The H&R Cattle Company

by Doug Bowman

  Pope bit his lip and sniffed the Peacemaker again. “I guess so,” he said. He ordered Deputy Hillman to recruit some help and remove the body from the premises. Then, on his way out of the building, the sheriff spoke to Rollins: “Seems like every time I see you lately, there’s a dead man close by.”

  Rollins looked the lawman squarely in the eye. “I don’t plan it that way, Sheriff.”

  Pope spun on his heel and was quickly out the door. A few minutes later, Rollins also left the building. With the knowledge that nobody was stalking him, he would sleep well tonight.

  22

  Hunter made it a point to be in Lampasas during the weekend of the big game. Late Friday afternoon he sat at the bar in the Twin Oaks Saloon sipping a beer and talking with Jake Smith. At the moment, Smith was discussing Rollins’ most recent gunfight. “I tell you, Zack, if Rollins hadn’t moved first, I don’t believe he’d still be with us. That Denning fellow was quicker’n a damn cat. He got a late start on his draw, but he damn near beat Rollins anyway.”

  “That’s what I’ve heard,” Zack said, pushing his mug forward for a refill. “Bret says the same thing. He knows how close he came to losing.”

  Smith served the beer, then poured himself a stiff drink of whiskey. He seated himself on his own stool and changed the subject. “I’m sure you know about the high-stakes poker game that’s starting tomorrow up at the White Horse,” he said. “Gonna be some heavy betting in that game, Zack. Can’t no poor folks even get a seat at the table. I hear tell it’s a ten-thousand-dollar buy-in.”

  Zack nodded. “I believe that’s the way they set it up.”

  Smith reached for a pitcher, added a little water to his whiskey and took another sip. “Good poker players,” he said, “every single one of ’em. And they’ve all got plenty of money to play with. Don’t guess Clyde Post even knows what he’s worth, but Pascal Peters and Hiram Wooten ain’t far behind. It’s gonna be a four-handed game, and that’s the three men Rollins is gonna be up against.” He touched his drink to his lips. Then, apparently deciding that he had added too much water to the glass, he poured in a little more whiskey. “I tell you right now, if I was a betting man, I’d bet my money on Rollins. He don’t always win a whole lot, but he just damn nearly don’t ever lose. He’s real bad about letting somebody else win the little pots and then dragging all the big ones himself.”

  Zack chuckled. “Bret says that’s the way the game is supposed to be played.”

  “No doubt.” Smith scratched at the label on the whiskey bottle with a thumbnail, apparently in deep thought. “It sure would have helped my business if the game had been played here at the Twin Oaks,” he said finally. He sat shaking his head for a moment. “I’ve known Clyde Post for more than twenty years, Zack, and the man has never paid me the courtesy of having a drink in my saloon. I don’t reckon he dislikes me or anything like that, he just by God don’t come around.”

  “Maybe it’s only because your place is off the beaten path, Jake.”

  Smith shook his head. “Nope. I used to think so, but not anymore. Post owns at least a thousand saddle horses, so he could certainly come by here without walking. Besides, coming into town from the southwest like he usually does, my place is just as close as the White Horse. No, sir, Clyde Post has got a reason for staying clear of this saloon, and for the life of me, I can’t figure out what it is.” He got to his feet and dropped his empty glass into a pan of water. “One thing is for sure,” he added, “I’ll certainly never ask Mister Post to explain it.”

  Zack left the Twin Oaks a few minutes before dark and walked to Toby’s T-Bone for supper. The restaurant was filled to capacity, and he stood leaning against the wall, waiting. When a small table became available a short time later, he was motioned forward by the Mexican waiter.

  He ordered roast pork and applesauce, then leaned back in his chair. Though every seat in the building was occupied, he could see very few people that he recognized. A few men were treating their ladies to supper and were dressed in their Sunday best, but the crowd for the most part was made up of working men who wore overalls or, like himself, jeans and flannel shirt.

