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!
