning the bottle and Rat for the attentions of the female.

  “How ’bout you, sonny?” a woman in her mid-twenties asked, approaching Rat. “Got some dancin’ in you?”

  “Never tried,” Rat said, dropping his gaze as the woman came closer. The front of her dress cut down into her belly, leaving little to the imagination. Rat managed to grin shyly as she took his hand.

  “Go ’head, Rat!” Bob Tripp urged.

  Rat scowled, but the woman only grinned. “Rat?” she asked. “Well, he do look a bit like one.”

  “It’s ’cause my name’s Erastus,” Rat told her, angrily scanning the room.

  “Well, Erastus, you look peaked. Don’t you worry ’bout it. Bit o’ Iovin’s sure to cure that. Let Flora take you somewhere quiet where we can get to know each other.”

  “Set the price early, kid,” a cowboy cried, laughing.

  “Let go,” Rat said, wriggling free. He stared at the amused faces of the encircling men, wanting to strike out at each and every one of them. Finally he swallowed his anger and stormed outside.

  Mitch found him three hours later tossing stones into the Arkansas River.

  “Rat?” he called.

  “Who am I to be laughed at so?” Rat howled. “Is it always goin’ to be this way?”

  “Was only in fun,” Mitch argued. “And it’ll pass.”

  “Will it?” Rat asked. He wondered.

  Chapter Seven

  Most of the veteran cowboys blew off a little steam, bought themselves an outfit or two, and drifted slowly southward. Mitch Morris, on the other hand, developed a talent at the card tables. From early afternoon to well after midnight the seventeen-year-old would test his wits against older, more experienced players. There were some true artists in Dodge City that summer, but even shaved cards and extra aces didn’t deter Mitch. He won more than he lost, so he stayed on.

  Rat Hadley found no like success in Dodge. He had a good mind for figures, and the plain truth was that you couldn’t win at cards. It was clear to see! Hard liquor left him wheezing and bewildered, and the girls spent most of their time picking at his name or making fun of his manners. All in all, he’d been happier elsewhere.

  “I’ve had my fill o’ Kansas,” Rat finally told Mitch. “I got a bit o’ money left, and nobody’s stabbed or shot me yet. So I’d judge I’m well off by Dodge City standards and ready to ride south.”

  Mitch put it simply. “I’m not,” he declared. “May never be. The cards keep comin’ my way, I might just become a professional. Mighty easy life, Rat. I could use a friend to watch my back, though. Many’s the card-sharp paid somebody to peek at another player’s hand.”

  “I’m not the one for that kind o’ work,” Rat argued. “I close to cough myself sick from the cigar smoke, and I miss Texas. Haven’t had a swim since Cimarron River, and yer ma’s certain to worry after us.”

  “We’ll write her a letter. Tell her we’ve started up a business.”

  “No, you write the letter, Mitch. I’ll deliver it personal.”

  “Won’t hold it against me, my stayin’ on?”

  “Couldn’t ever do that,” Rat said, shaking his head at Mitch’s easy smile. “You ain’t no cowboy, Mitch. Never’ll make a livin’ ropin’ steers or roundin’ up strays. Me, I’m out o’ place in a town. Guess I belong with the horses.”

  “Don’t sell yourself short.”

  “That’s for other folks to do,” Rat replied. “Me, I don’t fool myself either way. Ain’t much to look on, and a runt to boot, but I’ll work hard for the man that pays me. And I remember my friends.”

  “Am I one o’ them?”

  “Top o’ the list, Mitch. You saved my life. Be a hard thing to forget.”

  “Good thing to know, that,” Mitch said, sighing. “A body has needs o’ friends.”

  On his way back to Texas Rat Hadley learned the truth of those words. Crossing the wild Cimarron country he was shot at two times and chased a third. It was a fine game, separating Texas cowboys from their earnings, and many a desperado tried his hand at it. Rat quickly regretted hanging around Dodge City so long. How much better it would have been to return with Payne Oakley and Orville Hanks!

  As it turned out Rat felt safest riding among the Indian camps and reservations farther south. Once, among the Caddos, he was treated to fresh trout and corn bread. The Choctaws fed him, too, but for a price. They, after all, were Americanized.

  Once across the Red River, nothing short of a full-blown cyclone could keep him from Thayerville. He rode forty miles some days, and he forded rivers with less concern than a man stepped across a mud puddle. When he got to the Brazos, he paused beside the white oak and washed the dust and weariness from himself and his clothes. He walked past old Boswell’s grave, but wind or vandals had carried off the board, and time had evened out the ground so you couldn’t tell anybody had ever been buried there.

  “Well, time passes,” Rat whispered to the wind. “Nobody lasts for long alive, so I guess you cain’t expect to do better dead.”

