The H&R Cattle Company (17 page)

“I'll talk to Pappy tonight,” Dalton said as Bret left the restaurant. “He'll be ready and waiting on you.”

11

Walt Dalton and his sons stayed on the ranch for ten weeks. Then, their project completed, they headed for their own home. The corral had been built first, then the bunkhouse, then the barn, and yesterday the workers had finished nailing the roof on the ranch house. They had also added two rooms and another fireplace, making the house both larger and warmer.

Dixie Dalton was an excellent cook and had agreed to stay on year-round. Though he was agreeable, genial and sociable, and called every man on the premises by his first name, he had nevertheless insisted on having his own private quarters built on to the cookshack so that he could shut out the world when his day's work was done.

He had come to Texas in 1848 and settled by the Lampasas River. Being a native of Florida, he was not long in acquiring the nickname “Dixie,” a name that he seemed quite proud to bear. A six-footer and a little on the skinny side, he was quick to tell one and all that he stayed thin because, unlike most men he knew, he ate only as much food as his body needed. Dixie Dalton seemed happy enough with his cooking job, and was appreciated by all concerned.

Today Hunter and Rollins stood on the ranch-house porch. Neither man wore a coat, for although 1876 was only one week old, the winter thus far had been mild and the day was unseasonably warm. “This is the prettiest place I've ever seen, Bret,” Zack said, his eyes cast down the slope to the river.

Rollins pulled up a chair and seated himself. “I believe it's gonna be one of the finest ranches in this part of the country, Zack. It'll be a moneymaker, too. Maybe as time goes on, we can double, triple or even quadruple the size of it.”

Zack began to shake his head slowly, a faint smile forming on his lips. “A forty-thousand-acre Hereford ranch? You're making my mouth water, Bret.”

“Hell, yes,” Rollins said, getting to his feet and pointing north. “All we've got to do is get the land, the bulls will stock it for us in three years. I agree wholeheartedly with Will Dempsey. He says that Texas land ain't gonna stay reasonably priced much longer, that a man who intends to ranch ought to grab as much as he can right now while it's cheap.”

“Makes sense,” Zack said.

“Sure it does. I intend to head for Beaumont next week and get Manuel Gonzalez started rounding us up a thousand head of longhorns. I'll have to hire a crew to drive 'em back here, 'cause Dempsey says the Mexicans are unwilling to give up the fiesta and the siesta for such long periods of time. They like to drink and party above all else”

Rollins walked the length of the porch, then returned to his chair. “As soon as I close the deal for the longhorns and get them lined out in this direction, I'll head for Fort Worth and put in my order with Rafe Baskin for thirty-five Hereford bulls. I should be able to hire some men to help me drive them here to the ranch.”

“You should find some riders easy, Bret. Wintertime puts an awful lot of men out of work. I'd say there are hundreds of broke and thirsty men around a place like Fort Worth.” Zack walked down the steps and into the yard. “I'm going to the cookshack to eat, then ride into town and order six more mattresses for the bunkhouse. We need more blankets, too.”

“Good idea,” Rollins said, falling in beside him. “I'll eat dinner with you, but you'll have to go into town alone. I promised Dixie I'd try to get a deer for him this evening. I want to try out that new Winchester I bought last week, anyway.”

They ate ham and beans, then talked through two cups of coffee. “You mentioned increasing the size of the ranch, Bret,” Zack was saying. “After we get a calf or two out of the longhorns, we'll send the cows to market. That'll give us enough money to see if any of our neighbors are in the mood to sell.”

“If they're not, we'll buy some property somewhere else,” Rollins said quickly.

“Right,” Zack said, getting to his feet. “No law against us owning more than one ranch.” He headed for the corral, where he saddled the bay, shoved his Henry in the scabbard and headed east at a canter. He would be in Lampasas in less than two hours.

In town, Zack paid a visit to a merchant named Clyde Beers. When informed that Zack needed mattresses, Beers nodded, saying that he had any type of bedding a man might need stored in a warehouse behind his store. “I can't take them today, Clyde,” Zack said. “I'm traveling on horseback. I'll just pay you for them now, then send a man back with a wagon tomorrow.” He began to fish money out of his pocket.

