The H&R Cattle Company (25 page)

Rollins had bought two adjoining lots a hundred yards north of the house he was leasing, but had so far made no decision to build there. He was in no hurry. The lots weren't eating anything, and would only appreciate in value. Perhaps he would build something next year, but for now, he was happy enough with the cottage. It was quiet, the rent was reasonable, and late-night visits by some of the town's respected ladies went unnoticed.

Though he had never drawn it in anger, Rollins had been wearing a tied-down Peacemaker in public for more than a year. He had long since gotten used to the extra weight on his hip and felt less than fully dressed when it was not there. He buckled the six-shooter on each morning not because he thought he might need it during the day, but because he did not intend to be caught short, as had happened at least once in the past.

On more than one occasion, Rollins had laid his gunbelt on the bar and dispatched a would-be troublemaker with his fists while a dozen or more men stood around watching. No man had ever challenged his ability with the six-gun, for it was generally assumed that he would be as quick with the weapon as he was with his fists.

And the assumption was correct. Rollins had practiced for hundreds, maybe thousands, of hours and could now put a five-shot pattern in a three-inch square at forty feet. And he could do it as quick as any man alive, or so said Jolly Ross, who had watched him practicing on the ranch last winter.

“I tell you, Zack,” Ross said after Rollins had ridden back to town, “if you ain't seen it, you've missed something.” He hesitated for a moment, then continued: “Guess I said that wrong. You really ain't missed seeing nothing, 'cause you can't see it. All you see is a blur, then the targets start falling.”

Zack had listened to Ross's description intently and well knew the truth of what he was being told. Rollins was simply quicker by nature than normal people, and his eye was second to none. Even as a schoolboy, he had been a winner at everything he did, and it seemed that his speed only increased as he grew into manhood. Not only had nobody ever caught him in a footrace, few had ever beaten him at anything. “Do you think Bret's as fast as Bob Human, Jolly?” Zack asked.

“At least!” Ross said loudly. “I'd sure never mention it to either of them, but I believe Bret's quicker.” He extracted a sack of Durham from his vest pocket and blew on a book of cigarette papers to separate them. When he had selected one and filled it, he added, “It's hard for me to believe that there's another man any damn where who's as fast as Bret Rollins.”

Zack shrugged and headed for the house, believing that his young foreman just might be right in his assessment.

*   *   *

Rollins left the ranch at a canter and tied the roan to the White Horse Saloon's hitching rail at midafternoon. He bought a beer at the bar, then walked to the center of the building, taking a seat directly in front of the piano. As was always the case on Saturday afternoon, Jess Hudson sat on the stool waiting for someone to ask him to play.

Rollins stepped forward and dropped a coin in the ever-present cigar box atop the piano; then, without a word, he returned to his seat at the table. No conversation had been necessary, for it was Hudson's business to remember which song was each particular customer's favorite. He riffled the piano keys a few times, then began to sing “Greensleeves,” an English folk song that he said was more than five hundred years old.

Rollins stared at the table as he listened to the song. It had become his favorite the first time he heard it, and Jess Hudson had sung it for him several times a week for the past year. When the song was over, Rollins finished his beer, saluted the musician and headed for the front door.

Waving to a few casual acquaintances, he rode the roan through town at a trot. Long before he reached his cottage, he spotted the white piece of paper thumbtacked to his front door. He dismounted and walked closer. The big poker game that had been planned for tonight had been canceled, the note read, and had been rescheduled for the end of next week. The location had also been changed. Instead of taking place at the White Horse Saloon as had originally been planned, the game would now be played at the Longhorn Lounge in the town of Llano. The note suggested that Rollins count on spending at least two days in Llano, and it was signed by Clyde Post, a man whom he had faced across a poker table on more than one occasion. No reason was given for rescheduling the game.

