Boswell's Luck

by G. Clifton Wisler

  “More likely a month’s,” Rat replied, sighing.

  In the end, though, he deemed it worth the cost for the look on Becky’s face when he led her onto Main Street.

  “Well, folks, we best lock up the womenfolk!” John Morris cried. “Mr. Erastus Hadley’s got himself on the prowl.”

  “Erastus?” Billy Bedford asked. “That yer real name, Rat?”

  “One l’s born with,” Rat confessed. “Shed it early on, though.”

  “Don’t blame you,” Billy said, stepping back quickly to avoid Rat’s grasp.

  “I’ve got to help Maready the food tables,” Becky said, halting him from pursuing the taunting youngster. “Can I trust you to stay clear o’ trouble for a bit?”

  “Maybe,” Rat answered. “I am a deputy sheriff nowadays, you know.”

  “Well, keep that in mind,” she suggested.

  He flashed her a smile, then released her hand. As she hurried to help the other women set out platters of food on a series of tables along the south side of Main Street, Rat trotted over to where the Plank youngsters were setting off firecrackers. Rat thought it fortunate the street had been cleared of horses, for surely there would have been a stampede or two. In short order Vesty managed to send two dogs fleeing for their lives, and Randy fired a bottle rocket through the lobby of the hotel, scattering visitors in every direction.

  “Sure be a shame to arrest a couple o’ fine upstandin’ citizens like yer-selves,” Rat told the youngsters.

  “Be a shame to set yer boots on fire, too,” Vesty warned.

  Rat thereupon grabbed the boys by their suspenders and tossed them in a nearby trough. Grateful townspeople cheered.

  Rat likewise managed to rescue the town from a band of pea-shooting outlaws led by Busby Cathcart.

  “Sheriff might have words for you over such behavior,” Rat warned.

  “More’n words, I expect,” Buzz answered. “Guess maybe we can turn to other business for a time, eh?”

  His companions agreed whole-heartedly, and Rat chased the bunch of them along down the street.

  By the time Becky finished her duties, Rat had tired of riding herd on Thayerville’s younger population. He was just twenty himself, after all, so he excused himself and led Becky toward the mercantile. The street there was devoted to games of every sort, and they quickly joined in the fun. Becky managed to dunk his head under while he was bobbing for apples, and they stumbled in a hopeless tangle of spindly legs during a three-legged race.

  “Guess it’s not our day,” Rat grumbled.

  “I wouldn’t say so,” Becky replied with a grin. She rested her head on his chest a moment, and he brushed hair out of her eyes.

  “Guess I’ve made a mess o’ myself,” she lamented.

  “I never knew you prettier,” he argued. “Nor felt stronger.”

  She smiled, then threw her arms around his neck and drew him close.

  “Becky, folks’s lookin’,” he objected.

  “Let ’em,” she said, kissing his forehead. “Can’t be a secret, our feelin’s.”

  “Don’t suppose so,” Rat admitted, returning the kiss. “But I do think we ought to get out o’ this street and let people get back to their business.”

  She gazed up at the crowd of pointing children and laughed. Rat stood, then helped her to her feet. Together they hurried along to where an arcade had been built. Among the fiesta booths were all sorts of tossing games. Rat disdained them. When they reached a target range, though, Henning Lewis shouted.

  “Here’s Rat Hadley!” the deputy called. “Best shot in town by most accounts. Care to take a shot, Rat? Prize is a plump turkey fit for a Sunday kettle. Becky there can bake it up perfect.”

  “I don’t think so,” Rat declined. “I don’t like turkey.”

  “I do,” Becky declared. “Go ahead and have a try, Rat.”

  “Yeah, Rat!” Tyler Palmer urged. “Henning took his turn and only hit seven targets.”

  “He’s right,” Lewis admitted. “Defend the honor of Thayerville, Rat. Some fellow off the Circle H hit eight.”

  “Go ahead, Rat,” others cried. “Hit ’em all.”

  Rat turned to leave, but hands drew him back. Becky’s eyes pleaded.

  “Show ’em who you are, Rat,” she whispered.

  Who I am? he asked himself. What did shooting a rifle have to do with that? Nevertheless he picked up one of the Winchesters lying on a counter and examined it carefully. Ten playing cards were set up like targets fifty feet away, and he was to take one shot at each.