  Zack continued to look around the room. Even the few faces that he recognized, he could not put a name to. Putting names to faces had certainly never been a problem for Rollins, he was thinking. Zack would not have been surprised if Rollins could call the name of every person in the restaurant, including the businessmen and their wives. Especially the wives. Zack smiled at the thought.

  When he had eaten and paid for his meal, he headed for the front door, returning Shirley Doolen’s greeting as she smiled and waved flirtatiously from across the room. He was still smiling when he reached the street, thinking of the girl’s blueberry pie and wondering if she had gotten back into Bret’s good graces yet.

  Zack had arrived in town at noon today and immediately ridden to Rollins’ cottage. His knock at the door had gone unanswered. The fact that Rollins’ roan was in the corral, however, meant that he was somewhere around town. Zack had ridden around for the next two hours peeking through the doors and windows of one business establishment after another, but had seen no sign of his partner. Then, intending to spend the night in town anyway, he had ridden to the livery stable and turned his horse over to Oscar Land.

  Now, standing outside Toby’s T-Bone just before sunset, he decided to check Bret’s house again. Walking at a fast clip, he had traveled only a short way when he met Bret walking toward town. “I checked all of your hangouts that I know about,” Zack said, grasping Bret’s hand, “so I figured you’d be back home by now.”

  “I had a jillion things to do, Zack. Been going all day. I finally walked back to the house and slept about an hour. I feel pretty good now, so good that I’ll buy you a drink at the White Horse.”

  “I’ll take you up on that,” Zack said. “Seems like I need one to hold my supper down.”

  They were soon seated at a small table near the back wall of the saloon, well away from the gaming tables. Looking around the room, Zack decided that the crowd was much smaller than normal for this place. Even so, there were more men here than he had ever seen in the Twin Oaks. Once again, he wondered how Jake Smith managed to survive.

  Rollins had brought a bottle and two glasses from the bar and was now busy pouring drinks. He set the bottle down and nodded toward a group of men in the center of the room. “I see Mister Post is already celebrating the things he’s gonna do to me in the poker game tomorrow.”

  Zack turned his head for a better look. A group of eight men had pushed two tables together and were seated around several bottles of whiskey. Somebody had obviously just told a funny joke, for the boisterous laughter of the group seemed to shake the room. An old man sitting at the end of the table, whom Rollins identified as Clyde Post, laughed loudest of all.

  Zack watched the men for a while, then decided that it had been Post himself who had told the joke. The laughter subsided several times but erupted again each time Post decided to chuckle. It was the same old story, Zack was thinking: the worker was compelled to laugh at the boss’s jokes, and if a rich man thought something was a bit humorous, it was hilarious to everybody else.

  Rollins topped off their whiskey glasses and set the bottle down again. “Peters and Wooten are over there, too,” he said. “That’s Wooten at the opposite end of the table, and the bald-headed younger man seated on Wooten’s right is Pascal Peters. I’ve heard that Peters was a cattle rustler in the old days, but now they say he’s got money to burn. I guess that’s true, ’cause he sure throws it around like he’s got plenty more in his sock. He’ll bet you two or three hundred dollars on a damned pair of deuces.

  “Now Wooten I don’t know much about, except that he was born rich. Everybody says that his folks were originally from Chicago and that they brought a bundle with them when they moved to Texas. Wooten owns several ranches, and I heard that he sent half a dozen herds north to the rails last year. By God, I’m talking about money now, Z
ack.”

  Zack took a sip of whiskey, then cleared his throat. “I believe you, Slick,” he said, taking another look across the room at Wooten. He had long thought that people with money had a certain look, and he could easily see that Wooten had it. Appearing to be about sixty years old, he was clean-shaven, with thinning brown hair and a look of confidence that said the world could kiss his ass, that he would make it just fine even if syrup went to a thousand dollars a sop. He was also the man who had laughed the least at Post’s jokes.

  Zack had been told so much about Clyde Post that he spent little time looking him over. He was more interested in Wooten and Peters. Pascal Peters appeared to be no more than thirty-five years old, and though his head was poked partway into a Stetson, it was easy to see that he was prematurely bald. A beefy man who probably stood at least six feet tall, his pinkish complexion suggested that he had once been a blond or a redhead. “Where does Peters live?” Zack asked.

