The H&R Cattle Company (2 page)

He covered the three miles to his uncle's house in less than twenty minutes. He knew his uncle would be in the fields bossing his workers, so he rode straight to the barn. He helped himself to a good saddlebag from the tack room, then led his horse to the house. Once inside, he buckled his uncle's prized Colt six-shooter around his waist and dumped a box of shells into his pocket. Then he took a pillowcase and headed for the meat cellar.

A few minutes later, he rode out of the yard, a smoked ham and half a slab of bacon tied to his saddle. By his own reckoning, he and his uncle were about even now.

An hour later, he was at the Rollins farm. Bret had seen him coming and stood waiting in the yard. “I see you finally got something decent to ride,” he said, grabbing the horse's bridle. “How in the world did you manage to shake old man Davis loose from the bay?”

Zack dismounted. “Traded him everything I owned.”

They walked a few steps and stood beneath the canopy of a large oak. Rollins tied the bay to a low-hanging limb. “I thought about you all night, Zack. Have you heard anything about what happened yesterday?”

“Only in my dreams. I'm gonna get the hell out of this part of the country before I do hear about it.” He tightened the cinch another notch, then retied the knot in the pillowcase. “We've been talking about Texas for years, Bret. You still want to go?”

“Absolutely,” Rollins said, his ever-present smile widening. “Can't leave today, though. As you well know, I lost my horse in a poker game last week.” He pointed toward the small corral. “I'm not riding that damn mule out there anywhere.” He removed his hat and began to scratch his head. “I'll tell you what let's do, Zack. You go on across the river and wait for me. I'll be there in two days.

“You can cross the river on the ferry at Rogers Point. Make your camp up there on the hillside in that big stand of timber. I'll meet you there the day after tomorrow. I've got to make a trip to Ellisville, then I'll have everything we need to travel in style.”

Zack climbed into the saddle. “I believe that, Slick.” It was a well-earned nickname that Hunter often used when referring to Rollins. “I'll be watching for you. Maybe I'll be able to see you when you get off the ferry.”

Rollins nodded and headed for the corral to get the lazy mule. Hunter kicked the bay in the ribs and guided it toward the Mississippi River.

At a fishing camp near the water's edge, Zack bought a hundred feet of rope from a commercial fisherman, then caught the last ferry of the day. When he disembarked a few minutes later, he was in Arkansas, safely out of the Tennessee sheriff's jurisdiction.

He took to the woods immediately, riding halfway up the hill before halting at a small spring. He selected a camping site between two fallen trees, then picketed the bay on the long rope. He would move the horse to new grass occasionally, for he had no grain to feed the animal. After eating a pound of smoked ham and watering himself at the spring, he made a bed of leaves and added his blankets. Then he called it a day, for darkness was closing in fast.

He lay on his bed for a long time, thinking. He had no doubt that Rollins would be along later and that he would bring everything necessary to make their travel more comfortable. The man simply had a way of talking people out of things. He had a deep, musical voice-that could not be ignored. When he talked, people listened, even though many of them knew that his morals and scruples were not of the highest order.

Rollins was exceedingly handsome, the best-looking man Zack had ever known: fair complexion, curly hair the color of corn silk, and big blue eyes that sometimes appeared to contain small particles of ice. His constant smile revealed rows of perfect teeth behind lips that the girls of Ellisville High had secretly voted most kissable. He was a good athlete, and had won about every organized footrace in the county. Zack supposed that Rollins had needed that speed more than once since his school days. Using one scheme or another, he had separated many people from their money, and a few times had narrowly escaped going to jail. It was after learning that Rollins had used his good looks and silver-tongued nature to get laid for free in a Memphis whorehouse that Hunter began to occasionally refer to him as “Slick.”

Hunter and Rollins were identical in size, each standing six feet tall. They had weighed themselves at the cotton gin last week: Rollins, one-ninety-three; Hunter, two pounds more. Both men were twenty-four years old. There the similarity ended.

Hunter was dark, with green eyes and black hair, and although most women would have considered him handsome, they did not flirt, giggle and chase after him shamelessly as they sometimes did Bret.

