The H&R Cattle Company

by Doug Bowman

  Mounting, he rode to the front of the house and sat looking at the mess Shirley Doolen had made. She had done him up good, all right, and he believed that the stains would be difficult to remove. Nevertheless, the job must be done. He would make it a point to get back from the ranch in time to take care of it. Lye soap and a pan of hot water should work nicely.

  He rode through town and turned left on County Line Road. The roan was frisky in the cool morning air, and Bret gave the animal its head. A steady canter brought him to the ranch in less than two hours. He tied his horse to the hitching rail in the ranch-house yard, then began to look around. The only sign of life he saw was the gray smoke coming from the flue down at the cookshack. He headed in that direction. Stepping up onto the small porch, he knocked once, then entered the building. “Where is everybody?” he asked loudly.

  Dixie Dalton was busy preparing something at the stove. “Hey, Mister Rollins,” he said, reaching for a coffee cup. “Don’t reckon there’s nobody here but you and me right now. All the hands are out at work, and Mister Hunter and Jolly took a wagon and went up north to butcher that bull.” He set the steaming cup in front of Rollins. “Damn bull broke its leg, and wouldn’t you just know that it would be one of them expensive Herefords?

  “Anyway, they went up to see how much of the meat they can save. They could leave it all for the coyotes as far as I’m concerned. You have to boil it all day before it gets tender enough for stew, and it damn sure ain’t worth a shit for anything else.”

  The cook poured a cup of coffee for himself, then joined Rollins at the table. “I probably drink enough of this stuff to kill me,” he said, pointing to his cup. “Bet I drink no less than thirty cups a day.”

  Rollins smiled, then shook his head. “I never heard of coffee killing anybody,” he said with a chuckle, “but thirty cups a day sounds like an awful lot of coffee. Fact is, thirty cups a day is an awful lot of anything, Dixie.”

  When Zack and Ross returned from their butchering job, Zack jumped off the wagon at the cookshack, while Jolly hauled the meat on to the smokehouse.

  “Whose good-looking roan is that tied in my yard?” Zack asked jokingly as he entered the cookshack.

  Rollins chuckled. “I heard you needed somebody to tell you how to run a ranch,” he said. “I got here as quick as I could.”

  Zack poured himself a cup of coffee and joined Bret at the table. “Guess Dixie told you about the bull.”

  “Uh-huh. He must have stepped in a hole, huh?”

  “I don’t know how he broke that leg, Bret. I shot him right where he was standing, then looked around the area for a hole. I sure didn’t find one. There was a pile of logs close by that he might have gotten tangled up in. One thing is for sure: he didn’t travel far after that leg popped, ’cause he was just too heavy. One of the two biggest bulls on the premises.”

  “Was he one of the original Herefords?”

  “Yep. Best-looking one of the bunch.”

  The partners walked to the house, where they seated themselves on the porch. They talked for more than an hour about one thing or another. Then Rollins told him about Shirley Doolen smearing his house with blueberry pie.

  Zack slapped his leg and laughed loudly. “That’s a good one, Bret, best one I’ve heard lately.” He continued to chuckle, then added, “Shirley caught you right in the act, huh?”

  “She found a naked woman in my bed.”

  Zack laughed again. “I wish I’d been there to listen to you explain the situation, old buddy. Do you remember what you said?”

  “Sure do. I didn’t say a damn thing. What can you say? Shirley’s a lot sharper than some of the women. Anyway, a naked woman lying in your bed at midnight speaks for itself, and any denial I made would have just made her hate me more.”

  Zack’s laughter trailed off. “Well, maybe she won’t shoot you.”

  Zack had spent much time thinking about fencing the ranch with barbed wire, and had recently spent three days riding the boundaries and counting imaginary fence posts. Now he brought up the idea to Rollins again. “I’ve made up my mind to fence the ranch, Bret. I’m just waiting on you to give me the word.”

  “I’ve thought about it too, Zack, and I believe it’s the right thing to do. Just give me a little time to sit down with Clyde Post once more, so we’ll know how much wire to buy.”

