by Doug Bowman
Moon had been in Texas less than a month when he was bitten by the California bug. When he heard that a wagon master was headed west with a train that consisted of twenty families and more than forty guns, he signed on as a scout, with his only compensation the security of numbers and the food that he ate.
He spent two years in California, performing a wide assortment of jobs to sustain himself. It was during this period that he became an expert with both the long and the short gun. In the spring of 1868, he shot a well-known gunslinger dead in the middle of the street in San Francisco. The gunman had been well connected with some of the city fathers, however, and Moon was forced to leave town in the middle of the night, one jump ahead of a posse.
His diligent pursuers overtook him in Sacramento a few days later, and Moon killed one member of the posse and wounded another in the ensuing shootout. He then headed east to the Great Basin. He crossed the relatively new state of Nevada at a steady pace, then turned south into Arizona Territory.
On the same day he reached the Territory, he changed his name to Bill Barnes, a name that was also to become well known. Within a period of less than five years, Barnes outdrew and killed six men with his six-shooter, an 1860 Army Colt. Only one of the killings had been the result of a legitimate argument. All the remaining five had been gunslingers, or novices seeking a reputation.
In the fall of 1873, he left the name “Barnes” in Arizona and returned to Texas. Once again his name became Bill Moon. His quick hand and deadly marksmanship had earned him a reputation that he was determined to lose, and he knew that the first step was to rid himself of the big forty-four that had been riding low on his hip for more than six years.
Long before he crossed the Texas border, he rolled up his gunbelt and stowed it in his saddlebag. Never again would he walk about with the weapon on his hip, its cutaway holster tied to his right leg with rawhide. Such action was all too often viewed as an open invitation by gunslingers and novices alike. By reverting to his original name, and with no six-gun on display, Moon felt that he well might live out the remainder of his days in Texas without being involved in another gunfight.
That had been almost three years ago, and since returning to Texas, Bill Moon had been challenged by no man. Although he still owned the Colt, he kept it out of sight and always found a reason to be somewhere else when the conversations of men drifted around to gun talk.
Moon had developed into the type of ranch hand that was never out of work for long, and every time he had left an outfit, it had been of his own doing. He had gradually worked his way to East Texas and had recently signed on with Manuel Gonzalez to help deliver the longhorns to the H and R. Now that the cattle had been delivered, he was tired of traveling and on this very day had asked Jolly Ross for a steady job at County Line Ranch.
Now, sitting in front of Hunter’s fireplace, Bill Moon finished his coffee and got to his feet. “Whether I work here or not, I’ll be needing a good night’s sleep,” he said, speaking to both Zack and the young foreman. “You two talk it over, and Jolly can let me know something in the morning.” Then he was gone to the barn, where his bedroll waited.
“What do you think, Zack?” Jolly asked, getting to his feet. “Do you think we should hire him?”
Zack answered quickly: “We’ve discussed this before, Jolly—you’re the foreman. I didn’t give you that job expecting to have to make your decisions for you. If you want to hire him, hire him.”
“Well, I’ve been watching him pretty close, and he knows exactly what he’s doing. He’s a hand, all right.”
Zack rose from his chair and carried his empty coffee cup to the kitchen. “I’ll tell you one thing about Mister Bill Moon,” he said, dropping the cup in the dishpan. “He damn sure looks to me like a man who could plant and plow his own garden.”
Ross laughed loudly. “Ain’t that the truth?” He turned toward the doorway, adding, “I’ll sign him up in the morning.”
16
By late spring of 1878, the longhorn cows had been on County Line Ranch for more than two years and most of them had already dropped a second calf. Though of mixed blood, the young cattle leaned heavily toward the appearance of their Hereford sires, and in a few cases, not a single sign of their longhorn ancestry could be detected.
