by Doug Bowman
The partners spent almost two hours loading and arranging the things Bret chose to carry on the backs of two horses. A heavy bag of grain rounded out the load on the larger of the animals. In addition to a week’s supply of food, Rollins carried the tent he had brought from Tennessee. He had slept in the tent through more than one downpour and knew that it would not leak. The horses also carried everything he would need in the way of cooking utensils, several changes of clothing, a good bedroll and thick blankets.
At last Rollins climbed aboard the roan. He had not taken Zack’s advice on tying the packhorses’ bridles together. He had tied them nose-to-tail and would lead them in single file. Hunter was quick to admit that it was a better arrangement than his own suggestion had been.
Rollins tightened up the lead rope. “Well, I guess we’ll be in the cattle business pretty soon, partner.” They engaged in the longest handshake of their lives, each man seeming reluctant to let go. Rollins finally pulled in his hand, then pointed east. “I figure the town of Bryan is about the halfway point. I’ll try to make it there before I have to restock my supplies”
Zack nodded. “You just be careful, Bret. I’d say that there’s many a man between here and Saratoga who would kill for what you’re carrying. I think you should bank your money in Beaumont before you even go looking for Manuel Gonzalez.”
“I’ll do that, Zack. Of course I’ll see if they have a bank in Saratoga before I go riding all the way to Beaumont.” He waved good-bye, kicked the roan in the ribs and headed southeast, hoping to cross the Lampasas River before nightfall.
* * *
Rollins rode into Bryan at noon six days later. The sky had been overcast all day but so far, the low-hanging clouds had produced no rain. He saw several men on the street as he rode through town but made eye contact with no one. The livery stable at the end of the street looked much like a hundred others he had seen. He dismounted in the doorway.
“Howdy there, young feller,” a scrawny old man said, walking into the dimly lit hall. Reaching for the roan’s bridle, he continued to talk: “You look like a tard man, mister; hongry too, I bet, an’ they c’n fix ’at mighty quick over at th’ hotel dinin’ room. It bein’ ’bout dinnertime, I’d say they got a big feed on over there right now.” He patted the roan’s neck. “It’s easy ta see ’at ya done come a right smart piece, an’ I bet ya wanna rest ya animals a while. I bet—”
“Have you got someplace you can lock up my gear?” Bret interrupted.
“Why, o’ course. I’ll put it ’n th’ office, right whur I keep muh own stuff. Ain’t nobody gonna mess with nothin’.”
“Good,” Rollins said, beginning to unburden his pack animals. “I’m sure you’re right about my horses needing rest, and I intend to leave them with you for a day or two.”
“I’ll shore take good care uv ’em. All uv ’em’ll be awright in a coupla days.” He led the animals forward and fed them in separate stalls, then turned to Bret’s gear. With each man carrying a packsaddle, they soon had the equipment stored in the office. “Been here seb’m years,” the old hostler said. “Ain’t nobody stole nothin’ out’n this office yet.”
With his saddlebags across his shoulder and his rifle cradled in the crook of one arm, Rollins walked up the street to the hotel. He rented a second-story room, locked his Winchester inside, then returned to the street. He was soon sitting in a barber shop, where he requested a shave and a haircut. He was in the chair quickly, for he was the lone customer.
Unlike most barbers Rollins had known, this man was not a talker, just went about his work quietly and meticulously. When he was done, he patted Rollins on the shoulder several times, the signal that it was time to get out of the chair.
Rollins smiled as he paid the man for his work. “I guess you’d know where the best eating place is,” he said.
“The hotel dining room’s always treated me right,” the barber said. “I eat there myself sometimes when the old lady don’t make me bring something from home.” He signaled a newly arrived customer to get in the chair, then turned his back to Rollins.
Bret seated himself in the dining room and noticed immediately that the bill of fare handed to him by a waitress was quite extensive. Thumbing through its three pages, he began to shake his head slowly. “Do you folks actually have everything listed here?” he asked the small, middle-aged lady.
“Most of it,” she said quickly. “We pride ourselves on variety.”