  Hunter nodded. “The wire and staples are all we’ll have to buy—we’ll cut the posts right here on the ranch. That’ll not only save us money, it’ll be good for the grass. We’ve got too much shade, Bret. We’re up to our asses in cedars.”

  Rollins sat biting his lower lip. “Cut ’em,” he said.

  “Even after I order the wire, it’ll probably take me two or three months to get it, plenty of time for us to cut the posts and sink ’em into the ground. Then when the wire gets here, all we’ll have to do is stretch it and build a bunch of gates.”

  “Have you got an estimate on how much money the fencing is gonna save us on the payroll?”

  “Well, about all I can do is guess. But I believe that after we get some cross-fencing done, it’ll save us a lot more money than it’s gonna cost. Right now, four men are wearing out eight horses a day keeping the cows on the property. The fence’ll put them out of work the very first day and at the same time, give us the means to eliminate overgrazing.”

  “I like the sound of it,” Rollins said, getting to his feet. “I’ll let you know something as soon as I can.”

  Zack followed Rollins into the yard. Rollins led his roan to the watering trough and stood by while the animal drank its fill. “I’ll be getting on back to town,” he said, mounting. “Gotta go see if Shirley’s burned my house down.” He kicked the horse in the ribs and pointed it toward the road.

  It was midafternoon when he reached town, and he was hungry. He tied his horse to the hitching rail at a little Mexican restaurant, well off the beaten path. The establishment was owned and operated by a middle-aged Mexican couple named Alvarez, and Bret had eaten there many times. He took a table by the window and ordered stuffed peppers and a bowl of Mexican beans.

  He was enjoying his food and casually looking through the window when a man rode down the street on a prancing gray gelding. Occasionally the rider would jerk the nervous animal to a halt while he looked over the people on each side of the street. He gave Bret’s roan the once-over, then moved on slowly. He was obviously looking for someone in particular.

  Though Rollins did not think he had seen him before, the man nevertheless had a familiar look. Wearing tight-fitting range clothing, he had yellow hair that hung almost to his shoulders, topped by a black, flat-crowned Stetson. Appearing to be about six feet tall, he sat his saddle as straight as a fence post, and Rollins could easily see the Peacemaker tied to his right leg.

  Rollins continued to watch until the rider disappeared down the street. He was not a local man, Bret was thinking, and he certainly did not look like a cowboy. Rollins gauged the man to be in his late twenties, and in excellent physical condition.

  After a while, he dismissed the rider from his mind and began to flirt with a young waitress. After making a date with her for Sunday night, he sopped his plate clean with a tortilla, paid for his food, then left the building. Mounting the roan, he turned the animal toward home. He had a mess to clean up.

  A few minutes later, he sat his saddle in front of his cottage, a broad smile on his face. The front of his house was clean, with no sign that the blueberry pie had ever existed. He chuckled softly. Shirley Doolen had been here again. He would thank her and buy her a nice trinket, but he would not invite her back to his house. Not for a while, anyway.

  He curried and fed the roan, scooping an extra portion of oats into the trough. The animal had a hard day’s work coming up, for Bret intended to ride to the town of Llano tomorrow. He would seek out Clyde Post and convince him that the time was right for the big game. He would also insist that the game be played at the White Horse Saloon, right here in Lampasas. />
  At the house, he shaved, bathed and laid out clean clothing for tomorrow. Then he lay down on his bed and began to read. He was about halfway through a book—about a half-breed Indian named Sequoyah—that was very interesting. The man had no doubt been exceptionally brilliant and had, among other things, invented the Cherokee alphabet, which eventuality led to more than half of his people being literate. He had died in 1843, after gaining profound respect from whites and Indians alike. The sequoia trees, the giant evergreens of California, were named in his honor.

  Sometime before dark, the book fell to the floor. The next time Rollins opened his eyes, he struck a match and looked at his watch. He had slept the night away, and it would be daylight in less than an hour. Just before the match burned his fingers, he raked it across the wick of the lamp, then got to his feet.

  He soon had a fire in the stove and the coffeepot on. He dressed himself, then set about stirring up some breakfast. He would eat his ham and eggs without bread because he did not feel up to making biscuits this early. Baking bread was mostly a waste anyway, for he seldom ate more than half a biscuit.

