by Doug Bowman
“Well, what I want to do right now is find something to eat.” Bret rolled up the gunbelt and returned it to his pack. “You about ready?”
Zack nodded, then held the door open. “Very ready.”
At a restaurant called The Steakhouse, Rollins ordered for both men. “Bring us two of the best beefsteaks in the house,” he said to the smiling teenaged waiter, “and whatever vegetables you have in the pot.” The boy disappeared quickly.
When they had eaten, Rollins paid for the meal, then said he was going looking for some action. He invited Zack to come along. Zack declined, saying that he would walk around town for a while, then go to bed. He stood on the street watching till Rollins disappeared inside a fancy saloon, then he chose a much simpler establishment in which to have a beer.
The small saloon appeared to be the oldest building on the street and had a sawdust floor. Ten stools circled its short bar, and half as many tables were scattered around the room. No customers were in the building when Hunter entered. He took a stool directly in front of the bartender.
“I was sitting here about to doze off,” the middle-aged bartender said, getting to his feet. “Order up. The first drink’s always on the house.”
Hunter ordered a beer.
“Easy to see that you’re just passing through,” the man said as he slid the foamy brew in front of Zack. “Guess I know about everybody that lives around here.”
Zack offered his right hand across the bar. “My name’s Zack Hunter,” he said, “and I guess you’re right. As far as I know, I’m just passing through.”
“My name’s Rex Allgood,” the man said, pumping Zack’s hand with a firm grip. A dark-haired man with a receding hairline and a potbelly, he was broad-shouldered and of medium height. “My father-in-law owns this place.” He waved his arm toward the empty tables and stools, adding, “His outdated ideas are responsible for the customers we ain’t got.
“He says a man wants to drink in a quiet atmosphere. I keep telling him that it’s just the opposite—drinkers want some noise and some action. A man wanting a quiet atmosphere will buy a damn bottle and go home.
“Take Bud’s Place, just a block to the east. It ain’t much bigger than this place, but it does ten times the business. Bud was smart enough to hire that dried-up piano player, and the house has been packed ever since. I mean, Wimpy Jones has a big following, and people will line up to listen to him play.
“I had a chance to hire Wimpy before Bud got him, but the old man wouldn’t let me do it. He said drinkers wanted quiet.” The bartender motioned toward the empty seats again. “Well, as you can see, we’ve got quiet.”
Hunter nodded. “Who’s the old man?”
“Clifford T. Hollingsworth,” the bartender said, then refilled Zack’s beer mug. “I married his daughter fifteen years ago. Cliff’s a very successful cattleman, but he don’t know beans about the saloon business. I think he bought this building a few years ago just so he’d have a quiet place to do his own drinking. Well, he’s done got old and quit drinking, but like I say, the place is still quiet.”
“He’s a rancher?”
The man nodded. “Big spread called the Lazy H, ten miles north of town. He sent two herds north to the rails last year and put another one on the trail three weeks ago. He’s in business, all right.”
“Sure sounds like it.” Zack sipped at his beer. “Does the old man still ride horses?”
“He forks one occasionally, but he mostly gets about in a spring wagon. Don’t hesitate to let the horse know he’s in a hurry, either. I don’t think I’ve seen Cliff in a good mood all year. He’s frustrated ’cause he can’t buy that Silver Springs property off Mrs. Lindsay. He’s offered her twice what it’s worth, but she won’t budge.”
Hunter pushed his mug forward for a refill. “Sounds like it must be mighty important to him.”
Allgood wiped the wet bar with a sponge. “Hell, it’s eating him up. It ain’t but a hundred acres, but it’s damn near in the middle of the ten thousand acres that Cliff claims. You see, that’s where the Silver Springs are, right there in that little hollow owned by Mrs. Lindsay.
“The Lindsays were some of the first white people to settle in Parker County, and she’s the last of the clan. I reckon she must be eighty years old, and she has no need in the world for that property.” He began to laugh. “Cliff’s problem is that she don’t need any more money, either. She’s one of the richest people in the county.
