The H&R Cattle Company (15 page)

After Rollins had matched Shook's money, Huffstuttler began to speak: “I can't call but twenty dollars,” he said. “The rest of that last bet'll have to go into a side pot.”

Rollins picked up his hand and held it in front of the old man's eyes. “Save your twenty dollars, Mister Huffstuttler. You can't win.”

Huffstuttler stared at Bret's cards for a moment, then threw his own hand facedown on the table. “You're damn sure right about that,” he said. “Much obliged.”

Judging from Huffstuttler's reaction, Shook knew by now that he himself was probably beaten. “Well, I guess, by God, you must have a gollyroster there. Old Wallace damn near fainted when he saw it. I've paid to see it, now spread it on the table.”

Rollins turned his cards face-up in front of Shook: the ten, jack, queen, king, and ace of clubs. Shook bit his lip, then chuckled. “First royal flush I've ever had pulled on me,” he said. “Ain't never even seen many of 'em, for that matter.” He placed his losing hand in the middle of the deck without ever showing it, so that no one would ever know exactly what he had been holding.

Though no one had said so, the game was obviously over. Three of the men were already on their feet when Al Foster spoke: “I don't know about everybody else, but I've had all of this shit I want for now. Fact is, I think I hear the wife calling me.” He left the table, followed by Shook and Huffstuttler.

“Forty-two thousand, eight hundred and ten dollars,” the banker said when he had finished counting Bret's chips. “I can give you the money right here, or give you a receipt and keep the money in the bank overnight.”

“Keep the money in the bank,” Rollins said, smiling. “I might want to get drunk before the night's over.”

He folded and pocketed his receipt, then stood watching as Weeks racked up the chips and stuffed the money bag inside his shirt. Rollins knew that the banker had many thousands of dollars in that bag and silently wondered if the man intended to walk down the dark street to the bank alone. His unasked question was answered when Weeks nodded toward the door and was quickly joined by three armed men. All three wore tied-down Colts, and walking one on each side and the other behind Weeks, they escorted him from the building.

As he watched them disappear through the front door, Rollins smiled, then shook his head. He should have known. A few minutes later, he was sitting at the bar nursing a glass of expensive whiskey.

10

On the first day of November, Zack Hunter and Jolly Ross were busy building holding pens and branding chutes, a task they had undertaken more than a week ago. Using strong cedar posts, small poles and split rails, they had fenced in half an acre a quarter mile south of the house. The idea was to drive the cattle from the holding pen into the chutes singly, where they would be branded while standing, then turned out to explore their new home. Ross had suggested larger posts, heavier poles and longer nails for the chutes, saying that the cows would do most of their hard fighting there.

They had just finished a chute that both men thought would hold even the largest and the wildest of the cows when they had a visitor. The men had been sitting on a log eating ham and biscuits when the rider turned south from County Line Road. Zack was on his feet quickly, shouting and waving his hat. Bret Rollins kicked the roan to a canter and covered the remaining distance quickly. “It's not my intention to interfere with a working man,” he said, dismounting.

Zack pointed to the fence. “Got most of the work done,” he said, grasping Bret's hand and hugging his shoulder. “I don't mind telling you that I've been a little bit concerned about you, fellow.”

“Glad to hear it,” Bret said, chuckling. “Maybe your worrying is what keeps me safe and healthy.”

Zack squeezed his friend's shoulder. “Can't tell you how good it is to have you back, Bret.” He nodded in Ross's direction. “I've hired some help since you've been gone.” Then motioning toward each man as he spoke his name, he said: “Bret Rollins, meet Jolly Ross.”

With his right hand extended, Bret stepped toward the young man. “It's good to meet you, Jolly.”

Ross was on his feet quickly, switching his biscuit to his left hand nervously. He had heard so much about Rollins that he was convinced the man was somebody special. “I'm glad to meet you, sir,” he said.

Rollins chuckled again. “Let's forget about that sir stuff,” he said, offering Ross a broad smile. “That is, unless I become a baronet or a knight. Until then, just call me Bret.”

The men shook hands. “Yes, sir,” Ross said.