  He rode into Thayerville early the next morning. All the way from Kansas he’d been rehearsing the words he’d share
with Mary Morris. But when he stepped inside the mercantile, he was unprepared for what he found. Sitting behind the counter was a pleasant-faced boy of fifteen or so, and a second youngster maybe a year younger restocked shelves.

  “Mornin’,” the stock boy called as Rat stared at the counter-his counter. “What can I get you, mister?”

  “I’m Rat Hadley,” the newcomer explained.

  “Josh Morris,” the youngest boy answered, offering his hand. “Yonder’s my brother Jeremiah. We just come out from Tyler to help our aunt.”

  “Miz Morris handy?” Rat asked.

  “I’ll fetch her,” Josh said, hurrying toward the storeroom. Moments later he reappeared with Mary Morris.

  “Mornin’, ma’am,” Rat said.

  “Lord be praised,” Mrs. Morris cried, rushing over and wrapping Rat up in her arms. She kissed and hugged and close to squeezed him silly. Finally she let go and asked about Mitch.

  “He stayed in Dodge City,” Rat explained, handing her Mitch’s letter.

  “Doing what?” Mrs. Morris asked.

  “Well, he found himself a job o’ sorts,” Rat said, praying he wouldn’t give out too much of the truth. Mary Morris deemed cards the devil’s own tools, and she condemned them mightily.

  “Well, he’s of an age to find distractions,” she muttered. “Knew it when you left. If a boy sees too much of the country, he’s never content around home. I wrote my sister-in-law, and she sent her two eldest up to help with the store.”

  “For the summer?” Rat asked.

  “No, they’ll stay on till they finish their schooling. Unless they run off on some fool cattle drive.”

  “Angry with me ’bout that, ma’am?”

  “No, I couldn’t get very angry at you, Rat,” she confessed. “And the range has done you good. You’ve grown, and your color’s better. Knowing your father, I don’t suppose settled life ever would take with you.”

  “Probably not,” he agreed. “Still, I thought maybe you might could use me at the store a bit.”

  “Lord, Rat, I’ve brought the boys down to tend counter. Gave them the upstairs room, too. I thought now you were working for Mr. Hanks you wouldn’t want to come back.”

  “Well, I can’t blame you for it ma’am. Guess I should’ve spoken with you. Mr. Hanks, he’s got his regular crew, you see. He might could put me on just the same.”

  “I’m certain he will. Mitch says you outride any other man in the county. If tending cows is what you want to do with your life, it’s best you got along with it.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  And so, after sharing a bite of lunch with the Morrises and spinning tales of the cattle drive, Rat remounted his horse and headed out to visit the county’s ranches. He met with poor results.

  “Glad you made it home, son,” Mr. Hanks said, “but you know I’ve got a full crew.”

  “I thought maybe since Payne’s arm … “

  “It’s healed just fine, Rat. I might need a man this winter, but for now I’ve nothin’. I didn’t get my price in Dodge, you know. ’ftuth is I’m lettin’ men go, not takin’ any on.”

  “Yessir,” Rat said, nodding sadly as he turned to go.

  It was much the same up and down the Brazos. Falling prices meant tightening belts. People would feed him in return for a bit of wood chopping, and a woman paid him to mend a fence and repair her pump. Down on the Colorado he helped raise a barn, and in Wood City the town doctor kept Rat busy painting a house.

  Rat was at it day and night for two weeks, slapping whitewash on the bare planks as the fiery August sun blazed down on his bare shoulders. The doctor’s daughter often watched from the porch and sometimes brought Rat a ladle of spring water.

  “Thanks, miss,” Rat always replied.

  “You’re quite welcome, Rat,” she answered, smiling shyly. “Do you mind my asking how a pleasant boy like yourself could come across such a name?”

  “Well, it ain’t my name really,” Rat confessed. “Comes o’ my given name, Erastus. I never took to it really, but people went on callin’ me that, and I couldn’t fight all o’ them. So I give up and took it on.”

  “I like Erastus better. It’s interesting. Sounds a bit like a banker, or maybe a preacher.”

  “Wouldn’t do for me then,” Rat said, laughing. “That’d be one shot fell wide o’ the mark.”

  “I’m called Amanda,” she explained. “What do you think of that for a name?”

  “Suits you well enough, miss. It’s a pretty name, kind o’ like a flower. Yeah, it suits you.”

  She blushed as he returned the ladle. Then he resumed his work, leaving her to watch from afar.

  She brought water quite often thereafter, and twice they watched the sunset as he cleaned his brushes.

  “Erastus, do you mind me asking a question?” she asked as twilight settled in around them.

  “No, Miss Amanda,” he told her. “May not be able to answer you, but I’ll give her a try.”

  “It’s about those marks on your back,” she explained. “Thin scars. I’ve only seen their kind once in my life. We had a Negro working for us. He’d been horsewhipped while a slave down in Louisiana.”

