The H&R Cattle Company (32 page)

Rollins accepted the pie, but continued to block the doorway. “I … it's … we just can't get together tonight, Shirley,” he stammered. “It's just not a good time for me. I've been going nonstop for more than twenty-four hours, and I don't feel very good. I—”

“Nonsense,” she interrupted. She ducked under his arm quickly and was suddenly inside the house. “I'll rub your back and make you feel better all over.” She headed for his bedroom.

Rollins stood in his tracks for a moment, then shrugged and walked to the kitchen, where he placed the pie on the table. He returned to the bedroom and stood in the doorway.

Shirley stared at Rollins' bed and its rumpled covering. In the middle of the bed, holding a blanket to her chest to hide her nakedness, sat a young woman whose skin was as white as cotton. The women stared at each other, but for the moment, neither spoke.

Sensing Rollins standing behind her, Shirley spoke over her shoulder: “I can see why you might be tired, Bret. As you said, twenty-four hours nonstop should be about enough to do any man in.” Rollins said nothing.

Shirley recognized the woman as the wife of Reverend Thomas Jones, pastor of the little brown church a quarter mile east of town. Shirley had heard the young pastor preach on two occasions, and had once sat through a Sunday-school class taught by none other than the woman who now sat in the middle of Bret's bed. Somehow she looked less saintly holding up a blanket to cover the tits that Rollins had probably been nibbling on all night.

Shirley seated herself on the side of the bed, clearly enjoying the other woman's discomfort. “How is the Reverend doing nowadays, Mrs. Jones?” When the lady offered no answer, Shirley continued: “Don't you know that sneaking out behind the good preacher's back with another man will send you to the bottomest pits of Hell? Do you think the Lord or your husband either one is going to forgive you for lying around down here with your legs wrapped around a no-good sinner like Bret Rollins?”

Shirley got to her feet as if to leave, then seemed to have second thoughts. Standing at the foot of the bed, she addressed the woman again: “Guess the preacher's out somewhere spreading the Word tonight, huh? Is he gone from home so much that he just doesn't have time to take care of you? Or maybe he just doesn't know how to please you. Is that it, Mrs. Jones?” The woman did not answer.

“Yeah, I guess that's it,” Shirley said, answering her own question. “I'll say one thing for you, you chose the right man. Bret knows all about pleasing women. Of course, any man with as much experience as he's had would learn about all there is to know. You and I are just two of the hundreds of women he's talked into his bed, Mrs. Jones.” She spoke to Rollins over her shoulder, “Or should I have said thousands?” Bret continued to look at the floor and said nothing.

Shirley squeezed past him and walked to the kitchen, where she repossessed her pie. Then she stormed through the front door, slamming it so hard the small building seemed to shake.

Rollins stood just inside the front door for quite some time. The small scratching and bumping sounds that he could hear outside told him that Shirley Doolen was still on the premises. A smile appeared at one corner of his mouth as he considered what she might be doing.

Five minutes later, convinced that Shirley was gone for the night, Bret picked up the lamp and walked to the front porch. As he had expected, the pie was everywhere, and it appeared to have been made from blueberries. The door had been smeared as high as a short woman could reach, as had both front windows, part of the wall, and the posts that held up the roof over the porch. The remainder of the pie had been splattered in one large gob against the bottom of the door.

Smiling broadly, he returned to the bedroom, blew out the lamp and climbed into bed. He would have to get up again before daybreak to walk Mrs. Jones to her own home.

He saddled his roan at sunup, intending to visit County Line Ranch. After walking the lady home, he had cooked sausage and gravy for his breakfast, then sat around drinking coffee as he waited for his horse to eat a bucket of oats.

Mounting, he rode to the front of the house and sat looking at the mess Shirley Doolen had made. She had done him up good, all right, and he believed that the stains would be difficult to remove. Nevertheless, the job must be done. He would make it a point to get back from the ranch in time to take care of it. Lye soap and a pan of hot water should work nicely.

