Boswell's Luck

by G. Clifton Wisler

  “I know you feel bound to join ’em,” Varina said, “but Pop thought highly o’ you, Rat. Don’t get yourself kilt.”

  “Don’t plan to,” he assured them. “You boys watch out for yer mother. Stay pretty, Velma. You were always Pop’s pride.”

  “We know,” Velma admitted.

  Rat bent and kissed the girl’s forehead before hurrying back to the posse. After handing Sheriff Cathcart the provisions, Rat tied the blanket roll behind his saddle and mounted his pony.

  “Here, Rat, have a look at these,” the sheriff said, passing over a handful of wanted posters. “See anybody familiar?”

  “They spoke o’ this Hedges fellow,” Rat explained. “And even masked, I could tell Oren and Bo Oxenberg.”

  Rat gazed at the others, but he matched no faces.

  “The other two I noticed were Ef and a young fellow named Jim,” Rat said, passing the posters back to the sheriff.

  “And the one that shot Pop?”

  “We talked about him already, Sheriff. Cain’t be sure.”

  The lawman nodded, then passed Rat a rifle.

  “Be needin’ it,” Cathcart declared. He then formed the posse into a single file.

  Sheriff Cathcart sent two of the riders home, deeming their horses unfit. He sifted through the rest, dismissing a man here and there. Finally he settled on an even dozen.

  “Let’s ride, boys,” Cathcart called, and the men howled their agreement.

  Sheriff Cathcart led the way west, but soon he motioned Rat ahead. The stage route kept to even terrain and was longer by several miles than the cross-country trails Rat chose. It was hard going in places, what with crumbling ravines to cross and creeks to splash through.

  “You and Mitch Morris used to pass time out this way, didn’t you, son?” the sheriff asked as he pulled even with Rat fifty yards ahead of the others.

  “Yessir,” Rat admitted.

  “Haven’t seem much o’ Mitch the last few weeks. Mary got a letter from him posted in Albany, though. Didn’t come across him up there, did you?”

  Rat’s eyes betrayed the truth, and the sheriff nodded grimly.

  They rode the next hour without sharing a word. Then Rat led the way toward the battle-scarred pond. Even now odds and ends of clothing lay about, interspersed with brass casings and discarded letters. The money chest remained open, haunting the scene.

  “There’s a fellow dead over here,” Powell Hobbs called, pointing to a masked corpse. Another was nearby.

  “That’s Rufe Berry,” one of the freight handlers declared when the dead men were unmasked. “Used to work horses in Ft. Worth.”

  “Other one’s young Henry Allison,” Hobbs added. “Hard news for his family.”

  “No need they should know,” Sheriff Cathcart announced. “Bury ’em here.”

  “I shot one back up the trail, too,” Rat said, waving in that direction.

  “Could be Hedges,” Cathcart muttered. “Let’s have a look. These fellows’ll stay busy a moment.”

  The two of them set off up the trail a half mile. Rat spied a riderless horse grazing nearby. Riding over, he located the lifeless body a dozen yards away.

  “Yup, it’s him,” the sheriff agreed after tearing away the mask. “Hundred dollars reward on him, Rat. That your bullet in him?”

  “Yessir. Fired from my old Winchester.”

  “The reward’s a fair return on a shattered rifle.”

  “But not much payment for Pop,” Rat grumbled.

  “Maybe the Oxenbergs will be,” Cathcart said. “They’re worth a thousand each, you know.”

  “Not for much longer,’ Rat vowed, turning his horse and swinging around in order to pick up the outlaws” trail.

  Chapter Twenty

  Once the slain outlaws were buried, Sheriff Cathcart got the posse mounted and riding in short order. The men were eager to catch their quarry.

  “How many of ’em will we hang?” Powell Hobbs asked. “There’s a dozen sets o’ tracks by my count.”

  “No, just six,” Rat argued.

  “Can we hang ’em all, Sheriff? Or just the ones Rat saw shootin’?” Hobbs asked.

  “They were masked,” Nate Parrott pointed out. “Could be any of ’em. I say haul the bunch o’ them in for hangin’.”

  “It’s a long way to haul a man,” Hobbs muttered. “And some o’ them’ll put up a fight.”

  “Any what survive go to trial,” Cathcart explained. “You boys all understand that, I hope.”

  The men grinned and nodded.

  “They’ll get the same trial Pop got,” someone declared, and the rest howled their agreement.

