Boswell's Luck (11 page)

Rat nodded.
But not to me,
he thought.

Nevertheless he rode south from the Circle H, recrossed the Brazos, and headed east toward Ft. Worth. Three days later he stepped into the office of the Western Stage Company and asked for Ned Wyler.

“I'm Wyler,” a burly, bull-necked giant called from behind a cluttered desk. “Who's here to bother me now?”

“Erastus Hadley,” Rat announced. “I got a note for you from Orville Hanks.”

“Yes?”

“I come lookin' for a job, Colonel Wyler.”

“Not many Texans ever call me that,” the former officer declared as he accepted the note. “Hanks vouches for you, I see.”

Rat studied Wyler's eyes. The note was already crumpled and tossed aside. Devoid of hope, Rat played his final card.

“I'm to tell you Corporal J. C. Hadley was my pa,” Rat said.

“Oh,” Wyler responded. “Your father did me a great service once. Is this a collection call?”

“Pa's been dead five years,” Rat answered angrily. “He never saw need to call on you himself, nor'd he mention what he did to me. Wasn't that way, Pa. If he saved yer neck, it was 'cause he figured there was right to it. So I got no hold on you, Colonel. I'm nineteen years old. I been scratchin' my hold onto life since I can remember. Mr. Hanks said you might could use a man to get you remounts. I got the devil's own way with horses, and I sit a horse better'n most.”

“Knowing your father's modesty, that probably means you can outride the devil, too. I don't need stock handlers, Hadley.”

“I dug holes for telegraph poles up in Thayerville, and cut the poles, too. I could build you corrals or … “

“They're built. I don't need diggers or woodcutters. It does happen I need a stagecoach guard for the westbound run out of Thayerville and the eastbound back from Albany. Ever fire a gun?”

“Since I could hold one,” Rat replied.

“Ever hit anything?”

“Only what I aim at,” Rat said with blazing eyes.

“Such as?”

“Shot a rattler at a hundred yards when I was seven. A bull buffalo at ten. Been hittin' things ever since.”

“Ever shoot a man?”

“Once,” Rat said, frowning.

“Tell me about it,” Wyler urged, stepping closer and listening with new interest.

“Was on the trail drive north,” Rat explained. “First time I ever fired a handgun 'cept at targets. Raiders come at us, and I was atop a hill with my buddy Mitch Morris.”

“And?”

“Riders charged. I aimed at a boy no older'n I was and kilt him with my first shot. Didn't see it then, not with the smoke and all. Later, though, I saw him dead with my bullet 'tween his eyes.”

“Shoot at anybody since then?”

“Never had a need, Colonel.”

“Nor the desire?”

“You been a soldier, sir. You got any such desires?”

“No, I've seen enough dead men.”

“So've I,” Rat growled.

“If you were to sign on with me, Hadley, you'd likely have call to shoot again. We've had trouble.”

“You'd pay me to shoot men. That it?”

“To protect the coach. If you never hit a man, I wouldn't care. Only you'd have to keep them clear of our coaches and protect the passengers. If it came down to that, could you do it?”

“If he was after me and mine, yessir, I think so.”

“Not sure?”

“Can anybody be?”

“Well, that's honest enough. We'll give you a try. Pay's twenty dollars a week. You see Nate Parrott in Thayerville. That's your home, I take it.”

“Sort of.”

“Give him this letter,” Wyler said, scrawling a note. “Tuesday next you ride the westbound to Albany. Next day you return on the eastbound. Got that? Runs twice a week that way.”

“Fair enough.”

“Off days you help at the freight office.”

“Yessir.”

“If you like, Nate can put you up in the stable loft. Save you a few dollars if you don't mind the company of horses.”

“I'm pretty used to 'em,” Rat confessed. “People never've much taken to me.”

“A bath and a shave' II help that. Here's your first week's pay. See if you can't come by some shirts and a pair of trousers that fit. Keep the gambling and drinking out of your way, too. I expect the straight and narrow, Hadley.”

“Yessir.”

“One more thing. Good luck to you.”

“Luck and me's strangers, Colonel. But I'll make out fine just the same. I won't disappoint you.”

Wyler nodded, and Rat imagined he would have to fall mighty short of the mark to lose the colonel's confidence. Sometimes you could tell things in a man's eyes. And the burly Wyler was almost smiling.

