The H&R Cattle Company (10 page)

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Zack spent a week moving onto the ranch and furnishing the house, then gave several days over to improving County Line Road, cutting bushes out of its center and filling in holes with pick, shovel and hoe. After the sixth day, he decided that the road would be passable for the next few years. Then he headed home to a soft bed, for he had slept in the wagon the past three nights.

Next day at noon, he had just completed an unproductive fishing trip to the river and was walking back up the hill when Rollins drove a rented wagon into the yard. Taking hold of a bridle, Zack led the team to the hitching rail. “Good to see you, Bret,” he said, then pointed to the wagon's cargo. “I see you brought your bed. You gonna be around for a while?”

Rollins smiled. “Unless you run me off.” He motioned toward the bed. “I hired a fellow to build that for me last week. I'll set it up in your spare bedroom if you don't mind.”

“Glad to have you, Bret. I wish you'd just move out here and stay.”

Rollins stepped into the yard. “I've done about as much as I can do with this thing in a hotel room,” he said, patting the Colt that was buckled around his waist. “I need to practice with live ammunition, and I can't do that in town without drawing a crowd.”

“I should think not,” Zack said. “Plenty of room out here, though. Burn as much ammunition as you want. I'll feel better just having you around.”

Rollins lowered the tailgate of the wagon. “Help me unload this bed, then I'll get the team back to Oscar. I'll ride the roan out here later tonight. Might be past midnight when I get here, so don't shoot me.” They set up the bed and hung an extra blanket across the doorway to add a little privacy. Then Bret pointed the team toward Lampasas. “Sure is a nice place you have here, Mister Hunter,” he said over his shoulder. “I'll be back some time before morning.” Zack stood in the yard watching till the wagon disappeared, then headed for the kitchen to prepare his noon meal.

Rollins did not return during the night. It was close to noon the next day when he rode into the yard. “Met somebody who was interesting,” he said, smiling broadly as he dismounted. “Decided to spend the night in town.”

Zack nodded. “I figured that was the holdup,” he said, motioning toward the kitchen. “There's a big pot of rabbit stew on the stove that turned out to be pretty tasty. You'll find a bowl on the shelf and a spoon in that box at the end of the table.” Zack led the roan toward the corral while Bret headed for the kitchen.

After the horse had been fed and curried, Zack returned to the house and poured himself a cup of coffee, joining Bret at the table as he worked on his third bowl of stew. “This stuff is exceptionally good, Zack,” Bret said, speaking around a mouthful of food. “You must have put a dozen different things in that pot.”

“Put some of everything I had in it. I remember hearing Ma say once that there weren't too many mistakes a cook could make that couldn't be cured with salt and pepper. When the time came that I had to look out for myself, I discovered a whole lot of truth in what she said.”

Rollins nodded and emptied his bowl.

Afterward, the two sat on the porch for a while, then walked down to the river, each man taking a seat on a fallen log. Rollins pointed to the river. “How deep do you think the water is right here?”

“Don't know,” Zack said, shrugging. “I poked around in it with a fifteen-foot pole a couple of days ago, but I never did feel the bottom.” He pointed upstream. “It's no more than a foot deep up there at that bend. I guess I'll have to put up a fence on the opposite bank after I get some cattle. Otherwise, they'll stroll right on across the river to John Peabody's grass.” When Rollins said nothing, Zack added, “The cows are not likely to cross the river where the water's deep. They hate swimming.”

Bret nodded, then changed the subject. “I believe you said you'd met John Peabody. What's he like?”

“Friendly enough, looks to be about fifty years old. He came to this area more than twenty years ago and settled across the river, there.” Zack pointed west. “His Circle P Ranch encompasses more than fifteen thousand acres, and I've been told that he's well-off financially. He gave me some free advice, and I suppose I'll take part of it. I won't be letting him pick my foreman, though, which is what he offered to do. I'll choose my own crew, 'cause I don't know Peabody any better than I'll know the men I hire. I'll do some asking around, then follow my own hunches. Live and learn, I suppose.”

“You mean you don't trust Peabody?”

