by Doug Bowman
“Did you have a firearm yourself?” Pope asked.
“Had a Henry in my hand when I jumped behind the trees, and whoever was up that slope saw it. I guess the main reason he didn’t fire again was because he knew I’d be shooting back if he gave away his position.”
Pope nodded. “I’d say you’re right about that.” He stared at the window a while, then spoke again: “Can you even make a guess as to who the gunman might be, or what kind of rifle you heard?”
“I believe the shots I heard came from a Winchester, and no, I don’t have the faintest idea who the sniper was. I’m new in this country. Not many people even know me, and none has a reason to want me dead.”
“Could be a case of mistaken identity,” the sheriff said. He sat thinking for another moment, then added, “Jiggs Odom is not the type that would do it, not just because you whipped his ass in a fistfight.”
“You know about that?”
Pope chuckled. “It’s like I said before, Mister Hunter; not much happens around here that I don’t know about.” The lawman was on his feet now, offering a parting handshake. “I’ll send both of my deputies out to scout that slope for tracks this morning. Meanwhile, if you figure out who did the shooting, you have my permission to mistake the sonofabitch for a coyote.”
“Thank you, Sheriff. I’ll ride home by a different route, then check with you tomorrow. It might be that your deputies will learn something on the slope.”
“I expect them to,” Pope said, lifting his arm to wave goodbye. “They’re both good trackers.”
Zack rode through the woods till he reached the Colorado, then followed the river north to the ranch house, a roundabout journey that took most of the day. He released his horse in the corral and hung the bridle on a fence post, then turned to find Rollins standing beside him. After Zack explained that he had spent the night at the hotel in town, the two walked to the house, seating themselves on the doorstep.
“The sniper wasn’t shooting at you,” Rollins said when Zack had told him of the attempt on his life. “The bastard was shooting at me. I mean, he thought he was shooting at me.”
“That idea crossed my mind, too, Bret, and I’ve been wondering about it all day.”
“Well, you can stop wondering about it, and let’s start figuring out how to do something about it. The sonofabitch thought he was shooting at me for sure, Zack; you don’t have any enemies.” Rollins thought for a moment, then added, “None in Texas, at least. I think the problem dates back to last summer. I believe it has followed me all the way from the town of Weatherford.”
“Are you saying you think Mrs. Lindsay has sent somebody after you?”
“Not exactly, but it is a possibility. I think it’s more likely, though, that the problem is Clifford T. Hollingsworth. Maybe something went wrong with the deal. Maybe he didn’t end up with the Silver Springs property after all, and I got out of town with his six thousand dollars.” Bret scratched his chin for a moment, then added, “I hope that’s the case, Zack. I wouldn’t feel bad for one minute about shooting that heartless old sonofabitch.” He smiled and got to his feet. “I’d feel a lot worse if I had to shoot Mrs. Lindsay,” he said jokingly.
They ate venison stew in the cookshack, then walked down to the river, where they seated themselves on a fallen log and began to make plans for putting the sniper out of business. Both men believed that the shooter had seen Hunter in town, and knowing that he would return home by way of County Line Road, had ridden out and positioned himself on the north slope.
They decided that if the sniper had mistaken Hunter for Rollins, they would do nothing to correct his assumption. Zack would ride through the woods to town tomorrow and talk with Sheriff Pope. Then he would prowl around town for a while, taking in the restaurants and saloons and making sure he was seen by most of the townfolk. In the afternoon, he would ride west on County Line Road. When he could no longer be seen from town, he would turn south into the woods and return home by the same route he had used today.
Meanwhile, Rollins and Jolly Ross would be patrolling the north slope. Rollins would ride to within seeing distance of Lampasas, then wait in the trees north of the road. Any rider who left town headed west would be under surveillance. By riding through the trees, parallel to the road, Rollins could easily keep pace with anyone on horseback.