Rollins tied the roan to a wagon wheel and took a seat on the log beside Zack, helping himself to the sack containing the ham and biscuits. After a couple of bites, he walked to his horse for his canteen, then reseated himself. “I've been in the area for nearly two weeks, Zack.” He took a long swig from the canteen and continued: “I've been too busy to ride out here. Been to Llano once, and to Austin twice.” He took another drink, then shoved the stopper into the mouth of the canteen. “McGrath, at the bank, did the paperwork while I did the legwork. It took more than ten days, but I believe I've put together a deal that you're gonna like.” He walked to his horse and returned the canteen to his saddle, then stood beside a wagon wheel, his eyes scanning the northern horizon.

Zack stared at him for a few moments. “Dammit, Bret, you know I can't stand suspense. What the hell have you been doing?”

Rollins pushed his hat to the back of his head, then turned to face Hunter. “I bought the property joining your place on the north,” he said, pointing in that direction.

Zack was on his feet. “You did? Hey, that's nice, Bret. Did you get a whole section?”

“Nope,” Rollins said, shaking his head slowly. “Bought fifteen sections.”

Hunter backtracked to the log and reseated himself. “Fifteen sections,” he repeated softly, then spoke louder. “Fifteen sections! Hell, Bret, that's nearly ten thousand acres.”

“Right, Zack. The fifteen sections belong to you and me as equal partners. I had the deed drawn up that way. We're fifty-fifty, old buddy, and together we own eleven thousand, five hundred and twenty acres of prime ranch land, all clear and paid for. Now, don't that beat the hell out of busting our asses in Shelby County, Tennessee?”

Zack sat shaking his head. “It sure does, Bret.” He stared at the ground for a few moments, then kicked at a small stone. “It damn sure does.”

Rollins reseated himself on the log. “I bought the property from an old man named Hoyt Wilkerson. He's paralyzed from the waist down and can't do anything nowadays.”

“I already knew about Wilkerson,” Zack said, then pointed across the river. “Peabody told me.”

Bret nodded. “Well, at any rate, the banker put me on to Wilkerson, and the old man wanted to sell right away. The holdup was his offspring: a son and a daughter living in Austin, who have been at each other's throat for years. They finally agreed to sell after I spent three days explaining to them that since they were neither ranchers nor farmers, selling would be in the best interest of all concerned.

“McGrath set the price, or at least wrote a letter telling them how much the land was worth, and none of them argued with it. I had no more than a small problem convincing him to set the price artificially low.”

“What was the price, Bret?”

“Dollar and a nickel an acre.”

Zack rounded up his tools and dropped them into the wagon box, then tethered Bret's roan to the tailgate. He spoke to Ross: “We'll quit for the day, Jolly. Take the animals and the wagon on to the barn. Bret and I will walk to the house. We've got some talking to do.”

They sat at the kitchen table drinking coffee for a while, then walked to the porch, where they took seats in cane-bottom chairs. The weather had been mild of late, and neither man wore a coat. They sat looking down the slope without speaking, watching Jolly Ross busy himself about the shed and barn. After a time, Zack broke the silence: “I've been wondering what got you interested in ranching all of a sudden, Bret.”

“Money,” Rollins said quickly. “I spent two days on Will Dempsey's ranch up near Waco, looking over his operation. He was one of the men I beat in the poker game, but he seemed to hold no hard feelings. In fact, he was real friendly to me and invited me to spend a couple of days on his ranch.

“Dempsey's a big talker, but all I had to do was look around me. The man is making a lot of money, Zack, and he's doing it with longhorns. He sent two big herds up the trail to Kansas this year, and he's talking about doubling that next year. Says he's gonna sell every longhorn he's got next year and switch to Herefords.

“He believes all Texas ranchers'll quit raising longhorns in the not-too-distant future. He says Herefords produce better meat and that they'll do it in half the time.” Rollins pounded a fist into his palm to emphasize his point. “Half the time, Zack! Hell, that sounds to me like the difference between going broke and getting rich.”