“No, that's not exactly what I meant. It's just that I didn't particularly like some of the things he said. He said that he had his men hunt the Indians down like coyotes, and implied that the cowboys shot them on sight. I don't want men like that on my little spread, Bret.”

“No Indians around here to shoot now,” Bret said.

“Right,” Zack said, getting to his feet. “But I can't help remembering that Peabody was smiling when he talked about shooting them down.”

An hour later, Rollins buckled his gunbelt around his waist and began to walk north. He soon disappeared into the trees, carrying five small blocks of wood that he would use as targets. A short time later, Zack heard the report of the Colt. First a single shot followed by a pause, then four more shots in quick succession.

Hunter stoked the fire in the stove and warmed up the coffee, then sat at the table sipping as he listened to the occasional eruptions of gunfire. There was no doubt in his mind that Rollins would become one of the fastest gunmen alive, for he could not even imagine a man with quicker reflexes, and Bret's hand-eye coordination was second to none. The “eye” was what had made Rollins a champion pool player, and it would also make him an expert gunman. Bret did not have to learn the speed, he had been born with it. And Zack knew that he would practice until he was the best, just as he had done with other things. Everything Bret did, he did exceedingly well, and the six-shooter would provide no exception. Zack listened to another burst of gunfire, then picked up his fishing pole and headed for the river. He fished for two hours without getting a bite.

He was sitting on the porch when Rollins walked out of the woods at sunset, complaining about the blisters on his hand. He held his right hand up for Zack to see. “I had some calluses built up, but I've been trying out a different way of doing things today. I've got blisters in some new places.”

Zack could see several spots where the blisters had burst, then bled. “I've got some horse liniment,” he said. “Want to try some of that?”

Rollins shook his head. “I read somewhere that the best thing for a blister is plain old water.” He walked on into the yard and washed his hand in the spring's runoff, then returned to the porch, taking a cane-bottom chair. “In another week, these blisters will be new calluses.”

“Sure will,” Zack said. He was silent for a few moments, then asked, “Why do you want to be the fastest draw around, Bret?”

“Because it beats the hell out of being the slowest draw around,” Bret answered quickly. “You've seen enough yourself to know the game some of these Texans play. How about the way Red Hilly tried to run over me? I've seen the same thing happen several times right there in Lampasas. A man who is fast with a gun gets respect, Zack. A man who is not is likely to be mistreated by those who are.” Rollins sat quietly for a while, then tapped himself on the chest with a forefinger. “Nobody is gonna run roughshod over this ass, Zack.”

Zack eyed his friend for a moment, noting the look of determination on his face, then broke into soft laughter. “I believe you, Bret,” he said. He pointed toward the kitchen. “Do you want some more stew for supper, or do you want to cook something yourself?”

“The stew. I don't know what in the world I'd cook anyway. I've never cooked anything in my life that tasted as good as what you've got in that pot.”

They walked inside and Rollins lit a lamp, for night was coming on fast. Then Zack began to stoke the fire in the stove. They were soon enjoying a supper of hot stew, cornbread and strong coffee.

Rollins stayed on the ranch for two weeks, spending most of each day in the woods practicing the fast draw. On the last day, he demonstrated his quick hand for Zack. Rollins had decided to return to Lampasas and had just led his horse from the corral. He tied the animal to the hitching rail and stood in the yard sharing some parting words with Zack. “Guess I'll stay in town for a few days,” he said. “I've been gone two weeks, long enough for some new blood to show up at the poker tables.”

Zack nodded. His eyes went to the Colt that was tied to Bret's right leg. “Your speed getting better?” he asked.

“Much better.”

Zack's eyes remained on the weapon. “Do you cock the hammer while you're pulling the gun from the holster?”

“Yep.” Rollins walked over beside Zack. “Watch,” he said. Ever so slowly, his hand closed on the handle of the Colt and began to lift it from the holster. Even as the barrel of the gun cleared leather, he was pulling the hammer back with his thumb so that when the gun was lifted into firing position, it was already cocked and ready to fire. Several times he did this as Zack watched closely.

Finally, he holstered the weapon and pointed down the slope. “Keep your eye on that little rock there by the fence post, Zack.” Standing to his right and a little behind Bret, all Zack saw was a blur of movement, then the rock exploded. A split second later, Zack heard the report of the Colt. Bret stood holding the weapon at arm's length, a waft of smoke curling from its barrel.