Zack had known Bret most of his life, but would never have anything to do with him because he had pegged him as a sissy. Then came the day, when they were eighteen, that Bret fought Zack to a draw on the school playground. Though Zack used everything his Cousin Billy had taught him, Bret took everything he could dish out, and dished out just as much of his own. Zack realized early in the fight that he had misgauged his opponent. No, sir, Bret Rollins was no damn sissy. Not by a long shot. They fought till neither of them could stand without holding on to something, then called it a draw. They had been inseparable friends ever since.

Hunter held his position on the hillside for the next two days, moving about only when it became necessary to lead the bay to a new grazing area. He had just done this when he saw the ferry tie up on the west side of the river. He watched as a man leading two horses scrambled up the bank and stood looking in his direction. Still standing in the clearing, Zack began to wave his hat. The rider mounted and headed up the hill.

A few minutes later, Bret Rollins rode into the clearing. He was astride a beautiful roan that stood at least sixteen hands at the withers, followed by a heavily loaded packhorse. Smiling broadly, he dismounted beside Hunter.

“I see you made it,” Hunter said.

Bret motioned toward the horses and the pack carried by the smaller of the two. “I got lucky, Zack. I believe I've got about everything we'll be needing.”

Hunter answered with a broad smile of his own. He stood looking at the animals and the new packsaddle admiringly. When his eyes resettled on the roan, he chuckled, for he recognized the animal. Smiling again, he turned to Rollins. “I'm not gonna ask you what all you did for the good doctor's wife to get that roan, Slick. It's a well-known fact in Ellisville that she plays around, but I never heard it said that she pays a stud fee.”

“Dammit, Zack, a man has to work with whatever tools he's got. She didn't need these animals anyway, they've got several more.” Rollins began to pat his hip pocket. “She also decided that I needed a hundred dollars to buy things.”

Hunter walked around the animals again, chuckling and shaking his head. “I guess you've pulled it off, Bret. I just can't help wondering how she's gonna explain it to the good doctor. I mean, a man is bound to miss something as big as a damn horse.”

Rollins nodded. “I asked her that question. She assured me that she knew exactly how to handle the doctor.”

They unburdened the animals at the spring, then picketed them on good grass. The packhorse had been carrying more than a hundred pounds. Indeed, Rollins seemed to have everything they were likely to need: food, cooking utensils, blankets, a two-man tent and several changes of clothing. He had a Colt six-shooter in his saddlebag, and a double-barreled, ten-gauge shotgun in the saddle scabbard.

They spent the night at the spring. They did not set up the tent. The absence of rain clouds and the pleasing temperature of the June night made it unnecessary.

They talked till late. Though neither man had a particular destination in mind, each agreed that they would not slow down until they reached Texas. Then they would simply wander about till they found something that struck their fancy. Finding work was not an immediate concern, for they had both provisions and money, and plenty of green grass for their animals.

They headed southwest at daybreak, a route that would take them directly to northeast Texas. During the ride, Bret explained exactly how he had come by the horses and provisions. Aside from an occasional chuckle and a short comment, Hunter said little. He was not a long-winded talker, usually speaking only when he had something to say. Rollins, however, could talk all day about anything. Or nothing. He said that he did not believe Mose Mack's body had been found; otherwise, there would have been talk around Ellisville. Knowing that such news traveled like wildfire, Hunter was quick to agree.

Two hours before nightfall, they made camp a hundred feet off the road, beside a wide, shallow stream. A passerby informed them that the stream was known as Village Creek. As Hunter kindled a fire, Rollins set up the tent, for he believed it would rain before morning.

It did not rain, however, and at daybreak there was not a cloud in the sky. Hunter dragged himself from his blankets at sunup to find Rollins sitting on a log in front of the tent. He had a fire going and the coffeepot steaming. Hunter poured himself a cupful, then noticed that Rollins was busy feeding bread crumbs to a stray dog.

“That's the ugliest dog I've ever seen, Bret,” Zack said. “Probably got twenty different breeds in him.”