Today Zack Hunter was sitting his saddle aboard the tall sorrel gelding he had bought a month ago. He had been riding the animal all morning and had just stopped in the shade two miles north of the ranch house. Beside him, Bret Rollins dismounted to relieve himself. Rollins had set up residence in Lampasas more than a year ago, and last night he had made one of his rare appearances at the ranch. Even more rare was the fact that he wanted to ride around looking at cattle all day.
Zack dismounted and tied the sorrel to a bush. “I’m gonna move the longhorns up the trail to Kansas before the summer’s over, Bret,” he said, pointing to a cluster of cattle grazing on the distant hillside. “Soon as most of them wean their calves, they’re gone.”
Rollins nodded. “I guess it’s time.” He eyed the northern horizon for a few moments, then spoke again: “I know it’s something you always wanted to do, Zack. You even talked about it back home.” He raised his eyebrows and smiled. “Are you gonna go up the trail yourself?”
“No, no,” Zack said quickly. “There was a time when I seriously thought about it, but I’ve learned a few things since then. The drive takes months to complete, and I simply don’t have that kind of time. I need to stay close to home, Bret. Not a day goes by without some kind of problem cropping up.
“I’ll send Jolly Ross and Bob Human to Kansas with the cows. Ross says he’ll need a dozen extra men but that he already knows where to find them. I’ll just give him a free hand and let him hire his own crew. I’ll put Bill Moon in charge of the operation here while Jolly’s gone.”
“Have you been in touch with a buyer in Kansas yet?”
“Nope. Jolly says you can do just as well by taking your cows on up and talking to several buyers after you get there. Says if you’re lucky, your herd might become the object of a bidding war. He says he saw the price jump three dollars a head overnight back in seventy-three. That runs into some real money when you’re unloading a whole herd.”
“Yep,” Rollins grunted, remounting his roan. “A difference of about three thousand dollars in our case.” He pointed his animal south and led the way to the ranch house.
They ate dinner at the cookshack; then Rollins informed Zack that his visit to the ranch was over. He must get back to town and take an afternoon nap, for tonight he had a high-stakes poker game scheduled that promised some new blood and, hopefully, some reckless betting. It was his custom to sleep a few hours before a big game, for he always did better when his mind was sharp and well rested.
Last summer he had leased a small cottage at the edge of town, where he now spent most of his nights and cooked a few of his own meals. He seldom saddled his horse nowadays, for the walk to town was only a few hundred yards. A small corral surrounded a shed in back of the house, where the roan spent its time getting fat on daily handouts of grain and hay.
Rollins had bought two adjoining lots a hundred yards north of the house he was leasing, but had so far made no decision to build there. He was in no hurry. The lots weren’t eating anything, and would only appreciate in value. Perhaps he would build something next year, but for now, he was happy enough with the cottage. It was quiet, the rent was reasonable, and late-night visits by some of the town’s respected ladies went unnoticed.
Though he had never drawn it in anger, Rollins had been wearing a tied-down Peacemaker in public for more than a year. He had long since gotten used to the extra weight on his hip and felt less than fully dressed when it was not there. He buckled the six-shooter on each morning not because he thought he might need it during the day, but because he did not intend to be caught short, as had happened at least once in the past.
On more than one occasion, Rollins had laid his gunbelt on the bar and dis
patched a would-be troublemaker with his fists while a dozen or more men stood around watching. No man had ever challenged his ability with the six-gun, for it was generally assumed that he would be as quick with the weapon as he was with his fists.
And the assumption was correct. Rollins had practiced for hundreds, maybe thousands, of hours and could now put a five-shot pattern in a three-inch square at forty feet. And he could do it as quick as any man alive, or so said Jolly Ross, who had watched him practicing on the ranch last winter.
“I tell you, Zack,” Ross said after Rollins had ridden back to town, “if you ain’t seen it, you’ve missed something.” He hesitated for a moment, then continued: “Guess I said that wrong. You really ain’t missed seeing nothing, ’cause you can’t see it. All you see is a blur, then the targets start falling.”