“You see, Cliff wants to turn that hundred acres into a lake, so his water problem will be solved once and for all. A dam across the lower end of that hollow is all it would take. The springs would fill it up in a few months.
“Now, the fact that Mrs. Lindsay’s got lots of money ain’t the only reason Cliff can’t buy that property. She hates his guts, and she’s told him so to his face. Cliff’s always been able to buy anything he wanted, but I’ve told him that he may as well forget about that hundred acres. He’s never going to own it.”
Zack stared at the bar for a long time, then drained his mug. “I know a man who can buy that property.”
“The hell you do!” Allgood shook his head a few times, then added, “If this fellow’s all that good, I guess he’s rich too, huh?”
“Nope,” Zack said, getting to his feet, “but he’s working on it. His name is Rollins, and I’ll send him around as soon as I can find him. If not tonight, maybe tomorrow night.”
“You do that,” the bartender said as Zack headed for the door. “He can damn sure fatten up his poke if he can get that land for Cliff.”
When Zack failed to find Rollins at the fancy saloon, he began to walk the street. Peeking in one establishment after another, he finally spotted Bret playing stud poker at a rundown saloon near the livery stable. He ordered a beer and stood with his back to the bar. Watching the poker game out of the corner of his eye, he could see even at a distance that the action was slow, and that every man at the table was old enough to be Bret’s father—or grandfather. Hunter drank his beer quickly, then returned to his hotel room. He undressed and stretched out on his bed, leaving the lamp burning for Rollins.
Zack was still awake when Rollins returned an hour later. Bret heaved a sigh as he sat down on his bed and dropped a boot to the floor noisily. “I played those old bastards for nearly four hours, Zack. Only made two dollars.”
“Better than losing two, ain’t it?”
“Not much. You can’t get them to put any money in the pot. Hell, they’ll sit there all night betting on nothing but cod-lock cinches.”
Zack laughed. “I know the type; I’ve played ’em myself.” He raised himself to a sitting position on the side of his bed and changed the subject. “I had a long talk with a bartender named Rex Allgood, Bret. He told me about a selling job that I know you would love. Well, it’s not really a selling job; it’s a buying job.”
Rollins listened quietly as Zack related as much as he knew about Clifford T. Hollingsworth and Mrs. Lindsay, and of Hollingsworth’s disappointing efforts to acquire the Silver Springs property. “According to Allgood, the old man’s main problem is that Mrs. Lindsay hates his guts.”
Rollins undressed and sat on his bed thinking for a long time, then finally spoke. “I wonder how much money’s involved,” he said softly, as if speaking to himself.
Hunter blew out the lamp. “Don’t know,” he said as he slid beneath the covers. “Allgood says the old man’s already offered her twice as much as the property’s worth.”
“I’ll talk with the bartender tomorrow,” Rollins said, yawning. “Good night.”
“Same to you.”
4
Clifford T. Hollingsworth was standing on the porch two days later when Bret Rollins rode into the ranch-house yard. The Lazy H owner took the steps two at a time and walked to meet his visitor. “Something I can do for you?” he asked.
Rollins had already been told that Texans considered it bad manners for a mounted man to attempt to carry on a conversation with
someone on the ground. “Do you mind if I dismount?” he asked.
The man pointed to the hitching rail. “Get down and tie up.” Hollingsworth was not a big man, probably five-eight and a hundred fifty pounds. Though he moved about spryly, he had the overall appearance of an old man. His hair was milky white, and his leathery face held an unpleasant, surly expression that Rollins assumed was permanent.
Nevertheless, Rollins broadened his own perpetual smile. “I had a talk with Rex Allgood last night, sir. He says you’re interested in acquiring the Silver Springs property.”
“Maybe. What’s that got to do with you?”
Rollins spoke softly. “I’m the man who can get it for you.”
“You can get it for me?” The old man laughed aloud. “You can get it for me? Don’t kid yourself, fellow. That old bitch has got half the money in this county, and she’s determined to die owning Silver Springs. No, sir, you won’t get it. I’ve sent older and more experienced men than you to deal with her and she’s sent ’em all packing.”
