The H&R Cattle Company (31 page)

Inside the hut, Zack seated himself on the block of wood he was offered and began to look around him. Though sparsely furnished, the hut was livable. A few pots and pans were clean and stacked neatly in one corner, while buffalo robes used for bedding were in another. Nails had been driven into some of the posts for hanging clothing. But even though the hut was dry and comfortable at the moment, Hunter knew that it would be woefully inadequate when the winter winds arrived from Canada. He could easily empathize with the plight of the Berryhills, and he wanted them off of this hillside before bad weather set in.

Continuing to sit on the wooden block, Zack offered the Berryhills a better way of life: he would build them a small house at the ranch that would be comfortable year-round. Wilf could help the farmers and work as a utility man, doing whatever needed doing at any given time. His sister could work as a domestic for the ranch's headquarters, looking after the boss's house and cooking a meal occasionally.

Wilford had already heard enough. “I c'n tell ya right now, Mister Hunter, that sounds like th' best deal we ever had.” He turned to his sister. “Whatcha thank 'bout what he's a-sayin', Esther?”

“I thank th' same as you,” she answered. “I've been worried ta death 'bout winter ketchin' us here.” Then to Zack, she said, “I prob'ly ain't never eeb'm been in a house as nice as yore'n, but I'll shore try ta please ya.”

“You'll do fine,” Zack said. Twenty minutes later, he and Bob Human rode down the hill toward County Line Ranch. They had another cabin to build, for the Berryhills would be moving to the ranch in two weeks.

20

“It'll scare the hell out of most players in a big-money game, Zack,” Rollins was saying as he pointed to the blank sheet of paper Zack had just signed, “and even get respect from a rich sonofabitch like Clyde Post.” Turning the paper and picking up the pen, Rollins added his own signature. “Everybody in this country knows that you and I own County Line Ranch as partners. When the gamblers see that I can produce an IOU signed by both of us, they'll think two or three times before raising one of my bets. That's why I'm just gonna leave the upper part of this paper blank. I can write in whatever is necessary above our signatures.”

Zack sipped at his coffee, then thumped the paper with a forefinger. “Don't know how well I'm gonna sleep at night, knowing you might be betting everything we own in a poker game. As far as I'm concerned, the ranch is big enough already. I just don't see any reason why we need more land.”

“We need more land because we're gonna build us an empire, Zack. The H and R Cattle Company is gonna be the biggest outfit in Texas one of these days.” Rollins walked to the kitchen, refilled his coffee cup and reseated himself on the bed. “Besides,” he continued, “who says I'm gonna be betting everything we own? The IOU is just to put the fear of God in some of the bluffers.” He blew air into his cup, then took a sip. “I'm not saying I wouldn't bet the ranch if the cards fell just right, but I'd damn sure have to be holding a lock. If somebody deals me a hand that can't lose, then wants to bet me a ranch or two, I'll sure as hell call his bet.”

Zack got to his feet. “I'll be getting on back to the ranch, Bret. We're still putting up hay.” He opened the door, turned and pointed to the paper. “Just be sure you've got a lock,” he said. Then he began the short walk to town.

Zack had arrived in Lampasas late yesterday afternoon and spent the night at Bret's cottage. He had left the sorrel at the livery stable, requesting that Oscar Land trim the animal's hooves and nail on new shoes. Land had promised that he would be on the job at sunup, so Zack supposed that the horse was ready to travel by now.

After ten minutes of brisk walking, he realized that he was hungry and turned into the Hartley Hotel dining room for a late breakfast. Though he had never eaten a meal in the Hartley that he would recommend to others, breakfast was another matter entirely. There were not many ways to mess up an egg. Even Zack himself could fry one without breaking the yolk.

Half an hour later, he left the dining room, vowing to himself that he would never return. He had been served what was obviously yesterday's biscuits, a slab of fatty ham that was so salty he could not swallow it, and two eggs fried so hard that they were no longer even moist. Even the coffee was old and bitter, and barely lukewarm. He left the food and the coffee largely untouched and paid without complaining. Out on the boardwalk he set a fast pace for the livery stable. He would be home in a little over two hours, and Dixie Dalton would fix him a decent meal.

