The H&R Cattle Company (7 page)

Zack moved quickly. Twenty minutes later, he led both animals to the dying campfire.

Rollins sat on the ground, where he had arranged the money in two identical stacks. He handed one of them to Zack. “Here's your half,” he said.

“Half?” Zack asked. “Hell, you did all the work.”

“No, Zack, you did all the work; I had all the fun. You earned your half by setting the deal up.” Rollins stuffed his money in his saddlebags, then mounted the roan. Zack poured the remaining coffee over the gray coals, then bagged his own portion of the windfall. He mounted and took up the slack in the packhorse's lead rope. They would ride south till dark, then turn west, giving the town of Weatherford a wide berth.

5

They had ridden less than a mile when Hunter ordered Rollins to come clean. “It looks like we're on the run, Bret, so I want to know what the hell we're running from.”

Rollins brought the roan to a halt. He sat for a moment trying to decide the best way to explain the situation. He had never lied to Zack and did not intend to do so now. He would simply leave out part of the story. He talked on and on about his exchange with Clifford T. Hollingsworth, and how he had beaten the old man at his own game. At the end of his narration, he added, “I told you I'd make the sonofabitch pay through the nose.”

Hunter was still less than jubilant. “How in the hell did you get a deed to the property in the first place?”

Rollins had dreaded that question. He had first thought of letting Zack think he had romanced the lady, but he knew that Zack already knew how old she was. He decided that he would rather tell the truth than have Zack think he had bedded an eighty-one-year-old woman. He confessed the whole thing, leaving out nothing.

Zack began to drum his fingers on his kneecap. “You have no conscience whatsoever, Bret.”

“Sure, I do, Zack, but that woman had no use in the world for that property. She's nearing the end of her life, and she damn sure couldn't take the place with her. You and me still have to get through this world, and though she didn't realize it, she's helped us along quite nicely.”

Zack stared into the setting sun, a faint smile on one corner of his mouth.

“Anyway,” Rollins continued, “Hollingsworth's the one who coughed up the money.” He pointed to Zack's saddlebags. “Do you realize that you made over four hundred dollars a day for the past week?”

Zack did not answer the question, though having more money in his saddlebag than he had ever seen before had begun to give him a feeling of security. “I guess you know that all hell's gonna break loose when the old man starts damming up that hollow,” he said.

“Of course I know it, Zack, but I did nothing illegal. I paid a dollar for the property and sold it at a profit, neither of which is against the law. The story about the orphanage was all verbal. I put nothing in writing concerning my intended use for the land. In fact, the only things I signed were the deed and Hollingsworth's check. Of course Mrs. Lindsay might have some friends who will be unhappy with the transaction. That's why I was busy trying to get the hell out of this country when you started jumping on me.”

Zack chuckled. He kicked his horse in the ribs and turned the animal west. “All right, Mister Rollins, let's get the hell out of this country.”

A night of steady travel under a full moon brought them to the Palo Pinto Mountains at daybreak. They picketed their horses beside a spring, then prepared breakfast over a small campfire. After eating, they spread their blankets and slept soundly in the cool mountain air.

Hunter awakened at noon to find Rollins sitting on his bed studying the map. “You remember Harry Terry, Zack?” Bret asked. “He owned the pool hall back in Memphis.”

Zack nodded.

“Well,” Rollins continued, “he was originally from Texas, and he was always talking about a town called Lampasas.” He thumped the map. “According to this, Lampasas is about a hundred fifty miles directly south of here. I think I'd like to look the town over, see if it's anything like Harry claimed.”

Zack was slipping on his boots. “Lead the way,” he said.

They rode all afternoon and into the night, camping at midnight on the North Bosque River. Just before going to sleep, Zack registered a complaint: “You know, Slick, since it seems that we have plenty of time, and since I can't hear any hoof-beats behind us, I think we ought to start eating a little more often. If we start riding at sunup, stop for an hour at noon, then make camp an hour before sunset, we'll have time to eat like normal people.”

Rollins rolled up in his blanket. “No argument here, Zack. I'm hungry, too. I'll start hunting some firewood at daybreak.”