Continuing to smile, Rollins backtracked to the hitching rail. He mounted the roan, stopping abreast of the old man. “I’m sorry to have taken up your time, sir. Good day.” He kicked the horse to a canter and was quickly off the premises.
In Weatherford, Bret found Zack in the small restaurant at which the two had lately begun to take their meals. “Sit down and order up,” Zack said as Bret approached the table. “They’ve got roast beef for twenty cents today.”
Bret took a seat and ordered his meal, then began to drum his fingers on the table. “I’ve met with Hollingsworth, Zack, and I don’t like the sonofabitch any better than Mrs. Lindsay does. He’s a rude old fart, even laughed at me. I mean, I’ve punched younger men in the mouth for treating me better than he did.”
Zack chuckled and said nothing.
The waiter delivered Rollins’ warmed-over meal, then walked away. Rollins began to slice the beef. “I’ve made up my mind about one thing, Zack: if I do figure out some way to get that property, Mister Clifford T. Hollingsworth is gonna pay through his damn nose.”
Zack chuckled again. “I believe you, Bret. And I believe that he’s got the money. I talked with Allgood again this morning. He says that Hollingsworth offered Mrs. Lindsay fifty dollars an acre.”
Rollins struck the table lightly with his fist. “Fifty dollars an acre. Hell, that’s five thousand dollars, Zack.”
“I know.”
“Well, by God, I intend to get that property. I don’t have the faintest idea how I’ll go about it, but I’ll figure out a way.”
Zack peeked over the rim of his coffee cup and smiled. “How about the same tactic you used on the doctor’s wife?”
“Aw, shit, Zack, be serious. That woman’s eighty years old.”
Zack raised his eyebrows. “So?”
Bret ignored him and laid enough money on the table to pay for both meals. As they walked out onto the street, Zack laid his hand on Bret’s shoulder. “Let’s go to the hotel room, Slick. I want to talk to you.”
They were soon sitting on their beds facing each other. “First of all,” Zack began, “I want you to know that I believe you’ll get the Silver Springs property, just like you’ve done everything else you set out to do. Just remember that Mrs. Lindsay is filthy rich and that money means nothing to her. You’ll have to work from a different angle.”
“I’m aware of that,” Rollins said.
Zack continued, “I believe the lady has a lot more compassion and conscience than some of the rich people you and I have known. She took in two orphan boys and raised them; put them both through college, according to Allgood.”
Ever the quick thinker, Rollins was on his feet instantly, walking around the room. He pounded his fist into his palm several times. “You just gave me the best idea I’ve had all week, Zack.”
Zack looked at him blankly. “Well, whatever the hell I said, I’m glad I could be of service. Anyway, I’m gonna make it easier for you to do whatever you’ve got in mind. You see, the two of us don’t make a very good picture prowling around town together. People don’t stare at us, but they certainly notice us. I’d bet that half the men in town even know where we’re sleeping.
“I’m gonna take the packhorse and move back to that spring we passed east of town. I’ll set up the tent and stay there till I hear from you. I also think you should move into a better hotel and buy a broadcloth suit. Whatever you plan on saying to Mrs. Lindsay, looking good sure won’t hurt your case any.”
“Hell, I figured on doing all of that, Zack. I wasn’t born yesterday.”
Hunter got to his feet and put his hand on Bret’s shoulder. “Of course you weren’t. Sorry if I spoke out of turn.” He began to put the pack together. “My setting up camp at the spring will not only get me out of your way, it’ll eliminate the expense of this hotel room and eating at the restaurant. I’ve got plenty of time to cook my own food. When I need meat, I’ll shoot something.”
Rollins said nothing for a while, seeming less than enthusiastic about Zack’s plan. “All right, we’ll do it your way,” he said finally, shrugging his shoulders.
Hunter reseated himself on the bed. “Hey, old buddy, I’m not leaving the country. The spring is only ten miles away.” He began to smile. “Besides, you can visit me anytime you get lonesome. Just be sure to sing out before you ride into camp.” Then he was on his feet again. “I just know that my being somewhere else is gonna help your cause, Bret. Trust me.”
