Free Boswell's Luck by G. Clifton Wisler

way?”
    â€œWas only in fun,” Mitch argued. “And it’ll pass.”
    â€œWill it?” Rat asked. He wondered.

Chapter Seven
    Most of the veteran cowboys blew off a little steam, bought themselves an outfit or two, and drifted slowly southward. Mitch Morris, on the other hand, developed a talent at the card tables. From early afternoon to well after midnight the seventeen-year-old would test his wits against older, more experienced players. There were some true artists in Dodge City that summer, but even shaved cards and extra aces didn’t deter Mitch. He won more than he lost, so he stayed on.
    Rat Hadley found no like success in Dodge. He had a good mind for figures, and the plain truth was that you couldn’t win at cards. It was clear to see! Hard liquor left him wheezing and bewildered, and the girls spent most of their time picking at his name or making fun of his manners. All in all, he’d been happier elsewhere.
    â€œI’ve had my fill o’ Kansas,” Rat finally told Mitch. “I got a bit o’ money left, and nobody’s stabbed or shot me yet. So I’d judge I’m well off by Dodge City standards and ready to ride south.”
    Mitch put it simply. “I’m not,” he declared. “May never be. The cards keep comin’ my way, I might just become a professional. Mighty easy life, Rat. I could use a friend to watch my back, though. Many’s the card-sharp paid somebody to peek at another player’s hand.”
    â€œI’m not the one for that kind o’ work,” Rat argued. “I close to cough myself sick from the cigar smoke, and I miss Texas. Haven’t had a swim since Cimarron River, and yer ma’s certain to worry after us.”
    â€œWe’ll write her a letter. Tell her we’ve started up a business.”
    â€œNo, you write the letter, Mitch. I’ll deliver it personal.”
    â€œWon’t hold it against me, my stayin’ on?”
    â€œCouldn’t ever do that,” Rat said, shaking his head at Mitch’s easy smile. “You ain’t no cowboy, Mitch. Never’ll make a livin’ ropin’ steers or roundin’ up strays. Me, I’m out o’ place in a town. Guess I belong with the horses.”
    â€œDon’t sell yourself short.”
    â€œThat’s for other folks to do,” Rat replied. “Me, I don’t fool myself either way. Ain’t much to look on, and a runt to boot, but I’ll work hard for the man that pays me. And I remember my friends.”
    â€œAm I one o’ them?”
    â€œTop o’ the list, Mitch. You saved my life. Be a hard thing to forget.”
    â€œGood thing to know, that,” Mitch said, sighing. “A body has needs o’ friends.”
    On his way back to Texas Rat Hadley learned the truth of those words. Crossing the wild Cimarron country he was shot at two times and chased a third. It was a fine game, separating Texas cowboys from their earnings, and many a desperado tried his hand at it. Rat quickly regretted hanging around Dodge City so long. How much better it would have been to return with Payne Oakley and Orville Hanks!
    As it turned out Rat felt safest riding among the Indian camps and reservations farther south. Once, among the Caddos, he was treated to fresh trout and corn bread. The Choctaws fed him, too, but for a price. They, after all, were Americanized.
    Once across the Red River, nothing short of a full-blown cyclone could keep him from Thayerville. He rode forty miles some days, and he forded rivers with less concern than a man stepped across a mud puddle. When he got to the Brazos, he paused beside the white oak and washed the dust and weariness from himself and his clothes. He walked past old Boswell’s grave, but wind or vandals had carried off the board, and time had evened out the ground so you couldn’t tell anybody had ever been buried there.
    â€œWell, time passes,”