  While his ham was cooking, he fed his horse by lantern light. The frisky roan trotted around and around while the oats were poured in the trough, no doubt sensing that he was going to get out of the corral this morning.

  Rollins ate his breakfast and washed the dishes, then sat down for one last cup of coffee. On the chair next to him hung his fleece-lined coat with the fur collar. Though the weather was unseasonably pleasant at the moment, he would carry the coat anyway. The weather was highly unpredictable in this part of the country, particularly in the fall, and the temperature could plummet in a matter of minutes.

  It was broad daylight when he left the house, his coat in one hand and his Winchester in the other. He carried no bedding or blankets, for he did not intend to spend the night on the trail. He saddled the roan, shoved the Winchester in the boot and mounted. Then, guiding the eager animal to the road, he kicked it to a canter and headed southwest. It would take most of the day to reach Llano.

  * * *

  Rollins returned to Lampasas one hour before sunset three days later. He had met with Clyde Post and found the man ready to play poker. The game would take place a week from next Saturday, nine days from now, and would be played at the White Horse Saloon.

  He rode straight through town to the livery stable. He had no more than a quart of oats at home and was completely out of hay, so he would leave the roan with Oscar Land for a few days. Riding through the wide front door, he dismounted and handed the reins to Land.

  The hostler quickly stripped the saddle and began to wipe the animal down. “Pretty horse you got here,” he said. “I’ve always liked him. I remember that you don’t have to hold his feet up when you shoe him. He’ll hold his foot right up there for you himself, just as pretty as you please. It’s like he knows you’re doing something good for him, so he’s helping you out.”

  Rollins nodded. “Yeah.” Then he jerked his thumb toward the nearest stall. “I saw that high-stepping gray there on the street a few days ago. Who does it belong to?”

  “It’s been here about a week. Belongs to a man who’s been staying at the Hartley Hotel.”

  Rollins was not satisfied with Land’s answer. “That was not the question, Oscar. What the hell is the man’s name?”

  “Denning,” Land said dejectedly. “Told me his name was Leo Denning.”

  Leo Denning! Rollins repeated to himself. He immediately thought of Al Denning, the man he had shot in the alley beside Shirley Doolen’s house. He now understood why Leo Denning had looked so familiar riding down the street: he was a close relative, maybe even a brother, of Al Denning. Of course he was in Lampasas looking for a man, and that man’s name was Bret Rollins.

  Feeling a little uneasy now, Bret walked to the open door and looked down the street, seeing nothing that aroused his suspicion. He turned back to Land. “Did Denning say anything about what he’s doing in Lampasas, Oscar?”

  “Nope. He don’t seem like much of a talkative fellow. Just told me what he wanted, and that was it.”

  “What was it, Oscar? What did he want?”

  Land let out an audible sigh. “Hell, Bret, he just told me to take care of his horse. Said he didn’t know how long he’d be in town. He comes after the horse every day and rides it an hour or two, then brings it back.”

  Rollins stood in thought for a few moments, then nodded. “Thank you, Oscar,” he said. “I want you to do the exact same thing with my horse. Just take care of the roan till you hear from me again.” He looked down the street once more, then began to walk toward his house, his coat and saddlebags over his shoulder and his Winchester cradled in the crook of one arm.

  He continued walking through town at a fast clip and encountered only a few people, most of whom were acquaintances. The first thing he did after arriving home was to bring a bucket of water from the spring. Then, with his rifle leaning against the wall and a cup of cold water in his hand, he took a seat on the porch to enjoy one of his favorite pastimes: watching the sun disappear into the earth.

  He sat on the porch till dark, his thoughts mostly on a man named Leo Denning. The man was obviously looking for somebody, but maybe it was somebody other than Bret Rollins. Rollins was thinking that if he himself was the reason for Denning’s visit to Lampasas, the man would have found him long before now. Hell, Rollins was well known in the area, and almost any drinker in any saloon in town would be able to tell Denning exactly where he lived.

