by Doug Bowman
“I see you made it,” Hunter said.
Bret motioned toward the horses and the pack carried by the smaller of the two. “I got lucky, Zack. I believe I’ve got about everything we’ll be needing.”
Hunter answered with a broad smile of his own. He stood looking at the animals and the new packsaddle admiringly. When his eyes resettled on the roan, he chuckled, for he recognized the animal. Smiling again, he turned to Rollins. “I’m not gonna ask you what all you did for the good doctor’s wife to get that roan, Slick. It’s a well-known fact in Ellisville that she plays around, but I never heard it said that she pays a stud fee.”
“Dammit, Zack, a man has to work with whatever tools he’s got. She didn’t need these animals anyway, they’ve got several more.” Rollins began to pat his hip pocket. “She also decided that I needed a hundred dollars to buy things.”
Hunter walked around the animals again, chuckling and shaking his head. “I guess you’ve pulled it off, Bret. I just can’t help wondering how she’s gonna explain it to the good doctor. I mean, a man is bound to miss something as big as a damn horse.”
Rollins nodded. “I asked her that question. She assured me that she knew exactly how to handle the doctor.”
They unburdened the animals at the spring, then picketed them on good grass. The packhorse had been carrying more than a hundred pounds. Indeed, Rollins seemed to have everything they were likely to need: food, cooking utensils, blankets, a two-man tent and several changes of clothing. He had a Colt six-shooter in his saddlebag, and a double-barreled, ten-gauge shotgun in the saddle scabbard.
They spent the night at the spring. They did not set up the tent. The absence of rain clouds and the pleasing temperature of the June night made it unnecessary.
They talked till late. Though neither man had a particular destination in mind, each agreed that they would not slow down until they reached Texas. Then they would simply wander about till they found something that struck their fancy. Finding work was not an immediate concern, for they had both provisions and money, and plenty of green grass for their animals.
They headed southwest at daybreak, a route that would take them directly to northeast Texas. During the ride, Bret explained exactly how he had come by the horses and provisions. Aside from an occasional chuckle and a short comment, Hunter said little. He was not a long-winded talker, usually speaking only when he had something to say. Rollins, however, could talk all day about anything. Or nothing. He said that he did not believe Mose Mack’s body had been found; otherwise, there would have been talk around Ellisville. Knowing that such news traveled like wildfire, Hunter was quick to agree.
Two hours before nightfall, they made camp a hundred feet off the road, beside a wide, shallow stream. A passerby informed them that the stream was known as Village Creek. As Hunter kindled a fire, Rollins set up the tent, for he believed it would rain before morning.
It did not rain, however, and at daybreak there was not a cloud in the sky. Hunter dragged himself from his blankets at sunup to find Rollins sitting on a log in front of the tent. He had a fire going and the coffeepot steaming. Hunter poured himself a cupful, then noticed that Rollins was busy feeding bread crumbs to a stray dog.
“That’s the ugliest dog I’ve ever seen, Bret,” Zack said. “Probably got twenty different breeds in him.”
“At least twenty,” Bret said, then changed the subject. “If you want to wash up and shave, go ahead,” he said, pointing to the creek. He handed Zack a razor and soap. “I’ll fix something to eat while you’re gone.”
When Hunter returned from the creek, he found Rollins serving coffee to an old Negro man who had been walking on the road. With the dog still lying at his feet, its head resting on its forepaws, Bret had the man wound up in conversation.
“I live ’bout three miles down th’ road,” the man was saying. “Raise chickens. Don’t make no differ’nce what I do, though. Th’ weasels git ’bout half uv ’em ’fore they git big enough ta sell.”
“Well, now,” Rollins said. “That’s a shame, and you can certainly put a stop to it.” He began to pat the dog’s head. “What you need is Ol’ Rex here. Fact is, my partner and I are moving to the city, and that ain’t no place for Ol’ Rex. No, sir, he needs plenty of room to run and hunt.” He rubbed the dog’s head and ears. “Bad as I hate to, I’ve been thinking about selling him.”
