Boswell's Luck

by G. Clifton Wisler

  “Yeah, you should’ve done it all right,’ Rat agreed as he pulled his own trigger. The bullet split the outlaw’s skull and killed him instantly.

  “Bo?’ Oren shouted. Six rifles turned on the large man, and he was struck four times. Bleeding severely, Oren tried to crawl to his brother. Nate Parrott fired again, and Oren’s head snapped back as he fell on his face, dead.

  “It’s really them this time!” Best shouted as he hurried toward the fallen outlaws. “Figure I can have Oren’s Colt, Sheriff? It’s pure famous, you know.”

  “Help yourself,” Cathcart replied. “Nate, why don’t you see if you can find the rest o’ that money?”

  “Oren’s sure not hidin’ any o’ it,” Clem said, turning the naked outlaw over.

  “I’ll have a look at Bo,” Charlie promised.

  In the end, though, the outlaws had little save a few coins and some food scraps. Sheriff Cathcart dragged them to the river and washed off the worst of the blood. Rat then helped dress the corpses. No reward would be paid without evidence, and the best kind was the body of the criminal.

  “Just about finished now,” Cathcart said as he helped tie the corpses atop a pair of horses brought along from the outlaw camp. “Just one left to catch now. Eh, Rat?”

  “Yeah, just one,” Rat agreed.

  “Sheriff, why not let him be?” Parrott asked. “It’s the Oxenbergs were back of it. Like as not this other one’s some poor out-o’-work cowboy or a farm boy out to have some adventure.”

  “No, he could be the one shot Pop Palmer, eh, Rat?’ the sheriff replied.

  “Yeah,” Rat confessed. “But we don’t know what he looks like or anything.”

  “We know enough,” Cathcart argued. “Nate, if you and young Kyle there care to drag the Oxenbergs back, go ahead. Tell Cora I’ll be along soon. You Turleys’ll be stayin’, won’t you?”

  “Bound to,” Clem replied.

  “Rat, you got a choice to make,” the sheriff said.

  Rat knew what was meant. Turning away meant no deputy’s badge, no respect. Going on offered …

  For a moment Rat imagined himself splashing away in the river, trading taunts with Mitch or racing Alex. Was that world so far away now?

  “Rat?” the sheriff called.

  “I promised Pop,” Rat reminded them. “Besides, I figure I know where he’ll be.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  As Rat Hadley led Lem Cathcart and the Turley brothers along the river, he couldn’t escape feeling lost. Here, where he knew every rock and twig like an old friend! It seemed everything was changing, though. Soon he’d be bringing the world down on the best friend he had ever known.

  Yes, Rat told himself. When they reached the end of the outlaw’s trail, they would find Mitch Morris.

  “Can’t let it eat at you, son,” the sheriff whispered as he joined Rat ahead of the others. “It wasn’t your doin’. A man breaks the law, he puts himself at odds with decent people. You never twisted Mitch’s arm, turned him toward this trade.”

  Rat wasn’t so certain. Why were there only three-hundred dollars missin’ from the cash box’s loot? Wouldn’t that cover Mitch’s debt and leave him fifty dollars for a stake?

  “I’ll pay you back,” Mitch had said time and again. Was this his only way?

  A dozen memories drifted in and out of Rat’s head during the hour it took to reach the rocky hill where old Tom Boswell had been buried. Rat saw himself younger, haggard, without hope. And he recalled Mitch welcoming him into the little room they shared.

  “Guess we’re brothers of a sort,’ Mitch had said. “That’s somethin’ for always, ain’t it?”

  “Sure,’ Rat had said. But maybe it was only another of those fragile bonds too easily broken. He’d lost his father, his home, and his family. Nothing was ever for always.

  “Best we ford here,” Rat called loudly, pointing to a break in the high rock walls that now encased the river.

  “No need to rouse the dead,” Cathcart warned as he waved for the Turleys to follow. “Nor anybody else.”

  Rat frowned. Perhaps he’d been trying to do just that. There was another ford a half mile back. Going that way, a man could come up on the hill from behind. Rat would have come that way if the Oxenbergs had been there. But he thought Mitch deserved to be met face to face.

  And what if he’s lyin’ in ambush? Rat asked himself. Another scene appeared in Rat’s mind—a masked outlaw shooting Pop Palmer. Was it possible Mitch had changed so much?

