by Doug Bowman
“Name’s Jenkins,” the old man said, “an’ I don’t reckin it cost me nothin’ ta tell ya.” He took a wad of chewing tobacco from his pocket and poked it into his mouth, wallowing it around several times. “Shore would like to borry a dollar from ya till I see ya ag’in, though. This here’s my last chew.”
Rollins gave him a quarter, and the old man guided his mule north, toward Dallas.
Then the men began to look around for firewood. It had been a long day, and they were tired and hungry. Half an hour later, they had a fire going, with beans and onions in the pot. Rollins lay beside the fire on his elbow, waiting for the coffeepot to come to a boil. “You know, Zack, I can’t remember ever going this long without a woman. I mean, since I’ve been old enough to need one. It’s been more than three weeks now.”
Hunter pulled the coffeepot from the fire. “That sounds like an earth-shattering problem, Slick.”
“By God, it is a problem. I’m not used to this shit. I’ll bet you a dollar that I breed somebody before I go to sleep tomorrow night.”
“I sure wouldn’t bet against it, old buddy. I know you too well.”
After supper they sat beside the dying campfire sipping coffee. Rollins continually slapped at his neck. “These damned mosquitoes are as big as crickets, Zack. Half a dozen of ’em have already sunk their beaks in my jugular vein.”
“I hear ’em buzzing,” Zack said, “but none of ’em have bit me. Don’t guess they will as long as you’re around. They probably think you taste better than me.” He had heard some of the old folks say that mosquitoes avoided certain people because of something in their blood that the insects did not like. He hoped he was one of those people. At any rate, he had never been bothered by mosquitoes.
Rollins crawled into his bedroll and covered his head. After extinguishing the fire, Hunter also went to bed.
* * *
The town of Dallas was begun when the first Anglo-American settler built a single cabin on the site in 1841. Another cabin was added two years later. Now, ten years after the Civil War, Dallas was a thriving business town and market center with an urbane air unmatched anywhere on the frontier, primarily due to several immigrations of French, German, Swiss, English and other Europeans. John Neely Bryan built the first cabin and was looked upon as the town’s founder.
Though many of the town fathers were men of culture, there was a seamy side of Dallas that was beyond their control. Gunmen, gamblers, whores and thieves of every stripe were abundant, and plied their respective trades randomly. Especially during the nighttime. Saloons outnumbered churches ten to one, and drew much larger crowds. Gambling dives and pool halls, where a man could bet on almost anything, were at least tolerated by law enforcement. The bravest of the law officials were given kickbacks, while the more timid ones were simply afraid to buck the current.
Hunter and Rollins rode into town at three in the afternoon. They stabled their horses at the livery, then rented a third-story hotel room two blocks away. Rollins dropped his pack and saddlebags beside his bed, then leaned his shotgun against the wall. “The first order of business is a thick, juicy steak, Zack. That restaurant we passed down the street looked good to me.”
Zack smiled. “Me, too. And you can order for both of us.”
They had shaved early this morning and bathed in the Trinity River. Now Rollins unbuckled his pack and tossed a pair of jeans and a broadcloth shirt to Hunter. “I don’t suppose you’ll have any problem with the fit, Zack. As far as I know, we’re the same size.”
Hunter was soon wearing the clean jeans and cotton shirt, and the fit was fine.
They locked the pack, saddlebags and guns in the room and walked from the hotel unarmed. A short time later they were seated in the restaurant known as the Big Bull, where each man was soon served a T-bone steak, fried potatoes and a large bowl of brown beans. A pot of strong coffee sat in the middle of the table. Rollins emptied his cup quickly and poured himself another. He began to rub his hands together, eyeing the steaming meal. “Sure looks like these Texans know how to eat.”
Hunter poked a large bite of steak into his mouth and spoke around it. “I imagine it would be hard to tell them anything they don’t already know about beef.” He said nothing else, just set about cleaning his plate.
The sun was still two hours high when they entered the dilapidated saloon on the corner. Though no name was evident on the outside of the building, a weathered sign stated that the establishment offered whiskey, poker and billiards. They walked the length of the bar and took stools on its far side. Each man ordered a beer.
