by Doug Bowman
Jolly had no idea where in the world his mother and father were, and had more than once been heard to say that he did not give a damn. Shortly after his thirteenth birthday, he took a job as an errand runner and general flunky on a huge ranch in Hidalgo County. By the time he was fifteen, he was sitting his saddle beside the rest of the cowboys and was considered a top hand. He had participated in two trail drives north to Kansas, the second one being only last year.
When they had finished eating, they returned to the barn. Zack resumed his work on the wagon, while Jolly led his horse into the corral and removed the saddle. “You’ll find oats in that metal bin just inside the door,” Zack called. “Feed your horse in the third stall on the right every day. Pretty soon he’ll know that’s where he belongs.”
Ross led the animal to the stall and curried it as it ate. Then, as always, he wiped its sides down with the saddle blanket. He owned a good horse, and treated it accordingly. Standing more than sixteen hands high and weighing over a thousand pounds, the animal appeared to be black when viewed from a distance. It was only when the horse moved closer that its color became a dark, speckled gray. The beautiful animal was six years old, and Jolly Ross had been its master for the past three years. The colt had been raised on the very ranch where Jolly had worked, and he had made a deal with his boss to have the price of the animal deducted from his wages.
Ross’s saddle was of the same quality as his horse, and it had cost more than twice as much—which was not at all unusual. Most cowboys insisted on a good saddle, whatever the cost. A few saddlemakers, known for their fine craftsmanship, might charge a cowboy a year’s pay for a saddle. Even so, the better saddlemakers usually had a long list of customers waiting. A custom-built saddle was a thing of pride for most Western men.
Ross returned to the shed to find Zack tossing pieces of lumber over the fence. “We’ll use these two-by-fours and one-by-sixes to build you a bunk along the living-room wall,” Zack said. “I would offer you that bed in the back room, but it belongs to my friend. No telling when he’ll be needing it.”
Ross walked through the gate and began to pick up the boards. “I might not be able to sleep on a soft bed anyway. I don’t recall sleeping any better on the few times that I’ve done it. I’ll just spread my bedroll on the bunk. First time I’m in town with the wagon and have some money, I’ll pick up some kind of mattress.”
Zack walked through the gate and shoved an eagle into Jolly’s vest pocket. “Here’s some money,” he said. “Take the wagon into town tomorrow and get whatever you need. I’ll find something to do around here while you’re gone.”
Ross nodded, then smiled. “I probably don’t need it, but I sure would like to have a sack of smoking tobacco. Sometimes I damn near have a fit for a cigarette right after I eat.”
Zack reached into his pocket, saying, “You being out of work for a while, I guess you need a lot of things.” He handed the young man another eagle. “Here’s ten dollars more. Just consider it a draw against your wages.”
Two days later, they were on the hill half a mile north of the house, cutting wood for the stove and fireplace. They had felled half a dozen oaks, which would be sawed into blocks of different lengths. The shorter blocks would be split for the kitchen stove, while the longer ones would be used in the fireplace. Hunter had a sledge and two wedges for splitting any blocks that proved too stubborn for the ax.
“I guess we’ve got enough trees on the ground,” he said. He laid the crosscut saw aside and began to chop limbs off the fallen tree with the ax. “Have yourself a cigarette, then we’ll saw up this log and haul it to the house. I guess by then we’ll both be ready for some supper.”
Ross sat down on the stump and began to fashion a cigarette. “You thought any more about fencing in a plot of ground south of the road?” he asked, licking the paper and giving it a final twist.
“I sure have, Jolly. As soon as we get a winter’s supply of wood cut, we’ll go to work on that. The idea of having a crib full of corn for the horses seems like a good one, and I suppose I like fresh vegetables just as well as the next man. How long do you think it’ll take to build the fence?”
Ross blew a cloud of smoke. “Probably a month or more. I’ll lay it off with the turning plow first, then plow the topsoil under. We’ll let it lie upside down all winter and turn it over again next spring. Be best to let me get the plowing done before we start on the fence.”
