The H&R Cattle Company (24 page)

Ten days after the arrival of the longhorns, Ross opened the pen and released the bulls. Then, with the help of five riders, he drove the animals north to join the herd. Shouting loudly and swinging their ropes around and around, the horsemen forced the bulls to scatter and intermingle with the cows, an arrangement that appeared to be appreciated by neither sex.

The men stayed with the herd most of the day, mainly to keep an eye on the Herefords and make sure they didn't decide to go back to Fort Worth. Two hours before sunset, Slim Byers pointed down the hill. “Guess we oughtta go home while we've still got enough daylight,” he said. “These bulls ain't going nowhere.”

Ross followed Slim's point with his eyes. Two hundred yards down the hill, one of the bulls had separated a cow from the herd and was already earning its keep. Ross chuckled. “I believe you're right, Slim. I can't imagine anyplace where they'd have it made like they do here. Mother Nature will keep 'em right where they are.”

The last three days the drovers spent on the ranch, they worked in the rain. With the collars of their slickers turned up and their hat brims pulled low, and without a single complaint from any man, they went about their assigned duties in a steady drizzle. Today was the last day of their two-week agreement, and tomorrow the drovers would head back to East Texas. Shortly after noon, with the rain still falling, Zack paid the riders off on the ranch-house porch. Jack Singleton, the first man in the pay line, accepted his money and commented on the rain: “It gets aggravating as hell to work in it after a while, but it's sure gonna be good for your cows. They're all gonna be standing knee-deep in grass about a week from now.”

Zack smiled. “That sure won't make me mad.”

An hour before dark, Dixie Dalton provided the entire crew with a supper of venison steaks. Then the regular hands retired to the bunkhouse, while most of the drovers carried their bedrolls to the barn. A short time later, Jolly Ross knocked at Zack's door. Standing beside him was a man whose name Zack could not call. The only time he had seen him up close was in today's pay line, and no conversation had taken place at that time.

“This is Bill Moon, Zack,” Ross said, pointing to the man with his thumb, “and he says he ain't lost nothing in East Texas. Says he'd like to stay on with us.”

Zack returned the firm grip as they shook hands. The man had an uncommomly healthy look, and Zack gauged him to be about twenty-five years old. Dark-haired, with a smooth, weathered complexion, the green-eyed Moon stood a couple of inches over six feet tall. Broad at the top and narrow in the middle, his muscular frame appeared to weigh a little more than two hundred pounds. “Good to meet you, Bill,” Zack said, releasing Moon's hand. “Both of you come on in and sit by the fire. I've got hot coffee on the stove.”

They sat in front of the fireplace sipping coffee for a long time, talking about one thing and another. Nothing else had been said concerning Moon's request for full-time employment on the ranch. “Where do you call home, Bill?” Zack asked finally. “I mean, where did you come from originally?” He already knew the man was a Southerner, for he spoke with an accent much like his own.

“Came from Kentucky,” Moon replied quickly. “Little town called Lexington.” Bill Moon had left the bluegrass country in 1866. He had been raised on a horse farm fifteen miles northwest of Lexington, with the main road to Louisville passing almost through his stepfather's front yard. Will Brown, the stepfather, had married Moon's mother when the boy was only seven years old, and Bill lived and attended school under the Brown surname.

It was only when the young man struck out on his own that his surname once again became Moon. He remembered his father clearly. Manley Moon had been a large man who raised tobacco and thoroughbred horses. He also had a small blacksmith shop behind his house, where young Bill sometimes sat for long periods of time hoping his father would let him turn the bellows.

When Manley Moon was killed by a man who owed him money, no one was more incensed than Will Brown, who owned a much larger horse farm just down the road. The two men had been friends for many years, and it was only after a respectable length of time had passed that Brown began to court young Bill's mother, eventually marrying her.

Brown treated his wife and his stepson exceptionally well, and both had many more material things than ever before. Bill was given his own horse at the age of eight, and he could usually pick and choose any animal on the place that he wanted to ride. Consequently, he was an expert horseman by the time he was a teenager and could usually tell at a glance whether or not a horse was worth its salt. In fact, his stepfather had more than once asked his opinion on a horse that he was about to buy or sell.