  Rat moved out ahead of his companions, but he could still hear their boasts and taunts. Most of the talk dealt with the generous reward offered for the Oxenbergs. Two thousand dollars, after all, brought out the worst in men.

  “Brought too many by half,” the sheriff complained as he pulled alongside. “I’d feel better, too, if we had a couple more accustomed to firin’ rifles than flappin’ their jaws.”

  “Sure,” Rat agreed. “We may favor numbers if it comes to a fight, though. It will, don’t you think?”

  “Would seem likely, knowin’ outlaw habits.”

  Rat frowned and urged his mustang into a trot. The sooner it was over, the better he’d feel.

  The country north to the Brazos was rocky and hostile. A man could lose a trail there easy, and more than once the tracks of horses seemed to up and disappear. Often Rat searched creek bottoms or tangled brush for signs. Twice the sheriff spread the posse in a fan in order to pick up the outlaws’ trail.

  “I see somethin’ yonder,’ Kyle Best, one of Parrott’s horse handlers, called toward dusk.

  “Over there on the left, Sheriff,” Jack Sharpe, the town barber, added.

  Cathcart waved Rat along, and the two of them rode to investigate. They found a bloody body lying in a mass of briars.

  “Recognize him?” the sheriff asked.

  “It’s probably the one I shot down at the pond,” Rat answered. “I never saw his face before, though.”

  The posse located a second corpse a half mile past the first one.

  “Toby Hatcher,” Sharpe announced. “Rides the Circle H fence line.”

  “Likely come upon the Oxenbergs by accident,” Sheriff Cathcart surmised. “Poor luck that boy had. Best bury him. We’ll send word along to the ranch when we finish up.”

  The grisly sight of Hatcher’s body darkened the eyes of the posse members. Rat noticed there were few boasts now. Instead a sort of grim determination drove them onward. But as darkness fell, they had yet to catch up with the fleeing bandits.

  “We goin’ to stop soon, Sheriff?” Best asked. “My horse’s near done in, and I’m not much better.”

  “Figure ’em to’ve crossed the river, Rat?” Cathcart called.

  “No,” Rat said, pointing to a yellow glow on a low ridge two or three miles ahead. “That’d probably be them there.”

  “Let’s bring this business to a close then,” the sheriff suggested. “Lead away, son.”

  Rat departed the trail and slowly picked his way across the darkened landscape. It was slow, treacherous going now. The moon had yet to rise, and only the faintest outlines of mesquite trees and rocks emerged from the gray darkness. The ground was familiar, though, and Rat led his companions down a dry creek bed and along into the hills beyond. He could smell bacon frying in a skillet, and rough talk danced on the wind.

  Rat knew it was the Oxenbergs. He felt it in his soul. Few words could be made out for certain, but “Bo” and “Oren” were among the ones that could. The posse fanned out, then dismounted. Even as Rat crept toward the bright yellow flames of the campfire, shots shattered the night air.

  “Lord, I’m shot!” Jack Sharpe screamed. Rifles spit bullets at unseen enemies, and men raced about in madness. Sheriff Cathcart shouted orders, and the Oxenberg brothers did the same. For the most part, though, it boiled down to men groping ar
ound helplessly, firing blindly, and praying to survive.

  “Knew we should’ve moved on!” Bo Oxenberg shouted. “Who’s up there anyhow?”

  “Lem Cathcart!” the sheriff answered. “Best give it up, boys!”

  “Ain’t us takin’ bullets, Cathcart!” Oren yelled. “I figure you three men short already, and more’s sure to die.”

  The sheriff didn’t reply. Instead he inched closer to the fire, hoping to detect some shadow of a target. Rat moved over beside Cathcart and motioned to the left.

  “I see him,’ Sheriff Cathcart noted. “One o” ours?”

  “Not unless our people’s wearin’ flour sacks on their heads.”

  “Lead away, son.”

  Rat nodded, then clawed his way along the rocky side of a cliff. He quickly got above the cowering outlaw. The sheriff followed. Then, with a wave, he signaled Rat to open fire. Both men rapidly blazed away. The raider never had a prayer. He was simply blown apart.

  The sudden fury of the attack quickened Rat’s blood. It broke the spirits of the remaining outlaws, too. A pair of them tried to flee toward the river, but their escape was blocked by Nate Parrott and the stock handlers. One man stumbled and fell. The other was shot down instantly.