  “I don’t much like to talk ’bout ’em,” Rat mumbled.

  “You were whipped, weren’t you? As a child.”

  “Was no child,” Rat argued. “Fourteen. Just after my pa passed on, I went to work for a fellow. He was rough with his own boys, and he beat the all o’ us regular. Nigh kilt me. Lord was lookin’ out for me, I guess. Sheriff rode down and took me away.”

  “You’ve had some hard days, haven’t you?” she asked, placing her hands on his sweat-streaked shoulders. “It’s all written on your face. I wince at the sight of you slaving away in the bright sun, melting away before my eyes. It hurts to see you suffer.”

  “Oh, I’m used to the heat, miss,” Rat said, grinning. “Don’t you worry over that.”

  “I do worry,” she insisted, slipping her hands behind his head and pressing herself against him. Bewildered, Rat gazed into her eyes. They were filling up with tears.

  “Ma’am, I best go,” he said, wriggling free. “I don’t think yerpa’d … “

  “Little late to be thinking of that!” the doctor shouted, rushing to his daughter’s side and jerking her away from Rat. “Are you crazed or just plain stupid, boy?”

  “Don’t know I’m either,” Rat barked in reply. “Miss Amanda asked if she could watch the sun go down with me, and I didn’t see as how I could say no. I don’t own the sun, nor the land under my feet, neither one.”

  “Don’t you fence words with me, young man. Look at you! Standing there half naked, making indecent advances on my daughter!”

  “Sir, I done nothin’ o’ the kind,” Rat objected. “I only been pain tin’ yer house.”

  “Well, you’ll do no more painting here, nor elsewhere in Wood City after I pass word of your attack on my daughter. It may well be you’ll feel the bite of a rope before morning.”

  “Sir, I never … “

  “We’ll settle with him, Pa,” a fresh voice called. Before Rat quite knew what was happening, a slender man in his early twenties appeared, accompanied by two boys in their late teens. One tossed a loop over Rat’s shoulders, and the others quickly saw to it the painter was bound securely. Then they started on him.

  “Papa, no!” Amanda pleaded. “He didn’t do anything. I just spoke with him a few times. That’s all.”

  The doctor urged his sons on. Boots followed fists, and Rat dropped to his knees, a shuddering bundle of bruises and pain.

  “Lowlife!” they called him. “Gutter trash!”

  “Now listen to me!” the doctor said, grabbing Rat by his forelock and lifting his head. “What do you have to say for yourself now?”

  “Nothin’,” Rat said through a mouthful of blood. “I done nothin’.”

  “Shall I give you back to the boys?”

  “Do what you want,” Rat growled. “I done you no harm. I
f you want to beat me, go ahead. I been beat worse’n you could manage.”

  “Don’t be so sure about that,” one of the brothers cried.

  Rat only laughed and waited for another blow. He was tired, his ribs ached, and he didn’t care anymore. He thought back to that outlaw boy shot on the Cimarron and wondered who’d been the lucky one that day.

  “I don’t ever want to see your face in Wood City again,” the doctor declared, glaring at Rat’s swollen face. “Understand?”

  “Understand?” Rat asked. “Not a bit o’ it. You hire me to do a job o’ work, and ’cause yer daughter brings me a dipper o’ water or looks at the sun go down, you figure you got the right to beat me silly. Nobody’s got that right!”

  “Listen to me, trash,” the doctor roared. “I might hire a Negro or a Mexican to paint my house, but I wouldn’t have either one of them to Sunday supper. Nor tolerate them touching my daughter!”

  “Git!” the oldest brother yelled as he pried the ropes from Rat’s battered chest. “Don’t ever come back, either.”

  “I’m due wages,” Rat complained as he struggled to his feet. One side was turning deep purple, and he thought it likely a rib or two was busted.

  “You’re due a hangman’s noose if I see you here in one hour,” the doctor vowed. “Get his horse, Benjamin. Tie him on if you have to, but get him from my sight.”

  “Sure, Pa,” the youngest boy agreed.

  “I’ll get my own horse,” Rat muttered, grabbing a tin of paint and hurling it at the doctor. “The Lord knows yer work this night. I hope to hell he calls you to ’counts.”

  With that spoken, Rat stumbled to where his horse was tied. He slipped a shirt onto his back and pulled himself into the saddle. He was half of a mind to dig the old Colt Bob Tripp had given him at the Cimarron from the saddlebag and avenge himself on that doctor. But that would only get him hung, and Rat Hadley wasn’t ready to die just yet. No, there were things he hadn’t done.

  He slapped the horse into motion, and the mustang carried him from Wood City and along the Colorado two or three miles. He didn’t recall how exactly because his eyes were closed most of that time, and pain enveloped memory. He came to in a narrow barred cell in the jail house of a town called Rosstown. A frowning sheriff met his awakening gaze.