Bill's mother died the year he was fifteen. Though the winter had been a hard one, the family had come through it with none of them even catching a cold. Then, when spring arrived and the weather turned warm, the lady went to bed with pneumonia. Three days later, she was dead.

With his mother in the ground, Bill made up his mind quickly that he would not remain on the farm and said as much to his stepfather. “I'm gonna be heading west in a day or so, probably all the way to Texas. I hope you don't mind me taking a good horse.”

Will Brown did not answer for a long time. He sat staring at the doorstep, clearly unhappy at what he was hearing. “Guess I'd mind a whole lot more if you didn't take a good horse,” he said finally. “You'd better take two. You'll need one to haul the things you're gonna need to carry.”

Nothing else was said for several minutes. Then Brown broke the silence: “We both know that I've never tried to tell you what to do, Bill. I've always let you grow and learn at your own pace, and you've done both very well. You're already bigger than I am. Looks like you might turn out to be as big as your daddy was, and you know near as much about horseflesh as anybody needs to know.

“I don't want you to leave, but like I say, I've always let you call your own shots.” Brown rose from his seat in the porch swing and headed for the door, for it was approaching his bedtime. “Just don't run off without me knowing it,” he said over his shoulder. “You'll be needing to carry enough stuff to live outdoors, and I'll make sure you've got some money to tide you over.” He walked to his bedroom and a few minutes later, blew out the lamp.

Bill sat on the dark porch for a long time, trying to imagine what his life would be like where he was going. The things he had read and heard about Texas made the place sound like a different country—completely separate from the rest of the United States. He had also heard that a young man with a little know-how could find a job easily, for now that the war was over, cattle ranching was becoming big business.

Moon had been in Texas less than a month when he was bitten by the California bug. When he heard that a wagon master was headed west with a train that consisted of twenty families and more than forty guns, he signed on as a scout, with his only compensation the security of numbers and the food that he ate.

He spent two years in California, performing a wide assortment of jobs to sustain himself. It was during this period that he became an expert with both the long and the short gun. In the spring of 1868, he shot a well-known gunslinger dead in the middle of the street in San Francisco. The gunman had been well connected with some of the city fathers, however, and Moon was forced to leave town in the middle of the night, one jump ahead of a posse.

His diligent pursuers overtook him in Sacramento a few days later, and Moon killed one member of the posse and wounded another in the ensuing shootout. He then headed east to the Great Basin. He crossed the relatively new state of Nevada at a steady pace, then turned south into Arizona Territory.

On the same day he reached the Territory, he changed his name to Bill Barnes, a name that was also to become well known. Within a period of less than five years, Barnes outdrew and killed six men with his six-shooter, an 1860 Army Colt. Only one of the killings had been the result of a legitimate argument. All the remaining five had been gunslingers, or novices seeking a reputation.

In the fall of 1873, he left the name “Barnes” in Arizona and returned to Texas. Once again his name became Bill Moon. His quick hand and deadly marksmanship had earned him a reputation that he was determined to lose, and he knew that the first step was to rid himself of the big forty-four that had been riding low on his hip for more than six years.

Long before he crossed the Texas border, he rolled up his gunbelt and stowed it in his saddlebag. Never again would he walk about with the weapon on his hip, its cutaway holster tied to his right leg with rawhide. Such action was all too often viewed as an open invitation by gunslingers and novices alike. By reverting to his original name, and with no six-gun on display, Moon felt that he well might live out the remainder of his days in Texas without being involved in another gunfight.

That had been almost three years ago, and since returning to Texas, Bill Moon had been challenged by no man. Although he still owned the Colt, he kept it out of sight and always found a reason to be somewhere else when the conversations of men drifted around to gun talk.

