The H&R Cattle Company (12 page)

The bartender began to shake his head very slowly. “Well, wherever this Rollins fellow is, anybody hunting trouble would damn sure be smart to walk around him.”

Zack raised his eyebrows. “Why do you say that?”

Hayes placed his elbows on the bar and leaned forward. “I guess since you ain't seen him in a while, you ain't heard about the show he put on in here.”

Zack shook his head.

“Let's see … I believe it was a month ago today,” Hayes began. “Rollins and another fellow were playing pool and got into an argument. They finally decided to fight, and that other fellow didn't last no time. Rollins put him down to stay right off.

“Well, Jiggs Odom just happened to be watching, and he didn't like the way the fight went. He called Rollins ‘Purty Boy,' and challenged him. Well, Rollins laid his gunbelt right up on this bar and proceeded to whip Odom's ass all over this room. Knocked him down at least five times.

“I remember the day you fought Odom, and you made short work of it, but your friend put on a show while he was doing it. Every time Odom got to his feet, Rollins would knock him on his ass again. He was laughing all the time he was doing it, too. I don't think Jiggs ever landed a single punch that hurt Rollins. I tell you, I've seen a few professionals, but I sure ain't seen nobody like him. He just does it all so quick and makes it look so damn easy.”

Zack had sat nodding throughout the narration, showing no surprise at what he was hearing.

“Here I am telling you all this,” Hayes said, pouring more whiskey for Zack. “I bet you've seen Rollins operate before.”

Zack chuckled, then nodded. “I'm afraid so,” he said. Then he headed for the outhouse to answer nature's call, leaving Jolly Ross and the bartender in conversation.

“I just went to work for Zack Hunter about a month ago,” Ross said to Hayes, “and I really don't know a whole lot about him. You say you saw him whip Jiggs Odom right here in the saloon?”

“Uh-huh. He did Odom just like he'll do anybody else who gives him any shit. He's the best I've ever seen, unless it would be his friend, Rollins. They're both from somewhere in Tennessee, you know. A fellow told me last week that every man he'd ever known from Tennessee was just like them: strong as a damn ox and quick as a cat. Must be something in the water back there.”

Ross smiled and touched a match to his cigarette. “Maybe so,” he said. He slid from his stool and headed toward the front door, for Zack was waiting for him there. Both men waved to the bartender as they walked out of the building.

They were soon standing in front of the hardware store. “I'll see if they have a middle-buster and some Johnson Wings here,” Zack said. “Then we'll hunt up the other stuff we need. Once we get everything bought and sacked up, I'll go get the wagon.”

Two hours later, they left town with the wagon loaded. Zack whipped the horses to a trot, hoping to get home before dark.

9

Bret Rollins had spent two weeks in Austin, but found the town not to his liking. During the third week, he headed north and after riding leisurely for several days, arrived in Waco, a wide-open, hell-raising town situated on the Brazos River. Located in a rich agricultural region, Waco became home to its first white settlers around 1849. Great plantations along the river prospered for a time, until the Civil War spoiled the plantation economy and scattered the population.

The Brazos River separated Waco east from west, and the largest suspension bridge in America was built there in 1870. Much of the great Western movement passed over that bridge, as did the famous Chisholm Trail. The town quickly boomed again, attaining a state of wildness that earned it the nickname “Six-shooter Junction.”

Criminals and con men of every stripe soon set up shop in Waco, using a myriad of schemes to separate the travelers and the trail drivers from their hard-earned money. Several well-known gunfighters also lived there, and though none of them showed visible means of support, all seemed to have plenty of money to spend. The town fathers tolerated the gunmen, whores and gamblers, for it was a prosperous time for all. Local lawmen also looked the other way, ever mindful of who paid their salaries.

Besides, the seamy element was largely responsible for keeping the money in circulation. While a day merchant would likely salt his profits away in the bank, that was not the case with the night people, whose “easy come, easy go” attitude kept the money moving until it found its way into the general population. Indeed, after 1870, money was a little easier to come by for every man in the area, regardless of his station in life.