The man bent over the dog for a closer look. “I sho’ ain’t never seen nothin’ looks like him,” he said. “What kinda dog is he?”
“Bulgarian Weaselhound,” Rollins said quickly. “Yes, sir, if you had him, there wouldn’t be a weasel within a mile of your place after the first week. Five dollars and he’s yours.”
The man shook his head. “Couldn’t pay no five dollars … might go three.”
“Split the difference,” Rollins said. “Four dollars.”
“Nope. Won’t pay but three.”
Rollins dashed his coffee grounds into a bush. “Well, I’ll say this for you, Mister Chicken Man—you sure know how to drive a hard bargain.” He hesitated for a moment, then added, “I’m gonna let you have the dog, but I guess you know that you’re beating my socks off on the deal.”
The old man took the tobacco sack that he used as a coin purse from his pocket. “Been knowed ta bargain a little, heh-heh.” He counted out three dollars in nickels and dimes. Then he looped his belt around the dog’s neck and led “Ol’ Rex” down the road.
Hunter had stood beside the tent listening. He had just watched Rollins make more money off that mongrel than he himself had been paid for three days of digging ditches. The sale of the dog had come as no surprise to him, for he had seen Rollins operate before. Such things were second nature to him. Nor would it bother him that he might have taken the man’s last three dollars. He would never give it another thought. He was an accomplished con man, and he did it more for pleasure than for money.
Hunter walked to the fire. “Bulgarian Weaselhound, huh? Is there even such a thing?”
“Hell, I don’t know, Zack. It’s like I said before. A man has to work with whatever tools are handy.” He pushed the skillet onto the gray coals. “Let’s have some breakfast, then head for Texas.”
2
A hard day’s travel through the lowlands brought them to White River, one hour ahead of a rainstorm. They picketed their animals and began to stretch the tarpaulin, tying it to saplings six feet above the ground. That done, they dragged the pack and their saddles underneath, then pitched the tent. Then they walked in opposite directions in search of dry firewood. A short time later, they had a fire going and coffee boiling.
Then the rain came. The men and their belongings stayed dry, however, for no wind accompanied the downpour. The water fell straight down and cascaded off the tarpaulin, one corner of which had deliberately been tied six inches lower.
Hunter placed a pot of water on the fire and added a few handfuls of dried beans. “You think anybody’s found Mose Mack’s body yet?”
“I would think so,” Rollins said, refilling his cup. “If the smell didn’t attract somebody, the buzzards probably did.”
Zack nodded. He added salt, pepper and a few slices of bacon to the pot, then leaned back against his saddle. “I doubt that Mack’s partner found him, Bret. I believe you scared him out of the county. And I don’t intend to let the fact that Mack is not around anymore bother me. He insisted on a fight, and I did what I had to do.”
Rollins broke a limb and laid the pieces on the fire. “Did you ever kick anybody in the nuts before?”
“Nope.”
“Why’d you kick him?”
“Because I didn’t want the big bastard hitting me. Maybe you didn’t look him over real good, Bret. That joker’s arms were as big as my legs.”
“Sure I looked him over, Zack. But I’ve seen you fight big men before. You never kicked any of them.”
Hunter stirred the pot. “I’m smarter now.”
They talked till long after dark, t
hen ate the beans by firelight. When the fire died on its own, they crawled into the tent. Neither man spoke during the night.
Hunter lay awake for a long time, thinking. He firmly believed that the thing with Mose Mack was over and done. The only witness who could identify Zack was Mack’s traveling partner, and Hunter believed the man to be long gone. Maybe he was himself wanted by the law, for neither of the men had struck him as an upstanding citizen. Anyway, if the case ever came to trial, Bret Rollins would testify that Hunter had acted in self-defense. Zack believed that as a witness, Rollins could make a jury believe almost anything.
