Boswell's Luck (20 page)

“Got themselves spotted not half a week ago right here in Albany,” the marshal grumbled. “But by the time I got some men to head 'em off, they'd up and vanished. You spot any signs comin' up from Thayerville?”

“Not a one,” Rat answered.

“ 'Course, they's clever. Wouldn't be leavin' tracks so just any fool could spot 'em.”

“No, they'd keep to the shadows,” Rat agreed. “Shame we cain't do the same. A stagecoach needs a wide trail.”

That night Rat joined a half dozen Western employees in the saloon for a farewell drink with Henning Lewis.

“Joinin' the Rangers and marryin' yerself off in the same week,” Rat said, laughing. “That's a man with an appetite for hard times sure.”

“Me?” Lewis asked. “I ain't the fellow's got one side o' his face purple from fightin' that Hanks kid over Becky Cathcart!”

The others turned their laughter on Rat, and all he could do was grin and laugh along with them.

Rat didn't plan on staying more than a minute. The stage left early next morning on the easterly leg of the trip, and he was tired. Pop Palmer blocked his escape, though.

“Guess we ought to drink a farewell to Rat here, too,” the driver declared. “He's sure to land Hen's old job, and I'll have another guard to break in.”

“Well, now, that's news,” the others cried, slapping Rat's back. “You sure know how to finish up a job, though.”

“How's that?” Rat inquired.

“Don't you know?” Pop asked. “We got a special pay box to haul back. Thousands o' dollars in it.”

“What?” Rat cried, gazing warily around the crowded saloon.

“Money pledged to the railroad,” Lewis explained. “They had a bit o' trouble with outlaws o' late, so they switched it over to us so's to fool people.”

“I expect that'd work better if you didn't go tellin' everybody in Albany o' it,” Rat complained.

“Word's pretty much out already,” Pop replied. “How do you figure we knew? The colonel sure ain't spreadin' the word.”

“Somebody's sure done it,” Rat muttered. “Best I get myself to bed early, Pop. Tomorrow's run seems like an invitation for trouble.”

“That's why I got you along with me,” the driver boasted. “Best shot around, and steady, too.”

Palmer began to pour Rat another shot of whiskey, but the young guard declined. He was still grumbling to himself when he reached the Western stable where he planned to pass a peaceful night.

It didn't work out that way. Lurking gunmen haunted his dreams. He awoke to find himself fumbling around, searching for his rifle.

“Sorry I bothered you, Rat,” a stableboy called. “Thought to open the shutters and let in some air.”

Another time two stock handlers came in from a night of drinking and card playing. Finally Rat abandoned the loft and set off for the outskirts of Albany. He stretched out beneath a scrub mesquite and finally found some rest.

He returned to the stage office at dawn. After gobbling a hurried breakfast, he grabbed his rifle and stood watch while a pair of railroad men hauled the heavy chest atop the coach.

“Looks heavy,” a familiar voice observed from the street. “Not carryin' the U. S. Mint, are you, Rat?”

Rat turned to gaze at Mitch Morris's easy smile.

“Lord, what's brought you so far west, Mitch?” Rat asked.

“Heard there was a game to be had hereabouts. Just about have enough to pay you back, old friend. Tomorrow should see it done. Hang around and I' II settle up.”

“Be back in Thayerville tomorrow,” Rat explained.

“On the coach?” Mitch asked. “Ma told me Deputy Lewis was leavin' and you'd been hired to take his place. Thought you'd be finished with all this other foolishness.”

“It's a fair livin',” Rat argued. “Anyhow, the deputy's job ain't official exactly.”

“I see,” he said, frowning. “Well, you watch out, eh? I passed a pair o' suspicious characters comin' into town. Hard times bring out the worst in men, you know.”

“Or the best,” Rat argued. “Tests a man, I'll admit.”

Mitch nodded, then turned to leave.

“Mitch, I got half an hour 'fore we pull out,” Rat called. “Care to nibble a biscuit and talk?”

“I would,” Mitch replied. “But I promised a fellow a game over at the hotel. He's got money just waitin' for my pockets, Rat. And later on yours.”

“Well, good luck to you.”

“Good luck yourself, Rat Hadley!”