He pointed to the first listing on the first page. “I’ll have the sirloin steak, potatoes and a bowl of those black-eyed peas.” The lady nodded and headed for the kitchen.
Bret was soon served one of the tastiest meals he could remember, and he left an extra quarter on the table when he departed. He bought a bottle of good whiskey at the bar and a copy of the Fort Worth Democrat in the lobby, then climbed the stairs to his room.
He was soon sipping whiskey-and-water while reading the newspaper. After a while he laid the paper aside, mixed himself another drink and moved his chair to the window, where he sat looking down into the street below. Men were scampering from one place to another much like so many ants, and quite a few women were on the street, too.
All of which reminded him that he had not even seen a woman up close in weeks. Nor would he see one in the near future, for it would be a careless thing to do. He had already decided that his stay in the town of Bryan would be spent in this hotel room. He would leave the room only to eat, for prowling about town with two saddlebags full of money was out of the question. He would guard the money with his life till he could bank it in Saratoga or Beaumont. Then he would find an agreeable woman and get his ashes hauled.
When he stretched out on his bed and began reading again, he fell asleep quickly and awoke to a dark room five hours later. Damn! was his first thought. He struck a match and lit the coal-oil lamp, then looked at his watch. The time was a quarter past eight, probably too late to get fed in the dining room. He grabbed his saddlebags and hurried down the stairs. “Is the dining room closed?” he asked the fat desk clerk.
“About a half hour ago,” the man said. “You hungry?”
Rollins nodded. “Like a wolf.”
The clerk pointed to the counter. “There’s a big bowl of stew and some biscuits on that tray there,” he said, “and it ain’t been touched. Elsie brought it to me when she closed, and I sure as hell ain’t gonna eat it.” He patted his belly. “I done gained more’n forty pounds this year. If you want that stew, take it right on up to your room and eat it. Won’t cost you a penny.”
Rollins looked at the tray a couple of times, then reached for it. “The truth is, I am mighty hungry, mister, but I’d feel better about eating it if you let me pay for it.”
“Ain’t gonna be no days like that,” the clerk said loudly. “It’ll just go to waste if you don’t use it.” He waved his arm toward the stairs. “Now, take it on up to your room and be done with it.”
Rollins did as he had been told. The stew was neither hot nor cold. What it was, was delicious. After only one bite, he knew that the hostler and the barber had been right: the hotel cooks knew what they were doing. He continued to shovel with the large spoon until the bowl was empty. Just as had been his meal in the dining room earlier today, the stew was excellent, with exactly enough hot pepper to enhance its natural flavor.
He lay on his bed for several hours, waiting for the sleep that would not come. The long nap he had taken during the afternoon, and the large bowl of highly seasoned stew he had eaten tonight, had taken away any urge he might have had to doze off again. He was filled with energy and felt more like running a mile than sleeping.
Sitting on the side of his bed and staring into the darkness, he knew that he would be out of this room and back on the trail come morning, for being cooped up was already getting on his nerves. He knew that his horses needed rest, but he could give them that by shortening his traveling day. From now on, he would take to the trail a little later each morning and make camp tw
o hours earlier in the afternoon. If he took his time about fixing his breakfast each morning, the animals would gain as much as three hours a day on their picket ropes, becoming better rested and better fed. Even at a slower rate of travel, he expected to be in Saratoga a week from now.
He slept soundly sometime after midnight and awoke at daybreak. When his stretching and yawning was done, he washed his face, picked up his saddlebags and headed for the stairs. In the lobby, he had to stand in line for a few minutes in order to get a seat in the dining room. Another compliment to the skills of the hotel cooks, he thought.
Rollins soon took a seat at a table already occupied by three men. One of them got to his feet and left the room just as Rollins sat down. The remaining two were apparently through eating but ordered more coffee. They nodded at Rollins, but nothing was said. Bret ordered his meal, then sat quietly. He was soon dining on ham, eggs, buttered biscuits and apple jelly, and sipping exceptionally good coffee.