Hunter was in the sheriff’s office at ten the following morning, talking with Deputy Horace Hillman. “The sheriff won’t be back till around dinnertime,” Hillman said, “but I can tell you what we found out about that slope west of town. The only horse tracks anywhere up there are more’n a month old. Whoever’s been shooting from that slope either walked up there or he’s camping up there, ’cause he damn sure ain’t been riding no horse. Me and my partner went over that ridge with a fine-toothed comb.”
“Thank you, Deputy,” Zack said. “I appreciate it, and you’ve told me what I needed to know.” He was out the door quickly and began to stroll around Lampasas. During the next two hours, he prowled the length of the town, up one side of the street and down the other. He drank coffee in two restaurants and had drinks in three saloons, the last one being the White Horse. He bought drinks for two men with whom he was acquainted, then talked loudly with Ed Hayes as he sipped a beer. As he was leaving the building, he stood in the doorway for a moment before calling back to the bartender, wanting to make sure every man in the saloon noticed him: “See you again tomorrow, Ed.” Then he was out on the street.
He mounted the black, trotted to the end of the street and turned west on County Line Road. He held the same pace till he could no longer see the town, then turned abruptly into the woods. He would travel the same course as the day before, turning north to the ranch house when he reached the river.
* * *
Rollins had reached his surveillance position on the slope about the same time Zack reached town. Zack had been there less than an hour when Bret saw a rider come down the street headed north, then turn west on County Line Road. Rollins mounted the roan and sat behind a tall cedar till the rider was well past his own position. Then he also headed west, riding parallel to the road and keeping the rider in sight at all times.
In less than a mile, the rider guided his horse off the road and turned north, all the while in plain view of Rollins. The man kept his horse pointed west at a trot for the large part of an hour, then came to a halt behind a clump of cedars. He was now west of Rat Creek and about six miles from town. Rollins had kept pace and could plainly see the man from his own place of concealment a thousand yards farther up the slope. He sat his horse behind a cluster of mesquites.
The man dismounted behind the cedars and tied his horse to a low-hanging branch. Then, taking his rifle from the saddle scabbard, he walked west a few steps and took up a position behind a natural mound of earth that was covered with weeds and grass. He was about a hundred and fifty yards from the road—excellent shooting range for the Winchester he held.
Rollins dismounted slowly, half-hitching the roan to a small bush. Convinced that he had found the sniper, he began to creep forward, his Winchester at the ready. He had jacked a shell into the firing chamber of the rifle when the sniper came into view, long before the man was within hearing distance.
Easing himself from one hiding place to another, Rollins continued to make his way down the slope, pausing for a few minutes behind each mesquite or cedar. The man ahead of him sat very still, his eyes cast down the slope to the road. The only times he moved were when he spit tobacco juice over his shoulder.
Bret moved as silently as a breeze and after more than half an hour, only fifty feet separated him from the sniper. Off to his left, he could see the man’s black horse and the big Lazy H burned into its hip. The Lazy H, Bret said to himself: Clifford T. Hollingsworth’s brand.
Rollins waited no longer. He shortened the distance separating them to thirty feet, then spoke to the man: “Don’t move a muscle, fellow! You’ll live a little bit longer if you leave the rifle lying right wh
ere it is.”
The man did as he had been told.
“Put your hands over your head and get to your feet slow and easylike.” The man complied, and Rollins was now looking into the face of a man about his own age, who sported at least a month’s growth of red beard. “You’ve been shooting at the wrong man, fellow,” Rollins said, the Winchester against his shoulder and the barrel pointed directly at the redhead’s chest. “You see, that’s not Bret Rollins you’ve been stalking. You’re looking at Bret Rollins.”
The expression on the redhead’s face told Rollins all he needed to know: the man had indeed been sent by Hollingsworth, and no doubt paid a tidy sum to do him in. Rollins commanded the man to remove his Colt from its holster. “Real easy now, with just your thumb and forefinger. Take the gun by its handle, pull it out of the holster and let it fall to the ground.”
The redhead brought his right hand down very slowly. As it neared his holster, he suddenly jumped to his left, clawing frantically at the six-gun on his hip. He died instantly, drilled through the heart with a shot from Bret’s Winchester.
