The H&R Cattle Company (26 page)

At a quarter past ten, Shirley Doolen stepped from the back door of the restaurant and into Bret's waiting arms. He cupped his hand under her chin and brushed each of her eyes with his lips, then kissed her hard on the mouth. “Ready?” he asked.

“Oh, gosh, yes,” she said, almost at a whisper. She pushed herself away from his embrace. “Stand right here till I get a different pair of shoes.” She crossed the alley to her cabin and lit a lamp.

Rollins stood in his tracks for ten minutes, then leaned against the restaurant wall for half an hour. When Shirley finally reappeared, she not only wore a different pair of shoes, but had changed clothing and completely rearranged her hair, which now hung loosely about her shoulders. He kissed her again and led her from the alley. When they reached the deserted street, they turned north toward his cottage. Then, hand in hand, they quickly disappeared into the night.

*   *   *

They awoke at about the same time, though neither spoke for several minutes. The plan had gone awry. The plan had been for Bret to walk the lady home long before daybreak, as he had always done in the past. Lying on the bed silently, each of them could plainly see, even through a drawn window shade, that the sun was shining brightly outside. “Dammit,” Rollins said finally. He pulled on his jeans, then turned to Shirley, who lay staring at the ceiling. “First time I've overslept in years,” he said.

“Not me,” she said, pushing the covers aside and getting to her feet. “I oversleep all the time, but it usually doesn't matter so much what time I get up.” She stood beside the bed, making no effort to cover her nakedness. After a while, she peered around the edge of the curtain, shaking her head at the bright sunshine outside. “I very well might have to leave this town, Bret, but let me tell you one thing: last night was the best it's ever been for me. Ever!”

He smiled broadly. “Thank you.” He kissed her several times, then pointed to her clothes. “Get dressed while I fix us some breakfast. I'll figure out a way to get you home without people seeing you.”

Making no effort to retrieve her clothing, she sat down on the bed and began to shake her head again. “It can't be done, Bret. This is Sunday morning. Everybody goes somewhere on Sunday. Even the women and kids will be walking around, going to church or wherever.” Finally, she reached for her underwear. “Forget breakfast,” she added. “I couldn't eat if my life depended on it.”

Rollins walked to the corral and fed the roan, then returned just as Shirley finished dressing. “I've got it figured out,” he said. “I'll rent a team and wagon at the livery, let you lie down in the wagon box under a blanket and drive you right up the alley to your door. When nobody's looking, you can jump out of the wagon and run inside.”

“Not on your life!” she said emphatically. “I won't be jumping and running anywhere, and I'm certainly not going to lie down in a wagon.” She pointed toward the front of the house. “I intend to walk right down that road out there, and I'll hold my head up all the way home.”

Rollins was quiet for a while, then made another suggestion: “Why don't you just spend the day here and go home after dark?”

“It won't work, Bret. I'm scheduled to work the afternoon shift, and Toby'd have a small army of people out looking for me.”

He shrugged. “Well, we have no other choice then. Let me make a pot of coffee and finish waking up. Then I'll walk you home.” He headed for the kitchen.

An hour later, they stepped out onto the road and began the ten-minute walk. No one else was on the road at the moment, and they set a quick pace in order to make short work of the jaunt.

They turned east at the first street they came to, then turned south into the alley. Shirley Doolen's cabin was two blocks straight ahead. As they walked down the alley, past several buildings, Rollins walked as close to the young woman as he could in an effort to shield her from eyes that might be peering from some of the windows.

When they were within half a block of the cabin, they could see a man standing beside the small porch, leaning against one of the posts that held up the roof. Rollins slowed his pace. “Do you know that fellow?” he asked.

She stopped quickly. “Yes. His name is Al Denning, and he thinks he owns me.”

Rollins thought for a moment, then began to speak sarcastically: “He does, huh? Well, well. I wonder what kind of little things you could have been doing for him to give him that idea.”

“Don't talk like that, Bret. That's not the way it is at all. I've dated him a few times, but we've never actually even been alone. He certainly never has been with me like … like you have.”