* * *
Winter came early to Central Texas this year. It was only mid-October and already the temperature had begun to drop below the freezing point at night. Even at midday, both Zack and Jolly wore heavy coats when outside the house, and a fire burned in the fireplace most of the time.
Large piles of wood lay beside the house, with smaller stacks on the porch. The plot of ground that was to be cultivated next year had been plowed and fenced. Zack estimated it to be a little less than three acres. He would grow vegetables for the table on only a small portion of the land, with the remainder producing corn for the horses.
Last night had been another cold one, and the men had just finished their breakfast of flapjacks and sorghum syrup. Zack stood by the fireplace, a cup of coffee in one hand and the other reaching out to the heat from the fire. “I’m gonna be going into town today, Jolly. I want to get a bigger pot for the stove, and we’re damn near out of food.”
“Count me in,” Ross said. “I need a better coat, ’cause I can see that we’re in for a rough winter. Need some warmer gloves and something to cover my ears, too.”
Zack returned his empty coffee cup to the kitchen, placing it in a dishpan filled with water. “Bundle up as well as you can, Jolly. Then let’s hitch up the team. I want to stop by the hardware store and see if they’ve got a middle-buster for the corn patch. I can probably buy one cheaper right now than I could next summer, when everybody else is needing one, too.” He covered the fire with ashes and then the men headed for the barn.
They reached Lampasas just before noon and stopped at the livery stable to feed and water the horses. Oscar Land stood by his anvil hammering on a wagon spring. He offered the men his broadest smile. “I can see with one eye that you two make a good team.” He dropped the hot spring into a metal trough filled with water, then laid the hammer aside. “What can I do for you?”
“You can feed and water the horses,” Zack said. “No need to unhitch them from the wagon; we’ll be using them again as soon as we make the rounds and buy a few things.”
Land nodded, then spoke to his cousin: “How do you like it out on the river, Jolly?”
Ross answered quickly. “Best job I ever had,” he said, then walked down the street beside Hunter.
Their first stop was the White Horse Saloon. They took seats at the bar and both men ordered whiskey. They were served by Ed Hayes, the same muscular bartender who had been on duty the day Zack fought Jiggs Odom. “Haven’t seen you in a while,” the young barkeep said. “Heard about you buying the old Franklin Place. You gonna run cattle on it?”
Zack nodded. “Probably get some next spring,” he said, sipping at his whiskey.
Hayes refilled both men’s glasses. “Where’s your curly headed friend?” he asked, speaking to Zack. “I believe his name is Rollins.”
“Haven’t seen him in more than a month,” Zack answered. “He’s not living in this area at the moment.”
The bartender began to shake his head very slowly. “Well, wherever this Rollins fellow is, anybody hunting trouble would damn sure be smart to walk around him.”
Zack raised his eyebrows. “Why do you say that?”
Hayes placed his elbows on the bar and leaned forward. “I guess since you ain’t seen him in a while, you ain’t heard about the show he put on in here.”
Zack shook his head.
“Let’s see … I believe it was a month ago today,” Hayes began. “Rollins and another fellow were playing pool and got into an argument. They finally decided to fight, and that other fellow didn’t las
t no time. Rollins put him down to stay right off.
“Well, Jiggs Odom just happened to be watching, and he didn’t like the way the fight went. He called Rollins ‘Purty Boy,’ and challenged him. Well, Rollins laid his gunbelt right up on this bar and proceeded to whip Odom’s ass all over this room. Knocked him down at least five times.
“I remember the day you fought Odom, and you made short work of it, but your friend put on a show while he was doing it. Every time Odom got to his feet, Rollins would knock him on his ass again. He was laughing all the time he was doing it, too. I don’t think Jiggs ever landed a single punch that hurt Rollins. I tell you, I’ve seen a few professionals, but I sure ain’t seen nobody like him. He just does it all so quick and makes it look so damn easy.”
Zack had sat nodding throughout the narration, showing no surprise at what he was hearing.
“Here I am telling you all this,” Hayes said, pouring more whiskey for Zack. “I bet you’ve seen Rollins operate before.”
