The H&R Cattle Company (33 page)

It was broad daylight when he left the house, his coat in one hand and his Winchester in the other. He carried no bedding or blankets, for he did not intend to spend the night on the trail. He saddled the roan, shoved the Winchester in the boot and mounted. Then, guiding the eager animal to the road, he kicked it to a canter and headed southwest. It would take most of the day to reach Llano.

*   *   *

Rollins returned to Lampasas one hour before sunset three days later. He had met with Clyde Post and found the man ready to play poker. The game would take place a week from next Saturday, nine days from now, and would be played at the White Horse Saloon.

He rode straight through town to the livery stable. He had no more than a quart of oats at home and was completely out of hay, so he would leave the roan with Oscar Land for a few days. Riding through the wide front door, he dismounted and handed the reins to Land.

The hostler quickly stripped the saddle and began to wipe the animal down. “Pretty horse you got here,” he said. “I've always liked him. I remember that you don't have to hold his feet up when you shoe him. He'll hold his foot right up there for you himself, just as pretty as you please. It's like he knows you're doing something good for him, so he's helping you out.”

Rollins nodded. “Yeah.” Then he jerked his thumb toward the nearest stall. “I saw that high-stepping gray there on the street a few days ago. Who does it belong to?”

“It's been here about a week. Belongs to a man who's been staying at the Hartley Hotel.”

Rollins was not satisfied with Land's answer. “That was not the question, Oscar. What the hell is the man's name?”

“Denning,” Land said dejectedly. “Told me his name was Leo Denning.”

Leo Denning! Rollins repeated to himself. He immediately thought of Al Denning, the man he had shot in the alley beside Shirley Doolen's house. He now understood why Leo Denning had looked so familiar riding down the street: he was a close relative, maybe even a brother, of Al Denning. Of course he was in Lampasas looking for a man, and that man's name was Bret Rollins.

Feeling a little uneasy now, Bret walked to the open door and looked down the street, seeing nothing that aroused his suspicion. He turned back to Land. “Did Denning say anything about what he's doing in Lampasas, Oscar?”

“Nope. He don't seem like much of a talkative fellow. Just told me what he wanted, and that was it.”

“What was it, Oscar? What did he want?”

Land let out an audible sigh. “Hell, Bret, he just told me to take care of his horse. Said he didn't know how long he'd be in town. He comes after the horse every day and rides it an hour or two, then brings it back.”

Rollins stood in thought for a few moments, then nodded. “Thank you, Oscar,” he said. “I want you to do the exact same thing with my horse. Just take care of the roan till you hear from me again.” He looked down the street once more, then began to walk toward his house, his coat and saddlebags over his shoulder and his Winchester cradled in the crook of one arm.

He continued walking through town at a fast clip and encountered only a few people, most of whom were acquaintances. The first thing he did after arriving home was to bring a bucket of water from the spring. Then, with his rifle leaning against the wall and a cup of cold water in his hand, he took a seat on the porch to enjoy one of his favorite pastimes: watching the sun disappear into the earth.

He sat on the porch till dark, his thoughts mostly on a man named Leo Denning. The man was obviously looking for somebody, but maybe it was somebody other than Bret Rollins. Rollins was thinking that if he himself was the reason for Denning's visit to Lampasas, the man would have found him long before now. Hell, Rollins was well known in the area, and almost any drinker in any saloon in town would be able to tell Denning exactly where he lived.

A hired killer might very well choose to attack a man while he was sleeping. A gunfighter, however, would be careful about choosing a neutral location for a showdown. A gunfighter would know that shooting a man in his own home could easily result in a date with the hangman. After thinking long and hard, Rollins came to believe that Denning was indeed a gunfighter and that he himself was the man's probable target. Never one to put off the inevitable, he decided to find out.

He bathed, shaved and changed into clean clothing, then walked to Toby's T-Bone for supper. A Mexican waiter took his order, and Rollins managed to eat his meal without catching Shirley Doolen's eye. As he paid for his food, he saw her watching him from across the room. He waved and she returned the gesture. She smiled and mouthed something, but Rollins could not read her lips.

