The Third Western Megapack

by Barker, S. Omar

  “I never had no trouble with him,” said Dixie Kane.

  And Whiskers gave it up.

  * * * *

  Doughfoot Wilson did not stay long at the Triangle R. Ambition had come into Doughfoot’s life and was gnawing at his mind. Whack-Ear Banks found him less and less entertaining under the continual ragging that was Whack-Ear’s delight. Day by day, Doughfoot became more dogged and preoccupied. Those who had known him well before his arrival at the Triangle R would have hardly recognized him now.

  In former days Doughfoot had been a lazy, happy-go-lucky puncher, with a tuneless whistle in his teeth and a blank look in his eye. Now the coppery leather of his face had set into obstinate lines. Much of his spare time was spent with the Rattlesnake horse.

  He would sometimes sit for hours at a time on the top rail of the corral, moping, staring at the refractory bay, and never whistling through his teeth at all. At other times he would spend the whole of a slack half day in and out of Rattlesnake’s saddle.

  At first his efforts to bring the bay mustang into useful submission drew an audience of entertained punchers, who sat on the top rail, rolling cigarets and shouting helpful suggestions and remarks.

  After a few days, however, the outfit lost interest in the daily exhibition, there being too much sameness about the show. A wild thunder of stamping hoofs and the mad squeal of a horse at dusk would only bring forth a yawning comment: “Guess Doughfoot’s annoying that Rattlesnake pony again. Sure enough off his nut.”

  “Something wrong with that boy,” Whiskers would submit.

  “Chinch bug, mebbe, crawled in his ear, and it’s rattling round in his nut,” Squirty Wallace would explain.

  “Tough bronc, that Rattlesnake.”

  “I never had no trouble with him,” invariably remarked Dixie Kane, until they had heard it so often that there was talk of lynching, or sitting on Dixie’s neck.

  Doughfoot was sensitive about his troubles with the Rattlesnake horse. A hundred times he had tried to put the animal out of his mind. The bronc haunted him, drawing him back to the fight with an irresistible pull. He hated the sight of the brute and lived in dread of the moments that he spent on the animal’s back. But for some reason that he could not understand, he always got back on. It was the beginning of a long war between man and horse.

  During the third week, when all hands had lost interest in the affair, Madge Rutherford, the daughter of the old man, frequently sat on the fence while Doughfoot worked with the cayuse. Doughfoot had never paid much attention to girls, and the unaccustomed surveillance got his goat.

  Rattlesnake was enough trouble by himself, and Madge Rutherford’s watchful gray eyes were too much. At the end of the third week, Doughfoot drew his pay, bought the Rattlesnake horse from the old man for seventy-five cents and a chew of plug, and left.

  Eight miles to the southwest of the Triangle R, Doughfoot’s trail carried him past an ancient crumbling butte a quarter of a mile to the west. On the peak of the butte, silhouetted against the sky he saw a solitary figure seated on a horse. The rider waved, and he guessed that it was Madge.

  “Good guns,” he muttered, jerking bitterly at Rattlesnake’s lead, “ain’t I never going to get away from the two of you?”

  He pushed on.

  * * * *

  From time to time bits of news drifted back to the Triangle R of Doughfoot Wilson and his Rattlesnake horse. Just before snow fell, Charley Decatur stopped by in his search for a soft place to winter in. Charley had known Doughfoot before.

  “D’jever meet up with a hombre name o’ Doughfoot Wilson?” he asked.

  “Kind of a loose wheel, all the time foolin’ with a no-good pony?” Whiskers asked. “Yep. Kind o’ nutty, when he was here.”

  “Well,” said Charley, “if he was kind o’ nutty when he was here, he was plumb off his bat when I seen him last. Somebody with somethin’ ag’in’ him had give him a man-eatin’ wildcat name of Rattlesnake, and the poor hunk of mesquite didn’t have sense enough left to turn the darn thing loose.”

  “Rattlesnake gettin’ meaner, is he?” Whiskers asked. “Bad enough when he was here.”

  “I never had no trouble with him,” said Dixie Kane.