“Ain’t got no beer,” the fat bartender said. “Beer wagon won’t be here till tomorrow. Got some decent whiskey, though.”
Both men ordered whiskey.
The bar was shaped like a horseshoe, with stools on three sides. There were stations for three bartenders, and Zack supposed that on busy nights that many were needed. At the moment, only the fat man was on duty.
Though the saloon was large even by Texas standards, the men could see everything in the room from their seats at the bar. A potbellied stove, which had not been fired in months, sat in the center of the room; around it were scattered tables and chairs of various shapes and sizes. Several drinkers were seated there, and occasional eruptions of laughter emanated from their conversation.
Four card tables stood in the rear of the room, along its left wall, and two poker games were in progress. Across the room, far enough away that the clacking of the balls would not unnerve the poker players, were three pool tables, none in use at the moment.
The men sat at the bar sipping their second drink, with Rollins eyeing the tables in the rear. “I think I’ll take a hand in that poker game, Zack. See if I can make us a little traveling money.”
Zack finished off his whiskey. “I guess I’ll walk around town for a while, then. I’m sure not gonna play poker. Can’t afford to lose.”
Rollins inhaled his own drink and got to his feet. “You worry too much, Zack.” He headed for the poker table.
Hunter walked around the town for an hour, finding nothing that held his interest. Just before sundown, he was back at the livery stable. He exchanged greetings with the hostler, a stoop-shouldered heavyweight who appeared to be about sixty years old. Zack pointed to his own animal in the corral. “Is there somebody close by that I can get to trim my horse’s hooves and nail on some new shoes?”
The hostler nodded. “Ya lookin’ at ’im, friend. Cain’t git to it today, though. Ain’t got enough daylight left. I c’n git on it early in th’ mornin’.”
“Tomorrow morning will be fine,” Zack said, turning to leave.
“Ya c’n pick ya horse up anytime ya want to in th’ mornin’,” the man called after him. “I’ll prob’ly be done with ’im ’fore ya git outta bed.”
Zack walked the streets for another hour and returned to the saloon well after dark. He stopped halfway down the bar and leaned against a stool, for he could see that both of the poker games had broken up. A loud commotion at one of the pool tables drew his attention just in time to see Rollins punch a man in the face, knocking him to the floor. Zack was there quickly.
The man lay propped on one elbow and seemed to be in no hurry to get up. Blood trickled from one corner of his mouth. He was a snaggletoothed red-haired man about the same size and age as Rollins. “Ya ort not ta done ’at, purty boy,” he said, getting to his feet slowly. “Ain’t nobody never knocked Red Hilly down an’ walked aroun’ braggin’ about it.” He drew his Colt and closed the distance between himself and Rollins, waving the barrel almost under Rollins’ nose. “I ain’t never shot no unarmed man, an’ I c’n see that you ain’t holdin’ nothin’.” He poked the gun barrel even closer to Rollins’ face. “I’m givin’ ya ten minutes ta git a gun, mister. Do ya hear?”
Rollins nodded curtly, spun on his heel and headed for the door.
Red Hilly walked to the bar and stood facing the front door, clearly awaiting Bret’s return. Every man pre
sent, including Hunter, moved to the opposite side of the bar, out of harm’s way. Then all motion ceased, and the saloon was deathly quiet.
Like all the rest, Zack stood at the bar waiting. He believed that his friend’s remaining lifetime might well be measured in minutes, or even seconds, for Bret Rollins would not back down. The man simply knew no fear. Hunter knew that Rollins was an excellent shot with a handgun, but doubted that he would be very quick on the draw. The quick draw was a practiced art, and Rollins had never spent much time with it.
Just as the allotted ten minutes expired, Rollins kicked the batwing doors open, and in one fluid motion, was inside the building. In his hands was a double-barreled shotgun, the barrels pointed directly at Hilly’s midsection. As Rollins began to ease forward, Hilly stepped backward and held out his hand, palm forward. “Now … now wait a minute. I didn’t say nothin’ about gittin’ a damn cannon.” He took another step backward. “I ain’t crazy, ya know.” He pointed to the shotgun. “Ya thank I’m dumb enough ta go up ag’inst ’at damn thang?”