He rode through town and turned left on County Line Road. The roan was frisky in the cool morning air, and Bret gave the animal its head. A steady canter brought him to the ranch in less than two hours. He tied his horse to the hitching rail in the ranch-house yard, then began to look around. The only sign of life he saw was the gray smoke coming from the flue down at the cookshack. He headed in that direction. Stepping up onto the small porch, he knocked once, then entered the building. “Where is everybody?” he asked loudly.

Dixie Dalton was busy preparing something at the stove. “Hey, Mister Rollins,” he said, reaching for a coffee cup. “Don't reckon there's nobody here but you and me right now. All the hands are out at work, and Mister Hunter and Jolly took a wagon and went up north to butcher that bull.” He set the steaming cup in front of Rollins. “Damn bull broke its leg, and wouldn't you just know that it would be one of them expensive Herefords?

“Anyway, they went up to see how much of the meat they can save. They could leave it all for the coyotes as far as I'm concerned. You have to boil it all day before it gets tender enough for stew, and it damn sure ain't worth a shit for anything else.”

The cook poured a cup of coffee for himself, then joined Rollins at the table. “I probably drink enough of this stuff to kill me,” he said, pointing to his cup. “Bet I drink no less than thirty cups a day.”

Rollins smiled, then shook his head. “I never heard of coffee killing anybody,” he said with a chuckle, “but thirty cups a day sounds like an awful lot of coffee. Fact is, thirty cups a day is an awful lot of anything, Dixie.”

When Zack and Ross returned from their butchering job, Zack jumped off the wagon at the cookshack, while Jolly hauled the meat on to the smokehouse.

“Whose good-looking roan is that tied in my yard?” Zack asked jokingly as he entered the cookshack.

Rollins chuckled. “I heard you needed somebody to tell you how to run a ranch,” he said. “I got here as quick as I could.”

Zack poured himself a cup of coffee and joined Bret at the table. “Guess Dixie told you about the bull.”

“Uh-huh. He must have stepped in a hole, huh?”

“I don't know how he broke that leg, Bret. I shot him right where he was standing, then looked around the area for a hole. I sure didn't find one. There was a pile of logs close by that he might have gotten tangled up in. One thing is for sure: he didn't travel far after that leg popped, 'cause he was just too heavy. One of the two biggest bulls on the premises.”

“Was he one of the original Herefords?”

“Yep. Best-looking one of the bunch.”

The partners walked to the house, where they seated themselves on the porch. They talked for more than an hour about one thing or another. Then Rollins told him about Shirley Doolen smearing his house with blueberry pie.

Zack slapped his leg and laughed loudly. “That's a good one, Bret, best one I've heard lately.” He continued to chuckle, then added, “Shirley caught you right in the act, huh?”

“She found a naked woman in my bed.”

Zack laughed again. “I wish I'd been there to listen to you explain the situation, old buddy. Do you remember what you said?”

“Sure do. I didn't say a damn thing. What can you say? Shirley's a lot sharper than some of the women. Anyway, a naked woman lying in your bed at midnight speaks for itself, and any denial I made would have just made her hate me more.”

Zack's laughter trailed off. “Well, maybe she won't shoot you.”

Zack had spent much time thinking about fencing the ranch with barbed wire, and had recently spent three days riding the boundaries and counting imaginary fence posts. Now he brought up the idea to Rollins again. “I've made up my mind to fence the ranch, Bret. I'm just waiting on you to give me the word.”

“I've thought about it too, Zack, and I believe it's the right thing to do. Just give me a little time to sit down with Clyde Post once more, so we'll know how much wire to buy.”

Hunter nodded. “The wire and staples are all we'll have to buy—we'll cut the posts right here on the ranch. That'll not only save us money, it'll be good for the grass. We've got too much shade, Bret. We're up to our asses in cedars.”

Rollins sat biting his lower lip. “Cut 'em,” he said.

“Even after I order the wire, it'll probably take me two or three months to get it, plenty of time for us to cut the posts and sink 'em into the ground. Then when the wire gets here, all we'll have to do is stretch it and build a bunch of gates.”

“Have you got an estimate on how much money the fencing is gonna save us on the payroll?”

