The H&R Cattle Company (3 page)

They talked till long after dark, then 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.”

“Name's Jenkins,” the old man said, “an' I don't reckin it cost me nothin' ta tell ya.” He took a wad of chewing tobacco from his pocket and poked it into his mouth, wallowing it around several times. “Shore would like to borry a dollar from ya till I see ya ag'in, though. This here's my last chew.”

Rollins gave him a quarter, and the old man guided his mule north, toward Dallas.

Then the men began to look around for firewood. It had been a long day, and they were tired and hungry. Half an hour later, they had a fire going, with beans and onions in the pot. Rollins lay beside the fire on his elbow, waiting for the coffeepot to come to a boil. “You know, Zack, I can't remember ever going this long without a woman. I mean, since I've been old enough to need one. It's been more than three weeks now.”

Hunter pulled the coffeepot from the fire. “That sounds like an earth-shattering problem, Slick.”

“By God, it is a problem. I'm not used to this shit. I'll bet you a dollar that I breed somebody before I go to sleep tomorrow night.”

“I sure wouldn't bet against it, old buddy. I know you too well.”

After supper they sat beside the dying campfire sipping coffee. Rollins continually slapped at his neck. “These damned mosquitoes are as big as crickets, Zack. Half a dozen of 'em have already sunk their beaks in my jugular vein.”

“I hear 'em buzzing,” Zack said, “but none of 'em have bit me. Don't guess they will as long as you're around. They probably think you taste better than me.” He had heard some of the old folks say that mosquitoes avoided certain people because of something in their blood that the insects did not like. He hoped he was one of those people. At any rate, he had never been bothered by mosquitoes.

Rollins crawled into his bedroll and covered his head. After extinguishing the fire, Hunter also went to bed.

*   *   *

The town of Dallas was begun when the first Anglo-American settler built a single cabin on the site in 1841. Another cabin was added two years later. Now, ten years after the Civil War, Dallas was a thriving business town and market center with an urbane air unmatched anywhere on the frontier, primarily due to several immigrations of French, German, Swiss, English and other Europeans. John Neely Bryan built the first cabin and was looked upon as the town's founder.

Though many of the town fathers were men of culture, there was a seamy side of Dallas that was beyond their control. Gunmen, gamblers, whores and thieves of every stripe were abundant, and plied their respective trades randomly. Especially during the nighttime. Saloons outnumbered churches ten to one, and drew much larger crowds. Gambling dives and pool halls, where a man could bet on almost anything, were at least tolerated by law enforcement. The bravest of the law officials were given kickbacks, while the more timid ones were simply afraid to buck the current.

Hunter and Rollins rode into town at three in the afternoon. They stabled their horses at the livery, then rented a third-story hotel room two blocks away. Rollins dropped his pack and saddlebags beside his bed, then leaned his shotgun against the wall. “The first order of business is a thick, juicy steak, Zack. That restaurant we passed down the street looked good to me.”

Zack smiled. “Me, too. And you can order for both of us.”

They had shaved early this morning and bathed in the Trinity River. Now Rollins unbuckled his pack and tossed a pair of jeans and a broadcloth shirt to Hunter. “I don't suppose you'll have any problem with the fit, Zack. As far as I know, we're the same size.”

Hunter was soon wearing the clean jeans and cotton shirt, and the fit was fine.

They locked the pack, saddlebags and guns in the room and walked from the hotel unarmed. A short time later they were seated in the restaurant known as the Big Bull, where each man was soon served a T-bone steak, fried potatoes and a large bowl of brown beans. A pot of strong coffee sat in the middle of the table. Rollins emptied his cup quickly and poured himself another. He began to rub his hands together, eyeing the steaming meal. “Sure looks like these Texans know how to eat.”