  The four remaining members of the posse slowly splashed into the shallows and made their way across to the far bank. The cool water tormented the mustang, but its chill touch brought Rat back to the present. For a few moments his mind cleared, and he looked only to the business at hand. Once out of the river, he headed straight for the familiar hillside. The giant white oak seemed almost to be brooding.

  You know, don’t you, tree? Rat spoke silently. Then he nudged his horse past the charred remains of old campfires and along to where a solitary figure sat whittling a piece of juniper bark.

  “Howdy, Rat!” Mitch called. “Never figured you for a visit. Thought you’d be busy with the stage and all.”

  “That was yesterday,” Rat reminded his old friend. ’Next swing’s back to Albany tomorrow.”

  “So what brings you to this ole place?”

  “Come with Sheriff Cathcart,” Rat said gravely. “We been chasin’ the Oxenberg gang.”

  “Oxenbergs?” Mitch cried in alarm. “Here?”

  “No, they had their camp a few miles east o’ here.”

  “You found ’em then?”

  “Kilt ’em. Only one fellow got away. We figure he had some o’ the cash from the holdup with him.”

  “Holdup?”

  “They hit the stage just south o’ here yesterday. Shot a passenger. And Pop Palmer.”

  “Not Pop!” Mitch exclaimed. “He was one fine man. You ain’t found the one who shot him yet?”

  “Yeah, we found him,” Lem Cathcart said, joining the two old friends. “Mitch, I think it best if you shed that pistol on your hip. And if you still carry a hideout Colt, toss it aside, too.”

  “I don’t understand,” Mitch complained.

  “Yeah, you understand just fine, I figure,’ the sheriff said, dismounting and walking slowly up to Mitch. Cathcart cautiously drew the revolver from Mitch’s holster, then pried a smaller pistol from a boot.

  “What’s all this about?” Mitch cried. “Rat?”

  “We followed a trail from the outlaw camp,” Rat explained. “It come to the river and disappeared, but it was headin’ straight here. And anyhow, I knew you’d be here.”

  “How?”

  “ ’Cause it’s always been our refuge, ain’t it, Mitch? You got some bad trouble this time. Cain’t money buy you out o’ it.”

  “Just what do you think I did?” Mitch asked.

  “You shot Pop Palmer,” the sheriff accused. “Didn’t you?”

  “I surely did not!” Mitch growled. “Look, Sheriff, I know you held against me that gambler in Thayerville, but I been keepin’ my nose clean since then.”

  “Mitch, you shot another fellow since then!” Rat yelled. “And now Pop. Cain’t deny it. I was there!”

  “You saw me? Ain’t possible.”

  “How’s that?” the sheriff asked.

  “Nobody could’ve seen me kill anybody,” Mitch swore.

  “ ’Cause you had a flour sack over your face?” Cathcart asked. “Pop recognized your voice. Can you imagine Rat wouldn’t?”

  “You tole ’em it was me, Rat?” Mitch cried.

  “You sayin’ it wasn’t, Mitch?’ Rat answered. “Swear it wasn’t you, and …

  “You’ll what?” the sheriff asked. “Believe him?”

  “If he’s the one kilt Hoyt, let’s get a rope, Sheriff,” Clem Turley urged. “If he ain’t, let’s get after the one did it.”

  “Well, Sheriff?” Mitch asked, staring hard at the lawman. “Even
you ain’t sure. Show me some proof.”

  “Proof’s lyin’ in a casket at the livery,” Cathcart grumbled.

  “Listen to me,” Mitch pleaded. “You all of you know me. Shoot, my ma and pa give you Hurleys credit when your farm was near busted. I used to haul supplies to you when you couldn’t get to town. Sheriff, I wet myself rockin’ on your knee. And Rat, you just can’t believe I could ever hurt Pop! That man was like a favorite uncle. I used to ride on his horse with him, and later on in his stagecoach—for free.”

  “Makes your killin’ him all the worst,” Cathcart declared.

  “Ain’t it possible Pop was wrong?” Rat said, gazing hopefully at his companions. “He ain’t run anywhere, Sheriff. He’s give us no fight.”

  “He’s a gambler,” the sheriff noted. “Knows how sour the odds’d be.”

  “But you’ll admit, Sheriff Cathcart, he sounds mighty convincin’,” Charlie Turley remarked. “All he says ’bout helpin’ us’s true. Hoyt looked kindly on him, too.”

  “You look to me as if I’m whippin’ a rawboned kid, not arrestin’ a murderer,” Cathcart complained. “You want proof, do you? Well, there’s sure to be some hereabouts. Rat, you take Mitch along the river there. You Turleys help me search.”