They camped on the Lampasas River Friday night and rode into the town of the same name at noon on Saturday. They left their horses at the livery stable on the edge of town, and Rollins made friends with the hostler, a tall, skinny man named Oscar Land. “Any good hotels in town?” Rollins asked.

The liveryman pointed west. “The Hartley's the best one, I guess. At least the folks that own it seem to think so. They charge an arm and a leg, but they'll bring a hot bath right to your room. Bring you a bottle of whiskey if you want it.” He smiled and winked, adding, “I've heard that a fellow can get a little female company just by speaking up. I never have stayed there myself; too damn rich for my blood.”

With their saddlebags across their shoulders and long guns cradled in their arms, the men walked down the street to the Hartley, where they rented a second-story room. The hostler had been right about the price: three-fifty a day for a room with two beds, and another dollar for a bath. Rollins laid an eagle on the counter, ordering two baths and a bottle of whiskey.

An hour later, after shaving, bathing and changing into clean clothing, Hunter and Rollins sat in their room sipping whiskey and water. Bret raised the window, mixed himself another drink, then sat on his bed, propping his bare feet up in a cane-bottom chair. “This is what I've been talking about, Zack,” he said, sipping at his drink. “This is first class.”

Zack nodded in agreement. He pressed his hand against the springy mattress. “I think I could get used to a bed like this mighty easy.”

“Sure you could. And we've got plenty of money to keep right on staying in places like this.”

Zack shook his head. “We don't have to stay in a hotel to sleep on a good bed, Bret. All we have to do is find out where they buy theirs, then buy some of our own.” He sat with his chin in his palms and his elbows propped on his knees. “All morning we've been riding through the prettiest country I've ever seen, and I think I've traveled about as far as I want to.”

Rollins sat quietly for a few moments, then raised his eyebrows. “You mean you want to live in this town?”

“No. I want to live in the country, and I'll bet a man could buy a piece of land around here at a reasonable price. He sure as hell never would starve; I counted nine deer that we jumped this morning.” Zack pointed to the saddlebags. “Besides, I'm tired of guarding that money twenty-four hours a day. I noticed when we passed the bank that it was closed. Otherwise, I'd have left my money there.”

Rollins shrugged, then began to walk around the room. “Hell, Zack, I've always felt like I could make it anywhere. If you want to stay here, then by God, that's what we'll do. As far as the banker's concerned, I never have seen one yet that wouldn't open his door for a deposit like we'll be making.” He sat down and began to pull on his boots. “You just stay here with the money; I'll find the banker.” He was quickly out of the room and down the stairway.

Zack locked the door, then fluffed up his pillow and lay down on his bed, the shotgun within easy reach. He was thinking of the beautiful country he had ridden through this morning, both east and west of the Lampasas River. Though his knowledge of the cattle business was limited, it was obvious that this area was a cattleman's dream. Grass and shade were abundant, and Zack had seen several springs and small creeks. Then there was the river, a neverending water source. A cow would probably never have to walk more than a mile in any direction to find a drink.

Hunter had no idea what it would cost to buy a section of land in this area, but knew that the Silver Springs property could not be used as a gauge. The price of that land had been greatly inflated because of its strategic location. The fact that Hollingsworth was determined to get it, while Mrs. Lindsay was equally determined that he would not, had pushed the price up even farther. Zack believed that grazing land could be bought for a fraction of the price Hollingsworth paid for Silver Springs.

Zack was still lying on his bed when Rollins returned an hour later. “I found the banker at home,” Rollins said, wiping sweat from his forehead. “Had to walk more than a damn mile.”

“Oh, you poor soul,” Zack said, rising to a sitting position.

Rollins ignored the remark. “Anyway, the man's name is J. Pennington McGrath, and he'll meet us at the bank in half an hour.”

The banker was on time. He was a short man who weighed little more than a hundred pounds and appeared to be in his early fifties. Hatless, with thinning gray hair and a pale complexion, he introduced himself and offered Hunter an uncallused hand. Zack gripped the soft hand firmly, pumping it a few times.

