The H&R Cattle Company (20 page)

The type of man he was now facing was nothing new to Rollins. He had known dozens of them, and knew already that he might have to fight one or both of these men before the day was over. He fastened a steely stare onto the eyes of the man called Billy that quickly turned to ice. Pushing his chair back with his legs, he got to his feet quickly. Slinging his saddlebags across his shoulder, he answered the man's question: “Dynamite,” he said. He paid for his breakfast and walked through the door, leaving the two men standing beside the table staring after him.

He walked to the livery stable at a fast clip, then turned to look behind him. No one was on the street. “I'll be needing my horses and my gear now,” he said to the hostler, who stepped from the office yawning. “Need a sack of oats, too.”

“Ain't got no oats. Ain't been able ta git none fer th' past week. Got some shelled corn.”

Rollins nodded. “Put a sack of corn on that big gelding.” He sat on an upended nail keg while the hostler caught up the horses. Half an hour later, having saddled the roan and arranged his gear on the pack animals, Rollins paid the man, then mounted.

He led his pack animals up the street to the Shebang, where he spent close to an hour looking over the merchandise and restocking his food supplies. The lady had hen eggs for sale and volunteered to wrap each individual egg in soft paper so it would not break. Rollins bought a dozen. He would boil them all over his first campfire anyway, eliminating any concern about breakage.

As he rode up the street to the Shebang, he had had to pass the hotel. Joe Plum and his Cousin Billy had been standing in front of the dining-room door. Now, as he repassed the hotel on his way out of town, the men were still there, looking him and his equipment over through billows of cigarette smoke. Through his peripheral vision, Rollins was looking them over also, though he made direct eye contact with neither man. He rode down the street at a fast walk and never looked back. Passing the blacksmith shop, he turned right at the livery stable and headed east.

He had traveled about a mile when he stopped at a small clearing. He sat his horse for a few moments, watching a man rearrange the earth with a turning plow pulled by two large mules. With the purple woods circling it like hungry wolves, the field did not have a look of permanence, but appeared to be no more than a shackled wilderness ready to spring back if the farmer and his plow missed so much as a single day beating it into submission. Rollins waved to the man, then circled the plowed earth and rode on.

Two hours before sunset, he camped on the east bank of the Navasota River, a few miles north of the town of the same name. He headed for the brakes immediately after fording the river, leading his animals into the cane, briers and brushwood. The horses had drunk their fill from the river, and each was soon eating shelled corn from a nose bag. There would be no grazing tonight, for though Rollins had seen no one, he had a feeling that he was not traveling alone. The horses were hidden as well as they could be, and only a man who was deliberately tracking them would ever know their whereabouts. Bret intended to discourage anybody who might be tracking the animals.

He ate sardines, cheese and crackers for his supper, then opened the pack carried by the smaller of the two horses. The double-barreled, ten-gauge shotgun he extracted was already loaded, and he put a few additional shells into his pocket. He laid his saddlebags across his shoulder and then, taking up his bedroll in one arm and the Winchester and the shotgun in the other, he began to backtrack his horses' route from the river. He had chosen his place of concealment when he passed it earlier: a large oak that the wind had uprooted on the east bank of the river. In addition to the hole in the ground, there were the dirt-clad roots of the tree itself, excellent protection against gunfire from even the heaviest of calibers.

He doffed his hat and eased himself into the hole, drawing his Colt and laying it beside his other weapons as he did so. His position offered a good view of the entire area, and he could even see a couple hundred yards past the west bank of the river. He was confident that with the moon in its three-quarter phase, nobody would sneak up on him tonight. A man moving about would not only be easy to see, he would cast a shadow ten feet long. He took a drink of water from his canteen, noting that even though the sun had not yet disappeared, the moon was already moving above the horizon.

Two hours passed, and Bret had been pinching himself to stay awake when he heard something. He leaned forward, trying to force his eyes to see deeper into the meadow across the river. Unable to identify the sound or pinpoint the direction from whence it came, he sat with his eyes glued to his back-trail across the narrow river. After several minutes, the faint glow of moonlight revealed two dark clumps at the outer limits of his vision. Rollins racked his brain. Were those natural objects? Had they been there all along? The answer was no, he decided quickly. Were the objects moving? He could not tell.

