The H&R Cattle Company (30 page)

Zack listened attentively and noted the tone of finality in Bret's declaration. “Sounds good, Bret,” he said, rising to his feet, “but you know that I've never been one to count my chickens before they hatch.” He walked to the back door and stood with his hand on the knob. “The farmers have got the last cutting of hay started, so I'll get on back to the ranch and help them out.”

Rollins followed Zack to the corral and stood by while he saddled the sorrel and mounted. They said their good-byes and as Zack headed toward the road, Rollins called after him: “The chickens should be hatching off sometime between now and Christmas, Zack!”

Zack spent a few hours in town taking care of business. One of the places he visited was the hardware store, where he inquired as to the cost and availability of barbed wire. Although there was more than one man in town who sold hardware, Zack had conducted the bulk of his business over the past two years with Casey Bagwell, a transplanted Tennessean whose establishment was advertised by nothing more than a tiny sign attached to a wooden stake that had been driven into the ground in front of the building. “Bagwell's Farm and Ranch Supplies,” the sign read, although the grass was usually too high for the lettering to be seen.

Bagwell spent more than an hour arriving at an estimated cost of fencing County Line Ranch, and assured Zack that he could get the wire through his supplier in Dallas. “Glidden and Vaughn invented a machine a few years ago that spits out barbed wire mighty fast,” he said. “Now I'm not saying that I can get it overnight, 'cause they're probably selling it faster than they can make it. But I sure don't believe we'd have to wait very long, especially on a big order like you'd be making.”

Zack had been studying a diagram and reading a description of the wire. He laid those aside now. “It's like I said, Casey. I won't be undertaking the job right away, but I definitely intend to fence the ranch next summer. I won't have to buy any posts, got a million cedars right there on the ranch. The more of 'em I cut, the better the grass will grow.”

As he left the building, Bagwell called after him: “Let me know as quick as you can, Zack. Might take me two or three months to get the wire.”

Zack took County Line Road and headed home at a canter. When he rode into the yard more than two hours later, Jolly Ross and Bill Moon stood by the porch holding the reins of their saddled horses. A small gray mule was tied at the hitching rail, and a bedraggled, middle-aged man sat on its back. One glance at the stranger told Zack that the man had not been eating on a regular basis. He did not appear to be sickly, but rather had a gaunt, hollow-eyed, hungry look. One knee protruded through a hole in the leg of his trousers, and the brogans on his feet were old and worn. He sat on the mule without the benefit of a saddle.

Ross motioned toward the man. “We were just about to take him to the sheriff, Zack. We caught him up near the line with a dead calf on that mule's back.”

“The calf wore our brand?”

“No brand at all,” Bill Moon said, “but we didn't need to see any markings to know that the little critter belonged to the H and R. We heard a cow bawling from more than a quarter mile away and went to have a look. We saw what the problem was as soon as we topped the rise: the old cow was taking on because this fellow had her calf on the back of his mule, shot right through the head.”

“I shot that calf 'cause it had a broke leg!” the man on the mule volunteered loudly. “Bone stickin' plumb through th' hide.”

Zack stood quietly for a while, then spoke to Ross: “Did you bring the calf home with you?”

Ross pointed down the slope to the tree that grew beside the cookshack. “I gutted it and hung it on a limb down there. Dixie said he'd skin it out and cut it up for the pot as soon as he gets around to it.”

Zack walked to the tree and examined the carcass, which hung from the limb by its hind legs. When he returned, he took a seat on the edge of the porch. He motioned toward the prisoner and spoke to Moon. “Untie his hands and bring him over here, Bill.”

Moon complied, and Zack pointed to the doorstep. “Have a seat there,” he said to the man. “I want to hear your side of the story.”

The man took a seat and began to rub his wrists. “Ain't done nothin' nobody else wouldna done,” he said. “Whatcha gonna do when ya find a calf with a broke leg? Ya cain't jist leave it ta die, not when ya got folks at home that ain't et lately.” His voice trailed off and he sat staring toward the river.

“How did the calf break the leg?” Hunter asked.

“I don't righteous know. Coulda stepped in a hole er sump'm. All I know is that it had been broke fer a while, 'cause th' blood had already caked and dried where th' bone popped through th' hide. Weren't no holes around nowhere close that the critter coulda stepped in, neither. It had prob'ly been adraggin' that leg fer a day er two. I shore did't break that calf's leg. How'n th' worl' could I break that leg? I ask you that, mister.”

