The H&R Cattle Company Read Free Page A

speaking only when he had something to say. Rollins, however, could talk all day about anything. Or nothing. He said that he did not believe Mose Mack’s body had been found; otherwise, there would have been talk around Ellisville. Knowing that such news traveled like wildfire, Hunter was quick to agree.
    Two hours before nightfall, they made camp a hundred feet off the road, beside a wide, shallow stream. A passerby informed them that the stream was known as Village Creek. As Hunter kindled a fire, Rollins set up the tent, for he believed it would rain before morning.
    It did not rain, however, and at daybreak there was not a cloud in the sky. Hunter dragged himself from his blankets at sunup to find Rollins sitting on a log in front of the tent. He had a fire going and the coffeepot steaming. Hunter poured himself a cupful, then noticed that Rollins was busy feeding bread crumbs to a stray dog.
    â€œThat’s the ugliest dog I’ve ever seen, Bret,” Zack said. “Probably got twenty different breeds in him.”
    â€œAt least twenty,” Bret said, then changed the subject. “If you want to wash up and shave, go ahead,” he said, pointing to the creek. He handed Zack a razor and soap. “I’ll fix something to eat while you’re gone.”
    When Hunter returned from the creek, he found Rollins serving coffee to an old Negro man who had been walking on the road. With the dog still lying at his feet, its head resting on its forepaws, Bret had the man wound up in conversation.
    â€œI live ’bout three miles down th’ road,” the man was saying. “Raise chickens. Don’t make no differ’nce what I do, though. Th’ weasels git ’bout half uv ’em ’fore they git big enough ta sell.”
    â€œWell, now,” Rollins said. “That’s a shame, and you can certainly put a stop to it.” He began to pat the dog’s head. “What you need is Ol’ Rex here. Fact is, my partner and I are moving to the city, and that ain’t no place for Ol’ Rex. No, sir, he needs plenty of room to run and hunt.” He rubbed the dog’s head and ears. “Bad as I hate to, I’ve been thinking about selling him.”
    The man bent over the dog for a closer look. “I sho’ ain’t never seen nothin’ looks like him,” he said. “What kinda dog is he?”
    â€œBulgarian Weaselhound,” Rollins said quickly. “Yes, sir, if you had him, there wouldn’t be a weasel within a mile of your place after the first week. Five dollars and he’s yours.”
    The man shook his head. “Couldn’t pay no five dollars … might go three.”
    â€œSplit the difference,” Rollins said. “Four dollars.”
    â€œNope. Won’t pay but three.”
    Rollins dashed his coffee grounds into a bush. “Well, I’ll say this for you, Mister Chicken Man—you sure know how to drive a hard bargain.” He hesitated for a moment, then added, “I’m gonna let you have the dog, but I guess you know that you’re beating my socks off on the deal.”
    The old man took the tobacco sack that he used as a coin purse from his pocket. “Been knowed ta bargain a little, heh-heh.” He counted out three dollars in nickels and dimes. Then he looped his belt around the dog’s neck and led “Ol’ Rex” down the road.
    Hunter had stood beside the tent listening. He had just watched Rollins make more money off that mongrel than he himself had been paid for three days of digging ditches. The sale of the dog had come as no surprise to him, for he had seen Rollins operate before. Such things were second nature to him. Nor would it bother him that he might have taken the man’s last three dollars. He would never give it another thought. He was an accomplished con man, and he did it more for pleasure than for money.
    Hunter walked to the fire.