Boswell's Luck by G. Clifton Wisler Page A

get me any bullets,” Rat said, chuckling.
    â€œAin’t too bright, are you, boy?”
    â€œDon’t seem so,” Rat confessed. “I been to a school to learn readin’ and writin’, and I know how to ride and tend cows. But I got no knack with people at all. Far as human critters go, I’m dumber’n spit.”
    â€œWell, many a man could say that,” the sheriff declared as he unlocked the cell. “Don’t know a man can get himself locked up on account o’ it, though. Best take it easy on them ribs awhile. One’s cracked, I’m guessin’.”
    â€œI free to go?” Rat asked.
    â€œLong as you stay out o’ trouble. Got a home, boy?”
    â€œNot to speak of,” Rat confessed.
    â€œWhere you come from?”
    â€œAll over. Nowhere. Guess you’d say Thayerville. I lived there a time.”
    â€œThen my advice’d be to go back. Folks what know you’ll give you a better chance. A boy like you rangin’ about’s certain to find bad fortune.”
    â€œIt’s ’bout all the fortune I ever come by.”
    â€œWell, things can change, youngster. Seen it before. Your horse is over to the livery. Tell Hi Garner I told him the oats and water’s on the county.”
    â€œI got some money,” Rat objected.
    â€œYou may need it elsewhere. Now get along ’fore I change my mind. And may God look after you. Sure somebody best do it.”

Chapter Eight
    Rat Hadley was two years getting back to Thayerville. He passed six months on a Hood County ranch, then made the long drive north to Kansas once again. He wandered to Colorado afterward, and thence across the Llano, doing this and that. Nothing lasted long, though, and with worsening cattle markets, ranch work wasn’t to be had. He rounded up a string of range ponies only to find no buyers. Under a hot August sun he followed the shiny rails of the new Texas and Pacific railroad to Weatherford before riding north to Thayerville.
    The town had done some changing. A half dozen houses spread out along the Weatherford market road, and a brick bank now dominated the center of Main Street. There were two saloons now, a small cafe, and a new Methodist church alongside the old schoolhouse. Rat shuddered a moment as he rode past the Morris place. Someone had added a false brick front and turned it into a hotel. Down the street, though, a new and larger mercantile stood near the livery.
    â€œTwo years,” Rat murmured as he traced the thin brownish growth on his upper lip. It could almost pass for a moustache. Even as he was wondering whether anyone would recognize him, a voice called out from the street.
    â€œRat!”
    Rat turned and gazed upon a youngish man in a banker’s suit, complete with string tie and bowler hat, waving from the door of the hotel.
    â€œMitch?”
    Mitchell Morris trotted out into the dusty street, and Rat swung himself off his horse to greet his old friend. The two of them locked wrists, grinning and nodding and babbling too fast to be understood.
    â€œSeen Ma and Pa?” Mitch finally managed.
    â€œSeen nobody,” Rat answered. “Just got in.”
    â€œWell, we best see to it right off. She’d hide the both o’ us for keepin’ you a secret. Lord, it’s been a while. You went and got some growth.”
    Rat nodded. He was still a good four inches shy of six feet, but it was as tall as he was likely to get. Hadley men ran to small, it seemed. When he’d seen his brother Alex in June, the sixteen-year-old had lamented the family curse.
    â€œYou look good, Mitch,” Rat observed as he conducted his horse to a hitching post and secured the reins. “Ain’t gone respectable, have you?”
    â€œOnly by appearances,” Mitch said, laughing. “Got to keep Ma off the scent. Cards haven’t let me down yet. We get a lot o’ folks through Thayerville now, bound for the new