Boswell's Luck (7 page)

“Rat Hadley,” Hanks called, and there was a murmur of complaint among the cowboys. “Rat?”

“Here, Mr. Hanks,” Rat said, stumbling forward with bowed head.

“Figured you made the trail crew, did you?” Hanks asked.

“We all thought he did!” Bob Tripp shouted.

“Well, I never took a boy to Kansas with toes stickin' out o' his boots,” Hanks explained. “And that poor excuse for a hat you got wouldn't keep cloud spit off your face. Try this out.”

Payne Oakley stepped forward with a broad-brimmed gray hat fresh off a store shelf, and Hanks himself offered a pair of polished black boots, with spurs securely attached.

“Don't know what to say,” Rat mumbled.

“The boots come from me,” Hanks explained. “Hat's from the boys. We got one somewhere for Mitch, too. You'll the both o' you need 'em where we're headed.”

“Dodge City?” Mitch cried.

“And the devil's own country 'tween here and there,” Hanks announced. “Get along to town and say your good-byes. We leave at dawn.”

“Yessir!” Rat yelled, tossing his old hat aside and pulling the new one down over his ears. “Thank you all, fellows. Mitch and I won't be lettin' you down.”

“Sure won't,” Oakley barked. “We'll see to that.”

And so Rat Hadley and Mitch Morris finally set off northward toward Dodge City along the overgrazed and wagon rutted Western Cattle Trail. Not so long ago wild Indians raided herds beyond the Brazos, and renegade whites prowled the empty country north of the Trinity and south of Red River Station. Eighteen-eighty was on the horizon now, though, and what Indians a cowboy saw were mostly toll collectors in the Nations or strays come to beg a steer or two.

Nature hadn't had the wild worked out of her, though, and peril aplenty remained. The outfit fought back a stampede just north of the Trinity, and the Red River crossing was mired in quicksand. Ten steers were lost to the bog, and three others broke legs and merited shooting. The sole solace was a fair feast afterward.

“I feel like I've been mashed like a potato,” Mitch muttered as he collapsed in his blankets that night. “Never ate so much dust in my whole life, and then they near drowned me today! If I never see another cow it'll be too soon.”

“You wanted to come,” Rat reminded his friend. “Me, even if I ate drag dust a lifetime, I'd rather be out here'n back o' yer ma's counter. Long as there's stars up there to look at, and good company nearby, I got no complaints.”

Shortly thunderheads rolled in, swallowing the stars. Mitch only grinned.

It was up near the Cimarron crossing that real trouble found the Circle H. Just shy of the river three dust-covered riders appeared near the left flank. As they swung along the fringe of the herd to where Rat struggled in the dusty wake, one of them made a move to cut out a few steers.

Ain't much a man can do 'bout it,
Rat told himself as he turned his horse to the right and galloped to fetch Payne Oakley. Orville Hanks forbid his men to shoot off handguns for fear of stampedes, and a bullet was the best reply to attempted thievery. There were a handful of armed riders, though—experienced hands like Oakley. When Rat reached the foreman, Oakley nodded his understanding of the muddled alarm.

“Don't you worry for now, Rat,” Oakley replied. “It's an old trick, just a way to draw off the crew while raiders hit elsewhere. We'll bring in the strays tonight.”

“And for now?”

“Nudge the herd a little harder. We'll be on the near bank o' the river this afternoon. That's when they'll hit.”

“You sure?”

“Been up this way before, son. There's three, four outfits prowl the Cimarron country, and not a one of 'em's ever snatched a Circle H beef and not paid a price.”

Rat nodded although he had no idea of what lay ahead.

It was Bob Tripp began pulling in riders from the fringes. He handed others pistols or rifles. The best guns went into the steadiest hands. Tripp led Rat and Mitch to a narrow slit of a ravine crowning a low hill near the river.

“It's a cowboy fort o' sorts,” Tripp explained. “I expect the first to fight here shot it out with Comanches. We got a different sort o' varmint to tend.”

“Rustlers?” Mitch asked nervously.

“Oh, a rustler comes by dead o' night, swipes a few head off the range. These fellows travel in small armies, and they take a whole herd.”

“And the cowboys?” Rat asked.

