The Third Western Megapack. Johnston McCulley
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.
* * * *
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