Authors: G. Clifton Wisler
“Pop, don't ask that o' me,” Rat implored. “I'll help with yer little ones. I'll be like a big brother to 'em all.”
“I know that,” Pop grumbled. “Shoot, nobody ever needed speak on it. I got friends aplenty, Rat, to help 'em. What I need's a man to track a killer!”
“You cain't even be sure it was Mitch,” Rat argued. “I know him. He couldn't ⦠“
“I know him, too,” Pop said, fixing a vice-like grip on Rat's tortured hands. “Promise me!”
“I'll see it done,” Rat said, trembling. “And yer family looked after, too.”
“Bless you, son. Never figured it'd be young Mitchell. Shoot, I took him ridin' when he wasn't yet Wade's size. That was back in ⦠“
Pop Palmer never finished. He coughed, and then his eyes rolled back. Death had claimed him.
The eastbound stage pulled into Thayerville three hours late. Sheriff Lem Cathcart was pacing in front of the stage office alongside Nate Parrott when Rat managed to rein in the horses and halt the coach. It wasn't easily done. Even though Louise Lambert had pulled the worst of the splinters from his hands, she'd done nothing to stop the aching.
“They've had trouble,” Parrott announced. “Told you.”
“Rat?” the sheriff called. “Where's Pop?”
“Inside,” Rat said as he pulled the brake. “He's dead, Sheriff. There's a gambler in there kilt, too, and a cowboy bad hurt.”
The sheriff nodded, then opened the door and helped the Lamberts climb out. Their ashen faces testified to the trials of the journey. Nate Parrott hollered for a pair of freight handlers and dispatched a boy for Dr. Jennings.
“Who was it?” the sheriff demanded to know. “How'd it happen?”
“Ambush,” Rat answered as he climbed down from the stage. “They hit us in the hills.”
“Who?” Cathcart asked.
“The Oxen bergs,” Rat said, “Seemed to be them anyhow.”
“Lord, Sheriff, look at his hands,” Parrott cried. “They look to've swollen double.”
“Splinters,” Rat explained. “My rifle shattered. If I'd just been able to hold 'em off ⦔
“No one man's goin' to fight them Oxenbergs,” the sheriff said. “Come on, son. Let's hurry you down to Doc's and see 'bout them hands.”
“He's got the cowboy to tend.”
“That won't take forever, you know,” Cathcart pointed out. “After your hand's tended, I want you to have a look at some posters.”
“Yessir,” Rat agreed.
The sheriff escorted Rat to Dr. Jennings's surgery. As for the doctor, he was heading up the street to the stage office to have a look at Bob Grant.
“Best sit yourself down, son, and wait on the doc,” Cathcart suggested.
“Won't be much to it, Sheriff,” Rat said, turning his hands over. “Just need some drainin'. When're we goin' after 'em?”
“Lord, Rat, ain't you had enough o' them? They're sure to be halfway to the next county by now.”
“Not all of 'em,” Rat declared. “One's hit bad. And their horses been rode hard.”
“They shouldn't have so much trouble findin' horses.”
“We goin' or not?”
“I'll spread the word we need men. Won't be hard puttin' a posse together. People thought a lot o' Pop.”
“Yessir, they did,” Rat agreed.
Sitting alone in the doctor's small office, Rat closed his eyes and tried to forget the nightmare raid. It wasn't possible. He kept seeing Pop Palmer, heard over and over again his cry for vengeance.
Doc Jennings returned to his surgery half an hour later. He looked haggard, and his trousers were spattered with blood.
“How's Grant?” Rat asked.
“Poor,” the doctor grumbled. “Won't walk anytime soon, and he's lost a couple o' fingers. All in all he's lucky by my reckoning, though. There's two stretched out dead down there. Sheriff said you caught some splinters in your hands.”
Rat raised his swollen hands, and the doctor scowled. He set his bag down on a small table, filled a basin with alcohol, and scrubbed.
“Come on over here, Rat,” Doc Jennings instructed, pointing to a long table. “Got some diggin' ahead o' me.”
Rat lay on the table, wincing as the doctor dug fragments of wood from each hand in turn. The pain was a torment, but he almost welcomed it for the distraction it provided. He knew pain, after all. He understood it. It was madness left him confused, and there had been too much of that lately.
“There's the last one out,” Dr. Jennings finally announced as he set his needle aside and grabbed a bottle of iodine. “Seems like lately you been keep in' me busy,' he added as he dabbed the reddish-orange liquid over Rat's hands. I'd advise givin' trouble a wide berth for a day or two. These fool hands'll stay swollen awhile, you know. Soak 'em in cool water. That'll help.”
“No cool water where I'll be headed,” Rat said as he rolled off the table and examined the doctor's handiwork. “I promised Pop I'd see his killers caught.”
