Read Online Boswell's Luck by G. Clifton Wisler - Free Book Online

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.”
    â€œSure 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.
    â€œI 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.”
    â€œYou 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.
    â€œDon’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.”
    â€œAnd for now?”
    â€œNudge the herd a little harder. We’ll be on the near bank o’ the river this afternoon. That’s when they’ll hit.”
    â€œYou sure?”
    â€œBeen 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.
    â€œIt’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.”
    â€œRustlers?” Mitch asked nervously.
    â€œOh, 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.”
    â€œAnd the cowboys?” Rat asked.
    â€œShoot 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,