  A hired killer might very well choose to attack a man while he was sleeping. A gunfighter, however, would be careful about choosing a neutral location for a showdown. A gunfighter would know that shooting a man in his own home could easily result in a date with the hangman. After thinking long and hard, Rollins came to believe that Denning was indeed a gunfighter and that he himself was the man’s probable target. Never one to put off the inevitable, he decided to find out.

  He bathed, shaved and changed into clean clothing, then walked to Toby’s T-Bone for supper. A Mexican waiter took his order, and Rollins managed to eat his meal without catching Shirley Doolen’s eye. As he paid for his food, he saw her watching him from across the room. He waved and she returned the gesture. She smiled and mouthed something, but Rollins could not read her lips.

  Then he was on the street, determined to make himself easy to find. He walked up one side of Main Street and down the other. He made a left turn at the livery stable and wandered up and down some of the streets on the north side of town, eventually ending up at the Twin Oaks Saloon.

  “Haven’t seen you in a while, Rollins,” Jake Smith said, walking down the bar with a beer in his hand. He placed the foamy mug in front of Rollins. “You been doing all right?”

  “Doing fine, Jake. Been out of town for a few days.” He looked around the room for a moment, then smiled. He was the only customer in the building. “Is business always this good?” he asked jokingly.

  Smith nodded and chuckled softly. “Business has been terrible all this year, Bret. Then about two weeks ago, it got worse. Hardly ever a day that I take in more than twenty dollars.”

  Rollins shook his head sympathetically, then reached for his beer. He had the mug almost to his lips when he heard the front door slam. Out of the corner of his eye he could see a man standing just inside the door. He set his beer down slowly, then turned on his stool to get a better look at the newcomer: Leo Denning!

  Denning looked just as he had the first time Rollins saw him, and in fact, seemed to have on the same clothing. His yellow hair hung out on all sides of the flat-crowned Stetson, but seemed to be cut short enough in front to keep it out of his eyes. What Rollins noticed most, however, was the Colt on his hip. The Peacemaker rode in a cutaway holster that had no thong and was tied to his right leg with rawhide.

  Denning stood in his tracks for quite some time, staring straight ahead. Then he took a few steps forward. He pointed to Rollins and spoke with
a snarl: “You’ve just been walkin’ around darin’ me, ain’t you? Struttin’ all over town!”

  Bret was on his feet now and had moved away from his stool. He was watching Denning like a hawk. “I’ve always considered myself too smart to dare anybody, fellow. I don’t even know you, but if you’re who I think you are, it’s pretty easy to figure out what’s on your mind.”

  “Guess by God it oughtta be easy. I’m Leo Denning, younger brother of the man you waylaid in the alley and shot down in cold blood. I’m takin’ up his fight, fellow. By God—”

  The man was dead before he hit the floor. Even as Denning was talking, Rollins, always one to seize the upper hand, had shot out his right eye. Denning never moved after falling.

  Jake Smith stood behind the bar with his mouth open. “I tell you right now, Bret, that man was fast.”

  “I know,” Rollins said, holstering his weapon. The man had been fast indeed, for even though Rollins had moved first, Denning had almost matched his draw. He had gotten his gun out of its holster, but had died before he could raise his shooting arm.

  Rollins reseated himself on the barstool. “Give me a drink of that good whiskey, Jake.”

  The bartender complied, then set the bottle on the bar. “I guess somebody from the sheriff’s office might have heard the shot,” he said. “If not, I’ll send the first customer who comes along out to fetch Sheriff Pope.”

  Sheriff Pope and Deputy Hillman were on the scene within the hour. Pope picked up Denning’s Colt and sniffed the barrel, then spoke to Smith: “Did you see the whole thing, Jake?”

  “Yep.”

  “Did you hear everything that was said?”

  “Every word.”

  “Would you mind letting me hear those words?”

  “Hell, Pete, there wasn’t all that much said.” He pointed to the body. “That fellow there just as much as told Bret that he’d come to kill him. Said he was a brother to that Denning fellow Bret shot a while back and that he was here to take up his brother’s fight. Simple case of self-defense, Sheriff, cut and dried.”