Rat awoke to a world of fuzzy shapes. He lay in a hard slat bed in the side room of an unfamiliar house. As the dizziness began to pass, he detected a wash basin atop a small wooden stand, a window framed by simple gingham check curtains, and a solitary chest standing on the far wall beside an open door. Sitting in a chair beside him was a boy of around twelve years, whose curly yellow hair and bright blue eyes seemed out of place in the drab chamber.
“You awake, Rat?” the youngster asked.
“Parts o’ me,” Rat confessed, raising his head slightly. His left side felt as if nailed to the bed, and his legs remained asleep.
“Doc said you’d come ’round this morn in’. Me, I figured it’d be later on.”
“Where … “
“At our place.” Seeing Rat’s confusion, the boy laughed to himself and explained further. “Guess it’s changed some since you come here last time. Five years.”
“Where …” Rat began again.
“Don’t you recognize me?” the youngster asked with slightly hurt eyes. “I’m Busby Cathcart.”
“Yeah?” Rat whispered. “Well, ain’t seen you much o’ late. Changed some, too.”
“Gotten ornery, Pa says. He’s been by to see you, but you was sleepin’.”
“How long?”
“Been two days since Doc plucked that bullet out o’ your arm. You bled all over the place, he said. Pa thought you dead sure, but not Becky. She ordered you brought over here, and she took to tendin’ you herself. ’Cept at night and early morn. I saw to you then, this bein’ my room and all.”
“Thanks,” Rat managed to mutter as he blinked his eyes. The feeling was returning bit by bit. He saw he was lying between crisp linen sheets. His head rested on a feather pillow. His left arm was swathed in bandages. Otherwise he was naked.
“You up to sippin’ some broth?” Busby asked. “Ma can heat you up some. Or you can wait for Becky to come along.”
“Where’d my clothes get to?” Rat interrupted.
“Doc fair butchered your shirt, Rat. The rest was pretty much bloody. Ma give ’em a scrub, but it wasn’t much use.”
“I’ve got some things over at Pop Palmer’s house. Maybe you could … “
“That’s a fine idea,” Rebecca Cathcart announced as she entered the room. “Buzz, why don’t you walk over there and collect Rat’s clothes. He’s sure to be here a week.”
“Meanwhile Pa’s got a nightshirt he can spare,” Busby declared. “Makes a man unsettled to have women hoverin’ ’round ’em, ’specially when he’s got only a sheet for cover. And I wouldn’t let her give you no more baths, neither, Rat!”
“What?” Rat cried. His mind seemed to clear of cobwebs, and he drew the sheet up against his chin with the fingers of his good right hand. Busby only laughed and darted off.
“Don’t look so shocked,” Becky said as she took her brother’s place beside the bed. “I’ve done my share o’ bathin’ people, boys included. Wish I had a silver dollar for every time I washed Buzz. I’ve got cousins, too, remember.”
“So’ve I, but I never gave ’em any bath,” Rat grumbled. “They weren’t full-grown, either.”
“Well, I admit this was my first turn at a full-sized one,” Becky said, grinning shyly. “Ma would’ve done it, but she was off somewhere, and you were just about covered up with mud and blood. Doc said you needed scrubbin’ then and there. I wager there’ll be talk come o’ it, though.”
“Likely so,” Rat said, swallowing his embarrassment and thinking of the string bean of a girl washing away the aftermath of battle. “I fear yer reputation’s soiled. Havin’ dealin’s with no-account Hadleys ain’t a thing folks forget easy.”
“Oh, that’s a long time forgotten, Rat.”
“Is it? Yer own pa spoke to me ’bout stayin’ clear o’ you just lately.”
“Did he?” she asked, surprised. “Well, he’s changed that tune, Rat. Wouldn’t hear o’ the Morrises takin’ you in. You set too much stock in gossip anyhow. And the truth o’ it is most o’ the town folk’d have us headed to an altar.”
“That’d surely be a worse fate for you’n havin’ ’em gossipin’, Becky. Bein’ chained to Rat Hadley! Best you leave my nursin’ to Busby.”
“He’d make short work o’ you. And besides, I don’t know I’d agree marryin’ a hero’d be such a poor bargain.”
“Hero?”
“Sure,” she said, smiling. “The man who shot Curly Bob Clark and saved the Western Stage. You’ve gone and gotten famous, Rat. And rich to boot. Curly Bob was posted, you know.”
Rat shook his head in dismay. He only recalled bits and pieces of the fight, and nothing at all of its aftermath. Becky laughed and retold the whole story, borrowing liberally from the boastful stories of Ed Robson and Tully Gardiner. Envisioning himself as a rifle-toting gunman was too far a stretch for Rat, though, and he welcomed Busby Cathcart’s return for putting a close to the wild tale.
As he mended those next days, Rat started to realize the better part of Thayerville believed every exaggerated word of that story. The Gardiners paid him a visit on the return leg of their journey, bringing along copies of a Ft. Worth newspaper detailing his gallant exploits. Ed Robson provided a small packet of telegrams from folks expressing their high regards for him. One or two offered jobs. Colonel Ned Wyler paid a bonus and promised a full wage while Rat was recovering his health.
