The H&R Cattle Company (34 page)

“I had a jillion things to do, Zack. Been going all day. I finally walked back to the house and slept about an hour. I feel pretty good now, so good that I'll buy you a drink at the White Horse.”

“I'll take you up on that,” Zack said. “Seems like I need one to hold my supper down.”

They were soon seated at a small table near the back wall of the saloon, well away from the gaming tables. Looking around the room, Zack decided that the crowd was much smaller than normal for this place. Even so, there were more men here than he had ever seen in the Twin Oaks. Once again, he wondered how Jake Smith managed to survive.

Rollins had brought a bottle and two glasses from the bar and was now busy pouring drinks. He set the bottle down and nodded toward a group of men in the center of the room. “I see Mister Post is already celebrating the things he's gonna do to me in the poker game tomorrow.”

Zack turned his head for a better look. A group of eight men had pushed two tables together and were seated around several bottles of whiskey. Somebody had obviously just told a funny joke, for the boisterous laughter of the group seemed to shake the room. An old man sitting at the end of the table, whom Rollins identified as Clyde Post, laughed loudest of all.

Zack watched the men for a while, then decided that it had been Post himself who had told the joke. The laughter subsided several times but erupted again each time Post decided to chuckle. It was the same old story, Zack was thinking: the worker was compelled to laugh at the boss's jokes, and if a rich man thought something was a bit humorous, it was hilarious to everybody else.

Rollins topped off their whiskey glasses and set the bottle down again. “Peters and Wooten are over there, too,” he said. “That's Wooten at the opposite end of the table, and the bald-headed younger man seated on Wooten's right is Pascal Peters. I've heard that Peters was a cattle rustler in the old days, but now they say he's got money to burn. I guess that's true, 'cause he sure throws it around like he's got plenty more in his sock. He'll bet you two or three hundred dollars on a damned pair of deuces.

“Now Wooten I don't know much about, except that he was born rich. Everybody says that his folks were originally from Chicago and that they brought a bundle with them when they moved to Texas. Wooten owns several ranches, and I heard that he sent half a dozen herds north to the rails last year. By God, I'm talking about money now, Zack.”

Zack took a sip of whiskey, then cleared his throat. “I believe you, Slick,” he said, taking another look across the room at Wooten. He had long thought that people with money had a certain look, and he could easily see that Wooten had it. Appearing to be about sixty years old, he was clean-shaven, with thinning brown hair and a look of confidence that said the world could kiss his ass, that he would make it just fine even if syrup went to a thousand dollars a sop. He was also the man who had laughed the least at Post's jokes.

Zack had been told so much about Clyde Post that he spent little time looking him over. He was more interested in Wooten and Peters. Pascal Peters appeared to be no more than thirty-five years old, and though his head was poked partway into a Stetson, it was easy to see that he was prematurely bald. A beefy man who probably stood at least six feet tall, his pinkish complexion suggested that he had once been a blond or a redhead. “Where does Peters live?” Zack asked.

“His main spread is a few miles west of Llano. I believe he also owns at least one saloon in Austin. This is not the first time I've seen him with Wooten. I think he follows the old man around and kisses his ass every chance he gets. Wooten is probably the man who taught him how to get rich.”

When the men at the long table recognized Rollins, each of them waved and called out a greeting. Rollins nodded, smiled and waved his arm back at them, then ignored the table. Anything else he had to say to the men would be said over a poker hand less than twenty-four hours from now.

*   *   *

Hunter slept the night away in Bret's extra bed and was up at the first hint of daybreak. He built a fire in the stove and put on the coffeepot, then walked to the corral to feed Bret's roan. As the animal ate its oats, Zack chuckled and began to speak to it. “How do you like living in Texas, old buddy?” he asked, scratching the horse's ears. “You don't have the slightest idea that you used to belong to a rich doctor in Shelby County, Tennessee, do you?” He gave the animal's neck a final pat, then returned to the house.

