The H&R Cattle Company
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Authors: Doug Bowman
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Contents
Other Books by Doug Bowman from Tom Doherty Associates
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He poked the gun barrel even closer to Rollins' face. “I'm givin' ya ten minutes ta git a gun, mister. Do ya hear?”
Like all the rest, Zack stood at the bar waiting. He believed that his friend's remaining lifetime might well be measured in minutes, or even seconds, for Bret Rollins would not back down. The man simply knew no fear. Just as the allotted ten minutes expired, Rollins kicked the batwing doors open, and in one fluid motion, was inside the building. In his hands was a double-barreled shotgun, the barrels pointed directly at Hilly's midsection. “Now ⦠now wait a minute. I didn't say nothin' about gittin' a damn cannon.” He took another step backward. “I ⦠I tell ya what,” he stammered. “Let's jist forgit th' whole thang. All right?” Rollins smiled, then nodded.
1
“No doubt in my mind that the horse is worth fifty dollars, Mister Davis,” Zack Hunter was saying as he inspected the big bay. “But I just don't have that kind of money. Took everything I could scrape together just to give Ma a decent burial.”
The man stood quietly for a while, tamping tobacco into his brierroot pipe. Though seemingly in good health, Lester Davis was well past the age of seventy. A successful farmer and horse trader, he was a man of means, and was said to have prospered during the Civil War by trading with both sides. He fired his pipe now and blew a cloud of smoke to the wind. “How 'boutcha uncle?” he asked. “Dalton's got money.”
Hunter shrugged. “Sure, Uncle Dalton's got lots of money, but he damn sure ain't gonna give me any of it. You've been trading or trying to trade with him longer than I've been alive. I'm sure I don't have to tell you how tight he holds on to a dollar. He still owes me for building two bridges last summer, but I'll never get the money. He even refused to sell me a horse on credit.”
The old man sucked his pipe stem again. “Credit ain't no good way o' doin' business, boy. Jist like myself, Dalton didn't git whur he is by keepin' a lotta money on th' books.”
Hunter shook his head. “They taught us in school that the whole world runs on credit, Mister Davis, and I've been reading a lot of books. One country might owe another country a million dollars. Sometimes more. Then when they pay off the loan, everybody's happy 'cause both the borrower and the lender have made money.”
Davis tapped out his pipe on the heel of his shoe, then began to scratch his beard. “Maybe so,” he said thoughtfully. “Whatcha gonna say next is that ya wanna buy th' horse on credit. Right?”
Hunter nodded. “It's the only way I could even hope to buy the animal.” He ran his hand along the bay's muscular withers. “I'd want the saddle, too.”
Lester Davis chuckled. “Th' saddle, too?” He took a seat on an upended nail keg, beginning to jerk hairs out of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. “I'll tell ya what, boy. Gimme thirty dollars down an' I'll sell ya th' horse an' th' saddle fer ninety dollars.”
Hunter shook his head. “I couldn't do that, Mister Davis. I believe that's more than they're worth. Besides, I couldn't pay more than ten dollars down.” He handed over the reins and turned to leave.
“Jist a minute, boy,” the old man said loudly. “Don'tcha know nothin' a-tall 'bout horse tradin'?”
Hunter reversed the few steps he had taken. “I never was much for dickering, Mister Davis.”
“Well, dammit, ya don't hafta dicker, but I wantcha ta listen. Whatcha gonna do with that milch cow over at th' cabin?”
“I already traded her for this Henry and two boxes of shells.” He held up the rifle for Davis to see.
The old man inspected the rifle, then nodded. “Well, I know that they's a wagon over there, an' a turnin' plow an' a middle buster, too. An' I remember seein' a good porch swang. Gimme all them thangs, an' throw in that pocket watch I saw ya lookin' at a while ago. I'll give ya a bill o' sale fer th' horse an' saddle free an' clear.”
Without a word, Hunter unhooked the chain from his belt. Then he laid his dead father's watch in the trader's hand. “I don't have any other choice, Mister Davis. I'll saddle the bay while you write the bill of sale.”
A few minutes later, Hunter folded the document, shoved it in his pocket and climbed into the saddle. The old man stood at his stirrup, scratching his beard. “Dalton ain't gonna give me no shit when I go ta pick up them thangs, is he?”
Hunter looked the old man in the eye. “None of that stuff belongs to Uncle Dalton, and he's not likely to see you anyway. If he does, just tell him I traded with you.”
The man nodded, and Hunter rode out of the yard at a gallop. He expected to be across the river and into Arkansas by sunup tomorrow, and he had no time to lose. The sheriff and a few others might already be looking for him, for yesterday afternoon twenty-four-year-old Zachary Hunter had killed a man.
The argument had started in a small grove of scrub oaks alongside Wolf Creek, where Zack Hunter and his best friend, Bret Rollins, had engaged two strangers in a four-handed game of draw poker. Betting recklessly, Rollins went broke quickly, as did the smaller of the strangers. Hunter and the larger man, who had introduced himself as Mose Mack, continued to play.