Moon had developed into the type of ranch hand that was never out of work for long, and every time he had left an outfit, it had been of his own doing. He had gradually worked his way to East Texas and had recently signed on with Manuel Gonzalez to help deliver the longhorns to the H and R. Now that the cattle had been delivered, he was tired of traveling and on this very day had asked Jolly Ross for a steady job at County Line Ranch.

Now, sitting in front of Hunter's fireplace, Bill Moon finished his coffee and got to his feet. “Whether I work here or not, I'll be needing a good night's sleep,” he said, speaking to both Zack and the young foreman. “You two talk it over, and Jolly can let me know something in the morning.” Then he was gone to the barn, where his bedroll waited.

“What do you think, Zack?” Jolly asked, getting to his feet. “Do you think we should hire him?”

Zack answered quickly: “We've discussed this before, Jolly—you're the foreman. I didn't give you that job expecting to have to make your decisions for you. If you want to hire him, hire him.”

“Well, I've been watching him pretty close, and he knows exactly what he's doing. He's a hand, all right.”

Zack rose from his chair and carried his empty coffee cup to the kitchen. “I'll tell you one thing about Mister Bill Moon,” he said, dropping the cup in the dishpan. “He damn sure looks to me like a man who could plant and plow his own garden.”

Ross laughed loudly. “Ain't that the truth?” He turned toward the doorway, adding, “I'll sign him up in the morning.”

16

By late spring of 1878, the longhorn cows had been on County Line Ranch for more than two years and most of them had already dropped a second calf. Though of mixed blood, the young cattle leaned heavily toward the appearance of their Hereford sires, and in a few cases, not a single sign of their longhorn ancestry could be detected.

Today Zack Hunter was sitting his saddle aboard the tall sorrel gelding he had bought a month ago. He had been riding the animal all morning and had just stopped in the shade two miles north of the ranch house. Beside him, Bret Rollins dismounted to relieve himself. Rollins had set up residence in Lampasas more than a year ago, and last night he had made one of his rare appearances at the ranch. Even more rare was the fact that he wanted to ride around looking at cattle all day.

Zack dismounted and tied the sorrel to a bush. “I'm gonna move the longhorns up the trail to Kansas before the summer's over, Bret,” he said, pointing to a cluster of cattle grazing on the distant hillside. “Soon as most of them wean their calves, they're gone.”

Rollins nodded. “I guess it's time.” He eyed the northern horizon for a few moments, then spoke again: “I know it's something you always wanted to do, Zack. You even talked about it back home.” He raised his eyebrows and smiled. “Are you gonna go up the trail yourself?”

“No, no,” Zack said quickly. “There was a time when I seriously thought about it, but I've learned a few things since then. The drive takes months to complete, and I simply don't have that kind of time. I need to stay close to home, Bret. Not a day goes by without some kind of problem cropping up.

“I'll send Jolly Ross and Bob Human to Kansas with the cows. Ross says he'll need a dozen extra men but that he already knows where to find them. I'll just give him a free hand and let him hire his own crew. I'll put Bill Moon in charge of the operation here while Jolly's gone.”

“Have you been in touch with a buyer in Kansas yet?”

“Nope. Jolly says you can do just as well by taking your cows on up and talking to several buyers after you get there. Says if you're lucky, your herd might become the object of a bidding war. He says he saw the price jump three dollars a head overnight back in seventy-three. That runs into some real money when you're unloading a whole herd.”

“Yep,” Rollins grunted, remounting his roan. “A difference of about three thousand dollars in our case.” He pointed his animal south and led the way to the ranch house.

They ate dinner at the cookshack; then Rollins informed Zack that his visit to the ranch was over. He must get back to town and take an afternoon nap, for tonight he had a high-stakes poker game scheduled that promised some new blood and, hopefully, some reckless betting. It was his custom to sleep a few hours before a big game, for he always did better when his mind was sharp and well rested.

Last summer he had leased a small cottage at the edge of town, where he now spent most of his nights and cooked a few of his own meals. He seldom saddled his horse nowadays, for the walk to town was only a few hundred yards. A small corral surrounded a shed in back of the house, where the roan spent its time getting fat on daily handouts of grain and hay.