Convinced now that he was looking at two horses and their riders, he sat in his hole staring around the bottom of the uprooted oak. All three of his guns lay on the ground before him, but he had touched neither. He was waiting to see how the situation developed before deciding which weapon he would need.

He no longer had to strain his eyes to see that the riders had covered half the distance between the river and the place where he had first spotted them. He had no doubt whatsoever that the men were following him and that they were up to no good. It had taken at least fifteen minutes for them to travel a hundred yards. Men not bent on mischief would have forded the river and been long gone by now.

The riders moved twenty yards closer and stopped again. Though the moon did not provide enough light for him to make out facial features, the overall physical appearance of the men told Rollins that he was once again looking at Joe Plum and his Cousin Billy. There was absolutely no doubt about what they had in mind.

The riders now sat their horses on the west bank of the river, less than forty yards from the uprooted tree on the east bank. The short distance between himself and the riders made Bret's choice of weapons obvious. He reached for the shotgun.

He knew that he himself could not be seen from the opposite side of the river, for the canopy of a nearby oak cast a dark shadow over his hiding place. The approaching riders, however, made perfect targets in the moonlight. Bret was not known for giving a man more than one chance to make a wise choice, and these two had already had their chance. Unfortunately, they had chosen to stalk and rob him, and no doubt intended to leave no witness to their deeds.

The riders continued to sit their saddles, whispering and pointing across the river. When one of them removed his hat to scratch his head, there was no problem in identifying the man called Billy. Rollins leaned over the side of his hole with his left eye closed. His right eye was sighted down the twin barrels of the ten-gauge Greener, and he was determined that neither Joe Plum nor his Cousin Billy would live to cross the river.

The riders whispered back and forth one last time. Then, with Joe Plum pointing the way, they eased their horses into the water. The animals took to the river almost eagerly, for here at the ford it was less than two feet deep. On they came: thirty yards … twenty-five … twenty … fifteen. The Greener spoke once, then thundered again. The big gun knocked each man from his saddle, and the horses also went down. The animals kicked a few times, but neither of the men ever moved once they hit the water. After a few moments, even the horses lay still. Rollins stood for a while watching the V formation created by the moving water as it rushed past each of the bodies. Then he headed for the cane brake and his horses, determined to put as much territory behind him as possible before daybreak.

Rollins felt no remorse whatsoever about putting Joe Plum and his cousin in the water. He did, however, feel a slight twinge of guilt about the horses. But, he reasoned with himself, he had not deliberately intended to shoot the animals. The Greener was a scattergun, and just as the name implied, the buckshot would scatter all to hell after traveling only a few yards. Predicting exactly where each of the deadly slugs would go was an impossibility, and at a distance of fifteen yards, it was inevitable that one or more of them would find the heads of the horses. It's just one of those things, Rollins said to himself, patting the neck of his nervous roan.

He was back in the saddle and headed east within the hour, grateful for the third-quarter moon that lit his way. He would travel all night and all day tomorrow, hoping to put at least seventy-five miles between himself and the scene of the shooting. The bodies were sure to be discovered sometime during the coming day, and he did not intend to be around to answer questions. He guided the roan onto the main road and kicked the animal to a fast trot. The packhorses obediently followed. He would be in another county by daybreak, and in the town of Saratoga by the end of the week.

13

It was now the middle of March, and Rollins had been gone for six weeks. Just as he had expected, Zack had heard nothing from him. He supposed it would be at least another month, maybe two months. Even then, he would probably hear the sound of bawling cattle before he heard from Rollins. He was hoping that the Hereford bulls would arrive first, for he had already built a holding pen and hauled in hay bought from a farmer in Mills County—enough hay to feed the bulls till they were turned out to fend for themselves.