When it became obvious that the disagreement between the two players was about to come to blows, Bret Rollins decided to appoint himself referee of the fight. “Now, both of you listen to me,” he said. “If a man goes down, the other must count to ten, giving the down man a chance to get up before hitting him again.”
Even as Rollins was talking, Hunter kicked Mack in the groin, almost lifting the man off the ground. As Mack put both hands to his crotch, grimacing in agony, Hunter grabbed him by the hair, jerking his head downward. At the same time, Hunter brought his knee up full force into the man's face. Five times he did this, and each time the downward motion of Mack's face met the upward thrust of Hunter's knee, Rollins thought he heard something break. At last, Hunter released the man and let him fall to the ground. “One ⦠two ⦠threeâ”
“Hell, there ain't no use to count, Zack,” Rollins said loudly. “You've probably killed the sonofabitch!” The big man lay in a motionless heap at Hunter's feet. Rollins, robbed of his chance to referee, began to walk around in circles, shaking his head. “You just couldn't wait, could you, Zack?”
“Nope. Didn't like all the rules you were laying down.” Zack Hunter fought by only one set of rules: his own. His ability to bring a physical conflict to an abrupt halt was well known among much of the male population of Shelby County, and few men dared to trifle with him. He had been taught self-defense several years ago by his older cousin, Billy Olsen, who had later died in a hunting accident. Zack had spent one whole summer on the Olsen farm and had practiced Cousin Billy's lessons daily.
“There's no such thing as a dirty fight,” Billy Olsen had said. “The only thing you need to be thinking about is how to get it over with as quick as possible. The idea is to put your man down any old way you can, and keep him there. What matters, and the only thing that matters, is that you win.” Cousin Billy had then spent the rest of the summer teaching Zack the fine art of fistic persuasion. Zack had been fifteen that year, and he had not lost a fight since.
Now, still standing beside the fallen man, Zack touched him with the toe of his boot. He got no reaction. The big man had brought it all on himself, he was thinking. After all, the poker game had been the man's own idea, and it was not Zack's fault that the big bastard didn't know that a flush beats a straight. Hunter turned to Mack's partner, who had watched the entire exchange from his seat on a nearby log. “Do you know that a flush beats a straight?” he asked.
“Shore I do. I'll tell Mose when he comes around.”
Hunter stamped his foot and exhaled loudly. “Why the hell didn't you tell him when the argument started?”
“Weren't none o' my affair,” the man said, squirting a mouthful of tobacco juice. “Another reason I didn't say nothin' is 'cause I figgered Mose could whup both uv ya. I wuz watchin' th' cards. I saw yore han' an' I saw his'n. All 'at money there on th' blanket is fairly yore'n. I'd 'preciate it if ya'd jist take it an' leave.”
“All right,” Hunter said. He stuffed the money he had won in his pocket.
“No, no!” Rollins said loudly, his deep voice reverberating through the woods. He took a step toward the big man's partner. “It's not us that's gonna be leaving, fellow. It's you! Get your ass across that creek and over that hill. You'd better not even look back unless you want a dose of the same medicine your buddy got.”
The man waded the shallow creek quickly and was soon out of sight. Rollins turned to Hunter. “Couldn't let that joker hang around here, Zack. He'd be hunting up the law ten minutes from now.” He pointed to the lifeless heap on the ground. “That man's dead.”
Hunter nodded. “I know.”
After a short discussion, the men decided to move the body a few hundred yards downstream, hoping that if the exiled partner did return, he would think that Mack had regained consciousness and walked away under his own power. With one man at each end, they carried the corpse around the bend and covered it with brush. Then the friends went their separate ways, Rollins to his grandfather's house and Hunter to his own cabin, where he had been living alone since the death of his mother a few weeks earlier.
Zack spent a sleepless night but had risen this morning with a firm decision: he would head west as soon as he could get a good horse under him, and he had no intention of ever returning to Tennessee. Now he was pleased with the trade he had made with Lester Davis for the big bay saddler. He had never intended to use the plows or the wagon, and the pocket watch was a lousy timepiece. Nor had he expected to spend any time sitting in the porch swing. Old man Davis would no doubt reap more than the bay's worth when all his dealing was done, but right now Zack had what he needed most, and he was satisfied.
He turned the horse off the road and headed for his cabin, located in the middle of one of Uncle Dalton's cotton fields. Dalton Smith had given the cabin to his younger sister, who was Zack's mother. Zack expected the old man to ask him to vacate the building any day now. Smith had stood in the background with a vacant stare at his sister's funeral and had not even spoken to Zack. All because his nephew had recently informed him that he expected to be paid for his work.
Well, his uncle could have the cabin and everything in it, Zack was thinking as he tied the bay to the hitching post at the front door. He retrieved the saddle scabbard that had come in the trade for the rifle. Then he stripped two blankets from his bed, tying them securely behind his saddle. A few minutes later, he shoved the Henry in the boot and remounted.