  “Well,” said Charley, “that bein’ the case, Doughfoot has taught him a lot of new tricks. He now kicks, bites, strikes and tromps on you when you’re down. To get any meaner, that horse’d have to learn to throw things, or else start wearin’ a gun.”

  “An’ Doughfoot,” asked Whiskers, “how’s he takin’ it?”

  “Doughfoot?” said Charley. “Aw, he jest moons around, scratches his head and tries it again.”

  * * * *

  Winter closed down on communications, but with the gathering of punchers for the spring roundup they heard of Doughfoot again.

  “Doughfoot Wilson?” said old Ben Egan when the subject came up. “Yep. Run into a old shirt an’ a pair o’ pants by that name over Nevada way. Not doing so good, seems like,”

  “’Smatter with him now?” Whiskers wanted to know.

  “Cain’t seem to take no interest in nothin’ but trouble,” Old Ben explained. “Carries his own brand along with him in the shape of a or’nary cayuse name o’ Rattlehead.”

  “Rattlesnake,” corrected Whiskers. “Mankiller, he was, when last seen.”

  “Rattlehead,” insisted Old Ben. “You’re thinkin’ o’ some other bronc. This ’ere’s a real quiet kind o’ kangaroo. Let’s Doughfoot hang around his neck an’ whisper in his ear, which same he does frequent. Real quiet horse in all ways ’ceptin’ one.”

  “What’s that?”

  “When Doughfoot gets on him,” Old Ben answered, “anything’s liable to happen, an’ most generally does.”

  “He don’t strike no more?” Whiskers inquired.

  “Well—” Old Ben seemed to reflect doubtfully. “Doughfoot had his arm in a sling, an’ Rattlehead looked kind o’ bunged up around the knees. Mebbe they come to some sort o’ understandin’.”

  “Mebbe they did,” said Whiskers.

  “I never had no trouble with him,” said Dixie Kane.

  “No?” said Whiskers. “Well, you’re going to have a sight o’ trouble on account of him, if your memory keeps on failin’ you thataway!”

  * * * *

  As reports of Doughfoot and his horse trickled in from time to time, the Triangle R outfit began to take an interest in the contest that its beginning had not won. The punchers now eagerly pumped every roaming cowboy for news of Doughfoot. Bets were made as to who should have the better of it—Doughfoot, or his mustang friend. Prevailing odds began at two-to-one on the horse, but later dropped to even money as time passed and they heard no indications of Doughfoot’s giving up.

  Dixie Kane did not bet. “Of course, if it was me tacklin’ that cayuse—” he began. Hoarse shouts of wrath silenced him and he stalked off in a sulk.

  It was a year from the time that Doughfoot and Rattlesnake had left the Triangle R, and winter was closing down, when word reached them suggesting that the long fight was drawing to a close.

  “Yeah,” said Slim Dupree in response to Whiskers’ questionings, “I know who ’tis you mean. He’s spreadin’ his blanket about sixty miles south.”

  “And did he,” demanded Whiskers, leaning forward, “did he have with him a long-jumpin’ sunfishin’, caterwaulin’ cayuse, what wouldn’t noways stay put?”

  “Huh-uh,” denied Slim.

  “He didn’t?” Whiskers sank back. “There goes four months o’ my pay! So he give up that Rattlesnake horse, after all!”

  “Oh, you mean Rattlesnake?” said Slim. “He has that hoss all right. Only he don’t tally with no such description as you give.”

  “Is he broke?” asked Whiskers eagerly, taking heart again.

 
; “Nope, he ain’t,” confessed Slim. “But struck me ’twasn’t his fault. He’s nothin’ but a crow-hopper, that hoss. I could ’a’ busted him in no time, I thought. Kinda obstinate, but seems like he’s kinda dis-couraged, an’ toned down, ’sif he couldn’t put no spirit in his buckin’ no more.”

  “What’d I tell you?” said Dixie Kane.

  “That hoss is goin’ to be broke,” said Whiskers grimly, thumping his knee with a fist. “I can see where he’s losin’ out.”

  “Mebbe,” said Squirty Wallace. “But sounds like Doughfoot is kinda dwindlin’ off hisself.”

  “Did look kinda wore down, an’ peaked,” Slim verified. “Yep, he looked discouraged, too.”