Zack, Jolly Ross and the newly hired hand had spent three weeks building the two-hundred-foot-square pen out of large poles, then devoted a week to the hauling of hay from the Middleton farm twenty miles to the north. Though the distance between the two points allowed for only one round trip a day with the wagons, Abe Middleton had priced the fodder cheaply enough that Zack, recognizing a bargain, had jumped on the deal immediately. The trio had hauled twelve wagon loads to the ranch, and had promised to buy more.

The newly hired hand was a twenty-six-year-old native Texan named Bob Human. Zack knew the man's age only because Human had told him, for his appearance offered no clue. With his mouse-colored hair and beard, agate-gray eyes, hatchet chin and faint streak of a mouth, he could have been young or old. He stood more than six feet tall and was the skinniest man Zack had ever seen. He seriously doubted that Human would weigh a hundred and thirty pounds. “Don't let old Bob's appearance fool you, now,” Jolly Ross had said the day he brought Human to the ranch. “He's got bark on him an inch thick, and he can do just about any damn thing that comes along.”

Ross had gone to town for supplies early in the morning and when he returned in the afternoon, Human was sitting on the wagon seat beside him. A saddled, mustard-colored mustang trotted behind the wagon. Zack stood in the yard watching as the men jumped to the ground and walked forward. “I want you to meet Bob Human, Zack,” Ross said by way of introduction. “The two of us worked together in South Texas, made two trail drives together.”

Zack took the newcomer's outstretched hand. “Good to meet you, Bob,” he said, then motioned toward the cook-shack. “You fellows go on down and eat supper so you don't keep the cook waiting. I'll unload the wagon and put up the team.” He got no argument from either man, for neither of them had eaten since early morning.

Immediately after eating, Human asked Zack for a job, and was highly recommended by Jolly Ross. “He's an awful good man to have around, Zack,” Jolly said. “He knows what needs doing on a ranch, and he's been up the Chisholm Trail and the Western Trail both.” Ross was quiet for a moment, then added, “As soon as the cows get here, we're sure gonna be needing some men like Bob.”

Zack chuckled. “All right, Jolly, you've got me convinced. Put him on the payroll and show him his bunk.” He stood watching the men as they walked to the bunkhouse, noticing that Human's skinny frame was as straight as a fence post. And although a full cartridge belt circled his narrow waist, his overall appearance offered no hint of the tough character described by Jolly. Ross had said that Human could handle most anything that came along, so Zack had to assume that the man would be a little handy with the Colt that was hanging on his right leg. He would discuss that with Ross when he got the chance.

His chance came the following morning while Human was gone to the outhouse. “Is Human pretty good with that Colt, Jolly?” Hunter asked.

Ross was busy putting the finishing touches on a cigarette. He licked the paper, then chuckled. “He's better than that, Zack.” He put a match to the cigarette and took a deep drag, then blew smoke through his nose and mouth at the same time. “He's the best I've ever seen,” he added. “And he probably thinks he's the best in the world. Whether he is or not, I don't know, but I'll guarantee you that there ain't a sonofabitch walking that he'd back down from.”

“I see,” Zack said, and dropped the subject. Although it would be several weeks before he learned much about the man, there was nothing complicated about his story:

Born Robert Steven Austin Human during the first week of 1850, he was the only child of John Human, a hellfire-and-brimstone preacher and part-time cattle rustler. His birthplace was a dugout on Blanco Creek, a few miles from the town of Goliad. His mother died the same night he was born, and he was consequently shifted from one relative to another for many years.

The year young Bob was four, his father was caught red-handed stealing cattle, and hung from a tall mesquite only a few minutes later. The youngster was told that his father had died in an accident, and the story was repeated often. It was only after he started school that the boy learned the truth. When his schoolmates began to taunt him, dancing around and singing little songs about his father being a cattle thief, he carried the problem to his teacher, who refused to discuss the matter.

Not so with his Aunt Bess. When the youngster confronted her, she sat him down for a long talk. She had always believed that he should be told the truth, she said, but none of the other relatives shared her opinion. To a person, his kinfolk said he was too young to understand. Bullshit! Bess Remington had said, but had refused to argue with such an overwhelming majority.