Bret was not only a smooth talker, he was proficient at a host of other things. A highly skilled player of pocket billiards, he was sought after by members of Memphis pool tournaments, and dreaded by those who played for money. He could also make a pair of dice do unbelievable things. He was the happy-go-lucky type who would be well-off today and broke tomorrow. But he would never be broke for long. Not as long as somebody else had some money. More than once Zack had seen Slick talk one of his lady friends out of enough money for a stake, then head for Memphis. He would almost always return with a fat roll.
Several men had been fooled by Bret’s pretty face in the past, and no doubt many would be again. He was an excellent scrapper, and few men could match his speed and fancy footwork. He could hit hard with either hand, and could deliver a punch quicker than any man Zack had ever known. And he did it with a cool head, never letting his temper get in the way of the business at hand. Zack remembered the time when Bret fought with a man over a pool game in Memphis. Bret had knocked him down three times before the man crawled to a barstool and pulled himself to his feet.
“Let me get my breath,” he said, panting loudly. “Then I’m gonna try him again.”
“I’d counsel against it,” Zack had told the man. “Old Bret’s been in a lot of ass-kicking contests, and a few times he’s even had to furnish the ass. But, mister, I just don’t believe you can climb that hill.”
After thinking on it for a while, the man retrieved his hat from the floor and left the building. A short time later, Rollins was walking down the street counting his winnings, whistling an old Irish tune.
Bret had been raised by his grandfather since the age of three, after his parents perished in a hotel fire in Memphis. His grandmother died two years later, leaving the upbringing of young Bret to Grandpa Rollins and two of his female slaves. The women pampered him constantly, and the elder Rollins saw to his every whim, even buying the lad his own horse at the age of seven.
Young Bret lived a life of ease for most of his growing years, and was mostly left to his own devices. His grandfather owned a wide assortment of guns, and Bret tried them all, becoming especially proficient with the handgun and the long-range rifle.
Then came the Civil War. When the hellish conflict was over, the Rollins household had been reduced to near poverty. Not only were there no slaves, there were indeed fewer acres to plant. One tract of land at a time, Grandpa had been forced to sell off most of the farm, eagerly accepting offers that would have been scorned only a few years earlier. Young Bret had watched as his once-prosperous grandfather became a poor man, his vast holdings now reduced to a few acres for gardening and truck.
Tennessee had taken a beating during the war, and few people remained unscarred. Many wealthy men had been wiped out completely, with some reduced to standing in soup lines. The countryside had suffered immensely as well, for more battles were fought in Tennessee than in any other state. Even now, ten years later, visible signs of the devastation were everywhere.
As a schoolboy, Bret Rollins had always had money in his pocket. Zachary Hunter, however, had never had a dollar until he was old enough to earn it himself. Even then, paydays had been few and far between. The war and its aftermath had brought little change to the Hunters, for Zack and his mother had had nothing to lose. They had already been poor, depending largely on Uncle Dalton’s shifting generosity for their livelihood.
Zack’s father had died a year before the war began. He had been bitten by a poisonous snake while rabbit hunting, and died a few days later. Zack well remembered the day Will Hunter was laid to rest in the small cemetery at the end of the turnip patch as his wife and young son stood beside the grave, holding hands and crying. Despite the fact that he was disliked by Dalton Smith, Will Hunter had a host of friends throughout the county, and a large crowd of mourners stood on the hillside in the drizzling rain.
Uneducated, barely able to write his name, the elder Hunter had resigned himself to his designated fate of a lifetime of hard labor, but had sworn almost daily that his son would receive a decent education. And young Zachary had done so. He studied hard and brought home good grades, and his father was proud.
Zack’s mother had died recently of some mysterious illness. She had been sick for most of the year, but of late had been getting around more, her health seemingly on the mend. She had even hoed the garden on the last day she lived, saying it was a joy just to be alive and feeling well again. A few minutes after eating supper, she complained of a headache and went to bed early. She died sometime during the night. Two days later, Nellie Hunter was laid to rest beside her husband. Uncle Dalton had insisted that his sister be interred in the Smith graveyard, but relinquished the idea when informed by Zack that his parents would indeed rest side by side. Even then, the old man had refused to take part in the ceremony.
