by Doug Bowman
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Other Books by Doug Bowman from Tom Doherty Associates
Copyright
He poked the gun barrel even closer to Rollins’ face. “I’m givin’ ya ten minutes ta git a gun, mister. Do ya hear?”
Like all the rest, Zack stood at the bar waiting. He believed that his friend’s remaining lifetime might well be measured in minutes, or even seconds, for Bret Rollins would not back down. The man simply knew no fear. Just as the allotted ten minutes expired, Rollins kicked the batwing doors open, and in one fluid motion, was inside the building. In his hands was a double-barreled shotgun, the barrels pointed directly at Hilly’s midsection. “Now … now wait a minute. I didn’t say nothin’ about gittin’ a damn cannon.” He took another step backward. “I … I tell ya what,” he stammered. “Let’s jist forgit th’ whole thang. All right?” Rollins smiled, then nodded.
1
“No doubt in my mind that the horse is worth fifty dollars, Mister Davis,” Zack Hunter was saying as he inspected the big bay. “But I just don’t have that kind of money. Took everything I could scrape together just to give Ma a decent burial.”
The man stood quietly for a while, tamping tobacco into his brierroot pipe. Though seemingly in good health, Lester Davis was well past the age of seventy. A successful farmer and horse trader, he was a man of means, and was said to have prospered during the Civil War by trading with both sides. He fired his pipe now and blew a cloud of smoke to the wind. “How ’boutcha uncle?” he asked. “Dalton’s got money.”
Hunter shrugged. “Sure, Uncle Dalton’s got lots of money, but he damn sure ain’t gonna give me any of it. You’ve been trading or trying to trade with him longer than I’ve been alive. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you how tight he holds on to a dollar. He still owes me for building two bridges last summer, but I’ll never get the money. He even refused to sell me a horse on credit.”
The old man sucked his pipe stem again. “Credit ain’t no good way o’ doin’ business, boy. Jist like myself, Dalton didn’t git whur he is by keepin’ a lotta money on th’ books.”
Hunter shook his head. “They taught us in school that the whole world runs on credit, Mister Davis, and I’ve been reading a lot of books. One country might owe another country a million dollars. Sometimes more. Then when they pay off the loan, everybody’s happy ’cause both the borrower and the lender have made money.”
Davis tapped out his pipe on the heel of his shoe, then began to scratch his beard. “Maybe so,” he said thoughtfully. “Whatcha gonna say next is that ya wanna buy th’ horse on credit. Right?”
Hunter nodded. “It’s the only way I could even hope to buy the animal.” He ran his hand along the bay’s muscular withers. “I’d want the saddle, too.”
Lester Davis chuckled. “Th’ saddle, too?” He took a seat on an upended nail keg, beginning to jerk hairs out of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. “I’ll tell ya what, boy. Gimme thirty dollars down an’ I’ll sell ya th’ horse an’ th’ saddle fer ninety dollars.”
Hunter shook his head. “I couldn’t do that, Mister Davis. I believe that’s more than they’re worth. Besides, I couldn’t pay more than ten dollars down.” He handed over the reins and turned to leave.
“Jist a minute, boy,” the old man said loudly. “Don’tcha know nothin’ a-tall ’bout horse tradin’?”
Hunter reversed the few steps he had taken. “I never was much for dickering, Mister Davis.”
“Well, dammit, ya don’t hafta dicker, but I wantcha ta listen. Whatcha gonna do with that milch cow over at th’ cabin?”
“I already traded her for this Henry and two boxes of shells.” He held up the rifle for Davis to see.
The old man inspected the rifle, then nodded. “Well, I know that they’s a wagon over there, an’ a turnin’ plow an’ a middle buster, too. An’ I remember seein’ a good porch swang. Gimme all them thangs, an’ throw in that pocket watch I saw ya lookin’ at a while ago. I’ll give ya a bill o’ sale fer th’ horse an’ saddle free an’ clear.”
Without a word, Hunter unhooked the chain from his belt. Then he laid his dead father’s watch in the trader’s hand. “I don’t have any other choice, Mister Davis. I’ll saddle the bay while you write the bill of sale.”
A few minutes later, Hunter folded the document, shoved it in his pocket and climbed into the saddle. The old man stood at his stirrup, scratching his beard. “Dalton ain’t gonna give me no shit when I go ta pick up them thangs, is he?”
Hunter looked the old man in the eye. “None of that stuff belongs to Uncle Dalton, and he’s not likely to see you anyway. If he does, just tell him I traded with you.”
The man nodded, and Hunter rode out of the yard at a gallop. He expected to be across the river and into Arkansas by sunup tomorrow, and he had no time to lose. The sheriff and a few others might already be looking for him, for yesterday afternoon twenty-four-year-old Zachary Hunter had killed a man.
The argument had started in a small grove of scrub oaks alongside Wolf Creek, where Zack Hunter and his best friend, Bret Rollins, had engaged two strangers in a four-handed game of draw poker. Betting recklessly, Rollins went broke quickly, as did the smaller of the strangers. Hunter and the larger man, who had introduced himself as Mose Mack, continued to play.