Leading the packhorse, Hunter rode east an hour later.
* * *
For the next three days, Rollins was a very busy man. Moving about town casually, he gathered as much information on Mrs. Lindsay as he could without appearing too anxious. He had additional talks with Rex Allgood, never telling the man that he had already met with Cliff Hollingsworth.
Since he could not visit Silver Springs for an on-site inspection without being seen by Hollingsworth, Rollins did the next best thing: he had the bartender describe the property in detail. He left the saloon with a clear mental picture, then drew himself a map when he reached his hotel room.
After a haircut, shave and a bath at the barber shop next morning, Rollins dressed himself in his new suit. He was now ready to visit Mrs. Victoria Lindsay.
The lady lived two miles south of town in a beautiful two-story home that stood a thousand yards off the main road. As Bret rode into the yard, he could see the bulldogs waiting for him at the gate. Mrs. Lindsay, who indeed appeared to be eighty years old, walked from the house and quieted the dogs. She was a tall woman, with gray hair rolled neatly into a bun and pinned at the back of her head. A short apron was tied around her waist. She reached the gate and stood there looking at him.
Rollins dismounted and flashed his best smile. “Good morning, Mrs. Lindsay. My name is Bret Rollins, and I’m hoping I can talk with you for a few minutes.”
She studied him for only a moment. “If it’s about that land, there ain’t no use to talk.”
Rollins sensed immediately that here was a down-to-earth woman who would resist high-pressure tactics till hell froze over. He must speak clearly, simply and softly; otherwise, the lady would show him the road.
Bret Rollins had been charming people all of his life and was determined that Mrs. Lindsay would be no exception. He continued to smile and leaned against the gate, deliberately letting a curl fall to his forehead. In his deepest, most resonate tone of voice, he began to speak slowly. “I did come here to talk about the land, Mrs. Lindsay, but I’m not a rancher, farmer or developer. All I ask is that you hear me out.”
She looked him up and down several times. Then her stern look softened. “I don’t reckon I’ll deny you a chance to talk,” she said, her lower lip quivering slightly. She unlatched the gate. “Come on in.”
Bret tied the roan to the hitching rail, then followed her up the steps. As they entered the house, a young boy about ten years old got to his feet. “My caretaker’s grandson,” she said.
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Rollins introduced himself and shook hands with the young man, who disappeared immediately. “Fine-looking boy,” Rollins said, turning to face the woman. “Fine-looking boy.”
“You don’t look like much more’n a boy yourself,” she told him, taking a seat in a cushioned chair.
“Everybody says I look younger than I am. Lord, I’ll be thirty-two next week.”
Mrs. Lindsay called to the maid, ordering tea for the two of them. “All right, Mister Rollins, what is it that you want to say?”
Rollins walked back and forth a few times, then took the tray from the maid and set it on a table. He was racking his brain as he handed a glass to Mrs. Lindsay. He knew that he would never stand in this parlor again unless he laid down a very convincing story. He cleared his throat, then plunged into the tale he had rehearsed in his mind a hundred times.
“I’m from New Orleans, Louisiana, Mrs. Lindsay. Five years ago I took a part-time job there as physical-education director at an orphanage. That job turned into what I hope will be a lifetime of dedicated work with homeless youngsters.
“To see how hard those kids try, and the happy, joyous look on their faces as they realize that for once in their lives they finally have a home, is enough to touch even the most calloused heart.” Out of the corner of his eye, he could see that he had her attention.
“Two years later, my parents came to work at the orphanage when they retired. In fact, they are still working and living there, and they love those kids as they always loved their own.
“Six months ago, my folks told me that they would like to build a home for orphan boys right here in Texas. Mom and Dad would run it themselves with a minimum of hired help, and I would donate much of my time as business manager. The rest of my time would be spent helping the boys to develop strong bodies and teaching them how to become respectable men.
“That hundred acres you own at Silver Springs would be the ideal location.”