Rat read rare concern in Mitch's eyes. Or maybe it was just reluctance-envy, even. To hear others talk, Mitch's luck was as elusive as ever. The cards hadn't brought much favor. But then things could change. Rat hoped the fellow at the hotel was not averse to losing.

Soon enough Rat set aside his concerns for Mitch. He busied himself loading trunks and cases atop the coach. He then assisted the passengers a moment. There were six of them in all. George Haslett, a well-known gambler, had worn out his Albany welcome, and a young cowboy named Bob Grant was off to Thayerville so Doc Jennings could have a look at a festering toe. Boyd Lambert and his wife Louise brought their two little girls in last. Pop Palmer then climbed atop the coach, and Rat followed. Moments later the eastbound was bouncing along toward Thayerville.

Almost from the first Rat felt eyes on his back. After a bit he detected two trailing riders.

“Maybe we ought to turn back,” Rat suggested.

“Ain't likely to set ill on the colonel's stomach if we do,” Pop mumbled.

“I suppose they can hit us just as easy goin' that way as any other,” Rat grumbled.

“ 'Fraid so,” Pop said as he hurried the horses along. Five miles later two more riders joined the pursuit. One took station on the left flank, and the other chose the right.

“I've had friendlier company,” Rat observed, pointing to the flour sack masks the outlaws wore.

“Me, too,” Pop declared. “Won't be long now, you know. We're closin' on the hills.”

“Cain't help that,” Rat replied, “but I can whittle on the odds some.' He climbed back amid the valises and boxes, then made himself a makeshift parapet. The Winchester swung over at the left-hand rider, then exploded. Its bullet sped across the rocky landscape and slammed into the rider's chest. He toppled from his pony, and the other raiders instantly increased the range.

“That's one,' Pop pointed out. “They got others, though.”

Rat followed the driver's pointing finger toward the low hill just ahead. Five horsemen blocked the trail. Pop steered the horses toward a small pond. He then halted the coach and urged the passengers to seek cover.

“Give 'em the coach,” Haslett advised. “It's all they want.”

“Well, they won't get it,” Rat vowed. “Not so long as I'm up here.”

“Don't be crazy!” Pop cried. “There's too many.”

“Maybe gettin' shot'll discourage 'em some.”

Rat watched as the raiders formed a loose circle. They dismounted and began closing in immediately. A tall, thin bandit climbed atop a boulder, and Rat put a bullet through his shoulder. Another raced through a nearby ravine, firing wildly. Rat waited a second before putting a ball through his forehead.

“That's three o' you!” Rat yelled. “Anybody else want some?”

His answer wasn't long in coming. A volley of rifle fire tore through the coach and the surrounding rocks. The little Lambert girls took to wailing, and their mother pleaded for Rat to stop.

“No, you leave him to his work,” Grant argued. “You wouldn't enjoy them outlaws' company a bit, Miz Lambert. They'd kill you, or maybe do worse.”

“Hush,” Lambert shouted. “I won't have you frighten my family.”

“Then grab yerself a gun and help,” Rat growled.

Bob Grant was doing that already. He wasn't any older than Rat, but he put a Colt pistol to good use. He killed one attacker and drove three others to cover.

“You got some spare shells?” Grant called.

“Right here,' Rat called, grabbing a box from behind the driver's bench. As he tossed the ammunition to Grant, the cowboy exposed himself for a fraction of a second. That was long enough for a concealed rifleman to put a bullet in Grant's hip.

“Lord, I'm hit!” the cowboy screamed.

“Won't somebody help him?” Mrs. Lambert shrieked.

Haslett tried, but the raiders were closing in, and three shots traced the gambler's footsteps. A fourth shattered an elbow, and a fifth struck Haslett in the small of the back, toppling him into the pond.

“Let's go, boys!' the leader of the outlaws urged. Men hurried closer, and Rat opened up again. This time he had no success. Bullets now riddled the coach from close range, and Rat rolled off the side and tried to escape. A bullet shattered the Winchester's stock then, showering Rat's wrists with splinters. He howled in pain and discarded the useless rifle.

“It's over!” Pop Palmer yelled, waving a white kerchief. “We had enough!”

Five gunmen descended on the stage that moment, and the masked raiders quickly disarmed Pop Palmer and young Bob Grant. They busied themselves but a moment with the others, then herded the captives into a huddle.

