Boswell's Luck by G. Clifton Wisler Page B

Hanks confessed. “I’ve signed on boys aplenty, but few o’ them ever measure up. You never give me call to regret takin’ you north, nor invitin’ you to roundup when you was a grub.”
    â€œI thank you for it, too, Mr. Hanks, and I swear you’ll have no reason to regret takin’ me on again.”
    â€œKnow that,” the cattleman said, frowning. “Rat, you been on the range this last week. What do you see? I sent half my outfit ridin’. Cattle market’s gone south, with nary a promise o’ return in’ anytime soon.”
    â€œI saw boys at the river, and this Coley … “
    â€œMy grandsons,” Hanks explained. “Got my oldest boy Fitz at the line camp now, and near everybody left on the payroll’s family. Payroll! We haven’t handed out wages in eight months.”
    â€œMaybe I could round up some mustangs,” Rat offered. “You still need mounts.”
    â€œBoy, you ain’t listenin’,” Hanks complained. “I sell horses nowadays to make my taxes. Even then it’s tough to make a price at it. Better you try a town job. Range’s dead.”
    â€œHave,” Rat said, staring at his feet.
    â€œYeah, not much money to be made anywhere. Funny thing is I thought once the Indians were rounded up and staked out on reservations, cow people’d make their fortunes. Didn’t count on all the new land openin’ up north and west. Then the railroads come in and take the profit out o’ trailin’ range beeves. Got to breed ’em now, it ’pears. Takes money, buyin’ bulls.”
    â€œMr. Hanks, I’ve done near everything one time or another. I’d scrub plates or fry eggs.”
    â€œGot a cook, Rat. No, your chance’d have to be somewhere else.”
    â€œWhere?” Rat asked, throwing his arms in the air. “I never in my life begged for help, but I got no other forks in my road. I tried all I know to do, and there’s nothin’. Paused to read me Job, and I always thought it cruel mean for the Lord to send so many torments to one man. Now I don’t think ole Job had it so bad after all.”
    â€œI read Job some myself,” Hanks said, softening his hard-jaw stance. “Lord did relent some where ole Job was concerned. Maybe he’s got a heart for wayfarers, too, Rat, ’cause I just thought o’ somebody you might try.”
    â€œWho?”
    â€œFriend o’ mine,” Hanks said, pulling a scrap of paper from his shirt pocket and scrawling a note. “Ned Wyler. Operates the Western Stage Company out o’ Ft. Worth. Used to run a route to El Paso, but with the Texas and Pacific runnin’, they mostly move people up to Jacksboro, then across to Thayerville and along to Albany. He might could use horses, and he might hire you to fetch him some. I done my best by you,” he added, passing Rat the note. “You tell him I said you was iron-rumped like yer pa. He finds out you be Corporal J. C. Hadley’s kid, he’ll do what he can.”
    â€œWas this Wyler fellow in yer company, sir?” Rat asked.
    â€œNo, he was a Yank colonel,” Hanks explained. “Near got his hide peppered when we hit his camp. Yer pa grabbed him by the seat o’ the pants and drug him atop a horse. Captured him, ole J. C. did.”
    â€œI don’t see how that would put me in much favor,” Rat argued.
    â€œWasn’t just that,” Hanks explained. “We had a stiff-necked major come down and say we got to shoot Colonel Wyler in answer for the Yanks shootin’ one o’ our officers. Well, yer pa went and liberated Wyler ’fore the major could do it. Next day word come the war was over. General Forrest give up his sword, and we turned for home. Wyler saw we got to the railroad personal. There’s a debt owed there.”
    Rat nodded. But not to me, he thought.
    Nevertheless he rode south from the