Zack chuckled, then nodded. “I’m afraid so,” he said. Then he headed for the outhouse to answer nature’s call, leaving Jolly Ross and the bartender in conversation.
“I just went to work for Zack Hunter about a month ago,” Ross said to Hayes, “and I really don’t know a whole lot about him. You say you saw him whip Jiggs Odom right here in the saloon?”
“Uh-huh. He did Odom just like he’ll do anybody else who gives him any shit. He’s the best I’ve ever seen, unless it would be his friend, Rollins. They’re both from somewhere in Tennessee, you know. A fellow told me last week that every man he’d ever known from Tennessee was just like them: strong as a damn ox and quick as a cat. Must be something in the water back there.”
Ross smiled and touched a match to his cigarette. “Maybe so,” he said. He slid from his stool and headed toward the front door, for Zack was waiting for him there. Both men waved to the bartender as they walked out of the building.
They were soon standing in front of the hardware store. “I’ll see if they have a middle-buster and some Johnson Wings here,” Zack said. “Then we’ll hunt up the other stuff we need. Once we get everything bought and sacked up, I’ll go get the wagon.”
Two hours later, they left town with the wagon loaded. Zack whipped the horses to a trot, hoping to get home before dark.
9
Bret Rollins had spent two weeks in Austin, but found the town not to his liking. During the third week, he headed north and after riding leisurely for several days, arrived in Waco, a wide-open, hell-raising town situated on the Brazos River. Located in a rich agricultural region, Waco became home to its first white settlers around 1849. Great plantations along the river prospered for a time, until the Civil War spoiled the plantation economy and scattered the population.
The Brazos River separated Waco east from west, and the largest suspension bridge in America was built there in 1870. Much of the great Western movement passed over that bridge, as did the famous Chisholm Trail. The town quickly boomed again, attaining a state of wildness that earned it the nickname “Six-shooter Junction.”
Criminals and con men of every stripe soon set up shop in Waco, using a myriad of schemes to separate the travelers and the trail drivers from their hard-earned money. Several well-known gunfighters also lived there, and though none of them showed visible means of support, all seemed to have plenty of money to spend. The town fathers tolerated the gunmen, whores and gamblers, for it was a prosperous time for all. Local lawmen also looked the other way, ever mindful of who paid their salaries.
Besides, the seamy element was largely responsible for keeping the money in circulation. While a day merchant would likely salt his profits away in the bank, that was not the case with the night people, whose “easy come, easy go” attitude kept the money moving until it found its way into the general population. Indeed, after 1870, money was a little easier to come by for every man in the area, regardless of his station in life.
Rollins rode into Waco in the middle of the afternoon. After crossing the bridge, he rode south along the river, for he could see the livery stable and its large corral. The big roan also noticed the stable and broke into a trot, sensing that he was about to be fed and pampered.
“You got someplace where you can lock up my shotgun and my bedroll?” Rollins asked, handing the roan’s reins to the liveryman.
“I’ll put ’em in the office,” the man said. “I not only keep it locked, I sleep in it. Ain’t nobody coming in there, at least nobody that expects to walk out again.”
Rollins smiled and nodded. He stood watching for a while as the hostler unsaddled and cared for the roan. “Don’t know how long I’ll be leaving the horse here,” he said. “Might be two days or two months.”
The big hostler offered a toothy grin. “I like the sound of two months better,” he said. “That’s the way I make my living.”
With his saddlebags across his shoulder and a change of clothing under his arm, Rollins headed up the street toward a hotel he had spotted earlier. When he rented a second-story room a few minutes later, he was informed by the desk clerk that a hot bath could be had at the barber shop a few doors to the north. Bret was out the door quickly; he also needed a shave and a haircut.
Having been told by both the barber and the desk clerk that the Texas Saloon served the best food in town, Rollins took a seat at a table in the establishment an hour before sunset. A dark-haired waitress was there at once. “Have you ever tried one of our broiled veal steaks, sir?” she asked, fluttering her extra-long eyelashes.