“Might be,” Zack said. “But Jolly says Herefords are a lot more expensive to come by and a hell of a lot harder to raise. He says that if there is any way in the world to get in trouble or get killed in an accident, a Hereford will find it. He says longhorns are smart and that Herefords are some of the dumbest creatures on earth. Finicky eaters, too, Bret. Droughts and hard winters play hell with 'em. Jolly says he's seen blooded cattle starve to death on the same terrain that fattened longhorns. He says a longhorn'll eat anything—brush, bark or briers.”

“I've heard the same thing,” Rollins said, getting to his feet and leaning against a post. “I didn't mean that I think we ought to rush out and get some Herefords. I just believe it's something that we should look into. Maybe we should even consider hiring some farmers and growing some hay and grain.”

“I'll be more than glad to help you consider that, old buddy. Feeding cattle through the winter so they don't have to regain all that weight in the spring makes sense to me.” Zack pointed north with his thumb. “Do you know where the corners are on that land you bought?”

“Nope. But the county surveyor'll be here tomorrow to point them out. I won't be here because I'm gonna be riding around the country talking to ranchers, putting together a little book of statistics on Herefords and longhorns. The surveyor will show you the boundaries, and you can show me when I get back. By the way, the surveyor's name is Carl Odom; he's an older brother to Jiggs.”

“Older brother, huh? I wonder if he's as damn crazy as Jiggs.”

“I don't think so,” Rollins said, laughing. “I've talked with him a couple times and he seems pretty sane.”

Rollins rode out early next morning and the surveyor arrived two hours later, saying he had met Bret on the road to town. Odom said he was ready to show Zack the boundaries of the property and that Rollins had already paid him for the job. Zack loaded the packhorse with a tent, bedrolls and food, for Odom said the business at hand would take at least two days, maybe three. The two men rode north two hours before noon, leaving Jolly Ross to his own devices.

*   *   *

Rollins was gone for more than three weeks. He returned to the ranch during the last week of November, riding through a cold, steady drizzle. Though the place seemed deserted, he relaxed after he saw that the team and wagon were not there. Zack and his hired hand were somewhere in the wagon, probably gone to town for supplies. Rollins would not have met them on the road anyway. He had ridden in from the north, and only took up County Line Road half a mile east of the ranch house.

He stabled and fed his horse, then made his way to the house. He soon had a fire burning in both the fireplace and the kitchen stove, and set about heating up leftover food for his dinner. Then he put on a fresh pot of coffee and got a change of dry clothing from his bedroom. A short while later, he was washing down beans and biscuits with hot coffee and feeling better by the minute. He had been cold and hungry all day, for he had hit the trail this morning without breakfast and ridden twenty-five miles in the rain.

After eating, he sat in front of the fireplace, his hands reaching out to its warmth. Comfortable now, he began to reminisce about his recent travels. He had talked with several ranchers, one of whom owned three hundred Herefords. Then he had traveled north to the Fort Worth stockyards, where he gleaned information from growers, buyers, shippers and meat packers, none of whom made a secret of the fact that they believed longhorns would soon pass into history.

“Whoever told you that Herefords would starve to death on longhorn terrain didn't know what the hell he was talkin' about, young feller,” a grizzled old rancher had said. “Now, I ain't a-sayin' that they're as tough as longhorns, but they're purty damn close, and that shit about them bein' finicky eaters is jist that: bullshit. They'll eat whatever in the hell it takes to survive, jist like a damn longhorn.”

Rollins had listened to similar opinions from at least a dozen men, all of them in the cattle business. “Easterners are already beginning to demand better beef for their tables,” a cattle buyer informed him, “and that means purebred cattle. Texas ranchers are not gonna buck the tide. They're gonna give the buyer what the buyer wants, and that means good-bye to the longhorn. The heavier breeds can be brought to market in half the time, and produce better beef on the same amount of feed. Now, any rancher who knows all this and still makes no effort to upgrade his herd would have to be a damn fool.”

Rollins thanked the man and moved on. He was soon talking with another rancher. “All of the heavier breeds coming into Texas lately are better than longhorns,” the man said, “but I think most of the stock growers will go with the Herefords. They ain't as tough as longhorns, but they're as tough as they need to be, and they'll eat whatever's handy.”