Rollins rode into Waco in the middle of the afternoon. After crossing the bridge, he rode south along the river, for he could see the livery stable and its large corral. The big roan also noticed the stable and broke into a trot, sensing that he was about to be fed and pampered.

“You got someplace where you can lock up my shotgun and my bedroll?” Rollins asked, handing the roan's reins to the liveryman.

“I'll put 'em in the office,” the man said. “I not only keep it locked, I sleep in it. Ain't nobody coming in there, at least nobody that expects to walk out again.”

Rollins smiled and nodded. He stood watching for a while as the hostler unsaddled and cared for the roan. “Don't know how long I'll be leaving the horse here,” he said. “Might be two days or two months.”

The big hostler offered a toothy grin. “I like the sound of two months better,” he said. “That's the way I make my living.”

With his saddlebags across his shoulder and a change of clothing under his arm, Rollins headed up the street toward a hotel he had spotted earlier. When he rented a second-story room a few minutes later, he was informed by the desk clerk that a hot bath could be had at the barber shop a few doors to the north. Bret was out the door quickly; he also needed a shave and a haircut.

Having been told by both the barber and the desk clerk that the Texas Saloon served the best food in town, Rollins took a seat at a table in the establishment an hour before sunset. A dark-haired waitress was there at once. “Have you ever tried one of our broiled veal steaks, sir?” she asked, fluttering her extra-long eyelashes.

“Not until now,” Bret said, winking. “Bring it on.”

The girl nodded and was gone.

Though the dining area was a roped-off section close to the kitchen, Rollins nevertheless had an excellent view of the activity throughout the huge room. At the moment, two bartenders stood idly behind a forty-foot bar in the center of the building, smoking cigarettes and carrying on a conversation between themselves. No drinkers sat at the bar just now, but both bartenders would no doubt be working at a hurried pace before the night was over.

On the opposite side of the bar from the kitchen there was a large drinking and frolicking area. Though many saloons removed their heaters during the summer and returned them in the winter, the Texas did not. The large potbelly stood in the center of the room year-round. Dozens of chairs and tables of varying sizes were scattered around the stove, which had not been fired in months.

Farther toward the rear of the room was a small hardwood dance floor, and beyond that, an elevated stage where entertainers performed. Against the north wall, close to the dance floor, a steep staircase led to the second floor. A man needed little imagination to guess what went on upstairs.

The remaining area along the north wall, from the staircase to the front of the building, was devoted to gaming tables. There were six tables in all, three of them set up for poker, and Rollins could see what appeared to be a four-handed stud game in progress at one of them. There was no action of any kind at the remaining tables, and even the house dealers, who usually sat around trying to drum up a game, were noticeably absent. Rollins began to concentrate on his meal, knowing that the picture would change dramatically when the sun went down.

When he paid for his supper, he gave the waitress a quarter and another wink, then headed for the bar. “Whiskey,” he said to the nearest bartender, then took a seat on a stool. His drink was served quickly. “Enjoy your supper?” the barkeep asked, his raised eyebrows and sincere tone of voice suggesting that perhaps his prosperity was directly related to the quality of food dispensed by the kitchen.

Rollins nodded. “I sure did,” he said. “The food was excellent.”

The bartender nodded several times, smiling broadly. “I can't think of nobody I ever asked that didn't say the same thing.” He was a dark-complected man of medium height, who appeared to weigh about one-fifty. “I tell you,” he continued, “the best thing old Al Foster ever did was lease that kitchen to Maggie Leafgreen. In less than a year, she's turned it into the best eating place in this town, and it's full every night.

“If you ain't never tried none of her Mexican food, you owe it to yourself. She's got two Mexican cooks back there that don't do nothing else.” He topped off Bret's whiskey glass and wiped at a wet spot on the bar. “Maggie's my mother-in-law, you know.”

Bret stared at his glass for a moment, then shook his head. “No,” he said, “I didn't know.”

“Oh, yeah. I married her daughter four years ago.” He poked his arm across the bar, offering a handshake. “By the way, my name's Tim Overstreet.”