“Well, about all I can do is guess. But I believe that after we get some cross-fencing done, it'll save us a lot more money than it's gonna cost. Right now, four men are wearing out eight horses a day keeping the cows on the property. The fence'll put them out of work the very first day and at the same time, give us the means to eliminate overgrazing.”

“I like the sound of it,” Rollins said, getting to his feet. “I'll let you know something as soon as I can.”

Zack followed Rollins into the yard. Rollins led his roan to the watering trough and stood by while the animal drank its fill. “I'll be getting on back to town,” he said, mounting. “Gotta go see if Shirley's burned my house down.” He kicked the horse in the ribs and pointed it toward the road.

It was midafternoon when he reached town, and he was hungry. He tied his horse to the hitching rail at a little Mexican restaurant, well off the beaten path. The establishment was owned and operated by a middle-aged Mexican couple named Alvarez, and Bret had eaten there many times. He took a table by the window and ordered stuffed peppers and a bowl of Mexican beans.

He was enjoying his food and casually looking through the window when a man rode down the street on a prancing gray gelding. Occasionally the rider would jerk the nervous animal to a halt while he looked over the people on each side of the street. He gave Bret's roan the once-over, then moved on slowly. He was obviously looking for someone in particular.

Though Rollins did not think he had seen him before, the man nevertheless had a familiar look. Wearing tight-fitting range clothing, he had yellow hair that hung almost to his shoulders, topped by a black, flat-crowned Stetson. Appearing to be about six feet tall, he sat his saddle as straight as a fence post, and Rollins could easily see the Peacemaker tied to his right leg.

Rollins continued to watch until the rider disappeared down the street. He was not a local man, Bret was thinking, and he certainly did not look like a cowboy. Rollins gauged the man to be in his late twenties, and in excellent physical condition.

After a while, he dismissed the rider from his mind and began to flirt with a young waitress. After making a date with her for Sunday night, he sopped his plate clean with a tortilla, paid for his food, then left the building. Mounting the roan, he turned the animal toward home. He had a mess to clean up.

A few minutes later, he sat his saddle in front of his cottage, a broad smile on his face. The front of his house was clean, with no sign that the blueberry pie had ever existed. He chuckled softly. Shirley Doolen had been here again. He would thank her and buy her a nice trinket, but he would not invite her back to his house. Not for a while, anyway.

He curried and fed the roan, scooping an extra portion of oats into the trough. The animal had a hard day's work coming up, for Bret intended to ride to the town of Llano tomorrow. He would seek out Clyde Post and convince him that the time was right for the big game. He would also insist that the game be played at the White Horse Saloon, right here in Lampasas.

At the house, he shaved, bathed and laid out clean clothing for tomorrow. Then he lay down on his bed and began to read. He was about halfway through a book—about a half-breed Indian named Sequoyah—that was very interesting. The man had no doubt been exceptionally brilliant and had, among other things, invented the Cherokee alphabet, which eventuality led to more than half of his people being literate. He had died in 1843, after gaining profound respect from whites and Indians alike. The sequoia trees, the giant evergreens of California, were named in his honor.

Sometime before dark, the book fell to the floor. The next time Rollins opened his eyes, he struck a match and looked at his watch. He had slept the night away, and it would be daylight in less than an hour. Just before the match burned his fingers, he raked it across the wick of the lamp, then got to his feet.

He soon had a fire in the stove and the coffeepot on. He dressed himself, then set about stirring up some breakfast. He would eat his ham and eggs without bread because he did not feel up to making biscuits this early. Baking bread was mostly a waste anyway, for he seldom ate more than half a biscuit.

While his ham was cooking, he fed his horse by lantern light. The frisky roan trotted around and around while the oats were poured in the trough, no doubt sensing that he was going to get out of the corral this morning.

Rollins ate his breakfast and washed the dishes, then sat down for one last cup of coffee. On the chair next to him hung his fleece-lined coat with the fur collar. Though the weather was unseasonably pleasant at the moment, he would carry the coat anyway. The weather was highly unpredictable in this part of the country, particularly in the fall, and the temperature could plummet in a matter of minutes.