  Rat rested the rifle lightly in his hands. It felt familiar, too familiar. Lately rifles and pistols were becoming tools, no different than axes used to fell trees. Except bullets tore through flesh and toppled men.

  “Ten shots,” Lewis declared, waving the onlookers back. Rat raised the gun and took aim. He then aimed at the first target and fired. The shot nicked the lower left corner of a red deuce. The gun pulled that way, and Rat adjusted his aim thereafter. In short order he riddled one card after another. When he got to the final target, an angry-faced black king, his bullet obliterated the whole head.

  “I think he got ’em all,” Tyler yelled.

  Henning Lewis accepted the smoking rifle, then raced to check the score. He returned with the ten peppered cards and posted Rat’s score.

  “Take some doin’ to top that!” ’Tyler Palmer shouted.

  “It’s hardly fair,” a Circle H cowboy grumbled. “Everybody knows he rides guard for the Western Stage. It’s his trade, shootin’.”

  “Yours’s ropin’,” Randy Plank noted. “Seems like you were tossin’ a lariat down the ways, weren’t you?”

  The cowboy muttered to himself and left. Rat took Becky’s arm and led her along the street a ways.

  “There’s truth in what he said,” Rat told her.

  “You don’t do any more shootin’ than range cowboys do,” she argued. “Anyway, we’ve been here better’n an hour and we haven’t joined the dancin’. Care to, Mr. Hadley?”

  “Delighted, Miss Cathcart,” he replied.

  In truth, Rat never had been much of a dancer. He was no match for the wild-swinging cowboys or the more polished town boys. Becky got him through the steps, though, and at least they didn’t fall down as before.

  “Care to sit a bit?” Rat asked after their third dance.

  “Sure,” she agreed. “Let’s find a chicken leg and some corn to gnaw. I’m starved.”

  It was while they were making their way to the food tables that Coley Hanks stepped in the way.

  “Not leavin’ the dancin’ so soon, are you?” young Hanks asked. “Shoot, Becky, I was on my way to ask you to be my partner. After gettin’ your feet trampled by Hadley here, I figured you to deserve somethin’ better.”

  “We’re on our way to get some food,” Becky explained. “Maybe another time.”

  “Now,” Hanks objected. He grabbed Becky’s hand and turned toward the dancing. Rat pried the cowboy’s fingers loose and stepped between him and Becky.

  “You heard her,” Rat said, managing a grin. “Now, if you’ll excuse us … “

  “Get out o’ the way, Hadley!” Hanks shouted, angrily reaching for Rat’s shoulders. Rat stepped back and allowed the cowboy to fall.

  “You’ve had yerself a gulletful o’ corn, Coley,” Rat barked. “Best take a walk.”

  “Oh?” Hanks growled as he picked himself up.

  “You can’t fight him, Coley,” another cowboy advised. “He’s a deputy sheriff nowadays.”

  “That right?” Hanks asked. “You goin’ to lock me in the jail house? Just who’d you be to tell anybody what to do or where to go? You crawled ’round half this country lookin’ for work! Shoot, we all know your own ma turned you out when she skedaddled for Austin. You’d starved if my grandpa hadn’t spoken up for you!”

  Rat’s face reddened, and his fingers formed fists.

  “Yer drunk, Coley,” Rat managed to utter. “I never hit a drunk befor
e. Nor a kid, neither.”

  “You’re not but a year older,” Coley growled. “And a runt at that. As for hittin’ folks, I never knew you to hit anybody at all. Now git out o’ my way! Gal like Becky here’ll appreciate a chance at somethin’ better’n what she’s seen so far!”

  Hanks made a grab for Becky, but Rat intercepted the move and flung the young cowboy back on his heels.

  “Walk, Coley,” Rat said with a menacing glare. “I’ve warned you now. I’d hate to wallop a drunk, but if you don’t leave, I vow to do just that!”

  “Coley?” Orville Hanks called as he made his way through a gathering crowd. “Coley, don’t.”

  “He asked for it, Grandpa,” Coley said, stripping off his shirt and starting for Rat.

  “Please, boys, this is a friendly gathering,” John Morris said, trying to intervene. Coley knocked the man aside and took a wild swing. Rat deftly avoided it, and another besides. Coley was just nineteen, but he had powerful shoulders and half a foot longer reach. His third swing found Rat’s left shoulder, and the next landed squarely against his face.