Then he was on the street, determined to make himself easy to find. He walked up one side of Main Street and down the other. He made a left turn at the livery stable and wandered up and down some of the streets on the north side of town, eventually ending up at the Twin Oaks Saloon.

“Haven't seen you in a while, Rollins,” Jake Smith said, walking down the bar with a beer in his hand. He placed the foamy mug in front of Rollins. “You been doing all right?”

“Doing fine, Jake. Been out of town for a few days.” He looked around the room for a moment, then smiled. He was the only customer in the building. “Is business always this good?” he asked jokingly.

Smith nodded and chuckled softly. “Business has been terrible all this year, Bret. Then about two weeks ago, it got worse. Hardly ever a day that I take in more than twenty dollars.”

Rollins shook his head sympathetically, then reached for his beer. He had the mug almost to his lips when he heard the front door slam. Out of the corner of his eye he could see a man standing just inside the door. He set his beer down slowly, then turned on his stool to get a better look at the newcomer: Leo Denning!

Denning looked just as he had the first time Rollins saw him, and in fact, seemed to have on the same clothing. His yellow hair hung out on all sides of the flat-crowned Stetson, but seemed to be cut short enough in front to keep it out of his eyes. What Rollins noticed most, however, was the Colt on his hip. The Peacemaker rode in a cutaway holster that had no thong and was tied to his right leg with rawhide.

Denning stood in his tracks for quite some time, staring straight ahead. Then he took a few steps forward. He pointed to Rollins and spoke with a snarl: “You've just been walkin' around darin' me, ain't you? Struttin' all over town!”

Bret was on his feet now and had moved away from his stool. He was watching Denning like a hawk. “I've always considered myself too smart to dare anybody, fellow. I don't even know you, but if you're who I think you are, it's pretty easy to figure out what's on your mind.”

“Guess by God it oughtta be easy. I'm Leo Denning, younger brother of the man you waylaid in the alley and shot down in cold blood. I'm takin' up his fight, fellow. By God—”

The man was dead before he hit the floor. Even as Denning was talking, Rollins, always one to seize the upper hand, had shot out his right eye. Denning never moved after falling.

Jake Smith stood behind the bar with his mouth open. “I tell you right now, Bret, that man was fast.”

“I know,” Rollins said, holstering his weapon. The man had been fast indeed, for even though Rollins had moved first, Denning had almost matched his draw. He had gotten his gun out of its holster, but had died before he could raise his shooting arm.

Rollins reseated himself on the barstool. “Give me a drink of that good whiskey, Jake.”

The bartender complied, then set the bottle on the bar. “I guess somebody from the sheriff's office might have heard the shot,” he said. “If not, I'll send the first customer who comes along out to fetch Sheriff Pope.”

Sheriff Pope and Deputy Hillman were on the scene within the hour. Pope picked up Denning's Colt and sniffed the barrel, then spoke to Smith: “Did you see the whole thing, Jake?”

“Yep.”

“Did you hear everything that was said?”

“Every word.”

“Would you mind letting me hear those words?”

“Hell, Pete, there wasn't all that much said.” He pointed to the body. “That fellow there just as much as told Bret that he'd come to kill him. Said he was a brother to that Denning fellow Bret shot a while back and that he was here to take up his brother's fight. Simple case of self-defense, Sheriff, cut and dried.”

Pope bit his lip and sniffed the Peacemaker again. “I guess so,” he said. He ordered Deputy Hillman to recruit some help and remove the body from the premises. Then, on his way out of the building, the sheriff spoke to Rollins: “Seems like every time I see you lately, there's a dead man close by.”

Rollins looked the lawman squarely in the eye. “I don't plan it that way, Sheriff.”

Pope spun on his heel and was quickly out the door. A few minutes later, Rollins also left the building. With the knowledge that nobody was stalking him, he would sleep well tonight.

22

Hunter made it a point to be in Lampasas during the weekend of the big game. Late Friday afternoon he sat at the bar in the Twin Oaks Saloon sipping a beer and talking with Jake Smith. At the moment, Smith was discussing Rollins' most recent gunfight. “I tell you, Zack, if Rollins hadn't moved first, I don't believe he'd still be with us. That Denning fellow was quicker'n a damn cat. He got a late start on his draw, but he damn near beat Rollins anyway.”