  The Oxenbergs took full advantage of the chance to make their own escape. They raced toward their horses, threw themselves atop the bare-backed animals, and kicked them into a gallop. As they rode past the fire, Rat had his first good shot at the thieves. He aimed and fired in the same motion, but the horse turned, and the bullet meant for Bo Oxenberg’s head struck his brother in the hip.

  “Bo, let’s clear out,’ Oren urged. Rat rammed the Winchester’s lever down and up again, only to discover his magazine was empty. In dismay he watched the Oxenbergs escape into the night.

  “Hang it all!” Rat cried, stomping his foot angrily.

  A pistol bullet whined through the air, and Rat dropped to the ground.

  “Hold yer fire there!” Rat shouted. “I’m no outlaw.”

  “I am,” the voice of the fallen raider called. “That you, Rat?”

  Rat recognized Ef Plank’s voice. It had been years since they shared the horrors of Otto’s barn, but Rat could hardly forget Ef’s urging the Oxenbergs toward mercy that very afternoon.

  “You hurt, Ef?” Rat asked.

  “Shot proper,” the former farm boy explained. “Not so much I can’t kill somebody, though.”

  “Let me help,” Rat offered. “We can get you to a doctor.”

  “Why bother?” Ef asked. “I’m bound to hang. You tell Peter I went game, won’t you? And look in on Vesty and Randy if the chance happens by.”

  “Ef?”

  Efrem Plank then managed to rise to his feet. Blood gushed from a wound in one thigh, and both ankles were shattered. There was blood seeping through his shirt as well. Even so, the young bandit raised both pistols and opened up on the shadows. Two rifles barked an answer, throwing Ef backward against a tree.

  “Ef?” Rat called again as he raced forward. Even in the dim light Rat could see a wistful smile on Efrem Plank’s face. His eyes were still. He’d found his peace.

  “Collect the dead,” Cathcart told Nate Parrott. “Rat, let’s get along after the others.”

  “It’s grown dark,” Rat objected. “Won’t it wait for mornin’?”

  “Let’s go,” the sheriff beckoned, and Rat reluctantly followed. They located their horses and mounted up. No sooner had they set out than the others joined them.

  “Didn’t figure to keep the reward all to yourself, did you, Sheriff?” Kyle Best asked.

  “Lord,” Cathcart grumbled. “We’ll sound like a brigade o’ preachers comin’ down on ’em.”

  “Best we wait for mornin’,” Rat muttered.

  “Guess so,” the sheriff reluctantly agreed. “Nothin’ else’d work.”

  So it was that the Thayerville posse returned to the Oxenbergs’ camp. Nate Parrott and two others had dragged the dead outlaws over near the fire. Nearby Jack Sharpe moaned. Parrott was dressing the barber’s wounded shoulder.

  “Turned doctor, have you?” Rat called.

  “Nobody else to do it,” Parrott complained.

  “Powell’s hurt, too,” young Best declared.

  “Ain’t nobody helpin’ him,” Sharpe said, pointing to a figure shrouded by a saddle blanket. “Hit right in the forehead. Never a chance for him.”

  The riders dismounted and gathered beside their slain comrade. Suddenly the blood lust vanished. Death had struck close, it seemed.

  “Tend your horses,” the sheriff instructed. “Then get somethin’ to eat and go to sleep. We’ll be at it early tomorrow.”

  “Ain’t we done enough?” Sharpe asked. “These fellows got to be the Oxenbergs, don’t they?”

  “Oren took a bullet, but Bo’s well enough,” Rat told them. “They got away, but ain’t likely to make much distance.”

  “There was another one escaped, too,” Cathcart added. “Rode off west.”

  “Well, I ain’t goin’ anywhere but back to town,” Sharpe vowed. “We got the money, after all.”

  “We did?” Cathcart asked.

  “Was in these stockin’s,” Parrott explained, pausing a moment from his doctoring to lift the stuffed stockings. “Most of it anyhow. I’d guess a couple or three hundred’s gone, but I don’t figure the colonel’s apt to quibble ’bout that. After all, we got the mail, and it’s scarce been touched.”

  “Colonel Wyler might be generous, eh?” Best declared. “Offer up a reward.”

  “I’m sure of it,” Parrott agreed.

  “Then I’m finished,” a burly farmer named Waller announced. “Ain’t eager to get myself kilt like ole Hobbs there.”