When he searched the body, Rollins found that the man carried no identification, but he did have fifteen double eagles in his front pocket. The money was tied up in a sock. Three hundred dollars, Bret said to himself as he finished counting the money, probably about the going price for murder. He put the coins in his pocket, happy to get a chance at some more of Hollingsworth’s money.
He loaded the corpse onto the sniper’s own horse, then headed for the H and R ranch house. Zack should be home by now. Rollins would discuss the matter with him before deciding what to do with the body.
He had traveled only a few miles when Jolly Ross rode out of the trees and into the road. “I recognized you from up on the ridge,” he said, then pointed at the corpse. “Looks like you found your man.”
Rollins nodded. “It was almost too easy, Jolly. He rode straight to me, just like he’d planned it that way.” Ross fell in beside Bret and they made a right turn, taking the new road to the new ranch house.
Zack was in the yard when they reached the house an hour later. After listening to part of Bret’s story, he lifted the dead man’s head to get a better look at his face. “Ever seen him before?”
“Nope,” Rollins answered. “But I can tell you one thing for sure, Zack: he was all set to take a potshot at you when you came down the road. He was dug in about a hundred fifty yards north of the road, with a clear view. If he was any kind of marksman at all, he couldn’t have missed.” Rollins seated himself on the doorstep, then continued. “You see the brand on that horse’s hip, Zack?” he asked, pointing. “That Lazy H is Hollingsworth’s mark, so there’s no doubt that the old man sent him to kill me. Either Hollingsworth didn’t give him a good description or the sonofabitch forgot; he mistook you for me.”
“Sounds like you’re exactly right, Bret.” Zack wrapped the horse’s reins around the hitching rail, then leaned against the porch. “What do you plan to do with the body?”
“I plan to let you decide.” Half-smiling, looking at Zack out of the corner of his eye, Bret added, “You’re smarter’n me.”
“First time you ever said that,” Zack said, chuckling. He walked around in a small circle, then returned to his leaning post. “You don’t have but two choices the way I see it: you can take the body to Sheriff Pope and tell him the story, or you can shoot the horse and bury man, horse and saddle in the same hole. If you want my suggestion, I say go to the sheriff. No offense toward Jolly there, or Dixie down at the cookshack, but four men already know that there’s a dead man in this yard. That’s an awful lot of people to be knowing a secret, Bret.”
“You damn sure have a way of putting things,” Bret said, laughing. He was on his feet now. “If we leave right away, we can probably be in Lampasas before dark.” He took the reins of the dead man’s horse, then mounted the roan.
They reached town a few minutes before sunset. Sheriff Pope had already left his office for the day and had to be summoned from his home, a mile west of town. When he arrived, he gave both the corpse and the Lazy H horse a lot of scrutiny, at the same time listening to Rollins describe the day’s happenings. “He was dug in a hundred fifty yards north of the road, Sheriff,” Bret was saying, “all set to take a shot at Mister Hunter when he rode by. I came in behind him with a Winchester and tried to disarm him. He went for the gun on his hip and I had no choice but to shoot.”
The sheriff nodded and turned to Zack. “Do you think this is the man who shot at you yesterday?”
“I’m convinced of it,” Zack said. “You were right when you said it could be a case of mistaken identity. The sniper was actually after Mister Rollins here and mistook me for him.”
“That’s mighty interesting,” the sheriff said, “’cause you two don’t even resemble each other.” Then he spoke to Rollins: “I guess you ought to at least have some idea about why he wanted to kill you.”
“Sure do,” Rollins said. He pointed to the brand on the horse’s hip. “That Lazy H means that the horse belongs on Clifford Hollingsworth’s spread, up near Weatherford. I bested him in a land deal last year and it’s eating at him. He no doubt sent that joker to do me in.”
Sheriff Pope stood quietly for several moments as he scratched his head and readjusted his hat. “Well,” he said finally, “what’re you gonna do with the body?”