The loss of his mother was a crushing blow to Zack, and Rollins was quick to sense it. He moved into Zack’s cabin and became a constant companion for more than a week, doing whatever it took to keep Zack thinking and talking about something else. Even though Hunter had good-naturedly run Rollins off after nine days, saying that he needed neither a cook nor a nurse, he would not soon forget Bret’s concern.
It seemed that Zack had been asleep for only a few minutes when he smelled the coffee. Opening one eye, he saw that another day had arrived and that he was alone in the tent. He put on his boots, then crawled through the opening. After he poured himself a cup of coffee, he began to look around for Bret.
He found him fifty yards downriver, peeling the skin off a large catfish. “Caught him on a piece of cheese, Zack,” he said, holding up his catch.
Hunter looked the fish over. “Where’d you get a damn fishhook?”
“Brought some from home. Weights and line, too.”
Hunter chuckled. “Looks like it paid off.” He watched Rollins throw the fish’s head in the river, then walked back to the tent.
A few minutes later, they sat broiling fish over the campfire. “This won’t take long,” Rollins said. “Don’t take much cooking for a fish. I think they’re already about half done when you catch them.”
Hunter grunted, then began to eat.
* * *
They crossed the Red River a week later and camped on its west bank. Though three hours of daylight remained, they had decided on an early halt. They had been traveling since shortly after dawn, and both men and horses were weary. As they stood beside the campfire watching the boiling pot, which contained, among other things, a rabbit Hunter had shot two hours before, Rollins pointed to the river. “Whoever named that river probably didn’t have to think about it very long. The way the sunlight’s hitting it right now, it’s almost as red as blood.”
“Uh-huh. The man who named it saw the same thing you’re looking at.”
Rollins thumped his forefinger against the crude map he held in his hand. “According to this thing, we should cross the Sulphur tomorrow. Then we’ll be in Texas.”
“That’s the way I read it, Bret.”
“Well, I’ll be damn glad to get there,” Rollins said, pocketing the map. “From what I hear, they don’t have anywhere near as many laws and lawmen as Tennessee does. A man might actually be able to make a living without working.”
Hunter chuckled, then began to stoke the fire. He knew that Bret had long been conservative of his physical energy and was totally averse to any
kind of toil that might bring a bead of sweat to the brow. “I’ve read that Texas is a land of opportunity, Bret. Maybe you can find something that won’t hurt your back too much.” Hunter was laughing now.
“Go ahead and laugh,” Rollins said. “One of these days you’ll know that I’m right. It’s just like I’ve told you a hundred times: a working man is never gonna have a damn thing. He spends so much of his life working that he don’t have any time left to make money.”
Zack stirred the stew. He had no argument against what he was being told. Of all the hard-working men he knew, none had anything more than food for the table. Those who were well-off, however, seemed to spend most of their time sitting on their asses, getting richer every day. “There might be more than a little bit of truth in what you’re saying, Bret.” He dished up the stew and handed a bowlful to his friend.
“Hell, I know I’m right,” Rollins said, blowing air into the steaming bowl. “And I intend to get mine any way I can.”
When they had eaten, Hunter pulled up the pickets and moved the horses to new grass. Then he made a bed of leaves in the shade of the large oak and spread his blankets. They would not pitch the tent tonight; the skies were clear and they needed the cool breeze from the river. Rollins fashioned his own bed ten feet away, and the men stretched out, with both long and short guns close at hand. They were soon sleeping soundly, and neither man stirred until dawn.
Another week of travel brought them to the Trinity River, where they camped for the night. Just before sundown, Rollins asked directions from an old man who was passing by. “Ya ain’t never gonna git ta Dallas if ya keep goin’ west,” the old man said. “Ya done missed it by more’n twenty mile.” He pointed north. “Ain’t no use ta cross th’ river, jist foller it an’ it’ll take ya right inta town. Take ya ’bout a full day ta git there, ’cause th’ travelin’ ain’t none too easy.”
“Thank you, sir,” Rollins said. “We appreciate the information.”