  “I bet my last cent a’ready,” said Whiskers bullheadedly, “but I now bets my saddle on the man.”

  Whack-Ear looked dubious. “What if they both wear plumb out an’ cash in?”

  “All bets off,” said Whiskers.

  “All right, then,” Whack-Ear agreed. “My saddle against yourn—an’ I backs the horse!”

  * * * *

  Then, one lowering November night, Doughfoot Wilson returned to the Triangle R.

  For over a year, Doughfoot Wilson had wandered in the hills and plains of the cow country. He had given up working steadily in one place and lived by earning a meal or two here and a meal or two there as he roamed. “Grub-testing,” the system is called. It’s a tough life on a horse, and Brownie, the little buckskin mare that he had ridden when first he stopped at the Triangle R, had long since given out under the strain.

  To replace Brownie, he had won a horse in a poker game at Frozen Nose; and when the Frozen Nose horse had worn down, he bought another for a song at Whistling Creek. Rattlesnake, too, showed effects of the restless traveling; he carried his head lower, and his ribs showed little superfluous meat. But in Rattlesnake the iron-hard, leather-tough constitution of the mustang breed was at its best, and it saw him through.

  Doughfoot had intended, in a vague sort of way, to go back to the Triangle R someday when the Rattlesnake horse was broken. He certainly had not intended to go back as he did—shabby, empty of pocket, leading Rattlesnake unbroken. But somehow his casual wanderings kept bending back, so that he had swung in a wide circle; and now, a year older but with nothing done, he was back. And though he had worked but three weeks with the Triangle R, he had the feeling of a worthless son returning home.

  Rather shamefacedly, then, Doughfoot rode through the dusk toward the lights of the Triangle R. He heard no voices as he approached, and thought the men must be hard at work at their chow. Feeling a bit foolish, he rode up to Old Man Rutherford’s little house, intending to ask to be taken on. A lamp was burning on the table in the dining-room, but no one was there. Still riding and leading Rattlesnake, he went to the mess shack.

  Ready food was on the long plank table, food still steaming as it grew cold. Some of the men’s plates were already filled. He chuckled as he noticed a knife stuck upright in a potato at the place where Whiskers used to sit, indicating that one puncher, at least, had taken an early lead. There was chuck, ready to eat—but not a soul to eat it.

  “Hi, Cookie!” he yelled. “Hey, Slops!” His voice rang hollowly through the messy shack and the kitchen beyond. He dismounted and strode through the shack to the kitchen.

  No one was there. The cook’s much-stained apron lay in a heap on the floor. A great pot of coffee was boiling over on the stove, and he set it off. Then he walked across the fifty yards of open space to the bunkhouse and found it deserted and dark.

  “Humph. ’Sfunny,” said Doughfoot to himself. “Where they all took off to? Couldn’t anyways be a stampede.” He scratched his head. “Rustlers, mebbe now? Didn’t hardly think—” He stepped into the bunkhouse and struck a match. No, there was Squirty Wallace’s rifle, in its old place over his bunk. Couldn’t be any sort of a ruckus, or Squirty would have taken that. Real proud, he was, of his rifle.

  Night was closing down. A chill breath of wind stroked the back of his neck, sending a shiver across his shoulders.

  “Spooky,” he said to himself. A muscle twitched in his cheek. “I wonder, now…”

  Doughfoot felt a sudden need for the company of his horses, and hurried back to the mess shack almost at a run. With his hand on his horse’s withers, once more he felt better and stood listening. The night was still; he could hear the horses moving restlessly over in the corral. He heard a cayuse’s angry squeal, and the thump of a hoof on ribs. By these familiar sounds he was somehow reassured.

  “Shucks. Ain’t nothin’. Some simple little thing.”

  Becoming businesslike, Doughfoot led his horses to the corral, spanked them in, and unsaddled. Then, toting his saddle, rope, and bedroll, he went back to the mess shack. “No use lettin’ all this good grub go to work and catch cold.” He picked himself the best seat, the warmest and choicest food, and started in. He was hungry and relaxed himself to the enjoyment of warm beef, fried potatoes and beans.