“Well, we done just fine after all,” their leader declared. “Ef, you and young Jim there fetch that box. Throw down the rest o' the things, too. Might be somethin' useful.”

“Sure, Bo,” the younger of the two agreed.

“You fellows keep usin' names, we might's well be done with these flour sacks,” a tall, well-built man grumbled.

“Shoot, they know who we are,' the leader argued, tearing off his mask. “Don't you sonny?”

The leader kicked Rat in his sore ribs, bringing a howl of pain.

“Yer posters don't do you justice,” Rat told the face he recognized as Bo Oxenberg. The bigger man would be his brother Oren. Rat recognized the empty gaze of Efrem Plank, too.

“Well, we couldn't give the artist much o' our time,” Oren explained, spitting tobacco juice at Bob Grant's feet. “Ain't faces matter much anyhow. It's reputation. That brings men respect.”

“Does it?” Rat asked as he painfully pried a long spinter from his hand.

“Take yours, Hadley,” Oren added. “Word is you can shoot a flea off a dog's rump at a hundred yards. I didn't think it likely, but the way you shot Hi Hedges off his horse, I'm not so sure.”

“Hi rode with us a long time,” Bo added. “I don't like men to shoot my friends.”

Bo swung his rifle over at Rat, then turned and fired instead at Bob Grant's hand. The cowboy rolled away clutching his bleeding fingers and wincing from the pain his hip wound brought.

“Don't be reachin' for yon pistol, boy!” Bo warned. “I'll fill you fuller o' lead than that gambler there.”

“Do what you want to him,” Ef Plank said, tossing the heavy chest onto the ground. “Rat there's an old friend o' mine, though. Cain't just up and shoot him, Bo. 'Sides, he's close to hitchin' himself to Lem Cathcart's gal over in Thayerville. I don't fancy havin' that ole hound on my trail.”

“Nor me,” Oren growled.

Rat gazed at Ef and managed a grateful nod. Ef went on with his work, though. Soon the outlaws were occupied wrenching open the money chest and tearing their way through trunks of clothes.

“Want to take the mail sack?” Ef asked as he held it up.

“You'll have the army after you,” Pop warned.

“The army?” Oren asked. “They couldn't find dung in a stable. Take it along, Ef. I like to read the letters.”

When the young outlaw called Jim broke open Louise Lambert's bag and began tossing the undergarments about, Boyd Lambert finally reddened.

“Stop that!” he yelled.

“That little lady must be a sight in these things!” Jim answered, tossing a stocking high in the air.

Lambert reached for something in his boot, but a pistol shot tore the hidden pistol from his hand.

“Mister, best not press your luck,” a heretofore silent outlaw warned.

“I know you,” Pop Palmer said, turning toward the masked raider. “Lord Almighty! Mitchell Morris, you come of a good family. What brings you to rob my stage?”

“You old fool!” the gunman answered.

“Mitch?' Rat cried, staring in disbelief as features appeared familiar. There was something new and foreign as well—the glow of hatred. Rat sat transfixed, stunned, as Mitch raised his pistol and fired a solitary bullet into Palmer's large chest. The driver fell backward, and the gunman fired again.

“Mitch?” Rat called a second time.

“Who?” the shooter asked, turning the pistol on Rat.

“Fool boy,” Oren Oxenberg yelled, rushing over and turning the masked killer away from the captives. “You done it now! Be hangin' sure to come o' this!”

“Mitch?' Rat shouted even louder. The masked figure never even turned, though. The Oxenbergs collected the cash from the money chest, loaded it in a pair of stockings, and tied the booty atop Bo's horse. Then the raiders remounted their animals and set off southward. Rat counted six, though one barely hung onto his saddle horn.

“They've gone,” Mrs. Lambert announced. “Praise God. Let's get our things collected and be off.”

“Things?” Rat screamed, bending over Pop Palmer. “We got people to see after.”

“I'll have a look at the boy,” Mrs. Lambert agreed. “The gambler's dead.”

“I ain't!” Pop shouted. “Not yet, leastwise.”

“We'll get you to town, Pop. I promise.”

“I'll be elsewhere long 'fore you get this coach to Thayerville,” Pop said, coughing violently. “You promise me somethin' else, Rat Hadley.”

“Anything,” Rat vowed.

“You promise to hunt down Mitch Morris and see him hung! He's kilt me, Rat. See he pays for that!”