In awe of what he had just witnessed, Zack did not speak for a while. He had not even seen Rollins draw the gun or been aware of what was happening until it was over. And Rollins had hit his target: a rock fifty feet away and no bigger than a man's fist. Zack stood shaking his head in disbelief. He was silently trying to imagine anybody being quicker than what he had just seen. Finally, he spoke: “I see,” he said, offering Rollins a faint smile.

Zack stood in the yard watching till Rollins disappeared from sight, then returned to the house. A short while later he was staring at his gunbelt, which was lying atop a chest of drawers near his bed. He began to ease the Colt in and out of its holster, cocking the hammer with his thumb each time the gun cleared leather. Finally, he nodded and buckled the belt around his waist. Then he put an extra box of shells in his pocket and tied the holster to his leg. Then, more than a little impressed with what he had seen from Rollins, Zack headed for the woods. By god, if Bret could do it.…

8

Rollins visited the ranch again two weeks later and informed Zack that he was leaving for Austin. “I've heard that there's plenty of loose money around there,” he said. “I can't even get a pool game in Lampasas anymore, and the card players play for nickels and dimes. If I don't like Austin, maybe I'll try Waco. I hear there's some big money floating around that town.”

“I'm sure there is, and I suppose you'll get it, Bret.” Zack stood at the corral watching Rollins saddle the roan. “I hope you'll at least come back to see me occasionally.”

“Count on it, Zack. I won't be gone more than a month.” The men shook hands, then Rollins rode away. Zack stood in his tracks watching till he was out of sight. He would miss Rollins for sure, but he would not worry. Bret knew how to take care of himself. And if there was an easy fortune to be had, he would probably find it.

An hour later, Hunter hitched his team to the wagon and headed for Lampasas. He needed food and a few other things for the kitchen, and grain and hay for the horses. It was close to noon when he arrived in town, so he stopped at the livery stable to feed and water his horses. “I've been thinking about you for the past few days,” Oscar Land said. “You got the ranch up and running?”

“No, no,” Zack said, shaking his head. “I'm out there by myself, so I guess I'll have to find me some help before I start thinking about cattle.”

“Figured you probably needed some help, and that's what I was coming to. You see, a distant cousin of mine is in town and he's needing some work. Don't guess he'd be too particular right now, either. He's still got a good horse and saddle, but I know for a fact that he's mighty short on money. He's a good boy, Mister Hunter.”

“Boy?”

Land chuckled. “Well, I still call him a boy, but he's actually a twenty-one-year-old man. Got more muscles than you and me put together, and he knows how to do anything you're gonna need done. He's spent his whole life on ranches, and has even made a cattle drive or two north to the rails.”

Zack stood thoughtful for a few moments, then asked the logical question: “Why is he out of work, Oscar?”

“Said he got sick of South Texas. I don't think he liked his boss too much, either.”

Zack set a bucket of water under the nose of each of the horses, then turned to the liveryman. “This cousin of yours staying at the hotel?”

Land shook his head. “He sleeps here at the stable, and I've been paying the freight for his meals over at Toby's. I guess he's over there right now having dinner.”

Zack climbed aboard the wagon. “If your cousin happens to be around the stable later in the afternoon, I guess I'd be willing to talk to him, Oscar.” He slapped the horses with the reins.

“I'll make sure he's here,” Land called as Zack drove the team down the street.

All of the hitching rails in the vicinity of Toby's T-Bone were taken, for it was the noon hour. Zack tied his team a block away, then returned to the restaurant on foot. He took a table in the center of the room, ordered his meal and began to look around.

Oscar Land's cousin was easy to spot. Sitting at the counter picking at a plate of food, the youth made a handsome picture. He turned his head and gave Zack the once-over, then continued to concentrate on his plate. He had clear gray eyes and brown hair that was poked halfway into a battered Stetson. His face was the color of bronze, leaving no doubt that he spent most of his time outdoors. His jeans were faded from wear, and his boots were old and scuffed. With every movement of his body, the bulging muscles of his arms and chest threatened to rip his flannel shirt apart at the seams.