The Western Stage Company operated out of a small plank building between the bank and the hotel. There were three tiers of shelves for storing freight in back. with a narrow counter up front for selling tickets and conducting the freight business. Out back a small stable housed remounts and such employees as had no other place to bed.

When Rat stepped inside, he was greeted warmly by a slight-shouldered clerk in his late twenties.

“I'm Nate Parrott,” he said. “Can I sell you a ticket to Albany?”

“No, I brought you a note from Colonel Wyler,” Rat explained. The clerk accepted the crumpled paper and read it quickly. A smile appeared on his face.

“Glad to have you,” Parrott announced. “We been makin' do with stray cowboys or nobody at all. I've been scared to trust any money to the coach, what with the trouble others have had along the river.”

“You the new guard then?” a heavy-set stranger called from the shelves.

“For a time anyhow,” Rat answered.

“Yer young,” the big man observed. “Used to work for the Morrises, I'm guessin'.”

“Yessir,” Rat said, searching his memory for the name that matched the face.

“You wouldn't remember. I only came into the store 'round plantin' time back then. Was farmin'.”

“Meet Hoyt Palmer,” Parrott told Rat. “Hoyt's your driver. Hoyt, this is Erastus Hadley.”

“Erastus,” Palmer said, stepping closer and offering his meaty hand. “Most everybody calls me Pop. I got four youngsters at home, you see, and you cain't be so much older'n the eldest.”

“They call me Rat,” Rat replied. “Not much recommendation, I know, but it's easier.”

“You two'll get better acquainted Tuesday,” Parrott declared. “Rat, you take the westbound to Albany, then bring the eastbound back here. Twice a week.”

“The colonel told me.”

“Meanwhile we can use your help in the storeroom. Be a full load we haul west this week. Everything from candles to a weddin' dress.”

“More next time,” Palmer added. “Nobody's trusted us with money lately, not ridin' short on guard. Guess that'll change.”

Rat nodded. He hoped not to disappoint them.

As things turned out, Rat had little difficulty settling into his new job as stagecoach guard. He sat atop the coach alongside Hoyt Palmer, cradling a long Winchester rifle and keeping his eyes on the countryside ahead, behind, and to each side. The first trip proved uneventful, and Rat yawned with weariness as the coach rumbled along the rough trail. Soon dust stirred by the horses clung to every inch of him, ate at his collar, near choked him.

“Think this is somethin'?” Palmer asked. “Ought to travel this country in July. Heat and dust close to drive a man mad!”

Rat could believe it. The boredom worked its own mischief. And the only distraction came from Hoyt Palmer's wild yarns or his endless tales of one child or another.

“The boys's somethin', Rat,” he'd begin. “Tyler's closin' fast on fourteen now, and he has nigh every gal in the county chasin' him. The younger ones, Hollis and Wade, they got the quickness I never come by. Take after my Varina, I guess. The jewel's Velma, though. Twelve she is, and already bloomin' like a rose. Be a stampede o' boys comin' to my door soon, I tell you.”

“A family's a real comfort,” Rat observed.

“Oh, it can vex you, too. Like last week when Hollie went and put a horned toad down his sister's back. And I caught the three boys swipin' pie crusts off ole widow Morgan a month back. Switched 'em raw that time. But you know boys. They got the mischief in their blood, and it's bound and certain to come out here and there.”

Rat didn't answer. He recalled his own escapades at the river with Mitch, but all that seemed a lifetime away now. And as his eyes swept the distant trees or searched the boulder-littered hills, he found scant reason to grin.

For weeks Rat accompanied Hoyt Palmer on the trail from Thayerville to Albany. Each trip was less eventful than the one before. The biggest excitement came when Palmer surprised the Circle H cowboys in their midafternoon swim. Rat only fired his rifle once, and that was at a rampaging longhorn bull that blocked the trail. The Winchester persuaded the animal to yield his ground.

Autumn had painted the oaks scarlet, and there was a late October bite to the wind the day Rat detected riders shadowing the stage on its westward leg toward Albany. He counted three in plain view, and he supposed others might be elsewhere. One moved to cut the coach off on its approach toward a narrow gap between the rocky hills, and Rat readied his rifle for the confrontation.