“Don’t hurry yerself none,” Pop Palmer explained. “Colonel told me so himself. Likely he’ll come along and tell you the same thing one o’ these days. Business’s been pickin’ up, what with Curly Bob planted.”
Doc Jennings soon cut away the dressing and drained Rat’s wound. Afterward Busby Cathcart brought friends by to stare at the scar or shake hands with Thayerville’s new hero. Rat did so with as straight a face as he could manage and afterward chuckled to himself.
Mitch Morris appeared every evening, bringing bits of news or something his mother sent over from the mercantile.
“Things’ve sure changed, Rat,” Mitch observed. “Ma’s got nothing but fine words for you. Me, I walk the devil’s road. You get yerself well, hear? I got nobody to swap tales with or chase through the river.”
But of all his visitors, Rat most appreciated the quiet hours he spent with Becky Cathcart. When others were around, the seventeen-year-old seemed full of jests and energy. But when they were alone, Rat discovered she possessed a serious nature. She shared books and spoke of the trials that perhaps lay ahead. And every once in a while they dared to reveal dreams.
“I won’t be ridin’ guard on a stagecoach forever,” Rat vowed. “I figure to have a little place o’ my own, maybe run horses and some cows. Nothin’ like the Circle H, mind, but a good solid future for me and mine.”
“Me, I’d like to teach school somewhere,” Becky confided. “I’d want a good husband to love and care for, and children to raise. Maybe we’d have a little place off from town, like this house. Little ones need some room to run, don’t you think? In town they grow up too fast, I’m thinkin’.”
“They grow up too fast lots o’ places,” Rat muttered, recalling his days at the Plank farm. “Overnight sometimes.”
She recognized the pain in his eyes and provided a comforting hand. Her quiet nod acknowledged understanding, and it endeared him to her even more.
Rat was a week on his back at the Cathcart place. Later, when he walked about, his left arm hanging limply in a cloth sling, he contributed what he could to his new family. One day he sliced tomatoes. Another time he mixed dough and made a batch of one-handed biscuits.
“I’m astounded,” Cora Cathcart cried when she tasted one of the flaky discs. “They’re just fine, Rat.”
“You make a fair cook,” the sheriff added.
“Well, you pick up a thing or two on yer own,” Rat told them.
“We’ve no need of learn in’ just what,” Becky declared.
Busby grinned. The sheriff and his wife exchanged knowing looks. An hour later Lemuel Cathcart led Rat out to the porch.
“I know what’s on yer mind, Sheriff,” Rat said, avoiding the lawman’s steel-eyed gaze. “I’m on my feet again, and the wound’s clean-scabbed. Time I was packin’ up and movin’ on.”
“Son?” Cathcart asked, stepping closer. “What makes you think that?”
“I ain’t altogether stupid,” Rat muttered. “Since Pa died, folks’ve been takin’ me aside, urgin’ me to move on. You get to where you see it comin’.”
“You’re wrong this time, Rat.”
“Am I? Didn’t you tell meyer feelin’ where Becky’s concerned? Well, I didn’t plan it out this way, you know. Did I ask you to bring me here, to have her carin’ for me? You should’ve left me at the doc’s. I got a fair share o’ strong feelin’ for her, Sheriff. Ain’t no backin’ away from it.”
“I don’t suppose you figure this town’s given you much of a chance, eh, Rat?”
“Has it?”
“And me?”
“You saved my life when you took me off the Plank place,” Rat said, frowning as the memories flooded his mind. “I was all cold inside then, dead more’n alive. You and the Morrises put me back on my feet. Now you’ve gone and done it again. I know you’d rather Becky turned her eyes in other directions. And I guess if you say the word, I’ll do my best to step aside. Be like cuttin’ out my heart, but I’d try. I owe you that.”
“Rebecca’s closin’ in on her eighteenth birthday, son,” the sheriff replied. “She’s full grown and sure to make her own choices. As are you.”
“And so far as the two o’ us … “
“Look, Rat, so long as you’re honest with her, and you do her no wrongs, you’ll have nothin’ to answer me for. Whether you think so or not, I’ve always liked you. It’s been a steep trail you’ve had to climb, but you made it to the top as I see it. I expect you’ll find others deem it so, too.”
“I got some hard memories,” Rat confessed.
“I can’t see how it’d be otherwise. I’ve heard half the boys in Thayerville describe the scar on your arm. That’s the easy one to see, though, isn’t it. It’ll fade by and by. The long healin’ ones are deep down, and some o’ them never do mend. I think Thayerville’s offerin’ you a fresh start, though, Rat. Maybe some think it should’ve been given before, but what’s done is done. You’ve got some money comin’ for Curly Bob, and the stage line’s certain to hold you in high esteem for some time to come. That’s the kind o’ future I hope lies in store for Busby. It’s the man I hope he grows to be.”
“I take that for high praise,” Rat declared.
