by Doug Bowman
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.”
As if on cue, Zack went into action. In one fluid movement, he elbowed his antagonist in the midsection, slid off the stool on the opposite side, then went to work on the man’s head. The fight lasted less than five seconds before the man was lying unconscious at Zack’s feet. Zack had landed six devastating punches to the head and face, three of them as the man was going down. Though the man had made a few defensive movements, none had been effective.
The bartender had seen and listened to the entire exchange. “Guess that’s about as quick as I’ve ever seen it done,” he said. He poured a beer for each of the men, refusing payment.
Hunter reclaimed his stool and began to sip the foamy brew. He still had not spoken.
When the man on the floor began to stir, Zack got to his feet and stood watching. The man sat up and shook his head a few times, then pulled himself to his feet. On shaky legs, he made one step in Hunter’s direction but stopped, appearing to think it over for a while. Then, shaking his head once again, he picked up his hat from the floor and left the building.
The bartender topped off Zack’s beer, then stood with his elbows on the bar. “Wish there’d been more people in here to see it,” he said, chuckling. “I don’t believe anybody in this town’s ever seen Jiggs Odom on his back before.”
Zack continued to sip his beer silently.
Rollins pushed his mug toward the bartender for a refill, then shrugged. “I could have told Mister Odom that he was taking on a heavy load, but he wouldn’t have listened.”
“Nope,” the bartender said. “Jiggs is used to getting his own way, and I doubt that he’s ever run into the kind of resistance he met just now.” He poured Rollins a new beer, then continued, “He’s not all bad, he just likes to fight. Even after he whips a man’s ass, he’ll usually stake him in a poker game or something, and he’s all the time buying drinks for men who don’t have any money.”
Hunter spoke now: “He sounds like an interesting fellow.”
“He is. He’ll probably apologize when he sees you again, and want to shake the hand of the only man who’s ever put him on his ass.”
Half an hour later, Rollins decided to take a hand in one of the poker games. Zack had no interest in gambling. He bought a newspaper and a magazine, then returned to the hotel room, where he read himself to sleep quickly.
He was awakened by Rollins at sundown. “Not much money floating around this town,” Bret said, picking up the whiskey bottle that was still more than half full. He drank straight from the bottle, then wiped his mouth. “It’s easy to tell how tight money is—the gamblers won’t even bet more than a quarter on a pair of aces.” He took another sip of whiskey, replaced the bottle on the table and sat down on his bed. “
I don’t know this for sure, but I believe you’re gonna be surprised when you learn how cheaply land can be bought around here.”
Zack began to pull on his boots. “I like surprises. I’ll do some riding and looking tomorrow.”
Rollins was on his feet again. “Well, I know you’ve always wanted a place of your own, and I want to see you get it. I think if you had a chunk of that property along the river, you’d wake up smiling every morning.”
Zack reached for his hat and changed the subject. “I’m hungry, Bret. You want to try Toby’s T-Bone again?”
“Lead the way.”
They took the restaurant’s only vacant table, located in the center of the room. As they seated themselves, both men noticed that Jiggs Odom was eating supper with two men a few tables away. “I hope to hell he don’t want to fight again,” Hunter said softly.
Rollins pulled his chair closer to the table. “Don’t worry about it, Zack,” he said, reaching for the bill of fare. “There ain’t enough whiskey in this damn town to get him on you again.”
They had scarcely ordered T-bone steaks from a smiling waiter when Odom approached their table, stopping beside Hunter’s chair. Despite the black eye, swollen cheeks and bruised lips, Odom’s face held a pleasant expression. Knowing that the man standing over him now had the advantage, Zack held his breath.
Odom managed a smile. “Hope you ain’t got no hard feelin’s about me,” he said. “Sure ain’t none on my part.”
Hunter shook his head.
Odom made one step toward the front door, then stopped, turning to face Zack again. “I sure did misjudge you, mister,” he said, shaking his head. “I damn sure did.” Then he and his friends left the building.
6
On Monday morning Zack was in the banker’s office discussing his desire to buy some land in the area.
“I think you should look the old Franklin Place over,” McGrath said. “It’s fifteen miles west of town, bordered on the west by the Colorado River. A man who intends to stay put could do right well there.”
Zack scratched his chin for a moment before speaking. “What size place are we talking about?”
“Three sections. Old man Franklin never could make a go of it because the Indians kept him picked clean. All that’s over with now. The last Indian battle happened three years ago, and the Indians that escaped with their lives left the area. As I said, a man could do well over there now.
“The old man died two years ago from consumption, and his children are scattered to hell and gone. I’m authorized to sell the place for a dollar an acre. In fact, I’ll knock twenty dollars off the price and sell it to you lock, stock and barrel for nineteen hundred dollars.
“There’s a livable four-room house that you get for nothing if you buy the land, along with a big barn and a pole corral. A small branch runs right through the corral, so your animals will always have water right under their noses. You won’t have to dig a well, either. There’s a good spring in the front yard that produces drinking water year-round.”
Zack was getting to his feet. “I’ll look it over, Mister McGrath. Can you give me directions?”
The banker pulled open a desk drawer. “I can do better than that,” he said. “I’ll draw you a map.” He continued to talk as he drew lines on a piece of paper. “That place has changed names at least three times that I remember, and you’ll probably change it again. No matter what you call it yourself, though, folks around here are still gonna call it the County Line Ranch. You see, the county line runs right through the middle of it: Lampasas County on the north, Burnet County on the south. San Saba County’s right across the river.”