Beers refused payment for the moment by shaking his head, then stepped out from behind the counter. “Let's walk back to the warehouse, Mister Hunter. If you'll put your finger on the exact things you need, then I'll know how much to charge you. It'll also eliminate the chance of me making a mistake when I load your wagon tomorrow.”

Zack chose the things he needed, and the men laid them aside in a separate pile. He was about to leave the building when he suddenly remembered something an old rancher had said to him in the White Horse Saloon: “Th' better ya treat yer ranch hands, th' more apt they are ta stay with ya,” the old-timer had said. Zack recalled the comical picture the old rancher had made with tobacco juice dripping off his chin. Now he pointed to a shelf along the warehouse wall. “I'll take a dozen of those feather pillows, Clyde.”

Zack had two drinks at the White Horse Saloon. There were only two men in the saloon that he had seen before: Jiggs Odom and the bartender, Ed Hayes. He spoke with Hayes for a few minutes, ignoring Odom, who sat at the far end of the bar talking with other drinkers. Zack was in the saloon less than twenty minutes and then headed for the livery stable.

At the stable, he watered his horse and talked with Oscar Land for a short while, then took the road home. Alternating between a canter and a fast trot, he expected to reach the ranch before sunset.

He was halfway home and had just slowed his horse to a walking gait when he heard a gunshot, the sound coming from somewhere north of the road. Somebody shooting game for the table, Zack thought, and continued on his way. He changed his mind a few steps later when he heard and felt the wind from a rifle slug pass within inches of his face, followed by the sound of another gunshot.

Hunter was out of the saddle quickly, clutching the Henry in his right hand. In the same fluid movement, he was behind a clump of short mesquite trees at the side of the road. His horse trotted off to his right for only a short distance, then stopped and began to crop grass. Crouched low to the ground, Zack peeked around the trunk of a tree, taking a long look up the slope to the north. Nothing was moving.

Trying to pinpoint the exact spot from which the shots had come was useless, for the sound had seemed to echo down the hill. Zack knew only that they had come from somewhere up that slope, on the north side of the road. There were hundreds of places up there for a man to hide, for the entire area was littered with scrubby mesquites and cedars.

Crouched behind the trees, he was relatively safe from any gunfire coming from the north side of the road, and he fully intended to stay where he was till dark. He could see for at least a mile in either direction on the road, so the chances of someone crossing to the south side and coming in behind him undetected were slim. He lay motionless, waiting for movement up the slope or for darkness, whichever came first. Then, after a time, he began to move around a little, hoping to make the shooter fire again and give away his hiding place with a telltale puff of smoke. It did not happen.

After what seemed like hours to Zack, the sun finally settled below the western horizon and darkness followed quickly. Speaking softly as he approached his horse, he caught the animal easily, mounted and headed back to Lampasas at a fast pace, his Henry held high and ready for action.

When he reached town, he tied his animal at the White Horse's hitching rail, then ran his hand along the backs and sides of the other horses tied there. All of the animals were dry. He shoved his rifle in the boot and walked inside the saloon. “Give me a beer, Ed.” The bartender delivered, and Zack took a stool. “I see that Jiggs Odom is still down at the end of the bar drinking,” he said, dropping a coin on the bar.

“Been at it all day long,” the bartender said. “He was waiting for me when I opened up and he's been here ever since.”

Zack took a sip of his beer. “You're positive that he's been here all day, Ed?”

“Of course I'm positive,” Hayes said quickly. “Now, he might've walked outside to piss a few times, but he ain't never been gone more'n a coupla minutes. Hell, I've been talking to him most of the day.” He wiped at the bar for a moment, then asked the logical question: “How come you're asking about Jiggs?”

Zack finished his beer and got to his feet. “No reason in particular, Ed. I just thought I saw somebody who looked like him out on the road.”

“Well, there ain't no whole lot of men around here as big as Jiggs,” Hayes said, shaking his head, “but it sure wasn't him you saw.” The bartender was still shaking his head when Zack left the building.

