The H&R Cattle Company (27 page)

17

Zack Hunter and Bill Moon spent the last two weeks of June moving line shacks. Rollins had played in the big poker game in-Llano and had taken Clyde Post for a ride, winning several thousand dollars in cash and almost ten thousand acres of land that bordered County Line Ranch on the east. The ranch was now nearly twice its former size, and Hunter and Moon had torn down and moved the shacks to the new property line.

Zack had been overjoyed with the additional property, and had spent two weeks in the saddle familiarizing himself with every hill and valley. Rollins, however, had ridden across it one time, returned to town, and had not been seen since.

Jolly Ross had left for Kansas with the longhorns more than a month ago and should be well on his way by now. He had hired his riders wherever he could find them, mostly in area saloons. Bob Human was the only one of the regular hands to make the drive.

Hunter was pleased that Ross had chosen to take Human. After all, the two had worked together for years and understood each other well. As to keeping order among the crew, Zack believed that Ross and Human complemented each other. Few men, even when antagonized, would attempt to physically overpower a man as muscular as Ross, and fewer still would initiate gunplay, knowing that the price of such action might be a showdown with Bob Human. Indeed, Zack expected the drive north to the rails to be a harmonious and profitable trip for all concerned.

Hunter and Moon had just finished nailing the roof on the last of the line shacks and jumped to the ground. “Glad that's over and done,” Zack said. “I believe I'd rather dig ditches than drive nails.”

“Not me,” Moon said. “Driving nails is a little easier on a fellow's back.”

Zack gathered up a few handfuls of dry wood, then picked up the coffeepot. “Let's move over on the creek bank to make coffee and eat dinner. We'll set up the stove in the shack after we eat.”

Moon followed and built the fire while Zack dipped a pot of water from the clear-running stream. Snaking onto the property from the northeast, the creek was known throughout the area as “Horse Thief Creek.” The fact that another stream a dozen miles to the south was called “Dead Horse Thief Creek” left little doubt as to how the two streams had come by their respective names.

After washing their beef and biscuits down with coffee, they built two bunks inside the shack, then set up the stove. At midafternoon, they harnessed the team and climbed in the wagon. The ride home would take at least three hours.

When they reached the corral, Zack jumped to the ground and headed for the cookshack, leaving Moon to put up the wagon and care for the horses. He stopped on the small porch to wash his hands, then stepped into the cook's domain. “I hope you've got some hot coffee, Dixie,” he said, taking a seat at one of the long tables.

“Always,” the cook said, reaching for a tin cup and the coffeepot. He poured the coffee, then pushed the pot to the back of the stove. He took a seat at the opposite side of the table and began to munch on a porkskin. “You being out of pocket and all, I don't suppose you've heard the latest.”

Zack sat quietly for a moment, then shook his head and raised his eyebrows. “What is the latest, Dixie?”

“Rollins killed another man last night.”

Zack did not speak for a long time. He was wondering how the shooting came about, and how long it would be till the next one. Rollins had attained the status of “gunfighter” now, and as his reputation grew, so would the number of men who were anxious to test his hand. “Do you know who he killed?” Zack asked finally. “Or why?”

The cook shook his head. “Don't know much about it. One of the hands who was in town for supplies just told me that he heard it on the street. Somebody told him that Rollins shot a man dead at the Twin Oaks Saloon last night.”

Zack nodded, then pointed to the big iron pot on the stove. “Is that stuff about ready to eat?”

“It's been ready all afternoon. I've just been letting it simmer, adding a cup of water every once in a while to keep it from sticking.” He was on his feet now, dishing up a large bowl of the meaty concoction. “Made some crackling bread to go with this stew,” he said, placing a large slice beside the bowl. “The farmers rendered, a big tub of lard and brought me a whole bucketful of cracklings.”

The art of making “crackling” bread consisted of simply dumping several handfuls of cracklings into a pan of cornbread mix, stirring well, then baking it all into a solid pone. It was not one of Zack's favorite things to eat, even though his mother had served it many times during his growing years. He had eaten it then, and he would eat it now. He crumbled the bread into his bowl and mixed it with his stew.