  Pain chased restraint from Rat’s being. He was mad as a bobcat, and when Coley swung again, Rat ducked and drove two hard right hands into the cowboy’s sweat-streaked belly. As Coley recoiled, Rat let fly a left that crunched the young cowboy’s cheekbone. A hard right to the cowboys nose followed.

  “Grandpa?” Coley muttered as his legs gave way. Young Hanks dropped to one knee, wobbled a moment, and then collapsed in a heap.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Hanks,” Rat said, licking his torn knuckles. “Did my best to dodge it, but he wouldn’t listen.”

  “Want us to finish it, Mr. Hanks?” a trio of rowdies asked.

  “Don’t think that’d be altogether wise,” Sheriff Cathcart said, stepping into the center of things. “Saw most o’ it myself, Orville. Grandson or no, you got to see the truth o’ things. Coley started the trouble, pressed it, and got himself paid in full.”

  “I’d say so,” the elder Hanks agreed. “But it seems to me young Hadley there ought to pay a bit, too.”

  “For holdin’ his ground?” the sheriff howled. “Not what you taught his pa, I’ll wager. Now I figure everybody’s about wasted enough effort on Coley tonight. Load him up in a wagon and take him along home.”

  “And if we don’t” a cowboy asked.

  “I’ll lock him up myself,” the sheriff answered. “Clear enough, Orville?”

  Orville Hanks nodded, then motioned for a pair of cowboys to tend Coley.

  “What the sheriff said’s right,” Hanks said, turning to Rat. “I can’t fault a man for standin’ up for himself, especially not if he’s a Hadley. There’s no backdown in your blood, is there, son? But it’s a fool’s play to go after a man with friends, Rat. Or my grandson.”

  Rat nodded at the rancher, but his blazing eyes returned the warning in kind. After all, it wasn’t the smartest thing to tangle with Rat Hadley these days.

  As the crowd dispersed, hands reached out to pat Rat’s back. Others offered words of encouragement or appreciation. Afterward Rat took Becky’s hand and led the way toward the food tables.

  “I’m sorry for all the fuss,” he told her. “I didn’t mean to spoil this time.”

  “You haven’t,” she objected. “And Coley Hanks has been askin’ for a thrash in’ all his life.”

  “Still, yer pa’s told me a hundred times to duck trouble.”

  “It’s not always possible, though, is it?” she asked.

  “Guess not,” he confessed.

  Later, as he sat alone on the porch staring at the stars and listening to Coley’s taunts echo through his head, Rat could scarcely control his anger.

  “Don’t let it eat at you,” the sheriff advised when he stepped through the doorway and joined Rat.

  “Shouldn’t’ve lost my temper,” Rat grumbled.

  “Hard words were spoken.”

  “None I ain’t heard before, Sheriff.”

  “Didn’t look to me like the words riled you half so much as when he grabbed Becky’s hand.”

  “Guess that’s true, but the words hit close to home.”

  “You know, Rat, there are those expected you wouldn’t hold your own with Coley Hanks. He’s done more’n his share o’ brawlin’, and he’s got size and weight on his side.”

  “He was drunk,” Rat muttered. “Besides, I been scrappin’ one way or another most all my life. Thought I was past that now, though.”

  “Well, Erastus, don’t you think some things are worth fightin’ for?”

  Rat turned and gazed into the serious eyes of Lem Cathcart. They held an almost fatherly pride.

  “You think I did right, don’t you?” Rat asked.

  “By my tallyin’, son. But what’s truly important is what you think yourself.”

  Rat nodded. He’d known that all along, though.

  Chapter Seventeen

  That next morning Rat wasn’t so satisfied with the results of the fight. He awoke to find the left side of his face purple and one eye near shut. His shoulder throbbed, and his hands ached.

  “Pa, you ought to see Rat,” Busby called when they approached the wash basin before breakfast.

  “Well, folks’ II know what you’ve been about,” the sheriff said, examining Rat’s eye with concern. “Best make a stop by Doc’s place. Didn’t know Coley had that much punch.”

  “Neither’d 1,” Rat confessed. “Got a hard jaw, too,” he added, frowning at his abused knuckles.

  “If you ask me, the Lord’s trying to tell you something about fistfighting at fiesta,” Cora Cathcart asserted.