“No point to us makin' a fight o' it,” Palmer argued. “We only got some dry goods aboard. Only passenger's that gambler Horton and the Reilly twins.”

“Drive, Pop!” Rat shouted as he fired a warning shot at the horsemen.

“Lord, help us!” Palmer cried as he lashed the horses into a gallop.

It didn't take a genius to recognize a tight spot. As the stage raced ahead, Rat detected two men riding hard in its wake. The three he'd seen before assembled up ahead and pulled flour sacks down over their heads to mask their faces. Fierce eyes seemed to bore through narrow slits in the masks, and a bullet nicked the brake. Another tore a slice from the right hand door.

“Get down low!” Rat yelled as one of the Reilly youngsters poked a shaggy head out of the open window. The gambler fired off his pistol. Rat crawled up among the freight boxes on top of the coach and steadied his aim. He fired twice, and the pursuing horsemen faltered. The lead rider's horse collapsed with a bullet through its neck, and the second man nursed a shattered arm.

“You got 'em, boy!” the gambler cheered, and the Reilly boys added their own howls.

Up ahead the danger remained, for several bullets now slammed into the coach. Rat's well-laid fire scattered the attackers, though, and the coach roared past the cursing outlaws.

“We made it!” Palmer yelled as he glanced back at the frustrated bandits.

“This time,” Rat observed. For after all, the raiders had split their forces, and they tipped their hand early. But then they probably hadn't expected a guard—at least not Rat Hadley!

When the westbound pulled into Albany, the Reilly twins wasted no time in spreading an exaggerated tale of the raid.

“Was ten o' them at least!” one twin shouted. “Mr. Hadley kilt three o' them and chased th' others clear. He's a regular hero, I tell you.”

The gambler was less sure of the death toll, but he was equally generous with his praise.

“Did a fine job, young man,” the gambler said when he passed Rat a twenty-dollar gold piece. “You didn't know I had a season's winnin's with me, I'll bet. Two thousand dollars!”

“So that's what set 'em on our trail,” Palmer noted. “Wondered 'bout that.”

“Likely the bunch I took at the card tables,” the gambler supposed. “Didn't press things like real road agents.”

“They was real enough,” Palmer said, pointing to the bullet holes peppering the coach. “And if they knew you, it's certain they'd kilt the all o' us.”

“Lord bless you, Mr. Hadley,” Opal Reilly called.

“You enjoy yer blessin',” Palmer said. “For a real thank you, Jet's hop on over to the White Horn Saloon. You got a drink comin'.”

“I don't take much hard liquor,” Rat argued as he helped a pair of freight handlers unload the Albany-bound crates.

“I'd say you earned a bit this time,” Palmer replied. “And 'bout the time it sinks into yer head what you done, I'm sure o' it.”

“Go on,” a growing crowd urged. “Here's to Deadeye Hadley!”

“Calls himself Rat,” someone objected. “Rat Hadley.”

“Well, let's share a drink with the rat then,” a voice called. “Eh?” And so Rat was swept across the street by a gang of thirty townsfolk, and he ended up sipping three fiery thimbles of whiskey before he slumped dizzily in a chair.

“Fine shot, but he sure ain't used to spirits,” Palmer noted. “Give me some room, boys. Best I carry him along to the stable to sleep it off.”

For a hero to suffer as much as Rat Hadley did that eve and the following morn seemed patently unfair. No sooner had Pop Palmer carried him to the Western Company's stable than Rat was heaving up his insides. To make matters worse, his head felt as if someone had taken a twenty-pound sledge to it.

“Guess you ain't had no chance to accustom yerself to Brazos tater wine,” Palmer said, laughing as Rat rolled his eyes. “Best stick to beer till yer gullet grows taller.”

“If it has a chance,” Rat grumbled.

“It will,” the big driver assured him. “Anyhow, get some rest, Rat. We take the eastbound home tomorrow.”

Rat only sighed and collapsed in the hay, hoping sleep might offer escape from the whiskey's aftermath. In truth, it did. The next dawn found Rat's head ringing, and his eyes red as tomatoes.

“Get 'em cleared up fast,” Palmer urged. “We're off in half a hour.”

Rat passed the return journey in a cloud. Each jolt of the coach set his head to pounding, and his stomach refused to tolerate food. Fortunately the raiders were also recovering, and the trip passed peacefully.