Free The H&R Cattle Company by Doug Bowman Page B

and sell it to you lock, stock and barrel for nineteen hundred dollars.
    â€œThere’s a livable four-room house that you get for nothing if you buy the land, along with a big barn and a pole corral. A small branch runs right through the corral, so your animals will always have water right under their noses. You won’t have to dig a well, either. There’s a good spring in the front yard that produces drinking water year-round.”
    Zack was getting to his feet. “I’ll look it over, Mister McGrath. Can you give me directions?”
    The banker pulled open a desk drawer. “I can do better than that,” he said. “I’ll draw you a map.” He continued to talk as he drew lines on a piece of paper. “That place has changed names at least three times that I remember, and you’ll probably change it again. No matter what you call it yourself, though, folks around here are still gonna call it the County Line Ranch. You see, the county line runs right through the middle of it: Lampasas County on the north, Burnet County on the south. San Saba County’s right across the river.”
    Zack folded the map and shoved it into his pocket. “The Colorado borders the ranch on the west, you say?”
    McGrath smiled, then nodded. “All three sections. Water is one of the things you’ll never have to worry about.”
    Zack found Rollins at a poker table in the White Horse Saloon and motioned him over to the bar. Rollins pushed back his chair, asked the dealer to hold his seat, then walked to Zack’s stool. “I need to get back in that game as quick as I can,” he said. “I’ve been catching some good cards this morning.”
    â€œI won’t keep you but a minute,” Zack said. “I just want you to know where I’m going. McGrath told me about some land that’s for sale over on the Colorado. I’m gonna take the packhorse and have a look at the place. I’ll probably be gone for two or three days.”
    â€œTake as much time as you need,” Rollins said. “Look me up when you get back.”
    Zack nodded and left the building.
    After retrieving his rifle and his Colt from the hotel, he stopped at the general store to buy bacon and matches. Then he walked to the livery stable. “I’ll be needing my bay and the packhorse, Oscar,” he said to the liveryman.
    Without a word, the hostler roped both animals in the corral, then led them to the stable. He watched as Zack saddled the bay and helped him balance the pack on the back of the packhorse. Then he spoke: “You leaving the country?”
    â€œNope. I’m just gonna ride around the area for a while. Be back in two or three days.” He began to fish around in his pocket. “You want me to pay up now?”
    The hostler shook his head. “That won’t be necessary. Not as long as you intend to be back in a few days. Where’s your partner?”
    Hunter smiled. “He’s trying to get rich over at the White Horse Saloon. If you decide you need some money, see him.” He stepped into the saddle and led the packhorse west, scattering a flock of chickens that hung around the stable.
    He followed what was known locally as County Line Road, though in reality it was little more than a wide, rutted trail that had obviously seen wagon traffic at one time or another. Grass grew in the ruts now, and small bushes claimed the area between. Hunter knew that if he did buy the Franklin Place, one of his first jobs would be to shape up the road.
    An hour before sunset, he stopped his horses a few hundred yards east of the Colorado. He sat his saddle for a while, staring north. There, a hundred yards from the road, atop a small plateau that sloped gently down to the river, stood the house in which Ned Franklin had raised his family. Zack kneed his horse to a trot and rode into the yard. A jackrabbit bounced away from the spring and down the slope