Twenty minutes later, Zack was on the road to the ranch, alternating his gait between a trot and a canter. He was thinking of his conversation with Rollins this morning and of Rollins' determination to build a cattle empire. And he was also thinking of the paper he had signed. Never before had he been asked to sign a blank sheet of paper, but Rollins' explanation that an IOU signed by both partners would give him a tool with which to manipulate the betting procedure in a high-stakes poker game made sense.

Zack himself had played enough poker to know that a player who could put a little fear into an opponent gained an edge. In a no-limit game, where a player could bet any amount of money he wished, it was possible for one player to send another to the poorhouse on the turn of a single card. Consequently, any player who commanded such betting capabilities gained respect and could easily create shyness and timidity in his opponents. Bret Rollins was a master at such intimidations.

One reason Zack had put up no argument when asked to sign the paper was that he himself had no financial stake in County Line Ranch. Every acre and every cow had been bought with money that Rollins had accumulated through one scheme or another. Though Zack had invested his time and a certain amount of labor, he had lived well. The past three years had been the best he had ever experienced, and he had wanted for nothing. And he knew that he owed it all to his association with Rollins, without whom he might still be in Shelby County, Tennessee, harvesting crops from land that he did not and could never hope to own.

He stopped his horse and dismounted to relieve himself, then climbed back into the saddle. He resumed his pace and his thinking, smiling and nodding at his thoughts: nope, Bret would never lose the ranch in a card game, for just as the nickname Zack had given him implied, Bret was slick. The man knew the game so well that he always kept the odds in his favor, making it highly unlikely that he would lose money in the long run. Besides, no man ever lost a dime on a lock, and that's what Bret said he would be holding if he ever bet the ranch: a lock. Zack kicked his horse to a faster pace and nodded again. Bret just might pull it off, and Zack knew nothing whatsoever about bossing a cattle empire.

*   *   *

Several hundred second-generation calves and yearlings now roamed County Line Ranch. The purebred Hereford bulls had bred the half-Hereford cows, and the resulting young cattle revealed none but the characteristics of the Hereford strain. Shortly after the first of the year, John Peabody, owner of the Circle P across the river, had put in an order for thirty young bulls from this year's crop. The animals were now weaned, penned and ready for delivery. The price agreed upon before the bulls were even born was twenty-five dollars each. Today Zack sent a rider to inform Peabody that he was ready to do business.

An hour after sunup the following morning, five Circle P riders appeared in Zack's yard. A tall, lanky redhead, who introduced himself as Willie Osborne, did the talking. “The boss sent the money for those young bulls,” he said, “and we're here to pick 'em up.”

When Zack stepped from the porch and into the yard, Osborne laid a roll of bills in his hand. “Seven-fifty,” he said, a cigarette dangling from his lips. “If you'll give us a bill of sale and show us the bulls, we'll start trying to get 'em across the river. I'll bet a dollar that ain't gonna be no damn picnic.”

“You're probably right.” Zack had already written the bill of sale. He handed it to Osborne now, then pointed up the slope to the holding pen. “The bulls are young and scared,” he said, “and about as wild as jackrabbits. You can probably get 'em across a lot easier if you drive some of the older stock ahead of 'em.”

“I already thought of that,” Osborne said, beginning to put another cigarette together. “Just didn't know how you'd feel about it.”

Zack nodded and pointed to the pen again. “Just round up a few head of cows and drive them into the pen with the bulls. Let 'em mix for a few minutes and I believe you can drive 'em all across the river together. You might even be lucky enough to get one of the bulls's mammy in the bunch.”

The riders, all of whom appeared to be less than twenty years old, turned their horses and headed up the slope at a trot. Zack walked toward the corral to saddle his own mount. The young men from the Circle P would probably need all the help they could get.

By the time he saddled the sorrel and rode up the slope, the men already had half a dozen cows in the pen with the bulls. Then, after allowing the animals a minimal period of time to sniff and investigate each other, Osborne opened the gate. With one man inside the pen yelling, the cattle rushed through the opening.

