Boswell's Luck (2 page)

“Cut 'em off, Rastus!” J. C. Hadley yelled to his son. “The big white! He's the leader!”

Rat slapped his horse's rump and sliced his way through the flank ponies until he could glimpse the big white. It was a marvelous horse, a world of muscle and fiery independence determined to retain its freedom. As Rat broke past a brown mare, he balanced himself carefully, tied the free end of his lariat to his saddle horn, and raised a loop with his right hand. Racing close, he threw the loop high, and it fell cleanly over the nose and head of the stallion. In seconds the rope went taut, burning Rat's fingers as it tore away from his grasp. The boy slowed his mount and waited.

“I got you, horse!” Rat screamed as the rope twanged, and the big white rocked to a halt. The fiery-eyed horse turned its head and screamed. Its scarlet eyes turned toward Rat with a hateful gaze as the big horse struggled to work its way free of the confining rope. Rat's own horse wobbled unsteadily. Then, as the white made a fresh try at freedom, the speckled mustang lost its footing. Crying wildly, Rat grabbed the rope as the knot tore loose from his saddle horn.

“Let go, boy!” Payne Oakley urged. But it was too late. The white stallion jerked Rat high into the air and then dragged him fifty feet through a nest of rocks, scrub juniper, and prickly pear. Rat yelped in pain as his arms were scraped raw and the bottom was near scraped off his trousers. He managed to fling the rope at a mesquite tree, and the knot obligingly caught in a crook and held fast as the others rode in to take charge of the defiant stallion.

“Lord, Rat, you went and got yourself a cactus baptism!” Mitch called as he hurried over to his friend. J. C. Hadley wasn't far behind. Rat gazed at his bloody arms, at the cactus spines peppering his thighs, at the bare skin exposed by his tattered britches, and gazed up with a smile.

“Got the horse, Pa,” he explained.

“Near the other way 'round,” J. C. observed. “But I admit you caught him. Now all that's left is mendin' you and breakin' him!”

Rat nodded. With Mitch's help, he set about tending to the first task. His father and Payne Oakley turned to the other.

That same afternoon, standing bare-chested and wearing patched trousers, with daubs of brown herb concoctions marking near every inch of exposed flesh, Rat watched as his father attempted to harness the raw energy of the wild white stallion. If there was a grander horse on earth, Rat couldn't imagine where it might be. Men for miles around rode out to have a look.

“I tell you not to mock the spirits,” Eduardo whispered as he joined Rat and Mitch outside a makeshift corral that enclosed the open end of the box canyon. “You don't believe the devil moon.”

“I got the horse,” Rat boasted. “Now Pa's going' to break him.”

“Maybe so,” Eduardo said, pointing to the frothing horse. “Maybe not. He has the devil's eyes.”

“What's this?” Mitch cried. “Devil's moon. Devil's eyes!”

But Rat motioned for his friend to be silent. Mitch hadn't read those fiery eyes. J. C. Hadley was more'n a match for any normal horse. But for the first time Rat began to worry. The big white calmed for a moment, and J. C. threw one leg over the demon beast and settled atop it. Then the big white exploded.

“Lord, lookee!” Payne shouted as he scurried clear of a flying hoof.

“Madre Maria,” Eduardo said, crossing himself as he hopped back from the corral.

J. C. Hadley bounded high in the air, but his powerful hands maintained their grip on the stallion, and he settled back onto the horse. Twice more the horse bucked its would-be conqueror, and again after that. J. C. dug toes into the big stallion's ribs, and the horse whined and stomped. Then, with a flurry of wild spasms the white raced full speed at the corral.

“Pa, look out!” Rat cried as the stallion slammed into the gate and staggered back. Shaken, J. C. lost his grip. The horse threw itself at the fence now, shattering a foreleg and rolling onto one side. Hadley jumped, but the big horse rolled onto his legs and over his back. Rat heard the crack of bones and yelled to the men scrambling over the walls of the corral. Payne Oakley was already leveling a pistol at the horse's head, and two rapid shots left the stallion limp and quiet. Meanwhile others dragged the fallen horse off their luckless friend.

“Let me by!” Rat shouted as arms reached out to hold him back. “Pa?”

“Rastus, boy, he's smashed up proper,” Payne argued as he gripped Rat's sore, battered arms. “You don't want to … “

“He's my pa,” Rat insisted, breaking free. “I seen him as bad as a man can be.”