Rollins did not speak to the girl again. He was thoughtful for a moment, then began to casually walk toward the cabin. When they were forty feet from the small building, they stopped again, for Denning had left the cabin and sauntered into the alley, directly in front of them.

A couple of inches shorter and thirty pounds lighter than Rollins, Denning was a handsome man. With dark hair and eyes and a fair complexion, he appeared to be in his late twenties. Though he wore no hat or coat, he was dressed expensively. A silk shirt that buttoned at the wrists hung on his well-proportioned body as if it had been tailored, and his boots appeared to be new. Riding in a low-hanging cutaway holster that was tied to his right leg with rawhide was a forty-four-caliber 1860-model Army Colt, one of the deadliest handguns known to man. Denning stood staring at the lovers without speaking.

Rollins was a man with a short fuse, and he certainly did not intend to tolerate Denning's insolent behavior. “You want something, fellow?” he asked, looking the man squarely in the eye.

Denning ignored the question, and without taking his eyes off Rollins, began to speak to the girl. “Been waiting for you since way before midnight, Shirley,” he said sneeringly. “After a few hours, it dawned on me that whores don't come home at night.” He forced a silly grin, then chuckled softly. “Whores spend the nighttime hours out gathering seed. Ain't that right, Shirley?”

The girl did not answer.

Rollins pointed toward the doorstep and spoke loudly. “Go to your cabin, Shirley, and don't look back.”

The girl took several steps, but stopped again when she heard Denning's booming voice: “Stop right where you are, Shirley! You ain't going nowhere.” He turned his attention to Rollins and continued to talk. “This sonofabitch you spent the night with ain't going nowhere neither.” He began to lean forward, his hand hovering near the butt of his Colt. “Fact is, the bastard ain't never going nowhere else, 'cause I—” Denning never finished the sentence, for he was now doubled over, coughing out his last breath into the already crimson earth. Rollins had shot out his jugular vein.

Though no match for the quick-handed Rollins, Denning had been relatively fast on the draw, and even after taking a shot in the throat, he managed to get off a shot of his own. He did not fire in the direction of Rollins, however. As his knees buckled and he began to fall over sideways, he took a shaky aim at Shirley Doolen, prompting Rollins to put another bullet in him. Even so, he managed to squeeze the trigger as his body hit the ground. The bullet missed the girl by no more than an inch. Due to the weapon's heavy recoil, Denning had been too weak to hold on to the Colt, and it now lay several feet from his body.

Convinced that the fight was over, Rollins spoke to the girl: “Are you all right, Shirley?”

“I think so.” She began to run her hand up and down her arm as if feeling for a wound. “He … he tried to kill me, Bret. I could feel the wind and the heat both.”

Rollins nodded. Looking up, then down, the alley, he could see men coming from both directions. Most were afoot, but at least one man was mounted. “Get in the house, Shirley!” he commanded loudly. “Get inside and stay there.” She disappeared immediately.

The man on horseback, whom Rollins recognized as Bill Saxton, was the first to arrive. He halted his animal a few feet from the body and sat staring for a moment. Then his eyes met those of Rollins, who by now had taken a seat on the edge of the porch.

“He tried to gun me, Bill,” Rollins said, motioning toward the corpse.

Saxton nodded. “Looks like he fell a little short.” He craned his neck for a better look at the body. “Ain't that Denning?”

“It is.” Rollins looked up and down the alley again. A literal mob of men was approaching from each direction. Gunfire on a Sunday morning was a rarity, and it appeared that every man within hearing distance had come to investigate. Rollins spoke again: “You seem to be the only man around with a horse right now, Bill. Could I ask a favor?”

Saxton raised his eyebrows. “Ask away,” he said.

“Ride down to Sheriff Pope's house. Tell him to get here as quick as he can.”

Saxton kicked his horse in the ribs and was out of the alley quickly. The ride would take only a few minutes.

More than a dozen men were approaching the scene now, and Rollins left his seat on the edge of the porch. He walked to the center of the alley and, palms forward, held out an arm in each direction. “I'm gonna have to ask you to keep your distance, men!” he said loudly. “The sheriff'll be here in a few minutes, and he'll raise hell if the area's been trampled on.” The men stopped in their tracks and began to mutter among themselves.