Rollins was sitting at the kitchen table in his underwear, opening flat tins of fish and dumping them onto plates. “I don't remember us ever having fish and crackers for breakfast before, but there ain't a hell of a lot else around here to eat. I've been eating all my meals in town lately and just haven't bought anything for the house.”

Zack pulled up a chair and reached for one of the plates. “Don't worry about it,” he said. “I've been fish-hungry for quite a while and this might be the only chance I get to eat some. I sure as hell haven't been able to catch any from the Colorado River.”

Rollins filled two cups from the coffeepot. “The fish are in there, Zack. You just don't know how to catch them.”

Zack blew into his steaming cup. “I suppose you do know how, huh?”

“Nope. But I do know that Toby's T-Bone serves somewhere between a dozen and forty fish plates a day and every damn one of those fish comes right out of that river. Some people fish for a living, Zack. If you could watch a few of them and see how they do it, I think your own stringers would be a little heavier.”

“Professor Rollins,” Zack said sarcastically and began to wash down the fish and crackers with hot coffee.

Zack could not think of many things more boring than watching a poker game and said so. He informed Rollins shortly after breakfast that he intended to be somewhere else when the game got underway. He left the cottage at mid-morning.

Rollins stood on the porch as Zack was leaving. “Spend the rest of the weekend in town, Zack,” he said. “Rent a room at the Hartley and have some fun. Get yourself a woman, let her take some of that swelling out of your neck.”

Zack turned up his lip and shook his head, then walked to town and did exactly as he had been instructed by Rollins.

*   *   *

Hunter left the Hartley early Sunday morning. He had been at the hotel for almost twenty-four hours and had left his room only once. His supper in the dining room last night had been the only good meal he had ever eaten at the Hartley and he decided to quit while he was ahead. This morning he would eat breakfast at home. Dixie had smoked ham and sausage, fresh eggs, maple syrup, and from somewhere he had gotten hold of some special pancake flour. Zack licked his lips and headed for the livery stable to get the sorrel.

The morning was cool and he gave the frisky horse its head. Two hours later, he released the animal in the corral and walked to the cookshack. Poking his head inside the door, he spoke to the cook: “Give me about four eggs, sir, and everything else you can think of.”

“Good morning, boss,” Dixie said, pulling the coffeepot to the front of the stove. “Got ham and eggs and some warmed-over coffee and biscuits.”

Zack seated himself at the table. “Sounds better than anything I could have bought in town, but I'd really like a stack of those light pancakes you've been making lately.”

The cook shook his head. “Can't make 'em, Zack. I'm all out of that kinda flour, and so is the store in Lampasas. I told Lacy to hold me back two hundred pounds the next time he gets some in, but there's no telling when that'll be. That special flour is pretty hard to come by, Zack. It's an extra fine grind that's put out by a company in Dallas, and it's called Bulah's Best. I guess the reason it's so hard to find is 'cause the company can sell a hell of a lot more than it can make.”

Zack smiled. “Makes sense,” he said. “Just fix me whatever's easiest.” A short while later, he was served a breakfast that no restaurant in town could match.

He was sitting on the porch mending a bridle when Jolly Ross returned from town Monday afternoon. Zack watched as the foreman unloaded supplies at the cookshack, parked the wagon and loosed the team in the corral. Then Ross walked up the hill to the house, taking a seat on the doorstep. He sat staring across the river for a while, then spoke softly: “I've got bad news, Zack.”

Zack laid the bridle aside. “I've heard bad news before,” he said. “Keep talking.”

Ross began to fidget, kicking at a small stone. “Well, some folks might say it's none of my business, but it seems to me that it concerns us all. The big poker game in Lampasas broke up yesterday afternoon. The talk around town is that Rollins lost big, lost everything he owned. The bartender at the White Horse says he even lost this ranch, and everything on it. Hayes says Bret turned the deed over to Clyde Post this morning, along with every dollar the ranch had in the bank.”

Zack's expression turned to granite. He stared at the floor for a long time as a feeling of numbness crept into his very soul. “Thank … thank you, Jolly,” he finally said in a low, indistinct tone. He got to his feet and turned toward the house. “I'd … like to be alone now,” he said.