When he finished his meal, he dropped his empty bowl in the dishpan. “I'll be leaving for Lampasas in a few minutes, Dixie. Do you need anything that's small enough to fit in a saddlebag?”

The cook shook his head. “Can't think of a thing.”

Half an hour later, Zack pointed the sorrel toward town at a canter. The big gelding could maintain the pace for the entire distance, for it was an exceptionally strong animal. Now five years old, it had been bred, raised and trained by a locally renowned horseman. And though Zack had paid a stiff price, he was well pleased with the deal, for the sorrel was not only the prettiest animal on the premises, it was the best saddle horse he had ever ridden.

Zack dismounted at the livery stable a few minutes before sunset. “I want to leave my horse overnight, Oscar,” he said to the liveryman, dropping the reins to the ground.

“Leave him here for a month if you want to,” Land said, reaching for the animal's bridle. “I tell you, Zack, my business has been way off lately, just a fraction of what it was this time last year.” He stripped the saddle from the sorrel's back, then changed the subject: “I hear you sent a herd of longhorns to Kansas.”

“They've been gone five weeks, Oscar. Guess they might be about halfway there by now.”

Land nodded. “Guess so. Is Jolly bossing the drive?”

“He's the ranch foreman, and he's been up the trail before. Made sense to put him in charge of the herd.”

Land had wiped the sorrel's back with a feed sack and was now busy with the currycomb. “You did the right thing, Zack. That boy knows what he's doing, and he's as honest as the day is long.”

Zack nodded, then brought the conversation to an abrupt halt. He turned on his heel, saying, “I'll see you sometime tomorrow, Oscar.” He walked down the street to the White Horse Saloon and stepped inside. He moved away from the door and stood leaning against the wall, waiting for his eyes to adjust. After a few moments, he could see every man in the building and quickly determined that Rollins was not among them. Moments later, he was back on the sidewalk.

It was already dark when he reached the Twin Oaks Saloon. Burning coal-oil lanterns hung on metal hooks outside the front door, and two men sat on the small porch smoking cigarettes. Both nodded to Zack as he stepped up to the door, and he returned the greeting.

Jake Smith himself was behind the bar and waved hello as Zack entered the building. Zack nodded, then walked to the far side and seated himself on a barstool, putting a large post between himself and the bright light.

Smith was there quickly. “Haven't seen you in a month of Sundays, Zack,” he said with his usual smile. He pushed his right hand across the bar, and Zack pumped it a few times. “I got some of the best whiskey in Texas,” Smith said. “Wanna give it a try?”

Zack shook his head. “Just a beer, Jake.”

Smith pushed the mug of foamy brew down the bar, refusing the coin that was offered. “I guess you heard about what happened in here last night, huh?”

“Not much,” Zack said, sipping at his beer. “The cook out at the ranch just told me that he heard there was a shooting in here.”

“I'll say there was. That partner of yours put more holes in Johnny Gravity than a pincushion. Gravity got his gun out all right, but Rollins put three shots into him quicker'n lightning. Every time Gravity tried to raise his shooting arm, Rollins would pop him again. I'll tell you, I've seen some fast draws in my day, but the way Bret Rollins throws a six-shooter is just about beyond description.”

Zack took another sip of his beer, then nodded. “I've seen it,” he said.

“Well, by God, Johnny Gravity brought it all on himself,” Smith continued. “He cussed out about every man in the building, including me, then finally got around to Rollins. Rollins gave him a chance to stay alive, told him to go sit down somewhere and leave people alone.

“Even after Gravity challenged him to a gunfight, Rollins gave him another chance to come out of it alive. He suggested that the two of them lay their guns on the bar, then fight it out man to man.

“Gravity wouldn't have any part of that. He cussed Bret again and accused him of having a yellow streak down his back.” Jake stood shaking his head for a moment. “That was the biggest mistake he could possibly have made. I tell you, Zack, Rollins moved away from that table and into the aisle as quick as any man alive could have done it. He didn't eyeball Johnny Gravity long, either. About one second later, all hell broke loose.”

Zack pushed his mug forward for a refill. “Did Sheriff Pope come around?”