“No, you haven't,” Mr. Hanks said, stepping in front of Rat. “His back's broke, son. He won't even know you.”

“I'll know him,” Rat said, slipping past the men and making his way to where J. C. Hadley lay coughing out his life. Blood trickled from his mouth, and a world of pain flooded the horse-breaker's eyes.

“Rastus?” J. C. muttered.

Rat nodded, then picked up his father's limp hand and gave it a squeeze. “Pa?'

“Mind yer ma, son,” J. C. managed to whimper between moans.

“Was blind hate, Pa,” Rat said, gazing a second at the fallen horse. “Pure meanness. You had him licked, and all he knew to do was kill himself and hurt you in the bargain.”

“Hurt you, too. More'n you'll know for a time.”

“I'll mend,” Rat assured his father.

“Time for crossin' over now,” J. C. whispered as he formed the first note of a hymn on his lips. He tried to hum it, but he managed only another moan. The assembled wranglers pulled off their hats and took up the melody, and a familiar glow filled J. C.'s eyes. Then it was gone.

All men have sad days if they live very long. If Erastus Hadley lived a thousand years, he'd never know a time to equal the fiery hot April afternoon when he rode alongside the wagon bearing the broken body of his father homeward. Never had a boy felt as alone, as lost.

Actually, he wasn't alone, though. Orville Hanks was driving the wagon himself, and Payne Oakley rode a sorrel just ahead. Mitch Morris had come along, too. But none of them knew quite the words…. Perhaps there were none.

It was on toward three o'clock when they finally approached the plank cabin Hanks had built ten years earlier to watch the eastern fringe of his acreage. For five of those years J. C. and Georgiana Hadley had made the line camp into a sort of home—at least as much as was possible for a vagabond cowboy.

“Got to have some kind o' roots,” Georgiana had declared. “We got four youngsters now, and I won't live forever out o' saddle bags, J. C.!”

Erastus recalled the conversation well, being nine by then. At the time it seemed strange that a man might need more than a creek to swim or range to ride. Now, though, that rickety cabin was home and as good a place as he'd ever known.

Oakley moved ahead in hopes of seeking out Georgiana and preparing her for the news, but she was seeding her garden and spied the wagon.

“J. C.!” she called. “Rastus?”

Hearing his name called swept Erastus's own grief from his mind. He nudged the pinto out of line and sadly approached his mother. Words formed on his tongue, but they refused to come when he opened his mouth.

“We brought you some hard news,” Oakley finally spoke as he joined them.

“How bad's he hurt?” she asked, staring at the wagon.

“Horse fell on him,” the foreman explained. “Didn't feel any pain, ma'am. Was over quick.”

“Rastus?” she asked, turning to her son. “That the truth of it? I never knew a horse to throw my man.”

“It was a devil,” Erastus said, dropping his eyes. “Ran me through the brush when I roped him. Didn't throw Pa. Ran him right into a corral fence. Kilt the horse to do it, but the thing didn't seem to care.”

“That's how it was, all right,” Oakley agreed. “Craziest thing I'll ever see. No ordinary horse could've killed J. C. Hadley. He was the finest man atop a horse I ever knew.”

“We'll put him on the hill, under that stand o' live oaks,” Georgiana instructed. “He'll always have shade, and there'll be birds to sing. He was fond o' singin'. Rastus, you find the spade and see to it.”

“I'd deem it a favor if you'd leave that to me Ma' am,” Oakley said. “We all o' us thought well o' J. C. I expect Mr. Hanks'll have somethin' for you, but the boys all pitched in what they could, and I'd have you take it with our respects.”

“Thank you, Mr. Oakley,” she answered, nodding somberly as the foreman handed over a kerchief that jingled with the sound of silver and copper coins. “Spade's out back o' the shed. Rastus, you take Mr. Oakley's horse, will you? Then best fetch your brothers and sister. They'd be seein' to the corn.”

“Yes, ma'am,” Erastus replied. He then set about his assigned tasks and left his mother to master her grief.

Finding Payne Oakley a spade and seeing the horses tended was the easy part. In fact, the work kept Erastus from thinking of more serious matters. Mitch pitched in, unsaddling the Hadley horses while Erastus pumped fresh water into a trough.

“My pa always says the Good Lord makes things hard to test us,” Mitch said when Erastus satisfied himself that the needs of the animals had been met and turned toward the creek.