The men on the opposite side of the table, who were both about Bret’s size and age, were seedy-looking characters. Each man was brown-haired and had a thick beard, and each wore a battered Stetson. Just before taking his seat at the table, Rollins had noticed that each had a Colt tied to his right leg.
Neither of the men spoke to Rollins till he finished eating. “Ain’t seen you before,” the man directly across the table said. “Been in town long?”
Rollins said nothing, just shook his head.
The man tried again. “My name’s Joe Plum,” he said, his lips parting on yellow teeth, “and this here’s my Cousin Billy.” He pointed to the man beside him.
Sipping the last of his coffee, Rollins nodded and still said nothing.
“You don’t say no helluva lot, do you?” the second man asked.
Bret shook his head again. “Nope.”
A silly grin appeared on the face of the man called Billy. Turning to the man who had introduced himself as Joe Plum, he spoke softly while pointing to Rollins: “He sure is holding on to them saddlebags mighty tight, Joe. Now what in the world do you suppose he’s got in ’em?” Not waiting for an answer, he turned to face Bret. “Whatcha got in them saddlebags, fellow?”
The type of man he was now facing was nothing new to Rollins. He had known dozens of them, and knew already that he might have to fight one or both of these men before the day was over. He fastened a steely stare onto the eyes of the man called Billy that quickly turned to ice. Pushing his chair back with his legs, he got to his feet quickly. Slinging his saddlebags across his shoulder, he answered the man’s question: “Dynamite,” he said. He paid for his breakfast and walked through the door, leaving the two men standing beside the table staring after him.
He walked to the livery stable at a fast clip, then turned to look behind him. No one was on the street. “I’ll be needing my horses and my gear now,” he said to the hostler, who stepped from the office yawning. “Need a sack of oats, too.”
“Ain’t got no oats. Ain’t been able ta git none fer th’ past week. Got some shelled corn.”
Rollins nodded. “Put a sack of corn on that big gelding.” He sat on an upended nail keg while the hostler caught up the horses. Half an hour later, having saddled the roan and arranged his gear on the pack animals, Rollins paid the man, then mounted.
He led his pack animals up the street to the Shebang, where he spent close to an hour looking over the merchandise and restocking his food supplies. The lady had hen eggs for sale and volunteered to wrap each individual egg in soft paper so it would not break. Rollins bought a dozen. He would boil them all over his first campfire anyway, eliminating any concern about breakage.
As he rode up the street to the Shebang, he had had to pass the hotel. Joe Plum and his Cousin Billy had been standing in front of the dining-room door. Now, as he repassed the hotel on his way out of town, the men were still there, looking him and his equipment over through billows of cigarette smoke. Through his peripheral vision, Rollins was looking them over also, though he made direct eye contact with neither man. He rode down the street at a fast walk and never looked back. Passing the blacksmith shop, he turned right at the livery stable and headed east.
He had traveled about a mile when he stopped at a small clearing. He sat his horse for a few moments, watching a man rearrange the earth with a turning plow pulled by two large mules. With the purple woods circling it like hungry wolves, the field did not have a look of permanence, but appeared to be no more than a shackled wilderness ready to spring back if the farmer and his plow missed so much as a single day beating it into submission. Rollins waved to the man, then circled the plowed earth and rode on.
Two hours before sunset, he camped on the east bank of the Navasota River, a few miles north of the town of the same name. He headed for the brakes immediately after fording the river, leading his animals into the cane, briers and brushwood. The horses had drunk their fill from the river, and each was soon eating shelled corn from a nose bag. There would be no grazing tonight, for though Rollins had seen no one, he had a feeling that he was not traveling alone. The horses were hidden as well as they could be, and only a man who was deliberately tracking them would ever know their whereabouts. Bret intended to discourage anybody who might be tracking the animals.
He ate sardines, cheese and crackers for his supper, then opened the pack carried by the smaller of the two horses. The double-barreled, ten-gauge shotgun he extracted was already loaded, and he put a few additional shells into his pocket. He laid his saddlebags across his shoulder and then, taking up his bedroll in one arm and the Winchester and the shotgun in the other, he began to backtrack his horses’ route from the river. He had chosen his place of concealment when he passed it earlier: a large oak that the wind had uprooted on the east bank of the river. In addition to the hole in the ground, there were the dirt-clad roots of the tree itself, excellent protection against gunfire from even the heaviest of calibers.