Rollins walked backward very slowly till he reached the cabin. He leaned against a post for a few moments, then reseated himself on the porch. He sat quietly while the crowd formed a half circle several yards from the body and continued to talk among themselves. A few of the men he knew. Most, he did not.

Twenty minutes later, Sheriff Pete Pope rode into the alley, followed by Deputy Hillman and Bill Saxton. Pope stepped from the saddle before his horse came to a complete stop and was forced to take a few quick steps to keep from losing his balance. He dropped the animal's reins on the ground, glanced at the body, then walked to Rollins, who was on his feet now. “Did you do the shooting?” the sheriff asked.

Rollins nodded. “Most of it. I fired twice and Denning got off one shot.” Without being asked, he handed his Peacemaker to the lawman.

Pope checked the weapon's cylinder, then spoke to his deputy, who was standing by with a pencil and writing tablet in his hands. “Two empty shell casings,” he said as the deputy began to write. Pope sniffed the barrel. “And this gun's been fired recently, probably in the last few minutes.” He sniffed the weapon once more, then handed it back to Rollins.

He took a few quick steps and picked up the dead man's Colt. “Still got smoke in the barrel,” he called to the deputy. “Army Colt with a spent shell in the chamber.” He handed the gun to Deputy Hillman, then turned to face Rollins. “Were there any witnesses?” he asked.

Rollins had dreaded the question, and as much as he hated to involve Shirley Doolen, he knew that he must. There was no telling how many pairs of unseen eyes had witnessed the shooting, and those people would eventually be talking. He pointed to the cabin. “Miss Doolen was out here beside me. She saw it all and heard every word.”

The sheriff stepped up to the porch and knocked on the door, identifying himself as he did so. The door opened very quickly, and Shirley Doolen stepped forward. “I hate to bother you, Miss Doolen,” the sheriff said, “but it's part of my job to ask you a few questions.”

“I understand,” she said softly.

The deputy moved in closer to take notes. He had not spoken since his arrival.

Sheriff Pope wiped the sweatband of his hat with his hand, then cleared his throat. “Did you see the gunfight that took place here in the alley, Miss Doolen?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Want to tell me about it? Just tell me in your own words what happened.”

Shirley knew that anything she told the sheriff would very soon become public knowledge, and she had no intention of discussing her whereabouts last night. She looked the lawman in the eye. “I was right there in the alley talking with Bret when Al stepped in front of us.” She pointed to the spot where they had stood.

“Al and I weren't even close enough for him to be considered a boyfriend, but he was just as jealous as could be. When he saw me standing beside Bret, he started calling me all kinds of bad names. Then he threatened Bret and went for his gun.” She wiped a tear from her cheek with her hand. “Bret shot him. Al tried to kill me as he was falling, and Bret shot him again.” She held out her right arm and rubbed the elbow. “I tell you, Sheriff, I could feel the wind and the heat.”

Pope was quiet for a while, then cleared his throat again. “Are you saying that Denning brought it all on himself? That he went for his gun first? That Rollins was fast enough to outdraw him even after Denning had a head start?”

“That's exactly what I'm saying, Sheriff!” she said loudly. “And that's exactly what happened.”

“Would you sign a sworn statement to that effect?”

“I surely would.”

Pope seemed satisfied. “I'll be expecting you at my office some time tomorrow, then.” He turned toward the crowd. “It's all over, men!” he shouted. “I'd appreciate it if you'd clear the alley. What happened here was a disagreement between two able-bodied men. As is usually the case, one man won the argument,” he pointed to Denning's body, “and one man lost.”

Within the hour, the crowd had dispersed, the body had been removed from the alley and someone had shoveled dirt over the blood.

As Rollins walked down the alley toward his own cottage, Shirley Doolen watched through her window, knowing that but for his quick action, both he and she might well be dead now. She shed a tear and turned from the window. She would go to the sheriff's office and sign her statement tomorrow, then it would all be over. She had been a good witness, and her reputation was still intact.