“Shoot the varmints full o' lead or else get peppered 'emselves. Now you boys pay attention. I got a pair o' Colts for you. They'll kick you to Missouri, but they kill sure and quick. Trick's to hold 'em steady—with both your hands. Don't go tryin' to spit fire like a circus clown. Aim, hold her straight, and squeeze off each shot. You got to double click the hammer, you know. Do it with your right thumb. Then all you do's pull the old trigger. And be ready for the kick. It'll throw you some the first few times.”

“I never shot at a man before,” Rat confessed. “Never even thought on it.”

“Me neither,” Mitch confessed.

“Ain't men you're shootin' at now,” Tripp barked. “Varmints wearin' pants. Ain't so important you hit anybody, you know. Just that you make 'em know you're up here ready to.”

Tripp then turned to go, and Rat called out anxiously.

“Ain't no boy ever signed on to trail beeves,” Tripp howled angrily. “I showed you what I could. Now I got to go look after the other ones.”

Rat nodded. As Tripp rode back to the herd, the boys fingered the cold steel of the pistols and stared off across the flat, ravine-scarred land. Was there ever so empty a place? And Rat thought back to that little hill above the Brazos and the lonely grave of Tom Boswell.

“It's Boswell's luck we're havin',” he sighed. Mitch grinned sourly, then nodded.

The raiders came as promised. Their first strike was against the herd itself, but a half dozen cowboys poured a hot fire on them, and they bounced off and charged the hill instead. As Rat waited for the first outlaw to get within range, he counted the horsemen. There were ten, eleven, twelve of them. The lead man wore a great sprawling moustache. Rat motioned for Mitch to take him. Rat himself drew a bead on the second rider, a fresh-faced boy no older than himself. The horsemen hurled themselves closer, but they had to slow to ascend the hill. Then, as they got to within fifty feet of the ravine, Rat cocked his Colt and fired. The pistol exploded, numbing his fingers and showering the air with a dark powder cloud. Mitch shot, too. The young men blinked the stinging powder from their eyes and fired again. And again. They had no inkling as to the accuracy of their shooting. It was the noise and the powder smoke more than anything that surprised the raiders and flung them back.

“I think I got one o' them,” Mitch shouted excitedly as he stared at a lump frozen on the slope below. “Or you did.”

“Look there,” Rat cried as Bob Tripp led seven vengeful cowboys after the confused bandits. Again the raiders made a move toward the hill, but they soon vanished in a swirl of smoke and fire. When it was all over a pair of riders managed to flee down the Cimarron. The others clutched bleeding arms or bellies. Or lay in the dust where they'd fallen.

“You did just fine,” Tripp declared afterward as he joined the shaken novices. “Held 'em at bay, let us close in from behind.”

“Was a close thing,” Rat said, popping open the cylinder of his Colt. “I only had one bullet left.”

“I shot all six o' mine,” Mitch added.

“Bob Tripp, you're an addled fool!” Tripp cried. “You forgot to give 'em shells. Lord, I'm sorry, boys. Could've got you kilt.”

“Wouldn't've been time to reload anyhow,” Rat muttered. “Any o' our people hurt?”

“Bert Cobble's dead. Luke Granger's close to. Took a pair o' bullets in his side. Payne's got a shattered wrist.”

“And the outlaws?” Mitch inquired.

Tripp waved them along down the hill. Four wounded raiders lay moaning under the barrels of Winchesters. Five corpses lay elbow to elbow nearby, their grizzled faces drained of life. The sole remaining body lay as it had fallen on the hillside. Rat stared down at a pair of huge, empty blue eyes frozen on a fuzz-faced youth.

“Was the one you took,” Mitch said, nervously slapping Rat on the back. “Look at it, Bob. One bullet through the cheek.”

“Cain't be older'n me,” Rat said, shivering with a sudden chill.

“Old as he'll get,” Tripp noted. “Give me a hand. We'll drag him down with the others.”

Rat grabbed a still-warm hand while Mitch took the other. Tripp lifted the feet. It was a light load for three men, no effort at all. And as they laid it beside the others, Rat silently prayed for forgiveness.

“Can't blame yourself, Rat,” Mitch said, reading his friend's thoughts. “Shoot, if Tripp hadn't come 'long when he did, could be us over there.”

“Don't make it easier, Mitch. Did you see him? Could've been Alex.”