  Others muttered like sentiments, and the sheriff sighed.

  “Was too many o’ us for this anyhow,” he replied. “Come daybreak those that want can take Jack back to town. Carry poor Hobbs back, too.”

  “And the outlaws?” Rat asked.

  “Leave ’em to rot,” Best suggested.

  Rat read his companions’ sour feelings. They couldn’t erase Ef’s favor, though. Once the others were settled into their blankets, Rat took a discarded spade from the Oxenberg camp and dug Efrem Plank a shallow grave. It was the best possible in that rocky ground, and Rat covered it with rocks to fend off wolves.

  Strange how things turn out, Rat thought as he turned to rejoin the others. Here Ef’s buried, and I’m goin’ to find myself called a hero and paid a reward. Wasn’t a thimble’s difference in the two of us, and now he’s dead. But it wasn’t really Ef Rat Hadley was thinking about. No, his mind was fixed on the masked outlaw who’d coldly gunned Pop Palmer.

  Couldn’t be, Rat argued. Not Mitch.

  But his heart remained unconvinced.

  Morning found Rat tossing in his blankets. When Sheriff Cathcart shook him awake, Rat found the camp already astir. Half the posse was bound for town. The sheriff, Nate Parrott, Kyle Best, and the Turley brothers were determined to go on.

  “Cain’t be any other way,” Clem Turley explained. “Hoyt Palmer’s my cousin.” His brother Charlie nodded.

  “Makes six with Rat,” Parrott pointed out. “Two-to-one odds if it comes to a fight.”

  “It will,” the sheriff assured them. “Ain’t nothin’ but a noose waitin’ them Oxenbergs. I don’t figure it to come easy.”

  Rat never knew anything to come easy that could be hard. Oren was shot, though, and that narrowed matters some. The killers would be close by.

  “What do you think?” the sheriff asked as he passed Rat a cold biscuit. “Trail leads south.”

  “They won’t go that way long,” Rat said, frowning. “There’s a creek out there. They’ll use it to cover their tracks.”

  “You imagine ’em that clever even with a bullet in Oren?”

  “They been out here a long time accordin’ to the posters, Sheriff. You stop thinkin’ in this country, yer buzzard bait pretty quick.”

 
“So what do you suggest?”

  “We do it like before. I’ll scout ahead. You follow with the rest. Let ’em play their tricks. I got the scent.”

  Oren and Bo Oxenberg used every ounce of skill they knew to conceal their trail. They rode through the creek and into the Brazos. They released their horses and sent them galloping up a false trail. But Rat detected brown drops of dried blood leaked from Oren’s wound and followed them to a nest of boulders overlooking a bend in the river.

  “There you are,’ Rat whispered as he spied the brothers huddling beside a small fire. Their wet clothes dried on a nearby clothesline. Rat didn’t envy them passing the chilly spring eve like that. For a moment he thought of fetching his Winchester from its scabbard and shooting the outlaws then and there. But though he held the raid and the shootings against them, he’d lost his taste for cold-blooded execution. Shooting even the Oxenbergs naked by their breakfast fire offended Rat Hadley’s sense of fairness.

  Rat crawled back to his horse, then mounted the animal and returned to the posse. Sheriff Cathcart greeted the news with a smile.

  “Looks like this’s it, boys!” he shouted to the others. “We got ’em cold.”

  “Let’s be about it then,” Parrott replied.

  Sheriff Cathcart took charge of the capture attempt. Nobody was much fooled by the words used. There wasn’t any capture to it. The posse was out for blood, and the Oxenbergs were certain to oblige. Nevertheless Lem Cathcart formed the men in a loose arc, then encircled the Oxenberg brothers. The sheriff dismounted, and the others followed suit. Then Cathcart crawled closer.

  “Bo, Oren, we got you surrounded!” Cathcart yelled. “Give it up!”

  “They’s here!” Oren cried, shaking his brother to life.

  The two near naked outlaws made a scramble for their clothes and collected their guns on the way. Bo pulled on trousers and fired wildly with a pistol. Oren forsook his clothes and concentrated on a rifle. Neither stood a chance. Sheriff Cathcart put his first shot through Oren’s knee, and a whole volley caught Bo, spun him like a top, and sent him crawling toward cover. He might have made it if Rat Hadley hadn’t been waiting.

  “I knew we should’ve kilt you, mister!” Bo grumbled as he fought to lift his rifle.