Rollins smiled and took another step forward. “Nope.”
Hilly had both his palms out now. “I … I tell ya what,” he stammered. “Let’s jist forgit th’ whole thang. All right?”
Rollins smiled, then nodded.
Hilly gave the awesome weapon a wide berth and stumbled into several tables on his way out the door.
The saloon was quiet for several moments, then men began to speak in low tones. Rollins continued to stand his ground, the gun barrels now pointed toward the front door. Zack circled the bar and put his hand on Bret’s shoulder. “Let’s get out of here, Slick.”
3
They were at the livery stable at sunup, and stood waiting while the hostler finished shoeing Zack’s animal. “Didn’t expect ya ta be gittin’ up this early,” the man said. “Won’t take me much longer here.” He dropped the horse’s forefoot to the ground, then lifted one of the animal’s hind legs. “I heerd all about ya little run-in with Red Hilly,” he said, speaking to Rollins. “Glad ya put ’im in his place.” He spat a stream of tobacco juice on a pile of horse manure. “Ain’t nothin’ ta Red Hilly, not unless he’s got th’ upper hand.”
They stood in silence as the man tacked on the remaining shoes. He gave each hoof a few swipes with a file, then stepped back and removed his apron. “Guess ’at about does it. Any o’ th’ shoes gits loose, jist brang ’im back. Don’t thank ya gon’ have no problem, though.”
Hunter paid the man, then saddled the animal. A short time later, they rode out of the stable and headed west, the packhorse following Rollins on a short rope.
They had ridden no more than a mile when Hunter brought up the subject of the pool game. “Was Red Hilly a good pool player?”
“Don’t know,” Rollins answered, guiding his horse closer. “He never did get a shot. I won the break and ran the table on him three times at five dollars a game. He didn’t like losing his fifteen dollars and started raising hell.”
Hunter took a sip of water from his canteen, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. “Hilly expected you to come back with a six-gun strapped around your waist.”
“Of course he did, Zack. I knew that. I try not to play another man’s game unless I think I’m better at it.”
“Well, I sure never saw a man’s facial expression change so quick. He went totally blank when he saw that shotgun pointed at his middle.”
Rollins nodded. “He knew he’d lost his advantage. Like he said, he wasn’t dumb enough to try bucking two barrels of double aught.”
They rode another mile. “Guess you owe me a dollar,” Hunter said. “The best I recall, you bet me a dollar you’d have female company last night. Every time I looked at your bed, all I saw was you.”
“And the best I recall, you refused to take the bet,” Rollins said. He began to chuckle. “Anyway, there’s always tonight. Tomorrow night, too.”
They reached Fort Worth two hours before sundown. They stabled their horses, then ate supper at the first restaurant they saw. They chose a good hotel, and Rollins insisted that they rent separate rooms, saying that he did not intend to spend the night alone. After having two beers with Zack at the hotel bar, he said he was going hunting and stepped out into the night.
Zack bought another beer and attempted to engage the bartender in conversation. In answer to Zack’s query about the local economy, the man’s answer was direct. “Aw, there’s a little farming goes on around here. But mostly this is cow country, mister.” Then the man headed for the opposite end of the bar, where he seated himself on a stool and began laughing and talking with his drinking friends.
Hunter bought a newspaper from the desk clerk and climbed the stairs to his room. He took off his boots, then pulled the small table containing the lamp closer. Fully clothed, he lay down on the bed and began to read the paper. He dozed off in short order and the newspaper fell to the floor.
When he awoke, his internal clock told him that he had been asleep for quite some time, maybe for several hours. He had just resumed his reading when he heard a knock at the door. When Zack opened the door, Rollins gently pushed a young red-haired woman into the room. “This is Rose,” he said. He handed Hunter a bottle of rum, then walked down the hall to his own room, a small blonde hanging on to his arm.
Zack stood shaking his head for a moment, then smiled and locked the door. The girl helped herself to the room’s one chair, and Zack took a seat on the side of the bed. She was pretty, young, and talkative, quickly assuring him that she was of legal age. She accepted the drink he offered—right from the bottle. She soon left the chair and took a seat on the bed beside him.