“At least twenty,” Bret said, then changed the subject. “If you want to wash up and shave, go ahead,” he said, pointing to the creek. He handed Zack a razor and soap. “I'll fix something to eat while you're gone.”

When Hunter returned from the creek, he found Rollins serving coffee to an old Negro man who had been walking on the road. With the dog still lying at his feet, its head resting on its forepaws, Bret had the man wound up in conversation.

“I live 'bout three miles down th' road,” the man was saying. “Raise chickens. Don't make no differ'nce what I do, though. Th' weasels git 'bout half uv 'em 'fore they git big enough ta sell.”

“Well, now,” Rollins said. “That's a shame, and you can certainly put a stop to it.” He began to pat the dog's head. “What you need is Ol' Rex here. Fact is, my partner and I are moving to the city, and that ain't no place for Ol' Rex. No, sir, he needs plenty of room to run and hunt.” He rubbed the dog's head and ears. “Bad as I hate to, I've been thinking about selling him.”

The man bent over the dog for a closer look. “I sho' ain't never seen nothin' looks like him,” he said. “What kinda dog is he?”

“Bulgarian Weaselhound,” Rollins said quickly. “Yes, sir, if you had him, there wouldn't be a weasel within a mile of your place after the first week. Five dollars and he's yours.”

The man shook his head. “Couldn't pay no five dollars … might go three.”

“Split the difference,” Rollins said. “Four dollars.”

“Nope. Won't pay but three.”

Rollins dashed his coffee grounds into a bush. “Well, I'll say this for you, Mister Chicken Man—you sure know how to drive a hard bargain.” He hesitated for a moment, then added, “I'm gonna let you have the dog, but I guess you know that you're beating my socks off on the deal.”

The old man took the tobacco sack that he used as a coin purse from his pocket. “Been knowed ta bargain a little, heh-heh.” He counted out three dollars in nickels and dimes. Then he looped his belt around the dog's neck and led “Ol' Rex” down the road.

Hunter had stood beside the tent listening. He had just watched Rollins make more money off that mongrel than he himself had been paid for three days of digging ditches. The sale of the dog had come as no surprise to him, for he had seen Rollins operate before. Such things were second nature to him. Nor would it bother him that he might have taken the man's last three dollars. He would never give it another thought. He was an accomplished con man, and he did it more for pleasure than for money.

Hunter walked to the fire. “Bulgarian Weaselhound, huh? Is there even such a thing?”

“Hell, I don't know, Zack. It's like I said before. A man has to work with whatever tools are handy.” He pushed the skillet onto the gray coals. “Let's have some breakfast, then head for Texas.”

2

A hard day's travel through the lowlands brought them to White River, one hour ahead of a rainstorm. They picketed their animals and began to stretch the tarpaulin, tying it to saplings six feet above the ground. That done, they dragged the pack and their saddles underneath, then pitched the tent. Then they walked in opposite directions in search of dry firewood. A short time later, they had a fire going and coffee boiling.

Then the rain came. The men and their belongings stayed dry, however, for no wind accompanied the downpour. The water fell straight down and cascaded off the tarpaulin, one corner of which had deliberately been tied six inches lower.

Hunter placed a pot of water on the fire and added a few handfuls of dried beans. “You think anybody's found Mose Mack's body yet?”

“I would think so,” Rollins said, refilling his cup. “If the smell didn't attract somebody, the buzzards probably did.”

Zack nodded. He added salt, pepper and a few slices of bacon to the pot, then leaned back against his saddle. “I doubt that Mack's partner found him, Bret. I believe you scared him out of the county. And I don't intend to let the fact that Mack is not around anymore bother me. He insisted on a fight, and I did what I had to do.”

Rollins broke a limb and laid the pieces on the fire. “Did you ever kick anybody in the nuts before?”

“Nope.”

“Why'd you kick him?”

“Because I didn't want the big bastard hitting me. Maybe you didn't look him over real good, Bret. That joker's arms were as big as my legs.”

“Sure I looked him over, Zack. But I've seen you fight big men before. You never kicked any of them.”

Hunter stirred the pot. “I'm smarter now.”