McGrath unlocked the front door and led the men to his office, seating them at a huge desk. He produced a ledger, then took his own seat. A hint of a smile appeared on his face. “Welcome to Lampasas, men. I'm sure you'll find the area to your liking. You two are exactly the type of young men we need to settle this country.” He opened the ledger and smiled broadly, then addressed Rollins. “What type of account did you have in mind, sir?”

They deposited their money in separate accounts. Hunter kept fifty dollars for his pocket. Rollins kept more. McGrath thanked them several times for choosing his bank, then followed them to the front door. “If you fellows decide to buy something in the area, I hope you'll check with me. I know everything that's for sale, who owns it, and what it'll cost. Good day to both of you.”

“Good day to you,” Hunter said. “You'll probably be seeing me again pretty soon.”

Contrary to the Hartley's own interest, the desk clerk informed Hunter and Rollins that the hotel restaurant was not the best eating place in town. “Toby's T-Bone, across the street, has the best food,” the balding sixty-year-old man said. “More affordable, too.”

They thanked him and crossed the street. “Kind of unusual for a man to steer customers away from a business that pays his salary,” Rollins said.

“It might be unusual,” Zack said, reaching for the knob on Toby's front door, “but it's pretty easy to understand. The Hartley pays his salary, all right, but this place over here probably feeds him, and I'll bet he never has to pay for a meal.”

“Of course not,” Rollins said. “He probably hasn't paid for his dinner all year.” He led the way inside the building.

The restaurant was small and exceptionally clean. A few tables were scattered throughout the room, and several stools lined the counter, behind which stood a tall, thin, middle-aged man.

“I guess you'd be Toby,” Bret said as he and Zack took seats at the counter.

The man nodded. “If you fellows are hungry, you caught me between meals; supper won't be ready till about six.” When neither man moved from his stool, Toby added, “I guess I could warm up some leftover stew. It was mighty tasty at dinner—I ate it myself.”

Both men nodded, and Toby went through the batwing doors to the kitchen. A few minutes later, he placed a steaming bowl in front of each man. “This was supposed to be venison stew, but I didn't have enough deer meat. Had to mix in some beef. I guess it's about half and half.”

Zack had already shoveled in a large bite. “I don't know which half I'm eating,” he said, “but it sure is good.” Toby nodded and returned to the kitchen. Both men enjoyed the stew and were served egg custard for dessert.

Their next stop was the White Horse Saloon, located on the corner at the end of the block. A large chalk replica of a white stallion stood on the roof of the building, under which was a sign reading that gambling, billiards and whiskey could be found inside.

Hunter and Rollins took stools at the far side of the horseshoe-shaped bar, where they had a good view of everything around them. A few gaming tables were set up near the back wall, and two poker games were in progress. Across the room, near the opposite wall, were two billiard tables. Nobody played the game at the moment. Several tables and chairs were located in the center of the saloon, scattered around a potbellied stove.

A dark-haired young man, whose body appeared to be about as firm and unyielding as an oak, stood behind the bar, his shirtsleeves rolled up on muscular arms. “What'll you have?” he asked, wiping the bar with a dry cloth.

Rollins ordered beer for both men. They were served quickly, then the bartender was gone to the opposite side of the bar.

They were working on their third beer when a tall, narrow-shouldered man with a thick neck walked through the door, taking a stool directly across the bar from Hunter. He ordered a drink, then decided that Zack, who thought the man looked familiar, was giving him excessive scrutiny. “Don't be settin' over there glarin' at me, feller,” the man said with a snarl.

Hunter's eyes never wavered.

The man was on his feet and around the end of the bar quickly, standing beside Hunter's stool. “I guess you didn't hear me,” he said, moving closer.

Zack said nothing.

Then the man turned to Rollins, who was smiling as if he knew a secret. “Don't know what you're grinnin' about,” the man said. “You're gonna be next.”

“Oh, no,” Bret said. He laughed aloud and motioned toward Hunter. “If you manage to get by him, I'm not gonna be next; I'm gonna be running.”