Back on the street, Zack stood beside the hitching rail for a while. He could easily see that none of the horses tied there had made a hard run recently. And the bartender had said that Zack's only suspect had been inside the White Horse Saloon all day. Zack believed him.

As he lay behind the mesquite trees shortly after the rifle shot had barely missed his nose, Zack had thought immediately of Jiggs Odom. Though Odom himself had said that he held no hard feelings over the beating Zack had given him, Zack could think of no one else who would have even the slightest excuse for trying to do him in. He had no doubt that somebody wanted him dead, however, for he was thoroughly convinced that the shooter had meant business.

He mounted and rode up one side of the street and down the other, checking the hitching rails for horses that had been run hard lately. He found none.

A few minutes later, he delivered his horse to the livery stable. “Put him up and take care of him, Oscar,” he said, handing the reins to the liveryman. “I'll be spending the night in town.” With his Colt tucked behind his waistband, his saddlebags across his shoulder and the Henry resting in the cradle of one arm, he headed up the street at a brisk pace.

He stopped at the Hartley Hotel and after signing his name, was given an upstairs room. He locked the door and lay on the bed thinking. Who in the world would have a reason to shoot at him? Zack could think of no answer. Of one thing he was convinced: the close call had certainly been no accident, for the shooter had shot too high to be shooting at game. No, sir, the man behind the rifle had intended to kill him.

Zack's main reason for spending the night in town was to inform the sheriff that a sniper had made an attempt to end his life and that he fully intended to shoot back if and when he saw something suspicious to shoot at. Zack had decided that it was too late to go looking for the sheriff tonight, but he would be in the lawman's office tomorrow morning.

D. B. “Pete” Pope, a native of Jackson County, Mississippi, had been Lampasas County's sheriff for many years. Due to the fact that he had won two previous terms by landslide margins, he had run unopposed in the most recent election. A man of medium height and build, Pope had a weathered complexion, and hair that had long since turned to salt-and-pepper. Though his age was probably somewhere around the half-century mark, he moved about spryly, and his popularity throughout the county was reflected in the fact that nobody chose to run against him this past November.

Pope was sitting behind a scarred oak desk when Zack walked into his office the following morning. He was on his feet quickly, walking around the corner of the desk and extending his right hand. “Good morning, Mister Hunter,” he said, pushing a chair out with his foot. “Have a seat.”

Zack took the lawman's hand. “Kinda surprised that you know my name,” he said.

The sheriff chuckled. “This is my county, Mister Hunter; it's my business to know who lives in it.” He waited until Zack had seated himself, then continued, “Besides, it ain't likely that anybody's gonna buy up ten thousand acres of choice property around here without me knowing it.” He moved behind his desk and reseated himself, then asked, “Something I can do for you?”

“Well, I don't really know that you can do anything about it,” Zack began, “but somebody took two shots at me on County Line Road yesterday afternoon. Rifle shots, Sheriff, and if the shooter had been a better marksman by just two or three inches, I wouldn't be here. I didn't return the fire because I didn't see anything to shoot at. I took cover and waited till after dark, then rode back to town.”

The sheriff had listened attentively. He leaned closer. “You saw no man or horse or powder smoke?”

“I saw nothing,” Zack said. “I kept my eyes glued to that slope north of the road till dark, more than an hour. Nothing moved.”

The sheriff sat thoughtfully for a few moments. “How far from town? Do you remember exactly where you were when the shooting started?”

“Of course,” Zack said. “I was on that long straightaway about five miles west of town. You know where Rat Creek is?”

Pope nodded.

“Well, right past the plank bridge there's a cluster of mesquite trees, on the left-hand side of the road. I was about even with them when the second shot came, the one that came so close. I took cover behind the trees and waited till dark.”

“Did you have a firearm yourself?” Pope asked.

“Had a Henry in my hand when I jumped behind the trees, and whoever was up that slope saw it. I guess the main reason he didn't fire again was because he knew I'd be shooting back if he gave away his position.”

Pope nodded. “I'd say you're right about that.” He stared at the window a while, then spoke again: “Can you even make a guess as to who the gunman might be, or what kind of rifle you heard?”