“Figure Marcus needs testin', do you?” Erastus asked, kicking a rock past the barn as he imagined how the news would strike his seven-year-old brother. “Ain't the heat and the raw wind enough? Ain't there 'nough rattlers and fevers to kill you without sendin' killer horses?”

“Just tellin' you what Pa says is all, Rat.”

“Maybe that talk holds for town folk,” Erastus replied angrily, “but out here we know the Lord's got better things to do than bother a fellow. It's the devil's taken my pa, sure as day! And ole scratch's 'bout finished me, too.”

“How's that?” Mitch asked, grabbing the smaller boy by the arm.

“Best let go, Mitch,” Erastus warned. “I got a powerful urge to thrash somebody, and you'd be awful handy.”

“Go ahead and wallop me if you think it'll help. Sure don't seem like I'm do in' you much good as is.”

Erastus shook loose of Mitch's grasp and scowled. There was a world of torment choking Rat Hadley, and not a thing Mitch said would lessen it a hair. Erastus hung his head and stumbled off to locate his brothers and sister.

They were at the edge of the cornfield, splashing their feet in the creek. Usually Erastus would have run into their midst and howled at them for neglecting their chores. Instead he muttered a greeting and searched to find words to share the dread news.

“Somethin's wrong,” eleven-year-old Alex announced. “Ras?”

Eight-year-old Juliana read the sorrow in her oldest brother's eyes and burrowed under one of Erastus's arms. Little Marcus huddled between her and Alex.

“Pa's dead,” Erastus told them. “Kilt by a devil horse. Got to go up to the house now. There's men buryin' him. We'll be sayin' our good-byes and readin' the prayer book.”

“You ain't joshin', are you?” Alex asked.

Erastus shook his head, and Mitch did the same. Marcus stared up in dismay, and Juliana buried her head in Erastus's side and wept.

“Go ahead and cry, the three o' you,” Erastus advised. “'Cause we'll be back with company soon, and won't Ma allow it. Mournin's private. I recall her tellin' me that when we buried Grandpa Sullivan down on the Colorado.”

“I never knew Grandpa Sullivan,” Juliana sobbed. “I loved Pa.”

“Me, too,” Marcus added.

“Then get to cryin',” Erastus barked. “Get it out o' yer system. 'Cause we'll do none o' it at the buryin', hear?'

“I hear,” Alex said, wiping his eyes and taking Marcus in hand. “Don't you got any tears to shed, Ras?”

“Not with folks 'round to see,” Erastus said, nodding to Mitch. '“Sides, cryin' won't change a thing.”

The others sighed as if to agree, but they wept a bit longer. Erastus left them beneath a stand of junipers and drew Mitch aside.

“Best you leave us to ourselves a bit,” Erastus said. “You been a good friend to help bring Pa home.”

“You want me to leave?”

“Nothin' left for you to do, Mitch. Ain't nothin' to the buryin'. You come back in a day or so. Maybe we'll chase up some more ponies. Leastwise we'll have ourselves a swim.”

“Mr. Hanks'll think hard o' my leavin'.”

“No, he's a man for workin'. Truth is, he'll be back at it himself in two hours' time.”

Mitch hesitated, but Erastus waved him along. Shaking his head, Mitch Morris set off toward the barn. Erastus joined his brothers and sister.

The Hadley youngsters were a whole hour wringing the tears out of their hearts. Afterward Erastus Jed the way back to the cabin. They were only halfway when they passed the lonesome hill overlooking the creek. Georgiana waved them to where Oakley had dug a shallow grave in the rocky ground. With hardly a moment's pause, she motioned to the still shape now wrapped in a patchwork quilt.

“Pa?” Juliana asked.

“Only his earthly remains, darlin',” Georgiana Hadley replied. “Say your 'byes, dears, and hold your tears. We got words to read and prayers to make. Your Pa's gone on to his reward, bless him, and we got our own worries.”

Those words were prophecy, as it turned out. The last words of a hymn had hardly melted in the fierce afternoon heat, and Payne Oakley was only shoveling the first sand over J. C. Hadley's corpse, when Orville Hanks motioned Georgiana and Erastus down the hill a way.

“I feel like I've lost my own right hand,” Hanks declared, slapping his hat against his thigh. “Lord, this is hard luck.”

“Harder on us, Mr. Hanks,” Georgiana answered.