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.
* * * *
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!”
DESERT VENUS, by Lonni Lees
Caleb Crosby held tight to his poker hand as the floor shook and the overhead chandelier in the Crystal Palace Saloon swayed threateningly overhead. The whiskey bottles behind the bar clanked a staccato melody as they hit against each other, several of them breaking as they teetered off the shelf, spilling their golden liquid and scattering shards of glass across the floor. The other three players at the poker table fled to the front exit, leaving their cards and their wagers behind them. Caleb smiled, feeling the earth move beneath him as if he were on a wild bronco.
He was enjoying the adrenaline rush of the ride.
The surly bartender dove behind the bar and hugged the wood planked floor. Caleb heard him yell as the large painting above the bar came crashing down, its heavy frame splintering as it hit the bartender and the floor with a crash. They must’ve thought the world was coming to an end and they were all being cursed for their wicked ways. The piano player, who had been playing “Angels Without Wings” stopped abruptly, his eyes as big as serving platters as his fingers froze in mid-air above the ebony and ivory keys. The dance hall girls screamed, their painted faces distorted in fear. Their gaudy dresses rustled as they ran out to the street, leaving their customers and the best damn saloon in Tombstone in their wake.
Caleb held onto his cards with one hand, and his Stetson with the other and stayed put. He could see clouds of dust rising from outside the window and people scurrying like rats in all directions. He took a drag from his cheroot, lay his cards on the table, reached across and scooped up the pile of cash. Some folks, the more superstitious ones, might see an earthquake as an omen of doom and disaster. Caleb saw it as an opportunity. I guess I won that hand, he thought as he shoved the money into the pockets of his Levi’s. His poker partners were a bunch of sissies. They’d lost the game as soon as they’d run off like a bunch of skittish she-folk. He slowly rose from his chair, reached down and picked up his glass, gulping down the last few drops of his whiskey. He’d seen a hell of a lot of dangers in his travels and no blasted earthquake was gonna intimidate him.
He walked slowly out of the saloon to where his strawberry roan stood tethered at the hitching post. The horse was dancing back and forth like a four legged can-can girl, snorting and whinnying frantically as it pulled against its reins.
“Whoa down there Shenandoah,” he said in a calming voice, stroking its neck. “Tain’t nothin’ to get yourself all riled up over.”
He untied the horse, swung himself onto the saddle and rode calmly out of town, leaving the panic and bedlam of Tombstone behind him.
* * * *
Caleb Crosby and his horse took their time as they headed across the barren landscape towards Tucson. They’d come a long way since he deserted the Confederate army and headed westward. There’d been no set destination, nothing beyond escaping the chaos. He’d had enough killing and mayhem to last a lifetime. There was never a good enough reason for brothers and neighbors and strangers murdering one another. The whole fiasco wasn’t worth the acres of dead bodies. He’d looked into the eyes of the last Union soldier he’d killed, watched as the last flicker of life drained from him, a young lad barely in his teens. None of it made a stitch of sense.
He’d thrown his Enfield rifle onto the blood-soaked dirt where the boys body lay, tossed the bullets in the grass and walked calmly away. About a hundred miles down the road Caleb realized that he’d damn well better be armed. He was heading into wild, unfamiliar territory and only the good lord himself knew what he’d run into. He bought a Remington “Improved Army Revolver” single action and hoped to hell he’d never have need to use it. He’d been lucky, for the most part. But going through New Mexico, not long after Apache Chief Geronimo surrendered in Skeleton Canyon, his path crossed a couple renegade savages bent on killing anyone who wasn’t red. Turnabout was fair play he figured, but not at his expense. They were down and dead in the dirt before they knew what hit them.
That’s how it was supposed to be. You kill to defend your own skin. You don’t do it because someone else decides you oughtta, damned Washington politicians most of all.
* * * *
A long two days out of Tombstone territory, they moseyed into Tucson, dirty and covered in trail dust. He was travel weary and his life in the south was but a distant memory. Anyways, poor Shenandoah was likely a hell of a lot more worn out than himself. He might just call this place home, maybe start up a small rancho or something. Maybe even find a missus. It was time to settle into a new life and this place looked as good as any.
He put his roan up in a livery stable on Main Street then walked up to Congress and checked into a small hotel, took a hot bath and flopped onto the squeaky mattress for a nap. It was a might more comfortable than the desert floor. He awoke to a night time sky outside his window and a screaming stomach. After dressing in his Sunday best and holstering his gun, he filled up his empty