Bret pumped the hand a few times. “My name's Rollins,” he said, “and I'm new in the area.” He took a sip of his whiskey, then spoke to Overstreet again: “You mentioned a man named Al Foster,” he said. “I assume he owns this place.”

“This and a lot of other things. He bought the saloon for a song back several years ago. I reckon the only money he ever spent on it was to patch the roof a little. Maybe at the time he bought it, the place wasn't worth no more'n he paid. All I know is that when they built the bridge and the travelers and the trail herds started coming through town, the Texas Saloon became a gold mine. If you'll drop back in here about ten o'clock tonight, you'll see what I mean.”

Rollins upended his glass, got to his feet and offered the bartender a parting handshake. “I'll do that, Tim. As far as I know, I'll be back about ten.”

Bret walked the streets for a while, paying particular attention to the seedy buildings alongside the river. Peeking inside their open doorways, he saw that some of the run-down saloons had pool tables, with games in progress. He had no doubt that large sums of money sometimes changed hands in these out-of-the-way places, but they were also breeding grounds for violence, and he wanted to call as little attention to himself as possible. He would return to the Texas Saloon after a while. The Texas had no pool tables, but he was an excellent poker player, and he felt that a winner was more likely to get out of the Texas alive than if he played in some of the waterfront saloons.

It was not yet ten o'clock when Rollins returned to the Texas, but the place was already crowded, with men jostling each other for a position at the bar. Tim Overstreet was hard at work, as was his counterpart at the far end of the plank. Rollins stood leaning against a post for a few moments, then moved closer to the gaming tables. Many house dealers would not deal more than six poker hands at a time, and Rollins saw immediately that six players sat at each of the tables. He spoke to the dealer of a draw poker game: “I'd like to take a hand when you get an open seat.”

The man gave him a quick glance, then continued to shuffle the cards. “The only way to guarantee yourself a seat is to put up some money. Then if you ain't here when a seat comes open, you'll have to pay the ante anyway. Every hand that's dealt, you'll have to pay the ante, just like you would if you was sittin' there.”

Rollins shrugged. “I understand.” He laid a double eagle in front of the dealer. “I won't be far away; I'll be able to see when somebody drops out of the game.” Then he headed for the crowded bar to see if he could catch the eye of Tim Overstreet and get a drink. The bartender spotted Bret immediately. He motioned him to the bar and handed him a glass of whiskey, waving away his attempt to pay. Bret accepted the glass and returned to the post. Standing in the dimly lit center of the room, he had a good view of the gaming tables, and could even read the facial expressions of a few of the gamblers.

Half an hour later, a man at the poker table threw down his cards in disgust and cursed loudly, pushing his chair back. Knowing that a seat was about to become available, Rollins was there quickly. “Hope this damned chair treats you better'n it did me,” the departing gambler said. “I sat there nearly two hours and won one stinkin' little pot.”

Rollins smiled at the man and took the chair. “I've had my share of cold seats, too,” he said. “Maybe it'll warm up after a while.” The man disappeared, and Rollins laid a hundred dollars on the table.

“Table stakes with a dime ante,” the dealer informed him, then began to gather up the scattered cards. “Five-card draw with nothin' wild.”

“How about checks and raises?” Rollins asked. “After you've checked your hand to the man behind you, can you raise the pot if somebody else bets?”

“Damn tootin',” the dealer said, motioning to him that he should ante up. “Around here, we call it settin' a trap. If you check your hand and a man's fool enough to come bettin' into you, you can raise his ass every penny he's got in front of him. That's why we call it table stakes. You can bet a man everything he's got anytime you want to; he's got to call the bet or fold his cards.”

Rollins nodded and dropped a dime in the pot. He had not needed the dealer's explanation of how the game was played. He had mentioned checks and raises mostly to plant a seed in the minds of his opponents around the table, hoping to make them wary of betting into him if he chose to check a weak hand. He had also asked the question because he had played in games before where raising after checking a hand was not tolerated. He had long ago made it his policy to ask questions before taking a hand of cards at a strange table. It simply cleared the air and left less room for arguments.