  “Maybe so, Ma,” Buzz said, grinning. “But I’d bet Coley’s a good deal worse off. Ain’t liable to go callin’ Rat names again anytime soon.”

  When they visited the doctor’s surgery later that morning, Rat discovered Busby’s suspicions were true. Coley Hanks lay asleep on Dr. Jennings’s treatment table. His face looked like it had gotten too close to an exploding powder keg, and the rest of him didn’t look much better.

  “Guess I oughtn’t to charge you, Rat,” the doctor said as he painted a cut on Rat’s forehead with iodine. “You bring me such good business and all.”

  “I believe I’m retirin’ from that trade,” Rat said, wincing from the sting of the medicine.

  “Live longer that way, I’d judge. Still, I don’t know what a doctor’d do without a bit of excitement now and again. You birth a few babies and treat little ones, but for challenges, give me a good brawl or a knife skirmish every time.”

  The doctor laughed, but Rat found nothing amusing about those remarks. He’d seen a man opened up by a knife in Kansas. Wasn’t anything a doctor could do for that poor cowboy.

  “You know, Rat, there’s been a lot o’ talk about you in town this mornin’,” Doc Jennings said when he finished painting Rat’s knuckles.

  “Yeah?” Rat asked. “What’re they sayin’?”

  “This and that, but mostly they think maybe you’d make a good permanent deputy after Henning leaves.”

  “Sheriff already spoke to me ’bout that,” Rat explained.

  “Sheriff Cathcart’s had a soft spot for you since fetchin’ you to Thayerville from that villain Otto Plank. The Morrises speak for you when the talk comes your way. But before, people weren’t any too certain you had the backbone to stand up for ’em. You went and settled that last night. Bet you find ’em a deal friendlier here on out.”

  “Figure a fistfight makes me a better sort, Doc?”

  “No, Rat, it’s not that at all. They saw Becky bothered, and they watched you take up for her. It’s a good instinct, takin’ up for the helpless.”

  “I wouldn’t number Becky among the more helpless folks I run across in my time walkin’ this earth.”

  “Well, that may be true. Still, there’s the way you rode herd on the youngsters, too. Almost lost my teeth laughin’ at the way you threw those Plank kids in the trough! You got a core in you, Rat, that’s better’n
most. Warms people to see it.”

  “I’d rather it mended my face,” Rat grumbled.

  “Time’ll be doin’ that,” the doctor explained. “Now get along with you. I done what I can.”

  He returned to the Cathcart place, hoping to give his weary bones a rest. Instead he found Becky waiting for him.

  “I see you got yourself looked after proper for once,” she observed.

  “Doc didn’t even charge,” Rat said, sitting beside her on the porch. “Said I was sendin’ him business.”

  “I’m sorry you were hurt, Rat,” she told him. “I don’t think I thanked you proper last night, either.”

  “Thanked? For what, ruinin’ yer night?”

  “It wasn’t ruined,” Becky objected. “You may not realize it, but in defending my honor, you’ve made me into somewhat of a notable personage hereabouts. Why, I can’t walk down the street without noticin’ folks whisperin’ and pointin’.”

  “I expect you could do without that.”

  “Rat, I’ve lived all my life in Thayerville, and this is the first time anyone besides an occasional stray dog or alley cat took notice o’ me. I do feel sorry for declinin’ Coley’s dance, though.”

  “You do?”

  “Your face paid a high price for my refusal.”

  “I been beat on before,” Rat assured her. “I mend quick enough.”

  “I confess I enjoyed it some. Not just Coley gettin’ his due. It isn’t every girl has men fightin’ battles for her hand, you know. Gives a body the notion maybe you care.”

  “You’ve known that awhile,” he replied. “Truth is, I took to you the first time we swiped apple fritters off yer ma’s table. You weren’t but what, thirteen?”

  “And you fifteen and half an inch shorter. I didn’t think you’d recall that.”

  “Isn’t much good I forget. And them fritters was tasty!”

  “Oh, Rat,” she howled. “Is that what you remember of it?”

  “I recall you wore pigtails then. And you had the prettiest blue eyes in Texas. Then and now. I can tell even with one eye.”

  “And even with half a face turned blue, you’re the man I’d share my future with.”

  “Becky?”