Zack folded the map and shoved it into his pocket. “The Colorado borders the ranch on the west, you say?”
McGrath smiled, then nodded. “All three sections. Water is one of the things you’ll never have to worry about.”
Zack found Rollins at a poker table in the White Horse Saloon and motioned him over to the bar. Rollins pushed back his chair, asked the dealer to hold his seat, then walked to Zack’s stool. “I need to get back in that game as quick as I can,” he said. “I’ve been catching some good cards this morning.”
“I won’t keep you but a minute,” Zack said. “I just want you to know where I’m going. McGrath told me about some land that’s for sale over on the Colorado. I’m gonna take the packhorse and have a look at the place. I’ll probably be gone for two or three days.”
“Take as much time as you need,” Rollins said. “Look me up when you get back.”
Zack nodded and left the building.
After retrieving his rifle and his Colt from the hotel, he stopped at the general store to buy bacon and matches. Then he walked to the livery stable. “I’ll be needing my bay and the packhorse, Oscar,” he said to the liveryman.
Without a word, the hostler roped both animals in the corral, then led them to the stable. He watched as Zack saddled the bay and helped him balance the pack on the back of the packhorse. Then he spoke: “You leaving the country?”
“Nope. I’m just gonna ride around the area for a while. Be back in two or three days.” He began to fish around in his pocket. “You want me to pay up now?”
The hostler shook his head. “That won’t be necessary. Not as long as you intend to be back in a few days. Where’s your partner?”
Hunter smiled. “He’s trying to get rich over at the White Horse Saloon. If you decide you need some money, see him.” He stepped into the saddle and led the packhorse west, scattering a flock of chickens that hung around the stable.
He followed what was known locally as County Line Road, though in reality it was little more than a wide, rutted trail that had obviously seen wagon traffic at one time or another. Grass grew in the ruts now, and small bushes claimed the area between. Hunter knew that if he did buy the Franklin Place, one of his first jobs would be to shape up the road.
An hour before sunset, he stopped his horses a few hundred yards east of the Colorado. He sat his saddle for a while, staring north. There, a hundred yards from the road, atop a small plateau that sloped gently down to the river, stood the house in which Ned Franklin had raised his family. Zack kneed his horse to a trot and rode into the yard. A jackrabbit bounced away from the spring and down the slope toward the river.
Zack dismounted and climbed the steps, avoiding a flimsy plank on the porch that he doubted would support his weight. The front door opened easily, and the hinges were good. He walked throughout the house, inspecting one thing and another. The fireplace was well constructed, and the firedogs had been left intact. The kitchen flue had also been left behind. A stove and two joints of pipe, and a man would be in business for cooking.
The rear door opened onto a small porch, and shelves were built along the outside wall. Several large nails had been driven halfway into the porch posts, offering places to hang things.
All four of the house’s rooms were connected by doorways, but none had a door. Zack supposed the Franklin family had hung blankets to afford privacy, as he himself had done in the past.
In the yard he drank from the spring, deciding quickly that the jackrabbit had certainly known where to find the best water. Then he led his horses to the barn and fed them from the sack of grain the pack animal carried. He left the stall doors open so the horses could water themselves from the branch that ran through the corral.
The barn was in better condition than the house, and appeared to be several years newer. A wide hall, with four stalls on each side, ran the length of the building and had swinging doors on each end. The hayloft was the same length and width as the barn, and Zack saw no evidence that the roof leaked.
He spent a few minutes inspecting the corral and was pleased. The poles were good, and the cedar posts would be around for many years to come. Then, as the sun seemed to disappear into the river, he carried his pack and blankets into the house, placing them beside the fireplace. He was not hungry enough tonight to bother with fixing supper, but in the morn
ing he would gather some wood and cook his breakfast in the fireplace. He took off his boots and with his Henry and his Colt close to hand, crawled into his blankets.
At daybreak he fed his horses, gathered an armload of wood and cooked his breakfast. He had just finished eating and was sipping his last cup of coffee when a loud voice helloed the house from the yard. With his cup in one hand and his Colt in the other, Zack stepped onto the porch. A middle-aged man of medium height stood in the yard, holding the reins of a small black mare.
“You ain’t gonna be needin’ that,” the man said, his eyes glued to the gun in Hunter’s hand. “I ain’t never done nothin’ to nobody. I jist seen your smoke and stopped by to see who my new neighbors is. I’m John Peabody’s brother; my own name’s Buster. My brother owns the spread across the river.”
Hunter nodded and holstered the Colt. The man indeed looked harmless, and was unarmed. “Tie up to the rail there,” Zack said. “I’ll make another pot of coffee.” As Peabody tied his mare and began to walk back to the porch, Hunter quickly decided that the man was mentally off center. There was a dullness in his face—no light behind his eyes—and he walked with a lumbering gait.
“Don’t want no coffee,” Peabody said, taking a seat on the doorstep. “Jist like to always know who my neighbors is.”
Zack stepped forward and offered a handshake. “My name is Zack Hunter, and I’m not exactly a neighbor. At least not yet. I am thinking about buying the ranch, though.”
Peabody began to shake his head. “This place ain’t no good.”
“What’s wrong with it, Buster?”
“Ain’t got no cows on it. You see any cows?”
Zack sat quietly for a moment, ignoring the question. “What if I put some cows on it, Buster? Would that make it a better place?”