Rollins read the note twice, then folded it and placed it in his pocket. He was convinced that the note had not been written by Clyde Post, for he believed the man to be illiterate. Rollins knew him well, and knew that he had been born and raised a hundred miles from the nearest schoolhouse. Even though he was a shrewd man, intelligent enough to put together huge holdings and large sums of money, he had about as much formal education as a jackrabbit. The note was written too neatly to have come from Post's hand, and being of a suspicious nature, Rollins intended to find out who had tacked it to his door. He would ask Clyde Post that question long before he sat down at a poker table.

Thumbing the tack back into the door for future use, he led the roan to the corral and stripped the saddle. He curried the animal, then dumped two scoops of oats in the trough. He had no set schedule for feeding the roan, just did it whenever it crossed his mind. Consequently, the horse had gained a hundred pounds in less than a year. Only this morning Hunter had mentioned the fact that the roan was too heavy and cautioned Rollins about overfeeding. “Many a good horse has been ruined at the feeding trough,” he said. “Getting too much is probably almost as bad as not getting enough. You should cut that roan's feed in half when he's not working, and make it a point to feed him at the same time every day.”

With such an unstructured life as was led by Rollins, feeding his horse by the clock was out of the question. He had no idea when he would be home. Indeed, some days he did not come home at all, and had more than once fed the roan after midnight. “I'll do that, Zack,” he lied. “I'll cut down on his oats and start feeding him every morning at sunup.”

At the house, he raised his bedroom window, pulled off his boots and stretched out on the bed. He dozed off in a matter of seconds and slept soundly for more than two hours.

He awoke at dusk and touched a burning match to the wick of his lamp. He replaced the globe and carried the lamp to the kitchen. He built a fire in the stove to heat water, then laid out a change of clothing. When the water was hot, he would shave and bathe as best he could before heading for Toby's T-Bone. The fact that he was hungry was only one of the two reasons he would be going to the restaurant. The other was Shirley Doolen, a twenty-one-year-old brunette who had been working there since the first of the year.

A tall, blue-eyed young woman who was exceptionally pretty, with curly hair that hung past her shoulders, her well-turned figure was often the main topic of conversation between male patrons of the restaurant. Shirley was a native of Corpus Christi. At the age of sixteen she had married a handsome young cowboy who turned out to be a cattle rustler. He had been caught red-handed a year later by a rancher in Duval County and was shot between the eyes.

Thankful that the union had produced no children, Shirley reclaimed her maiden name and headed for Austin, where she immediately found work in a dry-goods store. She held an assortment of jobs over the next few years. When not clerking in stores, she sometimes waited tables in restaurants or saloons. She preferred restaurants over saloons, for there was almost always less hassle, and if the quality of the food was outstanding, well-fed men were usually more gracious with gratuities than were the drinkers.

Her most recent job prior to Toby's had been at a drug-and-dry-goods store in Llano, which had lasted only one month. When her fat employer informed her that in addition to her regular duties, she was expected to occasionally spend an hour on a cot with him in the storeroom, she told him off and drew her pay.

She rode her own horse to Lampasas and found work at Toby's T-Bone the same day she arrived. She sold the horse to Oscar Land, who correctly told her that the animal was worth little more than the value of its hide. He called the horse a sway-backed jughead and offered twenty dollars. Appearing to think it over for a long time, she finally accepted the twenty and walked up the street. She did not tell the liveryman that she herself had bought the animal for eight dollars.

Bret Rollins became acquainted with Shirley Doolen the second day she was in town and took her for a buggy ride a few days later. In a matter of weeks, they became fast friends, then lovers, and on more than one occasion she had accompanied Rollins in his cottage late at night.

A rendezvous at Shirley's place was out of the question, for the cabin in which she lived directly behind the restaurant belonged to her employer. Toby was at least a little bit religious, and definitely not the type of man who would buy the idea that an unmarried woman needed a man around the house. Rollins was well aware of this and kept his distance from the young woman's living quarters.

And though Rollins and Doolen were lovers, they were not necessarily in love. They were simply two people with a strong sexual attraction to each other, and neither party saw any reason not to yield to the temptation. Each of them supplied the other's physical needs completely, and of late they had been getting together about once a week.

