The H&R Cattle Company by Doug Bowman Page B

room’s only chair, leaving the old man standing.
    Hollingsworth shifted his weight from one leg to the other a few times, clearly uneasy in the younger man’s element. “My son-in-law says you’ve got a clear deed to the Silver Springs property,” he said finally.
    â€œThat’s correct.”
    The old man shifted his feet again. “Well, how much do you want for it?”
    â€œSix thousand dollars, sir.” Bret eyed the man steadily, his smile never fading. “Cash.”
    Hollingsworth began to fidget, and the scowl returned.
    â€œThat’s ridiculous. You and me both know that property ain’t worth no six thousand.”
    â€œMaybe so,” Rollins said, his expression turning serious. “But real estate prices are rising every day. I’m a young man, I can wait. Meanwhile, I’ll always have a place to take a good country shit.”
    The man stared at him for several moments. “There ain’t nobody in this country that needs or wants that property but me. I’ll pay forty-five hundred, and that’s all.”
    Rollins got to his feet and began to walk around the room. “Then I guess we can’t do business, sir. Maybe I’ll just dam up that hollow myself. You know, build my own lake and put a fence around it. The day might come when I can sell water by the barrel.” He raised his eyes to meet those of Hollingsworth, his smile returning. “Or maybe by the gallon.
    â€œThe six-thousand-dollar price is firm, sir. Of course you don’t have to make your decision today, you can think on it for the rest of the year. I’ll be leaving for New Orleans tomorrow, should be back sometime after Christmas.”
    â€œChristmas? Hell, I was hoping to have the dam built by then.”
    Rollins shook his head. “If we can’t do business now, we’ll have to discuss it further after the first of the year. I have an appointment in Orleans Parrish that I simply cannot postpone.”
    Hollingsworth heaved a sigh. “All right,” he said, “I’ll pay your price. We’ll go by the bank, then on to the courthouse.”
    *   *   *
    The sun was still an hour high when Rollins rode into Zack’s camp. Zack had just finished his supper and was washing his utensils at the spring. “Hey, old buddy,” he said, joining Rollins under the tall oak. “I expected you to come out here before now.”
    Rollins dismounted, his saddlebags across his shoulder. “Load that packhorse and saddle up, Zack. We need to be making tracks.” He patted the saddlebags. “I’ve got six thousand dollars in here.”
    â€œSix … did I hear you right?”
    â€œSix thousand dollars.” Rollins partially explained his recent activities as quickly as possible, adding, “We need to get the hell out of here, ’cause I don’t know how long it’ll take for the word to get out. Mrs. Lindsay’s got lots of friends, and all of them probably have guns.”
    Zack moved quickly. Twenty minutes later, he led both animals to the dying campfire.
    Rollins sat on the ground, where he had arranged the money in two identical stacks. He handed one of them to Zack. “Here’s your half,” he said.
    â€œHalf?” Zack asked. “Hell, you did all the work.”
    â€œNo, Zack, you did all the work; I had all the fun. You earned your half by setting the deal up.” Rollins stuffed his money in his saddlebags, then mounted the roan. Zack poured the remaining coffee over the gray coals, then bagged his own portion of the windfall. He mounted and took up the slack in the packhorse’s lead rope. They would ride south till dark, then turn west, giving the town of Weatherford a wide berth.

5
    They had ridden less than a mile when Hunter ordered Rollins to come clean. “It looks like we’re on the run, Bret, so I want to know what the hell we’re