“Oh, yeah. He was questioning everybody, wanting to know exactly what they saw and heard. Hell, there wasn't anything to do but tell him the truth. Every man in here stuck up for Rollins, and Pope was gone pretty quick.”

When Zack knocked on Rollins' door half an hour later, Rollins answered with a double-barreled shotgun in his hand. As Zack stepped into the room, Rollins laid the weapon on a small table. “I'm just not taking any chances, Zack. A man never knows who might be prowling around.” He seated himself on the side of the bed, then pushed a cane-bottom chair toward Zack. “I guess you heard about the fracas at the Twin Oaks last night.”

Zack nodded. “Jake told me. He said you did everything possible to avoid the fight, so it sounds like shooting was the only choice you had.”

“There was no other choice, Zack. The man was hunting a fight, and he didn't intend to stop looking till he found one.”

“Who the hell was this Johnny Gravity?” Zack asked. “Where did he come from?”

“I talked with Sheriff Pope at noon today. He says the only thing he's been able to find out is that Gravity has been around town for about two months and that he came here from Austin. Nobody seemed to know what he did for a living, but he probably wasn't in a big rush to do anything. Pope said that when he searched the man's pockets, he found almost five hundred dollars.”

Zack began to shake his head. “Nope. A man walking around with that kind of money on him probably ain't looking for a job.” He walked to the kitchen for a drink of water, then returned to his chair. He motioned to the shotgun. “Are you expecting some of Gravity's friends to look you up?”

Rollins shook his head. “Not necessarily. Don't even know if he had any friends, but it's like I said—I'm not taking any chances.”

“I sure hope not.” Zack began to fidget in his chair, then changed the subject. “I'm gonna be spending the night in town, old buddy. Have you got anything stronger than water to drink?”

“Nothing but coffee,” Bret said, getting to his feet. “I quit bringing whiskey home with me, 'cause I always end up drinking too much of it.” Even as he talked, he had been busy buckling on his gunbelt. That done, he reached for his hat. “Let's walk down to the White Horse for a beer,” he said. “Jess Hudson will probably be singing tonight.”

Zack helped himself to another drink of water, then followed Rollins out into the night.

At the saloon, Zack said hello to bartender Ed Hayes and ordered a pitcher of beer. Then, carrying the pitcher and two glasses, he walked to the table Rollins had already selected in front of the piano riser. Hudson, who sat on the stool riffling the piano keys, playing no discernible tune, nodded to both men. Then the middle-aged musician eased into the familiar strains of the only song Rollins ever requested: “Green-sleeves.”

The partners sat at the table listening to the pleasing sounds of Jess Hudson till they had consumed the entire pitcher of beer, at which time Rollins suggested something to eat. “I'd like to try the food over at the Hartley Hotel, Zack. I haven't eaten there in more than a year, but I've been hearing that they've got a good cook now.”

“Lead the way.”

Rollins laid a coin on the piano, then headed for the front door. Once on the street, he began to walk slowly toward the hotel. Good food was not his reason for wanting to eat at the Hartley, and in reality, he had heard nothing about the establishment having a good cook. His sole reason for suggesting the hotel was to avoid Toby's T-Bone. Shirley Doolen would be waiting tables there tonight, and he was simply not in the mood to see her.

They took a table against the wall in the dining room and each man ordered a T-bone steak. They sipped coffee while their meal was being prepared; their conversation was limited to the goings-on at County Line Ranch. “Guess the longhorns'll be on a train headed east within a month or so,” Zack said.

Rollins drained his coffee cup. “Do you think Ross will get a good price for 'em?”

“I think he'll get as good a price as anybody else does. He's been there before and he knows how the business works. I believe he'll even stall if he thinks it'll get him another two bits a head.” Zack finished his coffee and pushed the cup aside. “You don't know Jolly like I do, Bret, 'cause you haven't been around him much. You can take my word for it, though—in spite of his young age, Jolly Ross is a damn smart cookie.”

Their food was delivered by a humpbacked waiter who stood around the table until he was dismissed by Rollins. “Thank you,” Bret said softly after it became apparent that the man was in no hurry to leave. “That'll be all we need for now.” The waiter spun on his heel and disappeared into the kitchen.