Zack had listened to Ross’s description intently and well knew the truth of what he was being told. Rollins was simply quicker by nature than normal people, and his eye was second to none. Even as a schoolboy, he had been a winner at everything he did, and it seemed that his speed only increased as he grew into manhood. Not only had nobody ever caught him in a footrace, few had ever beaten him at anything. “Do you think Bret’s as fast as Bob Human, Jolly?” Zack asked.
“At least!” Ross said loudly. “I’d sure never mention it to either of them, but I believe Bret’s quicker.” He extracted a sack of Durham from his vest pocket and blew on a book of cigarette papers to separate them. When he had selected one and filled it, he added, “It’s hard for me to believe that there’s another man any damn where who’s as fast as Bret Rollins.”
Zack shrugged and headed for the house, believing that his young foreman just might be right in his assessment.
* * *
Rollins left the ranch at a canter and tied the roan to the White Horse Saloon’s hitching rail at midafternoon. He bought a beer at the bar, then walked to the center of the building, taking a seat directly in front of the piano. As was always the case on Saturday afternoon, Jess Hudson sat on the stool waiting for someone to ask him to play.
Rollins stepped forward and dropped a coin in the ever-present cigar box atop the piano; then, without a word, he returned to his seat at the table. No conversation had been necessary, for it was Hudson’s business to remember which song was each particular customer’s favorite. He riffled the piano keys a few times, then began to sing “Greensleeves,” an English folk song that he said was more than five hundred years old.
Rollins stared at the table as he listened to the song. It had become his favorite the first time he heard it, and Jess Hudson had sung it for him several times a week for the past year. When the song was over, Rollins finished his beer, saluted the musician and headed for the front door.
Waving to a few casual acquaintances, he rode the roan through town at a trot. Long before he reached his cottage, he spotted the white piece of paper thumbtacked to his front door. He dismounted and walked closer. The big poker game that had been planned for tonight had been canceled, the note read, and had been rescheduled for the end of next week. The location had also been changed. Instead of taking place at the White Horse Saloon as had originally been planned, the game would now be played at the Longhorn Lounge in the town of Llano. The note suggested that Rollins count on spending at least two days in Llano, and it was signed by Clyde Post, a man whom he had faced across a poker table on more than one occasion. No reason was given for rescheduling the game.
Rollins read the note twice, then folded it and placed it in his pocket. He was convinced that the note had not been written by Clyde Post, for he believed the man to be illiterate. Rollins knew him well, and knew that he had been born and raised a hundred miles from the nearest schoolhouse. Even though he was a shrewd man, intelligent enough to put together huge holdings and large sums of money, he had about as much formal education as a jackrabbit. The note was written too neatly to have come from Post’s hand, and being of a suspicious nature, Rollins intended to find out who had tacked it to his door. He would ask Clyde Post that question long before he sat down at a poker table.
Thumbing the tack back into the door for future use, he led the roan to the corral and stripped the saddle. He curried the animal, then dumped two scoops of oats in the trough. He had no set schedule for feeding the roan, just did it whenever it crossed his mind. Consequently, the horse had gained a hundred pounds in less than a year. Only this morning Hunter had mentioned the fact that the roan was too heavy and cautioned Rollins about overfeeding. “Many a good horse has been ruined at the feeding trough,” he said. “Getting too much is probably almost as bad as not getting enough. You should cut that roan’s feed in half when he’s not working, and make it a point to feed him at the same time every day.”
With such an unstructured life as was led by Rollins, feeding his horse by the clock was out of the question. He had no idea when he would be home. Indeed, some days he did not come home at all, and had more than once fed the roan after midnight. “I’ll do that, Zack,” he lied. “I’ll cut down on his oats and start feeding him every morning at sunup.”
At the house, he raised his bedroom window, pulled off his boots and stretched out on the bed. He dozed off in a matter of seconds and slept soundly for more than two hours.