Zack sat at the kitchen table in a daze, sipping lukewarm coffee. There was little possibility that Ross was mistaken, he was thinking. Jolly was a very intelligent man and would surely have checked with more than one source before repeating the story. He nodded at his thoughts. The story was true, and he must accept the fact that he was once again homeless and owned nothing except the horse he would ride away from here. Well, two horses; he would ride the sorrel and use the bay for a pack animal.

He swallowed the last of his coffee and banged the empty cup against the table. Why had Rollins not been satified? With more than a thousand head of full-grown Herefords running about, the twenty-thousand-acre ranch was just now getting into a position to pay off handsomely. Why had Rollins spent every waking hour trying to figure a way to get more? County Line Ranch had been all the partners really needed. Indeed, it would have provided them with financial security for life.

Just before sunset, Zack was back on the porch. He sat looking down the hill to the river, knowing full well that this might be his last day on the ranch that he had built from scratch. He was not angry with Rollins, for it was just about impossible to stay mad at the man. Rollins was Rollins, and he could no more stop gambling than he could stop breathing. In Rollins' mind, he had done the right thing. He wanted a cattle empire and firmly believed that he was entitled to it, no matter that he might acquire it at somebody else's expense.

Nope, whatever happened to Zack in the future, he would never be angry at Rollins. He had, however, made a decision during the past two hours: it was time for the partners to part. The two men should go in opposite directions, each seeking his fortune in his own way. Rollins would probably be along tonight or tomorrow and then the two would say good-bye.

*   *   *

Rollins rode into the yard at ten the following morning, a bedroll and a bundle of clothing tied behind his saddle. He tied the roan to the hitching rail as Zack walked down the steps to meet him. Rollins found something interesting to look at on the ground for a while, then raised his eyes. The perpetual smile was missing this morning. “I guess you've heard the news by now,” he said softly.

Zack nodded.

“I lost it all, Zack, lost everything we owned.” Neither man said anything for a while, then Rollins added, “I played just as carefully as I ever do and thought I had a lock. I misread one of the cards.” He took a seat on the bottom step and told Zack about the game.

The cards had run in his favor most of the day on Saturday and he had won two thousand dollars. Then on Sunday afternoon, Rollins himself had dealt the hand that broke up the game: the hand was five-card stud, and both Wooten and Peters folded when the fourth card fell, leaving Rollins and Post to contest each other for the pot. Rollins had two sixes and a nine faceup, and another nine in the hole. Post had three hearts showing: the ten, queen and king. With the only pair showing, Rollins was high man and it was his turn to bet.

“Possible straight flush,” he said, tapping the table to indicate that he was checking his hand to Post. “I'll put it on your back, Clyde. I'm not about to bet into something that looks that mean.”

Post said nothing, just made a sizable bet, which Rollins called.

When Rollins dealt the final round, he dealt Post the ace of hearts and himself a third six. He now had a full house. He set the deck down very slowly, his eyes on his opponent. Post leaned back in his chair, showing no signs of weakness. Even though he was looking at Rollins' three sixes, the old man was still very much in the pot.

Rollins decided quickly that he had a lock. The only card the old man could have in the hole that would win the pot was the jack of hearts. The jack of hearts was already among the discards, for Wooten had turned it when he folded his hand. Any old heart in the hole would give Post a flush, however, and Rollins was hoping the old man had it. Knowing that his own full house would beat the flush, Rollins slid fifteen thousand dollars into the pot.

The old man matched the bet, almost beating Rollins into the pot. “You didn't bet near enough!” he said loudly. “I intend to raise that bet considerably.”

Rollins smiled. “How much?”

Post chuckled. “Everything you own. We can do it this way: you put up County Line Ranch and everything on it, along with whatever amount of money you've got in the bank. Put it all in the pot. If you win, we'll get an unbiased appraisal of everything you've got. Whatever value the appraiser puts on it, I'll pay you that amount in cash.”

Rollins spoke quickly: “You'll put that in writing? Get some of these witnesses to sign it?”