“Not until now,” Bret said, winking. “Bring it on.”
The girl nodded and was gone.
Though the dining area was a roped-off section close to the kitchen, Rollins nevertheless had an excellent view of the activity throughout the huge room. At the moment, two bartenders stood idly behind a forty-foot bar in the center of the building, smoking cigarettes and carrying on a conversation between themselves. No drinkers sat at the bar just now, but both bartenders would no doubt be working at a hurried pace before the night was over.
On the opposite side of the bar from the kitchen there was a large drinking and frolicking area. Though many saloons removed their heaters during the summer and returned them in the winter, the Texas did not. The large potbelly stood in the center of the room year-round. Dozens of chairs and tables of varying sizes were scattered around the stove, which had not been fired in months.
Farther toward the rear of the room was a small hardwood dance floor, and beyond that, an elevated stage where entertainers performed. Against the north wall, close to the dance floor, a steep staircase led to the second floor. A man needed little imagination to guess what went on upstairs.
The remaining area along the north wall, from the staircase to the front of the building, was devoted to gaming tables. There were six tables in all, three of them set up for poker, and Rollins could see what appeared to be a four-handed stud game in progress at one of them. There was no action of any kind at the remaining tables, and even the house dealers, who usually sat around trying to drum up a game, were noticeably absent. Rollins began to concentrate on his meal, knowing that the picture would change dramatically when the sun went down.
When he paid for his supper, he gave the waitress a quarter and another wink, then headed for the bar. “Whiskey,” he said to the nearest bartender, then took a seat on a stool. His drink was served quickly. “Enjoy your supper?” the barkeep asked, his raised eyebrows and sincere tone of voice suggesting that perhaps his prosperity was directly related to the quality of food dispensed by the kitchen.
Rollins nodded. “I sure did,” he said. “The food was excellent.”
The bartender nodded several times, smiling broadly. “I can’t think of nobody I ever asked that didn’t say the same thing.” He was a dark-complected man of medium height, who appeared to weigh about one-fifty. “I tell you,” he continued, “the best thing old Al Foster ever did was lease that kitchen to Maggie Leafgreen. In les
s than a year, she’s turned it into the best eating place in this town, and it’s full every night.
“If you ain’t never tried none of her Mexican food, you owe it to yourself. She’s got two Mexican cooks back there that don’t do nothing else.” He topped off Bret’s whiskey glass and wiped at a wet spot on the bar. “Maggie’s my mother-in-law, you know.”
Bret stared at his glass for a moment, then shook his head. “No,” he said, “I didn’t know.”
“Oh, yeah. I married her daughter four years ago.” He poked his arm across the bar, offering a handshake. “By the way, my name’s Tim Overstreet.”
Bret pumped the hand a few times. “My name’s Rollins,” he said, “and I’m new in the area.” He took a sip of his whiskey, then spoke to Overstreet again: “You mentioned a man named Al Foster,” he said. “I assume he owns this place.”
“This and a lot of other things. He bought the saloon for a song back several years ago. I reckon the only money he ever spent on it was to patch the roof a little. Maybe at the time he bought it, the place wasn’t worth no more’n he paid. All I know is that when they built the bridge and the travelers and the trail herds started coming through town, the Texas Saloon became a gold mine. If you’ll drop back in here about ten o’clock tonight, you’ll see what I mean.”
Rollins upended his glass, got to his feet and offered the bartender a parting handshake. “I’ll do that, Tim. As far as I know, I’ll be back about ten.”
Bret walked the streets for a while, paying particular attention to the seedy buildings alongside the river. Peeking inside their open doorways, he saw that some of the run-down saloons had pool tables, with games in progress. He had no doubt that large sums of money sometimes changed hands in these out-of-the-way places, but they were also breeding grounds for violence, and he wanted to call as little attention to himself as possible. He would return to the Texas Saloon after a while. The Texas had no pool tables, but he was an excellent poker player, and he felt that a winner was more likely to get out of the Texas alive than if he played in some of the waterfront saloons.
