The H&R Cattle Company (19 page)

12

It was now the first week in February, and central Texas had so far had the mildest winter in recent memory. Thinking it unwise to make the trip himself, Rollins had sent Jolly Ross to Weatherford to learn as much as he could about the actions of Clifford Hollingsworth. Ross had returned a week ago, saying that the old man's dam had been completed and Silver Springs Hollow was rapidly filling up with water.

Jolly had talked with Rex Allgood on several occasions, learning that Hollingsworth's health had taken a turn for the worse and that he seldom left his room nowadays. The old man had also returned to his old habit of consuming large quantities of liquor, having it delivered to the ranch house by the case. Allgood said that his father-in-law drank himself into an alcoholic stupor on a daily basis, usually before noon, and that family and friends had given up on trying to hold any kind of conversation with him. The bartender did not believe that Hollingsworth would live to see the grass turn green this year.

Rollins listened closely to Jolly's report and thought that maybe Hollingsworth was no longer a threat to him. He would remain vigilant, however, and keep an eye on his back trail, for the old man was not dead yet.

Hunter and Rollins had come to the decision just last night that it was time to contact Manuel Gonzalez about the longhorns. Zack himself decided that Rollins should be the one to make the trip. Gathering the herd and driving it to the H and R would take as long as two months, maybe three, and Zack knew that if he himself handled that chore, Rollins would get nothing whatsoever done around the ranch in the meantime. Besides, Bret was a better talker. He was also personally acquainted with Rafe Baskin, the man who would supply the Hereford bulls.

The partners had registered the H and R Cattle Company's brand as the HR connected, and last week Oscar Land had made up several branding irons, which Rollins would carry east on a packhorse. As the longhorns were gathered, the would be burned into their hides, eliminating any need for additional marking until such time as they were road-branded for the drive to the rails in Kansas. Unless the bank account reached an unacceptable low, Rollins planned to get two calves out of each of the longhorn cows before they were marketed.

Rollins must travel southeast to Saratoga, a small town in Hardin County, only a short distance from Beaumont. There he would hunt up one Manuel Gonzalez and make a deal for a thousand head of longhorns. He had been told that Gonzalez would sometimes fill two or three orders at once. If Gonzalez had more than one buyer wanting longhorns at the same time, he simply hired more men, for he did none of the roping himself. And communication was never a problem. Though Gonzalez spoke Spanish fluently, he had been born and raised no more than a dozen miles from where he now lived and spoke English as well as did other Texans.

This morning Rollins was preparing for his journey to Saratoga. Zack followed him to the barn and stood watching as he adjusted the packsaddle on a black gelding. “I hate like hell to lead two pack animals, Zack,” Rollins said, “but I just might have to. I may have to camp for a month or two while they gather the herd, and I'll be needing a lot of things. Besides, I've got to carry these branding irons.”

Zack stepped under the shed and opened a metal bin, extracting a piece of rope three feet long. “I've led two horses lots of times, Bret. It's not hard to do.” He handed over the rope. “Here, take this and tie one end to each of the horses' bridles. That'll keep 'em together.”

“Yeah,” Rollins said, “except when they decide to walk on opposite sides of a damn sapling.”

Hunter laughed. “Well, I guess you should stop when that happens.”

The partners spent almost two hours loading and arranging the things Bret chose to carry on the backs of two horses. A heavy bag of grain rounded out the load on the larger of the animals. In addition to a week's supply of food, Rollins carried the tent he had brought from Tennessee. He had slept in the tent through more than one downpour and knew that it would not leak. The horses also carried everything he would need in the way of cooking utensils, several changes of clothing, a good bedroll and thick blankets.

At last Rollins climbed aboard the roan. He had not taken Zack's advice on tying the packhorses' bridles together. He had tied them nose-to-tail and would lead them in single file. Hunter was quick to admit that it was a better arrangement than his own suggestion had been.

