Separate Journeys

Chapter 4

Boomer Flasting

Doc finished cleaning the wound and replaced the bandage. "Is it giving you much pain, Boomer?"

The small man stretched his neck a little, to pull the muscle along his shoulder. "No, Doc. It's feeling pretty good. How's that deputy doing? I sure was sorry about him getting hurt thatta way."

"Yeah." Doc pulled his wire rims from his face and returned them to his pocket. "That was pretty strange. Exactly how again, did ya come to knock him down?"

Boomer's pale grey eyes grew wide, as he released a long weary breath. "I rightly don't know. He just kinda came outta nowhere, an' I runned into him."

"Now Boomer, that's not, perzactly the truth of it all." Festus appeared at the door of the cell with a tray in his hand. "You was a runnin', after robbin' ol' Moss and lookin' behind yer ownself to see if'n he was follerin ya. That ther's why ya runned right inta Newly, knockin' him inta the path of his own horse."

"Yeah, come to think of it, it did happen perty much thatta way..." Boomer nodded, as he sat up on the cot. Right at the moment, he was much more interested in the tray that Festus had brought in. "Whatcha got there, Festus? Did you make sum a that stew again?"

"Yur sure plum in luck today, Boomer. I caught a mess o'catfish! Biggest ones you ever seed."

Boomer stepped toward the bars. "I catched one once that was soooo big, I could barely drag it home on a travois behind my horse!"

Doc pulled himself to his feet. He was not going to be caught in the middle of a conversation between these two. Festus was bad enough, but that Boomer Flasting… was the biggest liar in Ford County—probably the whole state of Kansas—if the truth be told.

If he couldn't uphold that title, then he definitely came in *First Place* for the unluckiest man in the whole state. Boomer was the fifth son, born to Stag and Winnie Flaster; all five born under an unlucky star: Miggs, the oldest, was killed when he accidentally threw his cigar into a box of dynamite. They couldn't even scrape together enough to have a proper burial.

Restlie was next; he fared a little better in his journey toward death. Bass Holcomb had sold him a bad batch of moonshine. After drinking the whole bottle; Restlie just went to sleep… and never woke up.

Prawlie was the middle son. His death was somewhere between Miggs' and Restlie's. He got a job on a cattle drive; but like his older brother, he had a weakness for shine too. The night he was supposed to be keeping watch, he got drunk, started firing his gun, and passed out. Problem was, his gunfire started a stampede. They figured he didn't feel a thing—as he was passed out when the cattle ran him down; but like Miggs, there sure wasn't much left to bury.

For a while it looked like the fourth boy, Tipper, was actually going to reach twenty-something none of his older brothers had managed. He really should have thought twice though, before taking that job in a circus. For a man following a jinxed line of siblings, cleaning tiger and bear cages was an extremely poor choice of professions.

A couple of winters back, Stag and Winnie were caught in a white-out and neither of them was ever found. The town folk searched for them after the blizzard, but there wasn't a trace. Most people figured animals got them; but it was too gruesome a thought to ponder on.

So, at the ripe old age of twenty-one—which was an accomplishment in itself—Boomer Flasting was all alone. It was doubtful that he would ever be killed on the job, since Boomer rarely worked. He had already done six months in prison. Sadly, the wiry young man often spoke of those months, as the best of his life: A place to sleep, daily food, and shelter from the cold. That's why he quickly pled guilty, and was on his way to Hays, so that Judge Brooker could officially sentence him back to prison.

Robbing the livery stable had seemed like a good idea at the time. Moss Grimmick was usually gone during the supper hour and Boomer, along with everyone else, knew where the money box was kept.

By then, Boomer even had a gun. Late one Saturday afternoon while fishing, he saw something half buried in the mud by Willigers Pond. Boomer had eagerly dug it out, excited to finally have a gun of his own. He'd had a hard time getting the bullets into the rusted cylinder, but when he pounded them with a rock, they finally went in.

The robbery started going wrong, when Boomer got side-tracked from his mission, right from the beginning. He found some horehound candy in one of the drawers and was just finishing up the bag when Moss returned early from supper. The towheaded boy didn't want to hurt the old man, so he aimed the gun toward the ground—just to scare him.

When the gun wouldn't fire, Moss realized what the boy was trying to do. The stableman became angry and started to chase Boomer. In the confusion, the young man was still clicking the hammer—as his hand was swinging wild with every running step.

The weapon did finally go off, and the fledgling outlaw fired his one and only shot—into his own shoulder. It was pain that caused him to run faster—and fear that made him look back, instead of forward; and it was Newly's bad luck to be standing in Boomer's path, while the boy was attempting his great escape.

Doc closed up his black bag and slipped out of the cell, leaving Festus and Boomer to argue over the biggest fish. He started to say good-bye—but the lies were getting so deep, he simply waved them off and shuffled out the door.

TBC