Zack did not answer, just made a motion like a man breaking a limb over his knee for a campfire.

The prisoner read Zack's actions correctly. “No, no,” he said, “not me. You might be strong enough ta do that, but I shore as hell ain't.”

Zack could easily believe that part of the story, for he had been silently wondering how the emaciated man, who probably weighed less than a hundred thirty pounds, had ever managed to get the calf on the mule's back. Indeed, Zack guessed the little red Hereford now hanging from the tree limb would weigh at least two-fifty. Two hundred fifty pounds of deadweight. “Maybe you're stronger than you want us to believe,” Zack said. “You got that calf on the mule's back, didn't you?”

“Took ever'thang in me,” the man said with a sigh. “I drug th' calf over ta a little cutbank an' put th' mule on th' downhill side. Didn't hafta lift it very high.” He took a tobacco sack from his pocket and began to roll a cigarette. “I shot th' calf jist as quick as I seen it had a broke leg. Had ta git it outta its misery, ya know. If I had cattle o' my own, I reckon I'd want another man ta do th' same thang fer me.

“Now I ask ya, what I wuz s'posed ta do? Wuz I s'posed ta ride off an' leave all that meat ta rot? Leave it fer th' coyotes? I've got a sister back at my dugout that's hungry, mister. Got a kid a-suckin' on 'er that's near 'bout four years old. She cain't wean 'im 'cause she ain't got nothin' ta feed 'im.” He lit his cigarette and blew a cloud of smoke to the wind.

Zack had listened attentively. The man had told his story convincingly and had asked for no special treatment. Zack knew that the next decision was his alone, that he himself must make judgment and pass sentence. “What is your name?” he asked, “and what were you doing on my property?”

“Name's Wilf Berryhill, an' I wuz out hopin' ta git a shot at a deer. Didn't have no way o' knowin' whose property I wuz a-huntin' on.”

“This dugout you mentioned, where is it located?”

“'Bout three miles north o' where I shot th' calf is what I'm a-thankin'.”

Hunter sat quietly for a long while, then spoke to Ross: “Cut the calf down and put it back on the mule, Jolly. Mister Berryhill and I are going to take a ride.” When Ross had untied the mule and led it toward the tree, Zack spoke to Moon: “Put my saddle on a fresh horse, Bill, and saddle that little black mare for Mister Berryhill.” Then when Zack crooked his finger at Berryhill and began to walk toward the cookshack, the man followed obediently.

Dixie Dalton stood by the stove stirring the big iron pot, which contained a concoction of beef, beans, onions, tomatoes and finely diced chili peppers. He pushed the pot to the back of the stove to simmer as the men walked in. “This stuff's about as done as it's gonna get,” he said. “You fellows want some?”

Zack nodded and pulled out the bench for Berryhill. The cook placed a steaming bowl in front of each man, along with a thick slice of cornbread. Zack filled two tin cups with coffee and placed one beside Berryhill's plate. Then each man sat blowing into his bowl and his coffee cup, for the contents of both were too hot for consumption.

“Lordy, Lordy,” Berryhill said after he had taken his first bite. “If this ain't some good eatin', I'd shore pay fer lyin'. Lordy.”

The cook smiled his appreciation for the comment. “Eat all you want,” he said. “I've got more than enough to go around.”

When they finished eating, Zack spoke to the cook: “I heard you say you had more of that stuff than you needed, Dixie. Can you put enough of it to feed two people in something that's easy to carry?”

“Got some empty syrup buckets, and I saved the lids.”

“A syrup bucket'll be just right,” Zack said, handing him part of last week's newspaper, “and wrap up some of that cornbread.”

Berryhill had stood by listening. “I 'preciate ya feedin' me, Mister Hunter, an' I c'n see whatcha doin' now. Esther's gonna be mighty beholdin' to ya.”

Zack handed the bucket and the bread to Berryhill. “Let's go,” he said.

When they walked into the yard, Ross called Zack aside. “I ain't gonna let you ride off to that dugout by yourself, Zack. I'm gonna send somebody with you.”

