The Third Western Megapack. Johnston McCulley

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,”