The question caught Rollins off guard. “Well … uh … I suppose I’ll do whatever you tell me.”
“The undertaker’s usually on twenty-four-hour call,” Pope said. “I believe he charges about fifteen dollars.” He walked around the horse one last time, for daylight was fading fast. “That looks like a good saddle,” he said. “I suppose you can find some use for it out at your ranch. I’d keep the horse, too. If this fellow Hollingsworth ever comes after it, you can charge him as much as you want to for its keep.”
“Thank you, Sheriff,” Rollins said. “I’ll do that.”
The partners were soon headed for the undertaker’s parlor, with Rollins leading the sniper’s horse. “Remind me to vote for Pete Pope in the next election,” he said. “I believe the sheriff is my kind of people.”
12
It was now the first week in February, and central Texas had so far had the mildest winter in recent memory. Thinking it unwise to make the trip himself, Rollins had sent Jolly Ross to Weatherford to learn as much as he could about the actions of Clifford Hollingsworth. Ross had returned a week ago, saying that the old man’s dam had been completed and Silver Springs Hollow was rapidly filling up with water.
Jolly had talked with Rex Allgood on several occasions, learning that Hollingsworth’s health had taken a turn for the worse and that he seldom left his room nowadays. The old man had also returned to his old habit of consuming large quantities of liquor, having it delivered to the ranch house by the case. Allgood said that his father-in-law drank himself into an alcoholic stupor on a daily basis, usually before noon, and that family and friends had given up on trying to hold any kind of conversation with him. The bartender did not believe that Hollingsworth would live to see the grass turn green this year.
Rollins listened closely to Jolly’s report and thought that maybe Hollingsworth was no longer a threat to him. He would remain vigilant, however, and keep an eye on his back trail, for the old man was not dead yet.
Hunter and Rollins had come to the decision just last night that it was time to contact Manuel Gonzalez about the longhorns. Zack himself decided that Rollins should be the one to make the trip. Gathering the herd and driving it to the H and R would take as long as two months, maybe three, and Zack knew that if he himself handled that chore, Rollins would get nothing whatsoever done around the ranch in the meantime. Besides, Bret was a better talker. He was also personally acquainted with Rafe Baskin, the man who would supply the Hereford bulls.
The partners had registered the H and R Cattle Company’s brand as the HR connected, and last week Oscar Land had made up several br
anding irons, which Rollins would carry east on a packhorse. As the longhorns were gathered, the would be burned into their hides, eliminating any need for additional marking until such time as they were road-branded for the drive to the rails in Kansas. Unless the bank account reached an unacceptable low, Rollins planned to get two calves out of each of the longhorn cows before they were marketed.
Rollins must travel southeast to Saratoga, a small town in Hardin County, only a short distance from Beaumont. There he would hunt up one Manuel Gonzalez and make a deal for a thousand head of longhorns. He had been told that Gonzalez would sometimes fill two or three orders at once. If Gonzalez had more than one buyer wanting longhorns at the same time, he simply hired more men, for he did none of the roping himself. And communication was never a problem. Though Gonzalez spoke Spanish fluently, he had been born and raised no more than a dozen miles from where he now lived and spoke English as well as did other Texans.
This morning Rollins was preparing for his journey to Saratoga. Zack followed him to the barn and stood watching as he adjusted the packsaddle on a black gelding. “I hate like hell to lead two pack animals, Zack,” Rollins said, “but I just might have to. I may have to camp for a month or two while they gather the herd, and I’ll be needing a lot of things. Besides, I’ve got to carry these branding irons.”
Zack stepped under the shed and opened a metal bin, extracting a piece of rope three feet long. “I’ve led two horses lots of times, Bret. It’s not hard to do.” He handed over the rope. “Here, take this and tie one end to each of the horses’ bridles. That’ll keep ’em together.”
“Yeah,” Rollins said, “except when they decide to walk on opposite sides of a damn sapling.”
Hunter laughed. “Well, I guess you should stop when that happens.”