He doffed his hat and eased himself into the hole, drawing his Colt and laying it beside his other weapons as he did so. His position offered a good view of the entire area, and he could even see a couple hundred yards past the west bank of the river. He was confident that with the moon in its three-quarter phase, nobody would sneak up on him tonight. A man moving about would not only be easy to see, he would cast a shadow ten feet long. He took a drink of water from his canteen, noting that even though the sun had not yet disappeared, the moon was already moving above the horizon.
Two hours passed, and Bret had been pinching himself to stay awake when he heard something. He leaned forward, trying to force his eyes to see deeper into the meadow across the river. Unable to identify the sound or pinpoint the direction from whence it came, he sat with his eyes glued to his back-trail across the narrow river. After several minutes, the faint glow of moonlight revealed two dark clumps at the outer limits of his vision. Rollins racked his brain. Were those natural objects? Had they been there all along? The answer was no, he decided quickly. Were the objects moving? He could not tell.
Convinced now that he was looking at two horses and their riders, he sat in his hole staring around the bottom of the uprooted oak. All three of his guns lay on the ground before him, but he had touched neither. He was waiting to see how the situation developed before deciding which weapon he would need.
He no longer had to strain his eyes to see that the riders had covered half the distance between the river and the place where he had first spotted them. He had no doubt whatsoever that the men were following him and that they were up to no good. It had taken at least fifteen minutes for them to travel a hundred yards. Men not bent on mischief would have forded the river and been long gone by now.
The riders moved twenty yards closer and stopped again. Though the moon did not provide enough light for him to make out facial features, the overall physical appearance of the men told Rollins that he was once again looking at Joe Plum and his Cousin Billy. There was absolutely no doubt about what they had in mind.
The riders now sat their horses on the west bank of the river, less than forty yards from the uprooted tree on the east bank. The short distance between himself and the riders made Bret’s choice of weapons obvious. He reached for the shotgun.
He knew that he himself could not be seen from the opposite side of the river, for the canopy of a nearby oak cast a dark shadow over his hiding place. The approaching riders, however, made perfect targets in the moonlight. Bret was not known for giving a man more than one chance to make a wise choice, and these two had already had their chance. Unfortunately, they had chosen to stalk and rob him, and no doubt intended to leave no witness to their deeds.
The riders continued to sit their saddles, whispering and pointing across the river. When one of them removed his hat to scratch his head, there was no problem in identifying the man called Billy. Rollins leaned over the side of his hole with his left eye closed. His right eye was sighted down the twin barrels of the ten-gauge Greener, and he was determined that neither Joe Plum nor his Cousin Billy would live to cross the river.
The riders whispered back and forth one last time. Then, with Joe Plum pointing the way, they eased their horses into the water. The animals took to the river almost eagerly, for here at the ford it was less than two feet deep. On they came: thirty yards … twenty-five … twenty … fifteen. The Greener spoke once, then thundered again. The big gun knocked each man from his saddle, and the horses also went down. The animals kicked a few times, but neither of the men ever moved once they hit the water. After a few moments, even the horses lay still. Rollins stood for a while watching the V formation created by the moving water as it rushed past each of the bodies. Then he headed for the cane brake and his horses, determined to put as much territory behind him as possible before daybreak.
Rollins felt no remorse whatsoever about putting Joe Plum and his cousin in the water. He did, however, feel a slight twinge of guilt about the horses. But, he reasoned with himself, he had not deliberately intended to shoot the animals. The Greener was a scattergun, and just as the name implied, the buckshot would scatter all to hell after traveling only a few yards. Predicting exactly where each of the deadly slugs would go was an impossibility, and at a distance of fifteen yards, it was inevitable that one or more of them would find the heads of the horses. It’s just one of those things, Rollins said to himself, patting the neck of his nervous roan.