Rollins tightened up the lead rope. “Well, I guess we'll be in the cattle business pretty soon, partner.” They engaged in the longest handshake of their lives, each man seeming reluctant to let go. Rollins finally pulled in his hand, then pointed east. “I figure the town of Bryan is about the halfway point. I'll try to make it there before I have to restock my supplies”

Zack nodded. “You just be careful, Bret. I'd say that there's many a man between here and Saratoga who would kill for what you're carrying. I think you should bank your money in Beaumont before you even go looking for Manuel Gonzalez.”

“I'll do that, Zack. Of course I'll see if they have a bank in Saratoga before I go riding all the way to Beaumont.” He waved good-bye, kicked the roan in the ribs and headed southeast, hoping to cross the Lampasas River before nightfall.

*   *   *

Rollins rode into Bryan at noon six days later. The sky had been overcast all day but so far, the low-hanging clouds had produced no rain. He saw several men on the street as he rode through town but made eye contact with no one. The livery stable at the end of the street looked much like a hundred others he had seen. He dismounted in the doorway.

“Howdy there, young feller,” a scrawny old man said, walking into the dimly lit hall. Reaching for the roan's bridle, he continued to talk: “You look like a tard man, mister; hongry too, I bet, an' they c'n fix 'at mighty quick over at th' hotel dinin' room. It bein' 'bout dinnertime, I'd say they got a big feed on over there right now.” He patted the roan's neck. “It's easy ta see 'at ya done come a right smart piece, an' I bet ya wanna rest ya animals a while. I bet—”

“Have you got someplace you can lock up my gear?” Bret interrupted.

“Why, o' course. I'll put it 'n th' office, right whur I keep muh own stuff. Ain't nobody gonna mess with nothin'.”

“Good,” Rollins said, beginning to unburden his pack animals. “I'm sure you're right about my horses needing rest, and I intend to leave them with you for a day or two.”

“I'll shore take good care uv 'em. All uv 'em'll be awright in a coupla days.” He led the animals forward and fed them in separate stalls, then turned to Bret's gear. With each man carrying a packsaddle, they soon had the equipment stored in the office. “Been here seb'm years,” the old hostler said. “Ain't nobody stole nothin' out'n this office yet.”

With his saddlebags across his shoulder and his rifle cradled in the crook of one arm, Rollins walked up the street to the hotel. He rented a second-story room, locked his Winchester inside, then returned to the street. He was soon sitting in a barber shop, where he requested a shave and a haircut. He was in the chair quickly, for he was the lone customer.

Unlike most barbers Rollins had known, this man was not a talker, just went about his work quietly and meticulously. When he was done, he patted Rollins on the shoulder several times, the signal that it was time to get out of the chair.

Rollins smiled as he paid the man for his work. “I guess you'd know where the best eating place is,” he said.

“The hotel dining room's always treated me right,” the barber said. “I eat there myself sometimes when the old lady don't make me bring something from home.” He signaled a newly arrived customer to get in the chair, then turned his back to Rollins.

Bret seated himself in the dining room and noticed immediately that the bill of fare handed to him by a waitress was quite extensive. Thumbing through its three pages, he began to shake his head slowly. “Do you folks actually have everything listed here?” he asked the small, middle-aged lady.

“Most of it,” she said quickly. “We pride ourselves on variety.”

He pointed to the first listing on the first page. “I'll have the sirloin steak, potatoes and a bowl of those black-eyed peas.” The lady nodded and headed for the kitchen.

Bret was soon served one of the tastiest meals he could remember, and he left an extra quarter on the table when he departed. He bought a bottle of good whiskey at the bar and a copy of the
Fort Worth Democrat
in the lobby, then climbed the stairs to his room.

He was soon sipping whiskey-and-water while reading the newspaper. After a while he laid the paper aside, mixed himself another drink and moved his chair to the window, where he sat looking down into the street below. Men were scampering from one place to another much like so many ants, and quite a few women were on the street, too.

All of which reminded him that he had not even seen a woman up close in weeks. Nor would he see one in the near future, for it would be a careless thing to do. He had already decided that his stay in the town of Bryan would be spent in this hotel room. He would leave the room only to eat, for prowling about town with two saddlebags full of money was out of the question. He would guard the money with his life till he could bank it in Saratoga or Beaumont. Then he would find an agreeable woman and get his ashes hauled.