Rollins was not the only boat on the water, however. The lady dated other men on occasion, which was pleasing to him. He wanted her to be involved with others, for he was definitely not seeking anything permanent. Nor did he believe that she was, for she had never even hinted that she was looking for a long-term arrangement. The time they spent together was immensely enjoyed by both, and each of them seemed content to leave well enough alone.

Rollins had to make his dates ahead of time like anyone else Shirley dated, and almost a week ago he had made a date for tonight. Sometime after ten o'clock, he would bring her to his cottage for the fifth time. His whole body seemed to grow warmer at the thought.

Shaved and bathed now, he dashed his used water out the back door, then carried the lamp to the bedroom. When he had changed his clothing and checked his appearance in the mirror, he buckled his gunbelt around his waist and left the building, leaving the lamp burning in the living room.

As was always the case on weekends, the restaurant was crowded almost to its capacity, and the only vacant tables were on the opposite side of the room from Shirley Doolen's station. Rollins placed his order with a forty-year-old waiter, and half an hour later, his T-bone steak was served.

He ate his meal slowly. By the time he finished, he had been in the restaurant for more than an hour but had been unable to gain Shirley's attention. She had no doubt seen him, however, for when he walked to the counter to pay for his meal, she was suddenly standing beside him, her wrist and elbow bent to level the large tray of dishes she carried.

Not a word was spoken or needed. With a look of longing in her blue eyes that could not be misread, she smiled, nodded and winked. Bret returned the smile and the wink, then headed for the street. The signal had been sent and received, and no other communication had been necessary. Just as he had done on other occasions, he would meet her at the back door of the restaurant when it closed at ten o'clock.

With more than an hour to kill, he walked around town for a while, then stopped at the Twin Oaks Saloon for a beer. He had passed up the White Horse because he was not in the mood to listen to a lot of noise. The Twin Oaks would be much quieter, for the building was never crowded. Though Jake Smith, who owned the saloon and usually tended bar at night, was a very likable man, Rollins sometimes wondered how he managed to keep the place open. Unlike the White Horse, which was located in the center of town, Smith's establishment was well off the beaten path and most of the town's drinkers passed their idle hours elsewhere. Which was the very reason Rollins stopped by the place often: when he wasn't specifically looking for action, he preferred solitude.

“I'll have a beer, Jake,” Rollins said, taking a stool at the bar. His eyes swept the room quickly, resting momentarily on each of the dozen or so customers. Though he had seen most of the men around town at one time or another, he could call none by name.

“There you are,” Jake Smith said, placing the beer on the bar. “Thanks for stopping in, Bret.” If indeed anyone could be aptly described as “ordinary,” Jake Smith was such a man: medium height, medium weight, medium build. With brown hair and eyes, his physical description probably matched that of half the men in Texas. He placed his elbows on the bar and leaned forward. “I hear that County Line Ranch is about to take a herd to Kansas.”

Rollins took a long sip of his brew, then wiped the foam from his lips with his sleeve. “That's what my partner told me this morning, Jake. Has he been talking to you?”

“No, no,” Smith said, seating himself on his own stool. “I don't think I've seen Zack in at least six months. Seems to me like I heard that young County Line foreman talking about it in here last week. Believe he said he was gonna be hiring some more men pretty soon, and I think I heard him promise one man a job.”

“Ross?” Rollins asked.

Smith nodded. “Yeah, that's his name.”

Bret upended his beer and pushed the mug forward for a refill. “Well, Ross has the authority to hire. If he promised a man a job, I'd say the man has a job.”

Smith delivered another beer and refused payment. “I'm awful glad to hear that,” he said. “The fellow's name is Eldon Mays, and he certainly needs a payday for a change.” He was quiet for a moment, then added with a grin, “Maybe when he gets back from Kansas, he'll pay that ten-dollar tab he owes right here at the bar.”

“Maybe,” Rollins said. He looked at his watch, then got to his feet. “I have to be going, Jake. There's something else I've got to do.” He waved good-bye and walked through the door. A short time later, he was standing in the alley behind Toby's T-Bone.