When it became obvious that the disagreement between the two players was about to come to blows, Bret Rollins decided to appoint himself referee of the fight. “Now, both of you listen to me,” he said. “If a man goes down, the other must count to ten, giving the down man a chance to get up before hitting him again.”
Even as Rollins was talking, Hunter kicked Mack in the groin, almost lifting the man off the ground. As Mack put both hands to his crotch, grimacing in agony, Hunter grabbed him by the hair, jerking his head downward. At the same time, Hunter brought his knee up full force into the man’s face. Five times he did this, and each time the downward motion of Mack’s face met the upward thrust of Hunter’s knee, Rollins thought he heard something break. At last, Hunter released the man and let him fall to the ground. “One … two … three—”
“Hell, there ain’t no use to count, Zack,” Rollins said loudly. “You’ve probably killed the sonofabitch!” The big man lay in a motionless heap at Hunter’s feet. Rollins, robbed of his chance to referee, began to walk around in circles, shaking his head. “You just couldn’t wait, could you, Zack?”
“Nope. Didn’t like all the rules you were laying down.” Zack Hunter fought by only one set of rules:
his own. His ability to bring a physical conflict to an abrupt halt was well known among much of the male population of Shelby County, and few men dared to trifle with him. He had been taught self-defense several years ago by his older cousin, Billy Olsen, who had later died in a hunting accident. Zack had spent one whole summer on the Olsen farm and had practiced Cousin Billy’s lessons daily.
“There’s no such thing as a dirty fight,” Billy Olsen had said. “The only thing you need to be thinking about is how to get it over with as quick as possible. The idea is to put your man down any old way you can, and keep him there. What matters, and the only thing that matters, is that you win.” Cousin Billy had then spent the rest of the summer teaching Zack the fine art of fistic persuasion. Zack had been fifteen that year, and he had not lost a fight since.
Now, still standing beside the fallen man, Zack touched him with the toe of his boot. He got no reaction. The big man had brought it all on himself, he was thinking. After all, the poker game had been the man’s own idea, and it was not Zack’s fault that the big bastard didn’t know that a flush beats a straight. Hunter turned to Mack’s partner, who had watched the entire exchange from his seat on a nearby log. “Do you know that a flush beats a straight?” he asked.
“Shore I do. I’ll tell Mose when he comes around.”
Hunter stamped his foot and exhaled loudly. “Why the hell didn’t you tell him when the argument started?”
“Weren’t none o’ my affair,” the man said, squirting a mouthful of tobacco juice. “Another reason I didn’t say nothin’ is ’cause I figgered Mose could whup both uv ya. I wuz watchin’ th’ cards. I saw yore han’ an’ I saw his’n. All ’at money there on th’ blanket is fairly yore’n. I’d ’preciate it if ya’d jist take it an’ leave.”
“All right,” Hunter said. He stuffed the money he had won in his pocket.
“No, no!” Rollins said loudly, his deep voice reverberating through the woods. He took a step toward the big man’s partner. “It’s not us that’s gonna be leaving, fellow. It’s you! Get your ass across that creek and over that hill. You’d better not even look back unless you want a dose of the same medicine your buddy got.”
The man waded the shallow creek quickly and was soon out of sight. Rollins turned to Hunter. “Couldn’t let that joker hang around here, Zack. He’d be hunting up the law ten minutes from now.” He pointed to the lifeless heap on the ground. “That man’s dead.”
Hunter nodded. “I know.”
After a short discussion, the men decided to move the body a few hundred yards downstream, hoping that if the exiled partner did return, he would think that Mack had regained consciousness and walked away under his own power. With one man at each end, they carried the corpse around the bend and covered it with brush. Then the friends went their separate ways, Rollins to his grandfather’s house and Hunter to his own cabin, where he had been living alone since the death of his mother a few weeks earlier.
Zack spent a sleepless night but had risen this morning with a firm decision: he would head west as soon as he could get a good horse under him, and he had no intention of ever returning to Tennessee. Now he was pleased with the trade he had made with Lester Davis for the big bay saddler. He had never intended to use the plows or the wagon, and the pocket watch was a lousy timepiece. Nor had he expected to spend any time sitting in the porch swing. Old man Davis would no doubt reap more than the bay’s worth when all his dealing was done, but right now Zack had what he needed most, and he was satisfied.
He turned the horse off the road and headed for his cabin, located in the middle of one of Uncle Dalton’s cotton fields. Dalton Smith had given the cabin to his younger sister, who was Zack’s mother. Zack expected the old man to ask him to vacate the building any day now. Smith had stood in the background with a vacant stare at his sister’s funeral and had not even spoken to Zack. All because his nephew had recently informed him that he expected to be paid for his work.
Well, his uncle could have the cabin and everything in it, Zack was thinking as he tied the bay to the hitching post at the front door. He retrieved the saddle scabbard that had come in the trade for the rifle. Then he stripped two blankets from his bed, tying them securely behind his saddle. A few minutes later, he shoved the Henry in the boot and remounted.