“Wasn't. Don't you see, Rat? It's just like ole Boswell. No luck, that boy. Fell upon bad company, and got a bullet for his mistake. Now come along. I got a need to wash all this powder and dust off me 'fore the cows muddy up the river.”

Rat readily agreed. It wasn't just powder and dust he was freeing himself from, though. There was a need to shed the shadowy grip of cold death. By the time he finally climbed out of the river and returned to the outfit, all traces of the raiders had been erased. A single mound of earth topped by rocks marked their grave. There wasn't a sign of the wounded, and Rat didn't ask after them. Payne Oakley, one arm in a sling, sipped whiskey from a hitherto hidden flask, and the other veterans seemed more than usually grim. Rat took their dead eyes for an answer.

After crossing the Cimarron, it was relatively easy to hurry the cattle along to Dodge City on the Arkansas. The town was little more than sprawling cattle pens, railroad tracks, and a hodgepodge of plan gambling houses and saloons. Rat accepted his wages and thanked Orville Hanks for the chance to prove himself. Then he followed Mitch down the street in search of a bathhouse.

Trail's end was as wild an event as any tale had hinted, and Rat soon found himself caught up in the celebration. Three other Texas outfits were in Dodge City, and sixty cowboys could raise a roof or two. After bathing in perfumed suds and making a stop at the barber for a clipping and shave, the boys headed for Front Street, decked out in fresh clothes and looking fit for a parson's visit. In no time they exchanged a few silver coins for a bottle, and the fiery swirl of whiskey surged through them.

“Well, here's some fresh blood!” a tall, willowy girl declared as she draped a boa over Mitch's arm. “Care to dance, Texas?”

“Yes, ma'am,” Mitch replied, abandoning the bottle and Rat for the attentions of the female.

“How 'bout you, sonny?” a woman in her mid-twenties asked, approaching Rat. “Got some dancin' in you?”

“Never tried,” Rat said, dropping his gaze as the woman came closer. The front of her dress cut down into her belly, leaving little to the imagination. Rat managed to grin shyly as she took his hand.

“Go 'head, Rat!” Bob Tripp urged.

Rat scowled, but the woman only grinned. “Rat?” she asked. “Well, he do look a bit like one.”

“It's 'cause my name's Erastus,” Rat told her, angrily scanning the room.

“Well, Erastus, you look peaked. Don't you worry 'bout it. Bit o' Iovin's sure to cure that. Let Flora take you somewhere quiet where we can get to know each other.”

“Set the price early, kid,” a cowboy cried, laughing.

“Let go,” Rat said, wriggling free. He stared at the amused faces of the encircling men, wanting to strike out at each and every one of them. Finally he swallowed his anger and stormed outside.

Mitch found him three hours later tossing stones into the Arkansas River.

“Rat?” he called.

“Who am I to be laughed at so?” Rat howled. “Is it always goin' to be this way?”

“Was only in fun,” Mitch argued. “And it'll pass.”

“Will it?” Rat asked. He wondered.

Most of the veteran cowboys blew off a little steam, bought themselves an outfit or two, and drifted slowly southward. Mitch Morris, on the other hand, developed a talent at the card tables. From early afternoon to well after midnight the seventeen-year-old would test his wits against older, more experienced players. There were some true artists in Dodge City that summer, but even shaved cards and extra aces didn't deter Mitch. He won more than he lost, so he stayed on.

Rat Hadley found no like success in Dodge. He had a good mind for figures, and the plain truth was that you couldn't win at cards. It was clear to see! Hard liquor left him wheezing and bewildered, and the girls spent most of their time picking at his name or making fun of his manners. All in all, he'd been happier elsewhere.

“I've had my fill o' Kansas,” Rat finally told Mitch. “I got a bit o' money left, and nobody's stabbed or shot me yet. So I'd judge I'm well off by Dodge City standards and ready to ride south.”

Mitch put it simply. “I'm not,” he declared. “May never be. The cards keep comin' my way, I might just become a professional. Mighty easy life, Rat. I could use a friend to watch my back, though. Many's the card-sharp paid somebody to peek at another player's hand.”

“I'm not the one for that kind o' work,” Rat argued. “I close to cough myself sick from the cigar smoke, and I miss Texas. Haven't had a swim since Cimarron River, and yer ma's certain to worry after us.”

“We'll write her a letter. Tell her we've started up a business.”

“No, you write the letter, Mitch. I'll deliver it personal.”