He awoke at dusk and touched a burning match to the wick of his lamp. He replaced the globe and carried the lamp to the kitchen. He built a fire in the stove to heat water, then laid out a change of clothing. When the water was hot, he would shave and bathe as best he could before heading for Toby’s T-Bone. The fact that he was hungry was only one of the two reasons he would be going to the restaurant. The other was Shirley Doolen, a twenty-one-year-old brunette who had been working there since the first of the year.
A tall, blue-eyed young woman who was exceptionally pretty, with curly hair that hung past her shoulders, her well-turned figure was often the main topic of conversation between male patrons of the restaurant. Shirley was a native of Corpus Christi. At the age of sixteen she had married a handsome young cowboy who turned out to be a cattle rustler. He had been caught red-handed a year later by a rancher in Duval County and was shot between the eyes.
Thankful that the union had produced no children, Shirley reclaimed her maiden name and headed for Austin, where she immediately found work in a dry-goods store. She held an assortment of jobs over the next few years. When not clerking in stores, she sometimes waited tables in restaurants or saloons. She preferred restaurants over saloons, for there was almost always less hassle, and if the quality of the food was outstanding, well-fed men were usually more gracious with gratuities than were the drinkers.
Her most recent job prior to Toby’s had been at a drug-and-dry-goods store in Llano, which had lasted only one month. When her fat employer informed her that in addition to her regular duties, she was expected to occasionally spend an hour on a cot with him in the storeroom, she told him off and drew her pay.
She rode her own horse to Lampasas and found work at Toby’s T-Bone the same day she arrived. She sold the horse to Oscar Land, who correctly told her that the animal was worth little more than the value of its hide. He called the horse a sway-backed jughead and offered twenty dollars. Appearing to think it over for a long time, she finally accepted the twenty and walked up the street. She did not tell the liveryman that she herself had bought the animal for eight dollars.
Bret Rollins became acquainted with Shirley Doolen the second day she was in town and took her for a buggy ride a few days later. In a matter of weeks, they became fast friends, then lovers, and on more than one occasion she had accompanied Rollins in his cottage late at night.
A rendezvous at Shirley’s place was out of the question, for the cabin in which she lived directly behind the restaurant belonged to her employer. Toby was at least a little bit religious, and definitely not the type of man who would buy the idea that an unmarried woman needed a man around the house. Rollins was well aware of this and kept his distance from the young woma
n’s living quarters.
And though Rollins and Doolen were lovers, they were not necessarily in love. They were simply two people with a strong sexual attraction to each other, and neither party saw any reason not to yield to the temptation. Each of them supplied the other’s physical needs completely, and of late they had been getting together about once a week.
Rollins was not the only boat on the water, however. The lady dated other men on occasion, which was pleasing to him. He wanted her to be involved with others, for he was definitely not seeking anything permanent. Nor did he believe that she was, for she had never even hinted that she was looking for a long-term arrangement. The time they spent together was immensely enjoyed by both, and each of them seemed content to leave well enough alone.
Rollins had to make his dates ahead of time like anyone else Shirley dated, and almost a week ago he had made a date for tonight. Sometime after ten o’clock, he would bring her to his cottage for the fifth time. His whole body seemed to grow warmer at the thought.
Shaved and bathed now, he dashed his used water out the back door, then carried the lamp to the bedroom. When he had changed his clothing and checked his appearance in the mirror, he buckled his gunbelt around his waist and left the building, leaving the lamp burning in the living room.
As was always the case on weekends, the restaurant was crowded almost to its capacity, and the only vacant tables were on the opposite side of the room from Shirley Doolen’s station. Rollins placed his order with a forty-year-old waiter, and half an hour later, his T-bone steak was served.
He ate his meal slowly. By the time he finished, he had been in the restaurant for more than an hour but had been unable to gain Shirley’s attention. She had no doubt seen him, however, for when he walked to the counter to pay for his meal, she was suddenly standing beside him, her wrist and elbow bent to level the large tray of dishes she carried.