Authors: G. Clifton Wisler
“I said let him go,” Cathcart demanded. The sheriff pulled a pistol and swung the barrel toward the bearded man's enormous belly.
“You cain't mean to shoot me for settlin' up with a cheat, Sheriff!”
“I'll do just that if you don't step away from him this instant.”
The big man released his hold. Then, quick as lightning, the giant produced a knife and started for the sheriff. The lawman rammed the hammer back on his pistol, and the would-be assassin froze.
“Drop it!” Cathcart yelled.
Only now did Rat take in the whole scene. His racing heart left him short of breath, and the condition wasn't improved one bit when he recognized Mitch Morris's frightened face as the subject of the giant's attentions. A second later, though, Rat's mind cleared. The fancy-dressed gambler was fumbling with a valise. Out came a pistol, and the barrel swung toward Sheriff Cathcart.
“Sheriff, duck!” Rat yelled as he leaped toward the gunman and knocked the pistol aside. The gun fired, blowing a neat hole in the bar. Rat winced as the bigger man wrestled for control of the pistol. With a left arm only half-mended and the rest of him sore and softened by long days of recovery, Rat was no match for his opponent. Soon he was flung aside.
“Rat!” Mitch shouted as the fancy-dressed gambler pointed his gun down at Rat's helpless form. Then, from nowhere, Billy Bedford swung a brass spittoon across the gunman's skull, and the man collapsed in a heap.
“Try it, please,” Sheriff Cathcart said, turning to the giant who was reaching for his discarded knife. “I'll send you to hell so fast you'll swear it was the devil himself drivin' the coach.”
The big man backed away and raised his hands in surrender.
“He your partner?” Cathcart asked, pointing to the well-dressed figure stretched out on the floor.
“Just met him in Weatherford,” the giant confessed. “Not partners exactly. He said we'd find easy pickin's here.”
“Meanin' you'd call me for cheatin' and steal the pot,” Mitch accused.
“Boy, I don't steal,” the bearded Goliath claimed. “You was playin' with the deck all right. As to Hawkins there, well, who's to say what his game was. Close to got himself kilt, though.”
“Both o' you,” Mitch claimed as he picked up the knife. “Got a mind to see to it myself.”
“That'd be a fool's play,” Cathcart announced. “I'd be the one to do the shootin', Mitch.”
“You saw him!” Mitch howled. “And th' other one's hurt Rat. Aimed a gun at you, too, Sheriff.”
“Givin' me leave to shoot him,” Cathcart explained. “Not you.”
“Rat?” Mitch called.
“I'm all right,” Rat grumbled as he got to his feet. “Owe Billy one, though.”
“Back payment on more'n one service, Rat,” young Bedford remarked. “Truth is, it felt just fine, swingin' that spittoon. Miss my ax, I suppose.”
Rat grinned, then helped Sheriff Cathcart revive the fallen gambler. “You got just five minutes to collect your wits and find your horses,” the sheriff barked. “Then I'm haulin' you to the edge o' town and sendin' you on your way. Either o' you come back, I'll lock you up a year. Or maybe just shoot you 'tween the eyes. Don't know I could stand lookin' at you a year!”
A crowd had gathered, and they hooted their approval of the threat. The big man muttered to himself, stormed out onto Main Street, threw a leg over a mule, and headed on his way. The other fellow shook his head and moaned. A couple of cowboys tied him atop his horse and sent it headed south.
“Mitch, I don't want to see you for a time,” Cathcart then declared. “Find somethin' else to occupy your time. Cards'll only bring on misfortune. Or worse. Could've been men killed here this day, and I won't have that. Not in my town.”
“Yessir,” Mitch said, backing away from the lawman.
“Too much drinkin's what it is,” a woman cried. “Knives and guns and whiskey!”
“No, it's the cattle market,” Cathcart argued. “Tho many young hotheads with no work to occupy their time.”
“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.”
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,” Rat 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.”