The H&R Cattle Company by Doug Bowman Page A

some of that?”
    Rollins shook his head. “I read somewhere that the best thing for a blister is plain old water.” He walked on into the yard and washed his hand in the spring’s runoff, then returned to the porch, taking a cane-bottom chair. “In another week, these blisters will be new calluses.”
    â€œSure will,” Zack said. He was silent for a few moments, then asked, “Why do you want to be the fastest draw around, Bret?”
    â€œBecause it beats the hell out of being the slowest draw around,” Bret answered quickly. “You’ve seen enough yourself to know the game some of these Texans play. How about the way Red Hilly tried to run over me? I’ve seen the same thing happen several times right there in Lampasas. A man who is fast with a gun gets respect, Zack. A man who is not is likely to be mistreated by those who are.” Rollins sat quietly for a while, then tapped himself on the chest with a forefinger. “Nobody is gonna run roughshod over this ass, Zack.”
    Zack eyed his friend for a moment, noting the look of determination on his face, then broke into soft laughter. “I believe you, Bret,” he said. He pointed toward the kitchen. “Do you want some more stew for supper, or do you want to cook something yourself?”
    â€œThe stew. I don’t know what in the world I’d cook anyway. I’ve never cooked anything in my life that tasted as good as what you’ve got in that pot.”
    They walked inside and Rollins lit a lamp, for night was coming on fast. Then Zack began to stoke the fire in the stove. They were soon enjoying a supper of hot stew, cornbread and strong coffee.
    Rollins stayed on the ranch for two weeks, spending most of each day in the woods practicing the fast draw. On the last day, he demonstrated his quick hand for Zack. Rollins had decided to return to Lampasas and had just led his horse from the corral. He tied the animal to the hitching rail and stood in the yard sharing some parting words with Zack. “Guess I’ll stay in town for a few days,” he said. “I’ve been gone two weeks, long enough for some new blood to show up at the poker tables.”
    Zack nodded. His eyes went to the Colt that was tied to Bret’s right leg. “Your speed getting better?” he asked.
    â€œMuch better.”
    Zack’s eyes remained on the weapon. “Do you cock the hammer while you’re pulling the gun from the holster?”
    â€œYep.” Rollins walked over beside Zack. “Watch,” he said. Ever so slowly, his hand closed on the handle of the Colt and began to lift it from the holster. Even as the barrel of the gun cleared leather, he was pulling the hammer back with his thumb so that when the gun was lifted into firing position, it was already cocked and ready to fire. Several times he did this as Zack watched closely.
    Finally, he holstered the weapon and pointed down the slope. “Keep your eye on that little rock there by the fence post, Zack.” Standing to his right and a little behind Bret, all Zack saw was a blur of movement, then the rock exploded. A split second later, Zack heard the report of the Colt. Bret stood holding the weapon at arm’s length, a waft of smoke curling from its barrel.
    In awe of what he had just witnessed, Zack did not speak for a while. He had not even seen Rollins draw the gun or been aware of what was happening until it was over. And Rollins had hit his target: a rock fifty feet away and no bigger than a man’s fist. Zack stood shaking his head in disbelief. He was silently trying to imagine anybody being quicker than what he had just seen. Finally, he spoke: “I see,” he said, offering Rollins a faint smile.
    Zack stood in the yard watching till Rollins disappeared from sight, then returned to the house. A short while later he was staring at his gunbelt, which was lying atop a chest of drawers near his bed. He