“We got a sheriff for that.”
“I know. He's asked me to be his deputy.”
The doctor started to argue, but Rat dug two silver dollars out of his pocket, tossed them onto the treatment table, and headed back to t!le stage office. Halfway there he was intercepted by Ned Wyler.
“Colonel?” Rat gasped. “Didn't expect you here.”
“I came in to handle the transfer of the money chest,” Wyler explained. “We had some trouble, I understand.”
“They got it, Colonel. Shot Pop Palmer, too.”
“What's your view on the raiders, Hadley? Sheriff Cathcart says it might be the Oxenberg brothers.”
“Looked like 'em. I shot a couple of 'em. Then a bullet shattered my rifle, and ⦔
“I heard all that from the others.”
“They shouldn't be too hard to track,” Rat declared. “I know every inch o' that Brazos country.”
“I don't know if that's much of an edge,” Sheriff Cathcart said, joining the conversation. “Miz Lambert says Pop recognized one of 'em. Local boy, she says. Just who was it, Rat'?”
“Efrem Plank,” Rat said nervously. “He spoke up for me, Sheriff, and most likely saved my life.”
“We knew about Ef,” Cathcart muttered. “You sure there wasn't somebody else?”
“I've got my notions,” Rat confessed. “If I'm right, we'll find him up on the river. If I'm wrong, better his family not suffer for my mistake.”
“I, uh, see your point,” the sheriff said, eyeing Wyler. “You fit to ride, son?”
“Eager,” Rat answered.
“Best see Cora 'bout packin' us up some food,” Cathcart advised. “I'm meetin' the rest at the livery in half an hour.”
“I'll send some men,” Wyler declared.
“Rather you kept 'em here unless they're local,” the sheriff replied. “Hard country out by the river. Best I know my company.”
“I understand,” Wyler said, nodding. “Nate can choose a pair for you familiar with the land. You trust his judgment?”
“He's a good man. Rat, you get along to the house now. Not much time to waste.”
“Yessir,” Rat answered, hurrying on his way. He glanced back as he crossed the street and was surprised to find the sheriff still conversing with Colonel Wyler. The colonel was bound to have his questions, Rat supposed, what with the robbery and two men dead.
Rat found Becky waiting when he reached the house. Busby and Mrs. Cathcart were there as well.
“The sheriff said I should get you to pack some food, ma'am,” Rat told Mrs. Cathcart.
“Is he takin' out a posse?” Buzz asked.
“Yeah, we leave in half an hour,” Rat explained.
“Wish I could go,” the boy grumbled. “Guess I'm too young.”
“Be glad,” Rat said, dropping to one knee so he could stare intently into Busby's eyes. “Ain't nothin' but death waitin' out there, Buzz. No adventure. Just killin' and dyin'.”
“Your hands!” Becky shouted.
“Got some splinters,” he explained as he hurried to collect some clothes and a blanket from the side room. He did so, then returned to the kitchen.
“Can't you stop long enough to tell us what happened?” Becky said, gripping his arm. “All we heard was that the stage was held up.”
“I don't know much more'n that myself,” Rat told her. “There will be time to talk later.”
“Will there?” Becky asked. Concern painted her face.
“Sure,” he said, sighing. Mrs. Cathcart handed over a flour sack full of supplies, and he slung it over one shoulder, rammed his blanket roll under the opposite arm, and set off for the livery.
Men were assembling there already. Others came, too, for the stable-man, Bart Medway, was also the best carpenter in town. He was already at work on two coffins. Meanwhile Pop Palmer and the gambler rested in a wagon bed.
Rat left the provision sack and his blanket roll with Nate Parrott before racing to the corral to fetch his mustang. The animal was already saddled, and Rat merely checked the cinch. Once satisfied, he led the animal back to the livery. That was when he saw Varina Palmer and Pop's children. Almost immediately Tyler raced over and leaned against Rat's side.
“Pa's dead,” the boy whispered. “Shot all to pieces.”
“I was there,” Rat muttered.
“You were supposed to guard him,” the boy said accusingly.
“Tried,” Rat explained. “I wasn't good enough, or maybe there were just too many of 'em.”
“That's what Sheriff Cathcart says. You'll find 'em, though, won't you?”
“I promised Pop,” Rat said, guiding Tyler back to his family. “You don't break a promise made to a man like Pop.”
“I promised him I'd take care o' things while he was gone,” Tyler said as they walked.
“Be plenty o' men around to help,” Rat observed. “You put me at the top o' the list, Ty.”
The boy managed a brief grin before grief overwhelmed him.
Rat offered his respects to Mrs. Palmer, and for a few moments they shared a few of Pop's stories and remembered better times. Then Sheriff Cathcart announced it time to mount up, and Rat made his farewells.
“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.