“That's what I've heard,” Zack said, pushing his mug forward for a refill. “Bret says the same thing. He knows how close he came to losing.”

Smith served the beer, then poured himself a stiff drink of whiskey. He seated himself on his own stool and changed the subject. “I'm sure you know about the high-stakes poker game that's starting tomorrow up at the White Horse,” he said. “Gonna be some heavy betting in that game, Zack. Can't no poor folks even get a seat at the table. I hear tell it's a ten-thousand-dollar buy-in.”

Zack nodded. “I believe that's the way they set it up.”

Smith reached for a pitcher, added a little water to his whiskey and took another sip. “Good poker players,” he said, “every single one of 'em. And they've all got plenty of money to play with. Don't guess Clyde Post even knows what he's worth, but Pascal Peters and Hiram Wooten ain't far behind. It's gonna be a four-handed game, and that's the three men Rollins is gonna be up against.” He touched his drink to his lips. Then, apparently deciding that he had added too much water to the glass, he poured in a little more whiskey. “I tell you right now, if I was a betting man, I'd bet my money on Rollins. He don't always win a whole lot, but he just damn nearly don't ever lose. He's real bad about letting somebody else win the little pots and then dragging all the big ones himself.”

Zack chuckled. “Bret says that's the way the game is supposed to be played.”

“No doubt.” Smith scratched at the label on the whiskey bottle with a thumbnail, apparently in deep thought. “It sure would have helped my business if the game had been played here at the Twin Oaks,” he said finally. He sat shaking his head for a moment. “I've known Clyde Post for more than twenty years, Zack, and the man has never paid me the courtesy of having a drink in my saloon. I don't reckon he dislikes me or anything like that, he just by God don't come around.”

“Maybe it's only because your place is off the beaten path, Jake.”

Smith shook his head. “Nope. I used to think so, but not anymore. Post owns at least a thousand saddle horses, so he could certainly come by here without walking. Besides, coming into town from the southwest like he usually does, my place is just as close as the White Horse. No, sir, Clyde Post has got a reason for staying clear of this saloon, and for the life of me, I can't figure out what it is.” He got to his feet and dropped his empty glass into a pan of water. “One thing is for sure,” he added, “I'll certainly never ask Mister Post to explain it.”

Zack left the Twin Oaks a few minutes before dark and walked to Toby's T-Bone for supper. The restaurant was filled to capacity, and he stood leaning against the wall, waiting. When a small table became available a short time later, he was motioned forward by the Mexican waiter.

He ordered roast pork and applesauce, then leaned back in his chair. Though every seat in the building was occupied, he could see very few people that he recognized. A few men were treating their ladies to supper and were dressed in their Sunday best, but the crowd for the most part was made up of working men who wore overalls or, like himself, jeans and flannel shirt.

Zack continued to look around the room. Even the few faces that he recognized, he could not put a name to. Putting names to faces had certainly never been a problem for Rollins, he was thinking. Zack would not have been surprised if Rollins could call the name of every person in the restaurant, including the businessmen and their wives. Especially the wives. Zack smiled at the thought.

When he had eaten and paid for his meal, he headed for the front door, returning Shirley Doolen's greeting as she smiled and waved flirtatiously from across the room. He was still smiling when he reached the street, thinking of the girl's blueberry pie and wondering if she had gotten back into Bret's good graces yet.

Zack had arrived in town at noon today and immediately ridden to Rollins' cottage. His knock at the door had gone unanswered. The fact that Rollins' roan was in the corral, however, meant that he was somewhere around town. Zack had ridden around for the next two hours peeking through the doors and windows of one business establishment after another, but had seen no sign of his partner. Then, intending to spend the night in town anyway, he had ridden to the livery stable and turned his horse over to Oscar Land.

Now, standing outside Toby's T-Bone just before sunset, he decided to check Bret's house again. Walking at a fast clip, he had traveled only a short way when he met Bret walking toward town. “I checked all of your hangouts that I know about,” Zack said, grasping Bret's hand, “so I figured you'd be back home by now.”