Zack looked toward the yard, where Bill Moon sat on the doorstep. “Bill's already got his horse saddled,” he said. “He can ride up with me.”

“No,” Ross said quickly. “I want to send somebody who knows how to use a gun.” He headed to the bunkhouse to get Bob Human. What Jolly Ross did not know, and would never know, was that Bill Moon himself was the fastest and deadliest gunman on the premises.

Five minutes later, riding the mare and leading the mule bearing the carcass of the calf, Berryhill led off toward his dugout, the syrup bucket hanging by its handle from the saddlehorn and the cornbread tucked under his arm. Zack Hunter and Bob Human followed close behind. Zack carried Berryhill's rifle across his own saddle.

Berryhill led on for more than two hours, seldom looking at the men following. When he crossed the northern border of County Line Ranch, he pointed northeast and turned his mule in that direction. After another half hour, he stopped and pointed again.

The “dugout” was not really a dugout at all, although Berryhill had dug away part of the hillside to erect his dwelling. After driving several posts in the ground and framing a roof with small poles, the man had merely used an oversize tarpaulin to cover the top and three sides. The front side consisted of several different kinds of brush, and a blanket had been hung over the doorway. The fact that it was almost flush against the hillside protected the hut from the north wind, and Berryhill had dug shallow ditches above and on both sides to divert rainwater.

A cart with oversize wheels was parked in the yard, its shafts pointed downhill and dug into the ground. The box of the vehicle was covered with a small tarp. A knotted rope with a notched board at the bottom hung from a nearby tree limb, obviously a swing for the youngster to play on.

Zack sat beside Berryhill, his eyes taking in the place. “Do you think your sister's home?” he asked.

“O' course she is. She ain't got nowheres else ta go.” He cupped his hands around his mouth. “Esther!” he called at the top of his lungs.

The blanket was pulled aside immediately and a tall, slender woman walked through the doorway. She stopped just outside the hut and stood with her arms folded. A small boy with his thumb in his mouth peered from behind her, his other hand hanging on to her ankle-length cotton dress.

Zack dismounted and walked toward the lady. Though deep lines creased her face and her dark hair had turned salt-and-pepper, he could see that she had once been an attractive woman. The sun, wind, rain and otherwise harsh life she lived had taken their toll. As he drew near, she smiled and began to speak: “I saw y'all a-comin' up th' hill, but I jist stayed inside a-purpose. Women ain't got no business bein' aroun' when menfolks is a-talkin'.”

“Well, I don't know about that,” Zack said. “Anyway, I just wanted to talk with you for a little while. My name's Zack Hunter, and—”

“My name's Esther Berryhill,” she interrupted. “I used ta be a Martin, but I took my ol' name back when my husban' run off.”

“I see. How long have you been here?” He pointed to the ground. “I mean right here?”

“Four weeks, maybe five. Been 'bout six months since we left Arkansas, though.”

He nodded. “What did you do in Arkansas?”

“Farmed. At least we tried ta farm. Ya cain't raise nothin' on no rocky clay hillside where ever' bit o' th' moisture runs down ta th' rich man's bottomland. We fin'ly jist quit fightin' it, but thangs shore ain't got no better since we been on th' move.” She pushed a strand of hair away from her face. “Ya said what ya name wuz, but ya didn't say why ya been askin' me all these questions.”

“I just met your brother a little while ago. I own a ranch a few miles south of here, and he convinced me that you need some meat. We brought you a calf.”

She looked down the hill, shading her eyes from the sun with one hand. “I saw sump'n on th' mule, thought it wuz a deer. That's what Wilford said he wuz goin' after, so how come he's got a calf?”

Seeing that the lady was smiling now, Zack offered a broad smile of his own. “He couldn't find a deer,” he said. “Anyway, a calf is easier to catch.”

She nodded. “Well, we can shore use th' beef aroun' here, 'cause it's been a right smart while since we eeb'm seen any.” She pointed to the cart. “I've got jars enough ta put up th' biggest part o' that calf fer another day. Shore don't know how ya expect us ta ever pay fer it, though.”

“I don't need any pay, Esther. You folks just butcher the calf and enjoy it.” He turned and walked back to his horse. “I want to talk to you and your sister together,” he said to Berryhill. “Can we go inside?”