  “His main spread is a few miles west of Llano. I believe he also owns at least one saloon in Austin. This is not the first time I’ve seen him with Wooten. I think he follows the old man around and kisses his ass every chance he gets. Wooten is probably the man who taught him how to get rich.”

  When the men at the long table recognized Rollins, each of them waved and called out a greeting. Rollins nodded, smiled and waved his arm back at them, then ignored the table. Anything else he had to say to the men would be said over a poker hand less than twenty-four hours from now.

  * * *

  Hunter slept the night away in Bret’s extra bed and was up at the first hint of daybreak. He built a fire in the stove and put on the coffeepot, then walked to the corral to feed Bret’s roan. As the animal ate its oats, Zack chuckled and began to speak to it. “How do you like living in Texas, old buddy?” he asked, scratching the horse’s ears. “You don’t have the slightest idea that you used to belong to a rich doctor in Shelby County, Tennessee, do you?” He gave the animal’s neck a final pat, then returned to the house.

  Rollins was sitting at the kitchen table in his underwear, opening flat tins of fish and dumping them onto plates. “I don’t remember us ever having fish and crackers for breakfast before, but there ain’t a hell of a lot else around here to eat. I’ve been eating all my meals in town lately and just haven’t bought anything for the house.”

  Zack pulled up a chair and reached for one of the plates. “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “I’ve been fish-hungry for quite a while and this might be the only chance I get to eat some. I sure as hell haven’t been able to catch any from the Colorado River.”

  Rollins filled two cups from the coffeepot. “The fish are in there, Zack. You just don’t know how to catch them.”

  Zack blew into his steaming cup. “I suppose you do know how, huh?”

  “Nope. But I do know that Toby’s T-Bone serves somewhere between a dozen and forty fish plates a day and every damn one of those fish comes right out of that river. Some people fish for a living, Zack. If you could watch a few of them and see how they do it, I think your own stringers would be a little heavier.”

  “Professor Rollins,” Zack said sarcastically and began to wash down the fish and crackers with hot coffee.

  Zack could not think of many things more boring than watching a poker game and said so. He informed Rollins shortly after breakfast that he intended to be somewhere else when the game got underway. He left the cottage at mid-morning.

  Rollins stood on the porch as Zack was leaving. “Spend the rest of the weekend in town, Zack,” he said. “Rent a room at the Hartley and have some fun. Get yourself a woman, let her take some of that swelling out of your neck.”

  Zack turned up his lip and shook his head, then walked to town and did exactly as he had been instructed by Rollins.

  * * *

  Hunter left the Hartley early Sunday morning. He had been at the hotel for almost twenty-four hours and had left his room only once. His supper in the dining room last night had been the only good meal he had ever eaten at the Hartley and he decided to quit while he was ahead. This morning he would eat breakfast at home. Dixie had smoked ham and sausage, fresh eggs, maple syrup, and from somewhere he had gotten hold of some special pancake flour. Zack licked his lips and headed for the livery stable to get the sorrel.

  The morning was cool and he gave the frisky horse its head. Two hours later, he released the animal in the corral and walked to the cookshack. Poking his head inside the door, he spoke to the cook: “Give me about four eggs, sir, and everything else you can think of.”

  “Good morning, boss,” Dixie said, pulling the coffeepot to the front of the stove. “Got ham and eggs and some warmed-over coffee and biscuits.”

  Zack seated himself at the table. “Sounds better than anything I could have bought in town, but I’d really like a stack of those light pancakes you’ve been making lately.”

  The cook shook his head. “Can’t make ’em, Zack. I’m all out of that kinda flour, and so is the store in Lampasas. I told Lacy to hold me back two hundred pounds the next time he gets some in, but there’s no telling when that’ll be. That special flour is pretty hard to come by, Zack. It’s an extra fine grind that’s put out by a company in Dallas, and it’s called Bulah’s Best. I guess the reason it’s so hard to find is ’cause the company can sell a hell of a lot more than it can make.”

