She made no comment on this, and Doughfoot felt embarrassed. After some thought he tried one more conversational sally.
“This here cow country ain’t what it used to be, what with fences and the like.”
She slowly turned her head and surveyed him with gray eyes as keen as any man’s.
“Neither are the riders,” Madge Rutherford remarked coolly.
Doughfoot flushed.
“Ain’t no sense in leavin’ a cayuse fall over on top of you,” he contended.
“Didn’t see any horse fall over,” she said.
“Well, he looked like he was goin’ to, didn’t he?”
“Oh, yes. He looked like he might possibly, under certain conditions, begin to think about startin’ to rare up a little, if he should happen to get around to it,” she conceded.
Doughfoot squirmed.
“Gosh,” he said, “ain’t you satisfied less’n somebody gets kilt every minnit?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t want you takin’ any risks,” answered Madge. She added, “Mebbe I could help you out, now, by takin’ the edge offen him for you.”
Doughfoot had not earned his name by any outstanding nimbleness of wit. He considered her offer innocently.
“Nope,” he decided. “’Twouldn’t be anyways right.”
“Great suffering coyotes,” said Madge Rutherford in a choked voice.
She hastily climbed down from the rail and made off.
As Doughfoot stared after her in amazement, he heard her break into peal upon peal of uncontrollable laughter. An angry glint came into his mild blue eyes. One eyebrow lifted menacingly as he shook a fist at the saddled bay, now standing at the far side of the corral. He spat viciously.
“Why, you ornery, cow-colored, six-legged, pop-eyed pelican!” he apostrophized the animal. “Go to work an’ make a monkey out of me, will you? Why—why—”
Words failed him. He jumped down from the rail and strode across the corral with a purposefulness such as his oldest friends had never seen.
* * * *
“Seems like I heard you had some sort o’ trouble with a horse, t’day,” said “Whack-Ear” Banks that evening, as the punchers attacked their chow at the long plank tabic in the mess shack.
“Well,” admitted Doughfoot, “I did fool around a little with a cross-eyed bay, what isn’t exactly what you’d call bridle wise.”
“Heard you got off eight times,” persisted Whack-Ear maliciously. “Each time by the special request o’ the horse.”
“Four,” amended Doughfoot gloomily. “Twice he rolled over, and once he like to fell over backward. No man,” he stated weightily, “should ought to stick in the saddle when a bronc is rollin’ over on the ground.”
“What about the other time,” Whack-Ear insisted. “Was he turnin’ handsprings, mebbe?”
“Humph,” said Doughfoot, doggedly devoting himself to his plate of beans.
“It was that ’ere Rattlesnake hoss,” said “Whiskers” Beck, with his mouth full. “Didn’t notice none of you boys pickin’ him out fer yer regular strings.”
“I never had no trouble with him,” said “Dixie” Kane.
“No,” said “Squirty” Wallace, not too loudly. “Not no more trouble than you’d ’a’ had with a man-eatin’ tagger climbin’ trees an’ a burr under the saddle an’ the stirrups busted an’ no bridle on an’ his tail caught fire, an’—”
“I rode him, didn’t I?” demanded Dixie Kane belligerently.
“Oh, yes,” admitted Squirty. “You rode him. But was you takin’ him where you wanted to go, or was you jest goin’ with him where he wanted?”
Dixie ignored this.
“That horse ain’t been handled right,” opined Whiskers Beck, spearing another potato with his knife. “I mind when I was ridin’ my hoss, Crazy—”
“You ride all horses kinda crazy,” Whack-Ear put in.
“You got to treat a hoss like Rattlesnake different,” Whiskers went on. “Kindness—that’s the ticket. Talk gentle. Give him a potato peelin’, or mebbe a sour-dough bun. Go about it easy-like.”
“An’ mebbe get a rockin’-chair, and take the bronc on yer lap, an’ try singin’ him to sleep,” suggested Squirty. “Oh pickles!”
“I mind,” continued Whiskers, “when I was ridin’ my hoss, Dizzy—”
“You ride all horses kinda—” Whack began.
“Shut up!” barked Whiskers. “These ’ere hosses are what you might call the cayuse breed. They’re like eggs, or some cowboy with a roll o’ jack. Not much to look at, an’ you cain’t figger out what they’re like till they’re busted. On’y, some broncs cain’t be busted. They’ll holler an’ buck an’ roll an’ bite an’ fall on their back till they’re plumb wore to a frazzle. An’ then they’ll sulk. An’ when they sulk—try to move ’em. Dynamite ain’t no assistance.”
“Never see a horse I couldn’t bust,” commented Dixie Kane.
“Young, ain’t you son?” said Whiskers. “Young—an’ ain’t been about much. You’ll see some. Not many mebbe. Some.”
“I betcha I’ve rode more as a million horses,” Dixie announced.
“Plenty men ain’t never seen a non-bustable cayuse,” agreed Whiskers. “Mebbe they’s whole states what ain’t got none of ’em in. But when you says there ain’t no sech thing, you sure are coverin’ a pile o’ ground. Take this here Rattlesnake. You boys all tried him. Some rode him—some not. But he ain’t did a lick o’work yet. An’ mebbe never will, too.”
“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