He covered the three miles to his uncle’s house in less than twenty minutes. He knew his uncle would be in the fields bossing his workers, so he rode straight to the barn. He helped himself to a good saddlebag from the tack room, then led his horse to the house. Once inside, he buckled his uncle’s prized Colt six-shooter around his waist and dumped a box of shells into his pocket. Then he took a pillowcase and headed for the meat cellar.
A few minutes later, he rode out of the yard, a smoked ham and half a slab of bacon tied to his saddle. By his own reckoning, he and his uncle were about even now.
An hour later, he was at the Rollins farm. Bret had seen him coming and stood waiting in the yard. “I see you finally got something decent to ride,” he said, grabbing the horse’s bridle. “How in the world did you manage to shake old man Davis loose from the bay?”
Zack dismounted. “Traded him everything I owned.”
They walked a few steps and stood beneath the canopy of a large oak. Rollins tied the bay to a low-hanging limb. “I thought about you all night, Zack. Have you heard anything about what happened yesterday?”
“Only in my dreams. I’m gonna get the hell out of this part of the country before I do hear about it.” He tightened the cinch another notch, then retied the knot in the pillowcase. “We’ve been talking about Texas for years, Bret. You still want to go?”
“Absolutely,” Rollins said, his ever-present smile widening. “Can’t leave today, though. As you well know, I lost my horse in a poker game last week.” He pointed toward the small corral. “I’m not riding that damn mule out there anywhere.” He removed his hat and began to scratch his head. “I’ll tell you what let’s do, Zack. You go on across the river and wait for me. I’ll be there in two days.
“You can cross the river on the ferry at Rogers Point. Make your camp up there on the hillside in that big stand of timber. I’ll meet you there the day after tomorrow. I’ve got to make a trip to Ellisville, then I’ll have everything we need to travel in style.”
Zack climbed into the saddle. “I believe that, Slick.” It was a well-earned nickname that Hunter often used when referring to Rollins. “I’ll be watching for you. Maybe I’ll be able to see you when you get off the ferry.”
Rollins nodded and headed for the corral to get the lazy mule. Hunter kicked the bay in the ribs and guided it toward the Mississippi River.
At a fishing camp near the water’s edge, Zack bought a hundred feet of rope from a commercial fisherman, then caught the last ferry of the day. When he disembarked a few minutes later, he was in Arkansas, safely out of the Tennessee sheriff’s jurisdiction.
He took to the woods immediately, riding halfway up the hill before halting at a small spring. He selected a camping site between two fallen trees, then picketed the bay on the long rope. He would move the horse to new grass occasionally, for he had no grain to feed the animal. After eating a pound of smoked ham and watering himself at the spring, he made a bed of leaves and added his blankets. Then he called it a day, for darkness was closing in fast.
He lay on his bed for a long time, thinking. He had no doubt that Rollins would be along later and that he would bring everything necessary to make their travel more comfortable. The man simply had a way of talking people out of things. He had a deep, musical voice-that could not be ignored. When he talked, people listened, even though many of them knew that his morals and scruples were not of the highest order.
Rollins was exceedingly handsome, the best-looking man Zack had ever known: fair complexion, curly hair the color of corn silk, and big blue eyes that sometimes appeared to contain small particles of ice. His constant smile revealed rows of perfect teeth behind lips that the girls of Ellisv
ille High had secretly voted most kissable. He was a good athlete, and had won about every organized footrace in the county. Zack supposed that Rollins had needed that speed more than once since his school days. Using one scheme or another, he had separated many people from their money, and a few times had narrowly escaped going to jail. It was after learning that Rollins had used his good looks and silver-tongued nature to get laid for free in a Memphis whorehouse that Hunter began to occasionally refer to him as “Slick.”
Hunter and Rollins were identical in size, each standing six feet tall. They had weighed themselves at the cotton gin last week: Rollins, one-ninety-three; Hunter, two pounds more. Both men were twenty-four years old. There the similarity ended.
Hunter was dark, with green eyes and black hair, and although most women would have considered him handsome, they did not flirt, giggle and chase after him shamelessly as they sometimes did Bret.
Zack had known Bret most of his life, but would never have anything to do with him because he had pegged him as a sissy. Then came the day, when they were eighteen, that Bret fought Zack to a draw on the school playground. Though Zack used everything his Cousin Billy had taught him, Bret took everything he could dish out, and dished out just as much of his own. Zack realized early in the fight that he had misgauged his opponent. No, sir, Bret Rollins was no damn sissy. Not by a long shot. They fought till neither of them could stand without holding on to something, then called it a draw. They had been inseparable friends ever since.
Hunter held his position on the hillside for the next two days, moving about only when it became necessary to lead the bay to a new grazing area. He had just done this when he saw the ferry tie up on the west side of the river. He watched as a man leading two horses scrambled up the bank and stood looking in his direction. Still standing in the clearing, Zack began to wave his hat. The rider mounted and headed up the hill.
A few minutes later, Bret Rollins rode into the clearing. He was astride a beautiful roan that stood at least sixteen hands at the withers, followed by a heavily loaded packhorse. Smiling broadly, he dismounted beside Hunter.