  Rat nodded, then motioned Mitch along. The two friends wandered a hundred yards or so down the river before stopping. Mitch turned nervously back toward the hill, and Rat frowned.

  “Ain’t always possible to keep everything hidden, is it?” Rat asked. “You could mask yer face, but you couldn’t change yer voice.”

  “I can’t believe the old man would say it was me.”

  “I cain’t believe it was.”

  “Then don’t, Rat. No jury will. You know yourself I come up here often. Ain’t a crime.”

  “I want to trust you, Mitch, but I saw it all. I know you. I read the truth in yer eyes.”

  “You only see what you want to see,” Mitch muttered bitterly. “I saved your life once.”

  “I repaid that favor.”

  “With money. That’s the whole trouble, ain’t it? I took some money off you, and that Becky Cathcart ain’t had a good word for me since. Soured her pa, too. Now Pop gets shot, and I’m handy to blame!”

  “Stop it!” Rat shouted, covering his eyes. “Why don’t you run?”

  “Run where?’ he asked. “I’d be posted all over Texas. What chance would I have? I’m no loner, Rat. I need people ’round to ply my trade. I got no sharpshooter’s eye, and I ain’t quick. Some bounty man’d shoot me inside a week.”

  “If you owned up to it, maybe … “

  “They’d let me go? You know Lem Cathcart,” Mitch said, grinding his teeth. “Ever know him to ease the law’s bite?”

  Voices called from the camp then, and Rat motioned for Mitch to turn back. They returned slowly, deliberately. Rat kept expecting Mitch to speak, but he didn’t. They met the sheriff under the shade of the white oak. Clem Turley then held up a flour sack filled with bank notes. Holes for eyes had been carefully cut.

  “The mask,” Rat said, sighing.

  “So?” Mitch cried. “I never seen that thing.”

  “You kilt Hoyt,” Clem accused.

  “I couldn’t,” Mitch insisted. “Rat, think about it. You saw me in Albany when you headed out, didn’t you? I was still in town at midday, playin’ cards. When did the Oxenbergs hit you? I was in Albany.”

  “Rat?” the sheriff asked, eyeing Rat nervously. Mitch gazed with equally intense eyes. Honor and betrayal seemed muddled. Somewhere in between justice shouted its name. And Pop howled for revenge.

  “Look at his boots, Rat,” the sheriff suggested. “Been scrubbed, I see, but I’d bet my life that’s blood stain in’ his shirt.”

  “I cut myself,” Mitch claimed.

  “Where?” Rat asked.

  “His gun’s been cleaned, but you can smell powder on his clothes,” the sheriff pointed out. “The trail heads right here.”

  It was Rat’s turn to stare at Mitch. The accusing eyes seemed to bore right through him.

  “He had time to follow you east, didn’t he?” Cathcart asked.

  “He could’ve followed,” Rat muttered.

  “Rat?” Mitch asked, dropping his chin into his hands.

  “Why?” Rat demanded. “Why?”

  “How else was I goin’ to get the money,” Mitch mumbled. “I ain’t had no luck at cards. Oren said all I’d do is note your leavin’ and trail along. He promised me three-hundred dollars.”

  “And he paid you, didn;t he?” Cathcart said, grabbing Mitch by his shirt and throwing him to the ground. “Surprised there wasn’t a bonus for killin’ Pop.”

  “Did you tell ’em how Efrem and I argued against killin’ you?” Mitch asked. “Ask Ef. He’d attest to me just comin’ along the one time.”

  “He’s dead,” Rat answered.

  “So’re you, Mitch,” Clem declared.

  “Lord, this is sure to kill his ma,” Charlie added. “Good woman like her! Her one boy gone bad, and the whole town knowin’ it.”

  “Ain’t there a way to do it so Mary don’t have to know?” Clem asked, staring at the white oak.

  “Well, he’s as good as confessed to doin’ it,” Cathcart noted. “Plainly guilty. Waste o’ time, takin’ him to trial. Bein’ locked up in that oven of a jail’s just torture. Cruel to him and his folks both. Might as well get it done right here and now.”

  “What?” Mitch shouted.

  “I got a good rope,” Clem mumbled. “I’ll fetch it.”

  “You can’t,” Rat argued. “Not like this! Not here!”

  “It’s best,” Sheriff Cathcart argued.