Zack sat his horse watching for the most part, only occasionally having to bluff a young bull back into line. The riders, excellent cowboys all, very quickly turned the small herd toward the river.

At the shallow crossing, where the river was less than two feet deep, the bulls balked at the water's edge. Not so with the cows. With only a little prodding, four of them took to the water and began to wade across. The young bulls, seeing that they did not have to swim, quickly followed. After only a few minutes, the entire herd was milling around on the west bank. Within half an hour, the riders had cut out the cows and driven them back across the river. Then, waving good-bye, they began to move the bulls west.

Zack released his horse in the corral and walked to the house. Esther Berryhill, accompanied by her young son, was standing on the porch. “I made a fresh pot o' coffee,” she said, pointing toward the kitchen. “If ya don't need me fer nothin' else, I'd better git down there'n clean up my own place.”

“No, no, Esther, you go right ahead.” He tousled the youngster's hair, then added, “You keep things too clean around here anyway, lady. I'm not used to it.” She smiled, then led the child toward her own cabin.

Zack filled a coffee cup and returned to the porch. All of the hands had ridden out to their respective jobs, and the cook was no doubt busy preparing dinner. He sat sipping the hot liquid and staring at the corral, reliving his most recent conversation with Rollins. Rollins had said that the big game might take place any time now, and that it might last as long as a week, with the participants spending as many as twelve hours a day at the table.

Though Zack had no doubt that Rollins had the stamina to wear down the much older Clyde Post, he also believed that Rollins might wait a year for the perfect poker hand and never get it. Situations where one player drew a lock without his opponent knowing it were rare. Incidents of a man drawing a lock without his opponent even suspecting it were rarer still. And Rollins himself had said that Post was a good poker player.

Zack dashed his coffee grounds into the yard and got to his feet. Rollins might have a long wait in front of him, he was thinking. Bret had beaten Post before, and it only made sense to expect the man to be more wary this time. Even as Rollins was setting him up for the big ambush, Post would no doubt be setting a few traps of his own.

Zack set his empty cup in the dishpan. Then, taking some cheese for bait, he walked to the shed for his fishing pole. Even as he dropped his line in the river several minutes later, he was still thinking of Rollins' ambition to build a cattle empire at Clyde Post's expense.

Zack himself needed no empire to be happy. County Line Ranch was larger than most, and more than a thousand head of Herefords roamed its acreage. Less than four years ago, neither of the partners had had a pot to piss in. Now they owned the H and R Cattle Company lock, stock and barrel, and owed money to no man.

While it was true that the partners had acquired their holdings through nothing more than Bret's conning and poker playing, Zack believed that County Line Ranch would provide a lifetime of financial security for both men, and he spent none of his time dreaming of an empire. He also believed that part of being a good poker player was knowing when to quit. He wished that Bret would do exactly that and move back to the ranch. If he could get truly interested in the outdoor things in life, maybe he would quit gambling altogether, or at least learn to be happy playing for smaller stakes.

After an hour, Zack grew tired of baiting an unproductive fishhook. He returned his pole to the shed, then caught and saddled the sorrel. Mounting the animal, he headed north. He would spend the rest of the day riding about the land that he had grown to love and waste no more time thinking about the big game. And a waste it was, because Bret Rollins was going to do exactly what he wanted, and no suggestion from anyone, including Zack, would make the slightest difference. Zack dismissed the whole idea from his mind. What would be, would be.

21

Rollins was sound asleep when the pounding on his front door began. He opened his eyes and lay still, listening. There it was again: five loud knocks. “Hold your horses!” he called loudly. “I'll be there in a minute.” He struck a match to the lamp, then pulled on his pants. Never one to answer a knock at night without easy access to a weapon, he opened the door with his Colt in his hand. Shirley Doolen stood there.

She chuckled softly. “You don't need a gun to make me surrender,” she said, then laughed again. “I just got lonesome after the restaurant closed and decided to come down and spend some time with you.” She handed him an object wrapped in brown paper. “I brought you a pie.”