Boswell's Luck by G. Clifton Wisler

nodded, unsuccessfully trying to hide the disappointment flooding his face.
    For a week Rat made his way from one Thayerville enterprise to the next, greeting saloon keeper or blacksmith with equal humility.
    â€œI give Sully Dawes a good day’s labor for a fair wage,” he assured each one. “I’d give the same to you.”
    There was always a nephew or a town boy hired to sweep floors or exercise horses, though. And other work simply wasn’t to be had.
    He next rode among the farms and ranches that occupied the hills and range past town. Rat was startled to discover so many abandoned houses and empty barns. When he did find someone at home, he often had to sidestep idle youngsters and stumble to the door, only to hear the same sad refrain.
    â€œI ain’t got work for my own self,” tall, gaunt Cyrus Keller explained. “Ain’t sold a hog in six months, you know.”
    â€œTimes is hard,” Rat had replied, nodding sadly. And as the days passed, his shoulders sagged and his face grew long. He found himself standing on porches, hat in hand, pleading to speak with ranch foremen or cattlemen.
    â€œWas a time when I’d at least been welcome to sit at table,” Rat grumbled to Mitch. “Folks see me comin’ and treat me like I got some sickness to give ’em.”
    â€™Things’ll get better,” Mitch assured his haggard friend. “Been out to see Mr. Hanks yet? He’s got a high opinion o’ you, Rat, from the old days. He’s the richest man in the county, after all.”
    â€œHe sent us packin’ after Pa died,” Rat recounted. “And didn’t take me in after the drive to Kansas.”
    â€œEven so, he’s out there, Rat. Ain’t much o’ anybody else.”
    Rat had to admit the truth of his friend’s words. And so that next morning he saddled his horse and rode out to the Circle H to speak with Orville Hanks.
    Rat was unusually solemn as he passed the old line cabin that had once been home. He paused a moment, remembering the thunder of boyish laughter, the sound advice offered with fatherly patience, his mother’s somber announcement that he must go to live with the Planks.
    â€œDon’t suppose it was yer doin’, Pa,” Rat whispered as he knelt beside his father’s grave. The young man stared intently at the simple white cross. Hope and promise, it seemed, were buried along with J. C. Hadley.
    Rat’s humor wasn’t improved by the sight of boys splashing away the morning down at the Brazos. That was his river, after all. It would always belong to Rat and Mitch and Alex. These brown-shouldered youngsters were intruders!
    Rat splashed across the river, then turned his horse north and west. He didn’t answer the waves of the swimmers. Nor did he visit the white oak or Tom Boswell’s grave. Rat Hadley needed no reminder that poor fortunes got a man buried.
    The sight of a stranger prowling the range on a half-wild mustang wasn’t generally welcomed by most outfits, and Rat drew company as he approached the ranch house. First a shaggy-haired young cowboy riding the fence line latched onto Rat’s trail. For close to a mile the boy shadowed Rat. Then, as the horse corrals came into view, two older hands confronted Rat. Aside from a tobacco-chewing stranger, a more familiar face challenged the Circle H’s visitor.
    â€œHold up there,” Payne Oakley called. “Got business here?”
    â€œThought to have a word with Mr. Hanks,” Rat explained.
    â€œAnd what makes you think he’d have any interest in seein’ you?” Oakley asked.
    â€œCall it old time’s sake,” Rat answered. “I see you got yer hand healed up, Payne. Bet you never thought I’d get this big, eh?”
    â€œYou know him?” the young cowboy asked.
    Oakley studied the strange face in front of him. Rat doffed his hat and grinned.
    â€œCan’t be,”