  Zack smiled. “Makes sense,” he said. “Just fix me whatever’s easiest.” A short while later, he was served a breakfast that no restaurant in town could match.

  He was sitting on the porch mending a bridle when Jolly Ross returned from town Monday afternoon. Zack watched as the foreman unloaded supplies at the cookshack, parked the wagon and loosed the team in the corral. Then Ross walked up the hill to the house, taking a seat on the doorstep. He sat staring across the river for a while, then spoke softly: “I’ve got bad news, Zack.”

  Zack laid the bridle aside. “I’ve heard bad news before,” he said. “Keep talking.”

  Ross began to fidget, kicking at a small stone. “Well, some folks might say it’s none of my business, but it seems to me that it concerns us all. The big poker game in Lampasas broke up yesterday afternoon. The talk around town is that Rollins lost big, lost everything he owned. The bartender at the White Horse says he even lost this ranch, and everything on it. Hayes says Bret turned the deed over to Clyde Post this morning, along with every dollar the ranch had in the bank.”

  Zack’s expression turned to granite. He stared at the floor for a long time as a feeling of numbness crept into his very soul. “Thank … thank you, Jolly,” he finally said in a low, indistinct tone. He got to his feet and turned toward the house. “I’d … like to be alone now,” he said.

  Zack sat at the kitchen table in a daze, sipping lukewarm coffee. There was little possibility that Ross was mistaken, he was thinking. Jolly was a very intelligent man and would surely have checked with more than one source before repeating the story. He nodded at his thoughts. The story was true, and he must accept the fact that he was once again homeless and owned nothing except the horse he would ride away from here. Well, two horses; he would ride the sorrel and use the bay for a pack animal.

  He swallowed the last of his coffee and banged the empty cup against the table. Why had Rollins not been satified? With more than a thousand head of full-grown Herefords running about, the twenty-thousand-acre ranch was just now getting into a position to pay off handsomely. Why had Rollins spent every waking hour trying to figure a way to get more? County Line Ranch had been all the partners really needed. Indeed, it would have provided them with financial security for life.

  Just before sunset, Zack was back on the porch. He sat looking down the hill to the river, knowing full well that this might be his last day on the ranch that he had built from scratch. He was not angry with Rollins, for it was just about impossible to stay mad at the man. Rollins was Rollins, and he could no more stop gambling than he could stop breathing. In Rollins’ mind, he had done th
e right thing. He wanted a cattle empire and firmly believed that he was entitled to it, no matter that he might acquire it at somebody else’s expense.

  Nope, whatever happened to Zack in the future, he would never be angry at Rollins. He had, however, made a decision during the past two hours: it was time for the partners to part. The two men should go in opposite directions, each seeking his fortune in his own way. Rollins would probably be along tonight or tomorrow and then the two would say good-bye.

  * * *

  Rollins rode into the yard at ten the following morning, a bedroll and a bundle of clothing tied behind his saddle. He tied the roan to the hitching rail as Zack walked down the steps to meet him. Rollins found something interesting to look at on the ground for a while, then raised his eyes. The perpetual smile was missing this morning. “I guess you’ve heard the news by now,” he said softly.

  Zack nodded.

  “I lost it all, Zack, lost everything we owned.” Neither man said anything for a while, then Rollins added, “I played just as carefully as I ever do and thought I had a lock. I misread one of the cards.” He took a seat on the bottom step and told Zack about the game.

  The cards had run in his favor most of the day on Saturday and he had won two thousand dollars. Then on Sunday afternoon, Rollins himself had dealt the hand that broke up the game: the hand was five-card stud, and both Wooten and Peters folded when the fourth card fell, leaving Rollins and Post to contest each other for the pot. Rollins had two sixes and a nine faceup, and another nine in the hole. Post had three hearts showing: the ten, queen and king. With the only pair showing, Rollins was high man and it was his turn to bet.

  “Possible straight flush,” he said, tapping the table to indicate that he was checking his hand to Post. “I’ll put it on your back, Clyde. I’m not about to bet into something that looks that mean.”