  Clem tossed one end of the rope over a huge branch eight feet or so off the ground. Mitch gazed at the tree, then plunged his face into his hands and sobbed.

  “Rat, tell ’em they can’t do this,” Mitch begged. “They’d listen to you. I saved your life!”

  “Stop whimperin’, you worthless excuse for a man!” Cathcart demanded. “Hoyt Palmer left a wife and three kids! What’d he ever do to you save lend you saddle horses and take you for free rides in the summer?”

  The Turleys secured the rope to the white oak’s trunk. Then Clem began forming a noose in the end that dangled from the tree.

  “This ain’t right,” Rat declared, stepping past Mitch to confront Lem Cathcart. “Ought to be a trial. It ain’t all black and white. Could be a judge’d see it different. Mitch is due a chance.”

  “Sure, he is,’ the sheriff agreed. “The same sort o’ chance he give Hoyt Palmer. You remember him, don’t you, Rat? Told you to call him Pop and treated you like an extra son. Took you in, made a place for you in his own family. Forgot that, didn’t you?”

  “Before I even knew Pop Palmer, the Morrises opened their door and welcomed me inside,” Rat reminded Cathcart. “You recall ’cause I was at yer house then. Wasn’t anybody else save Otto Plank’d take me. It was Mitch asked ’em.”

  “I know you feel a debt to Mitch, and to the Morrises, too, Rat, but puttin’ this off’d be poor service to any o’ them. Mitch’d only see a whole town starin’ up when he walked to the gallows. As for John and Mary, how do you suppose they’d feel seein’ their own boy paraded down Main Street, a thief and a murderer? Think on that, Rat Hadley. Like as not it’d kill ’em both. Some thanks you’d hand ’em.”

  “You mean to hang him and just forget it ever happened?” Rat asked. “Never tell anybody?”

  “Cain’t you see that’s best?” Clem asked.

  “A real kindness,” Charlie added. “Mitch, you got to see that yourself. Erases the slate, so to speak. Nobody ’cept us’ll know.”

  “That bein’ the case,” Mitch said, swallowing his tears and rising to his feet, “why not just turn ’round and let me go? I promise I’ll ride so far north you’ll never hear a whisper ’bout me in the future. I’ll disappear.”

  “You done wrong,” Cathcart barked, glaring at the young outlaw with stone-col
d eyes. “Got to pay for it.”

  “Rat?”

  Rat couldn’t answer. He turned away, but Mitch called to him again.

  “Sheriff, when’ll you do it?” Mitch asked.

  “I figured straight away. You need some time, do you?”

  “Yessir,” Mitch said, steadying himself. “An hour?”

  “Got your watch, Charlie?” Clem asked. “Time him. Maybe we can dig a grave.”

  “Rat’ll show you where,” Mitch said. “Just the other side o’ yon oak. Near where Boswell lies.”

  “Who?” Clem asked.

  “An old friend,” Rat muttered. “One we never met.”

  The sheriff flashed them a confused look, but Rat refused to share the tale. Instead he drew Mitch aside, and the two of them sat together and recounted old times.

  “Ain’t yer doin’, Rat,” Mitch said, leaning against his old friend. “Just old Boswell’s luck come home to roost.”

  “Guess so,” Rat said, shuddering. “Always thought I was the one to catch the hard breaks.”

  “Maybe that’s what put the backbone in you, Rat. Lord knows I never had any.”

  “Mitch, you had plenty. Ain’t many boys’d stand up to Otto Plank when he had a shotgun in his hands.”

  “I had room to run,” Mitch muttered. “You never did. You swear you won’t let on to Ma and Pa. Tell ’em I went off to Kansas. I spoke of it.”

  “I will.”

  “Promise?”

  “Yes, Mitch. And I’ll see the others do the same.”

  “That’s a burden lifted, at least. You got yourself some more reward comin’, I expect. Guess that’ll have to do. Sheriff ain’t apt to give you the three hundred.”

  “No,” Rat agreed.

  Mitch stared silently at the white oak then, and except for making a brief nature call, he remained still and quiet as the minutes passed relentlessly on.

  “Can I get you somethin’?” Rat asked when the Turleys led a horse toward the tree. “I think Charlie’s got a bottle.”

  “Can’t drink nothin’,” Mitch said. “I seen a man hung once. Wet himself.”

  “I imagine he was past carin’ then, Mitch.”

  “You’d remember it, though. Rat, I take it hardest you seein’ me cry. And knowin’ the worst.”