When he stretched out on his bed and began reading again, he fell asleep quickly and awoke to a dark room five hours later.
Damn!
was his first thought. He struck a match and lit the coal-oil lamp, then looked at his watch. The time was a quarter past eight, probably too late to get fed in the dining room. He grabbed his saddlebags and hurried down the stairs. “Is the dining room closed?” he asked the fat desk clerk.

“About a half hour ago,” the man said. “You hungry?”

Rollins nodded. “Like a wolf.”

The clerk pointed to the counter. “There's a big bowl of stew and some biscuits on that tray there,” he said, “and it ain't been touched. Elsie brought it to me when she closed, and I sure as hell ain't gonna eat it.” He patted his belly. “I done gained more'n forty pounds this year. If you want that stew, take it right on up to your room and eat it. Won't cost you a penny.”

Rollins looked at the tray a couple of times, then reached for it. “The truth is, I am mighty hungry, mister, but I'd feel better about eating it if you let me pay for it.”

“Ain't gonna be no days like that,” the clerk said loudly. “It'll just go to waste if you don't use it.” He waved his arm toward the stairs. “Now, take it on up to your room and be done with it.”

Rollins did as he had been told. The stew was neither hot nor cold. What it was, was delicious. After only one bite, he knew that the hostler and the barber had been right: the hotel cooks knew what they were doing. He continued to shovel with the large spoon until the bowl was empty. Just as had been his meal in the dining room earlier today, the stew was excellent, with exactly enough hot pepper to enhance its natural flavor.

He lay on his bed for several hours, waiting for the sleep that would not come. The long nap he had taken during the afternoon, and the large bowl of highly seasoned stew he had eaten tonight, had taken away any urge he might have had to doze off again. He was filled with energy and felt more like running a mile than sleeping.

Sitting on the side of his bed and staring into the darkness, he knew that he would be out of this room and back on the trail come morning, for being cooped up was already getting on his nerves. He knew that his horses needed rest, but he could give them that by shortening his traveling day. From now on, he would take to the trail a little later each morning and make camp two hours earlier in the afternoon. If he took his time about fixing his breakfast each morning, the animals would gain as much as three hours a day on their picket ropes, becoming better rested and better fed. Even at a slower rate of travel, he expected to be in Saratoga a week from now.

He slept soundly sometime after midnight and awoke at daybreak. When his stretching and yawning was done, he washed his face, picked up his saddlebags and headed for the stairs. In the lobby, he had to stand in line for a few minutes in order to get a seat in the dining room. Another compliment to the skills of the hotel cooks, he thought.

Rollins soon took a seat at a table already occupied by three men. One of them got to his feet and left the room just as Rollins sat down. The remaining two were apparently through eating but ordered more coffee. They nodded at Rollins, but nothing was said. Bret ordered his meal, then sat quietly. He was soon dining on ham, eggs, buttered biscuits and apple jelly, and sipping exceptionally good coffee.

The men on the opposite side of the table, who were both about Bret's size and age, were seedy-looking characters. Each man was brown-haired and had a thick beard, and each wore a battered Stetson. Just before taking his seat at the table, Rollins had noticed that each had a Colt tied to his right leg.

Neither of the men spoke to Rollins till he finished eating. “Ain't seen you before,” the man directly across the table said. “Been in town long?”

Rollins said nothing, just shook his head.

The man tried again. “My name's Joe Plum,” he said, his lips parting on yellow teeth, “and this here's my Cousin Billy.” He pointed to the man beside him.

Sipping the last of his coffee, Rollins nodded and still said nothing.

“You don't say no helluva lot, do you?” the second man asked.

Bret shook his head again. “Nope.”

A silly grin appeared on the face of the man called Billy. Turning to the man who had introduced himself as Joe Plum, he spoke softly while pointing to Rollins: “He sure is holding on to them saddlebags mighty tight, Joe. Now what in the world do you suppose he's got in 'em?” Not waiting for an answer, he turned to face Bret. “Whatcha got in them saddlebags, fellow?”