“Was meant to be,” Cathcart declared. “Rat, you stay on here as long as you like. Buzz likes havin’ company in the side room, and it won’t be much longer you’re operatin’ one-armed. Later, once you mend, you may care to move to the hotel. But should you choose to remain, well, nobody’d be displeased.”
“Nobody at all,” Rat added. The sheriff smiled, and Rat felt warmer inside than anytime he could recall.
The following afternoon the promised reward arrived, together with an extra twenty-dollar bounty Ned Wyler brought in person. The Colonel inspected Rat’s arm personally.
“You look fit, Hadley, but a stagecoach does a fair degree of bouncing. Give it another week before you climb up with that Winchester.”
“I pass another week useless, I’ll go daft,” Rat confessed.
“Nothin’ to keep you from mindin’ the freight office, is there? Don’t tote anything heavy, but you can watch out for trouble. I’ll pass the word to Nate Parrott.”
“I appreciate that, Colonel,” Rat answered.
Rat’s return to work wasn’t the only sign of his healing. That next Sunday, following services at the new Methodist Church, the reverend announced plans for a barn dance.
“Think you’re up to it, Rat?” Becky asked as she led the way to her father’s waiting buggy.
“I got no talent for the steps,” Rat grumbled, recalling his Kansas misfortunes. “But I’m willin’ to try.”
“I’ll show you the steps,” she assured him. “And you can’t be any worse a dancer than Buzz. I spent half the last dance with him, you know. We’ve got a shortage o’ unmarried men in the town o’ Thayerville.”
He grinned and promised his best efforts. But when the time came, Rat Hadley proved a failure. He had trouble leading Becky and watching her show him the steps at the same time. Twice they tangled badly, and once they wound up in a heap surrounded by a crowd of laughing neighbors.
“Busby, give you sister a break from this young tanglefoot, will you? the sheriff finally said as he pulled Rat aside.
“And me?” Rat asked
“Walk along with me, would you, son?” Cathcart asked. “Billy Bedford’s brought word trouble’s brewin’ down the street. Got my deputy off to Weatherford just now. I wouldn’t mind some company.”
Rat nodded his understanding and accompanied the sheriff outside.
“Ain’t been diggin’ many posts lately, I don’t suppose,” Billy Bedford said as he handed Rat a shotgun.
“Nope,” Rat answered with a grin. “Guess nowadays you’ve turned to other trades, too.”
“Washin’ glasses at the Lucky Lady,” the boy explained as the sheriff started down the dusty street. “Got a fight buildin’ tonight. Mr. Hull sent me for help.”
“You found it,” Cathcart declared. “Best you stand clear now, Billy. Leave it to us.”
They were still a hundred yards short of the saloon when a pair of pistol shots punctured the night. There was a shout, followed by the sound of shattering glass. Sheriff Cathcart raced forward, and Rat stumbled along as well as he could. By the time the two of them reached the Lucky Lady, peace had already been restored.
“Anybody know him?” the sheriff asked as he knelt beside a the prone figure of a middle-aged man.
“Called himself Duncan,” Eli Hull explained from behind the bar. “From Tennessee, I think.”
“North o’ there, I’d judge,” Billy added. “Talked more like a Yank, and he told me he had a boy up Cincinnati ways.”
“Was a fair fight, Sheriff,” Mitchell Morris declared.
The sound of Mitch’s voice pried Rat’s eyes off the corpse stretched out on the floor. The fingers of the dead man’s right hand even now gripped the handle of a Remington revolver. Mitch had slung a small pocket Colt on the gaming table alongside a pile of coins and bank notes.
“He’s right,” Hull agreed. “Other fellow’s been jabberin’ ’bout bein’ cheated half the night. Twice invited Mitch here outside. Then he finally drew out a gun.”
“Wasn’t anything else I could do,” Mitch testified.
“You others figure it so?” Cathcart asked a pair of shaken cardplayers.
“Was like he said,” a bearded cowboy declared.
“Lucky the boy had that hideout gun,” a younger wrangler added. “Been shot dead.”
“This Ohio fellow didn’t know you had a pistol, eh?” the sheriff asked. Mitch shook his head, and the lawman frowned. “Was you cheatin’, boy?”
“Don’t need to,” Mitch explained. “I got luck.”
“You sure had it this night,” Cathcart declared. “Seems you were ready enough with that pistol. He fire first?”
“If he had, Mitch’d be dead,” Hull answered.
“You wouldn’t have me wait to take a bullet first, would you?” Mitch asked. “I was only defendin’ myself.”
“Well, I suppose that’s how folks’ll see it anyway,” Cathcart grumbled. “I don’t take to gamblers, Mitch, especially when they keep pistols ready. I won’t charge you this time. But you keep your gun holstered in Thayerville. I’ll not have killin’ in my town!”
“I was only …” Mitch argued.
“You heard me, son!” the sheriff barked. “Now get along out o’ here. We got a body to see tended.”
“We were playin’ stud,” Mitch complained.
“You done your playin’ this night,” Cathcart announced. “Close down the bar, too, Eli. Been ’nough excitement.”