  The whuff of a heavy breath startled him into dropping his fork, and a horse’s head was thrust in the door. Doughfoot grinned.

  “C’min pardner. Grub for one an’ all. Got the same idea as me, did you?”

  As if accepting the invitation, the animal stepped through the door, a long nose stretched toward the platter of beans. Doughfoot stopped eating and stared. The horse was saddled and bridled—and walking about alone. He now observed that the horse was hurt—a red gash showed on his shoulder, attesting to an ugly fall. The story of the riderless horse was plain enough, but—

  Some hazy link of memory was forming in his brain. Where had he seen that bald face, that forked-off ear, that—

  Suddenly he knew. It was the horse he had seen Madge Rutherford ride.

  He sprang up, oversetting the bench, and the horse bolted into the night. This, then, was the explanation of the unpeopled buildings, the open doors, the deserted meal. He wasted a moment in search of the ready-saddled horse, then snatched up rope and saddle and raced for the corral. Throwing the saddle over the bars of the gale he tumbled after it. A dark shape, hardly discernible in the now heavy night, moved near him, and he hastily shook out his noose and threw.

  His hands fumbled in their haste as he saddled and bridled, and threw down the bars of the gate. Lashed by a fear he could never have understood, even had he time to think, he vaulted into the saddle and struck in the spurs. They shot out the gate, and then—the horse bucked.

  A wild rage swept through Doughfoot Wilson, and he hauled up on the reins with a wrench that brought the animal’s forelegs into the air.

  “You ——!” he yelled. “You fool with me! Me, that have fought the fightin’est horse in America fer one solid year!”

  He sputtered through his teeth as he fought, battling with the horse as he had never fought before, not even with Rattlesnake, in that long war between man and horse. Again and again he struck with rowelled spurs, and with all his strength strained to keep up the horse’s head. There was no quarter now! And as he fought he knew that he would win.

  As if in a final effort the animal swung round his head to reach for Doughfoot’s leg with his teeth. And the rider, putting his weight behind his wrist, leaned down to crash his fist against the horse’s head. The blow found the temple, and the brute staggered in his stride. Then, as he still bounded half-dazed, Doughfoot once more urged him on.

  “Now, damn you, get gone!”

  Under the merciless punishment of the spurs, the horse straightened out and ran.

  Where, he was going, or what he was going to do, Doughfoot had not planned. He only knew that he was riding on a blind search for something that he hoped with all his heart he would not find. In his mind was a picture of a lone figure, waving to him from a crumbling butte. Running, running, running, the horse drove southwest into the night.

&
nbsp; * * * *

  All the scare and speed was unnecessary. Doughfoot, when it was all over, could see that for himself. His guess in direction was correct; Madge Rutherford’s horse had fallen in galloping down the flank of the crumbling butte. There he found her sitting on a pile of loose stone, nursing a wrenched knee and waiting rather peevishly for someone to come and get her. He carried her back uncomfortably in his arms on the pommel of the saddle, plodding slowly on his winded, exhausted horse.

  No one noticed him much until Madge had been taken care of, and the punchers, riding in for want of light, began to think about something to eat. Whiskers held up a lantern at him as he led his tired horse up to the group that was collecting at the mess shack door.

  “Great grief!” ejaculated Whack-Ear. “Great, overpowerin’ grief! Do you see what I see, or ain’t I no longer right in the head?”

  Whiskers stepped forward to run a thumb over a faint scar on the horse’s forehead. Doughfoot now realized that the center of attraction was not himself, but the horse.

  “Yessir,” said Whiskers, in a voice full of thankfulness and praise. “That’s him!”

  “Who?” asked Doughfoot.

  “Rattlesnake!” chortled Whiskers. “Rattlesnake! Jest like me an’ my money said!”

  No one saw Doughfoot’s jaw tighten, nor saw that muscle in his cheek twitch as he slowly turned and surveyed the horse at his side. When he spoke his voice was calm.

  “Darned if it ain’t!” said Doughfoot Wilson.

  “Rattlesnake, huh?” said Dixie Karle. “Well, I never had no trouble with him!”

  “Humph,” said Doughfoot, shouldering his way toward the mess shack door. “Neither did I!”