They talked and sipped at the rum for the large part of an hour. The girl readily agreed to stay the remainder of the night, even after Zack explained to her that he was not the son of a wealthy banker, as she had been told by Rollins.
“Is Bret Rollins really an actor?” she asked.
Zack hid his smiling face with his hand, then slowly began to nod. “Yes, ma’am.” He walked to the window and stood looking down into the lighted street. “He damn sure is.” He returned to the bed and blew out the lamp, then reached for the willing redhead.
* * *
After a late start the following morning, they rode west all day. An hour before sundown, they sat their saddles beside a small spring. “Looks like a good place to camp,” Zack said, pointing to a level plot of ground between two trees.
Rollins made no effort to dismount. He began to shake his head. “You know me, Zack. I always like to go first class when I can. Couldn’t be more than a few miles on to the town of Weatherford. We could probably make it there by dark.”
“Hotels and restaurants cost too much money, Bret. This camping spot’s free.”
“Aw, come on, Zack. We’re not broke. Anyway, there’s always a sucker around with some money.”
“Like Red Hilly?” Zack asked, dismounting to relieve himself.
Rollins jumped to the ground for the same purpose. “Yeah, like Red Hilly. I got his fifteen dollars, didn’t I?”
Zack chuckled. “Guess you did. But to the best of my memory, he wanted to give you something else.”
“Aw, Zack. You heard that hostler say there wasn’t anything to Hilly. That silly sonofabitch wasn’t about to take on that double-barreled ten-gauge.”
Rollins won the argument and they headed for Weatherford at a fast trot, arriving just as darkness settled in.
Weatherford originated in the 1850s, when it was designated the seat of Parker County and named for Jefferson Weatherford, a member of the Texas Senate when the county was created. In the early years, the town was the last settlement on the frontier, on the route of wagon trains operating between Fort Worth and Fort Belknap. Many of the residents built Victorian-style homes, and a two-year junior college was founded in 1869.
Like all frontier towns, however, Weatherford also had its seedy side: run-down hotels and hastily built saloons where scores of night people em
ployed a myriad of schemes to separate the unwary cowboy, farmer or traveler from his money.
Hunter and Rollins stabled their horses and rented quarters at a nearby hotel, taking the only room the establishment had that offered two beds. Still fully clothed, Hunter stretched out immediately, fluffing his pillow. He yawned. “Thanks for talking me out of spending the night at the spring, Bret. I have to admit that this beats the hell out of sleeping on a creek bank.”
“A man should go first class anytime he can, Zack. If you live like a second-class citizen long enough, you start to feel and act like one. That’s not good.”
Hunter nodded and said nothing. He lay on the bed watching as Rollins took his gunbelt from the pack and buckled it around his waist. Bret removed the shells from the Colt’s cylinder and laid them on his bed. Then he began to practice the fast draw. Seemingly unmindful of Zack’s presence, he began to experiment with different body positions, finally settling on a forward crouch, with his feet spread slightly apart.
“You planning on becoming a quick-draw artist?” Hunter asked.
Rollins emptied the holster again, whipping the Colt into firing position. “Uh-huh.” He sat down on his bed. “I intend to practice till I’m the fastest man around. The world is full of men like Red Hilly, and I won’t always have a shotgun close by.”
Hunter knew that Rollins would indeed become a fast gun. Everything he had ever undertaken, he had learned to do exceedingly well. And he was quick by nature. His catlike motions had always reminded Zack of some predatory animal, capable of springing at the blink of an eye. And Bret Rollins would hit his target. Zack had once seen him strike a match with a rifle, and watched him roll cans down the road with a handgun many times.
And Rollins would practice until he was the best, just as he had done with numerous other things. To a man with his reflexes and dexterity, the speed would come quickly, and he was already an expert marksman. Zack strongly believed that after Rollins had practiced the fast draw for a while, the first man to cross him would be in trouble. “You can do anything you want to, Bret,” Zack said, rising to his feet. “You’re a talented man.”